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“Three-fifty-four.”
“How are his vitals?”
“Better than they should be. I took them myself. Blood pressure’s a little high, though.”
A rueful smile touched Alex’s mouth. “Now there’s a surprise. I’ll take care of him,” she promised, feeling her guard go up even as she stood there. She hated confrontations. Especially when her reserves were low. And they were now. She’d managed exactly five hours of sleep between Harrington’s compound femur and an impacted radius and ulna. Some idiot had actually tried to catch a safe his accomplice had dropped from a second-story window.
“I also need to see Brent Chalmers and Maria Lombardi. And Dr. Castleman’s and Dr. McGraw’s patients, too,” she added, pulling a slip of paper from her pocket on which she’d written their patients’ names. Castleman and McGraw were the other two doctors in the orthopedic clinic that Alex had joined two years ago. Whoever was on weekend call from the clinic checked on all the clinic’s patients.
“I’ll pull their charts for you right now,” Kay assured her. “I know you’re anxious to get out of here today. I heard you and Dr. Hall talking in the cafeteria yesterday,” she explained when Alex, clearly puzzled by her comment, glanced back at her. “You were telling her how you hoped things would be quiet this weekend because the Chalmers boy will be staying with you while he goes through his therapy and you need to clean your guest room.
“I know it’s none of my business,” she continued, her keen hazel eyes softening, “and I won’t say a word about what you’re doing if you don’t want me to, but I think it’s really nice the way you take in some of these kids. That Brent’s a sweet boy,” she pronounced, speaking of a shy sixteen-year-old Alex had operated on two weeks ago. “He deserves a break.”
The sharp ping of a patient call light echoed over the clatter of a lunch cart being wheeled by and a page for an orderly to report to Three G.
“I can’t say the same for that man, though,” she muttered, noting on the panel behind her that the light for room three-fifty-four was lit.
Alex didn’t bother telling Kay not to repeat what she’d overheard in the cafeteria. Her plans for Brent were hardly confidential and if Kay had overheard her talking with Kelly, her obstetrician friend who’d talked her into taking her last houseguest, someone else had probably overheard, too. But finding time to put sheets on the guest bed wasn’t the only reason Alex hoped the rest of the weekend passed quietly. She and Tyler had plans with friends for an early dinner that evening. And tomorrow, she needed to take him to the mall for new shoes.
“Give me a minute with Mr. Harrington,” Alex said, wanting the nurse to hold off answering the light as she headed for his room herself. She wasn’t going to be any more rested when she finished her rounds, so she might as well face the showdown now.
The image of a long hot bath flashed, unbidden, into her consciousness.
Practically groaning at the delicious thought of it, she paused outside his door, indulging herself a full two seconds before drawing a breath that pulled her five feet, five inches into the perfect posture she’d learned from Miss Lowe’s School of Tap and Classical Ballet. Releasing it the way she’d learned in Lamaze class, knowing a person could get through anything if she just kept breathing, she walked into the room.
Her first thought was that the man had no concept of the word rest. The ceiling-mounted television was on, the volume muted. Stock quotes ran in a continuous ribbon beneath a talking head.
Her patient wasn’t watching the television, though. The head of his bed was partially raised and the upper half of his body was hidden by an open newspaper.
Walking past the empty bed by the door, her glance skimmed from the metal external fixation device stabilizing the breaks in his elevated leg, over a long expanse of sheet and settled on the headlines of the Wall Street Journal.
He didn’t move, but it was apparent he knew someone was there. Presumably, the nurse he’d rung for.
“I just need the blinds adjusted. If you don’t mind,” he expanded with far more civility than she’d expected. “It’s too bright in here to focus.”
His deep voice still held a rasp from the airway, but there was strength to it now and the smoky undertones sounded as if they belonged there.
“You can’t focus because you’re barely twelve hours out of surgery and your eyes are still affected by the sedatives. Give it time.”
Her tone was conversational, her manner deliberately relaxed as she walked over to the window and dimmed the buttery glow of the mid-June sun filling the room. She itched to get outside in all that warmth and brightness. Cloudless days were a rarity in Honeygrove. “How are you feeling this morning?”
She’d heard the faint crackle of newsprint as he slowly lowered the paper, but her focus wasn’t on his face as she turned from the window. It was on the round metal rods above his knee that formed a double H on either side of his leg and the four pins that went through it. At least, that was what had her attention until his silence drew her glance and she met his impossibly blue eyes.
Last night, she remembered thinking the color breathtaking. The observation had been purely factual, rather like the way a person would describe velvet as soft and rock as hard. Now, she actually felt her breath stall in her lungs. The phenomenon was disconcerting enough. What made it downright unnerving was the unabashed way he held her glance before his own moved slowly, boldly over her face.
The man was cut, broken and battered. He looked every bit as tired as he undoubtedly felt, and he needed a shave. His dark hair was rumpled and the burgundy bruise along his high cheekbone had bloomed to contrast sharply with the stark white bandage and his faint pallor. Yet, even looking as if he’d come out on the losing end of a bar fight and stripped of any trapping that might indicate status or power, the aura of masculine command surrounding him was unmistakable.
So was the sensual tug low in her stomach before his glance settled on the embroidered Alexandra Larson, M.D. on her pristine white lab coat.
It didn’t matter that she’d seen him before. Until the moment his eyes locked on hers, he’d been more procedure than patient, more media myth than man. Before that moment, too, she hadn’t been the subject of his attention. Being the sole subject of it now, unnerved by the fact that she hadn’t moved, Alex forcibly reminded herself he was on her turf and held out her hand.
“I’m Dr. Larson,” she said, jerking her professional composure into a subdued smile. “When we met last night, you were pretty groggy. I’m your surgeon.”
She rather expected him to go a little chauvinistic on her. With his reputation and considering what she’d heard of his attitude so far, a little alpha-male behavior wouldn’t have surprised her at all. Or so she was thinking when his hand engulfed hers and the heat singing up her arm made her feel more female than physician.
“I remember your voice.” His glance narrowed as it fell to their clasped hands. A hint of memory glimmered in his expression, as if he might have recalled the feel of her hand in his, too. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember what we talked about.”
Feeling strangely disadvantaged, Alex pulled back, letting her hand slide from his firm grip. “Mostly we discussed whether or not you were in any shape to make a phone call,” she replied, deliberately ignoring the tingling in her palm as she slipped her hands into her pockets. “I assume you’ve placed it by now,” she added, since a phone was within convenient reach on his bed table. “It was about a meeting last night that seemed rather important to you.”
Hesitation slashed his features. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I made it. Thanks.” Looking uneasy and not at all comfortable with the feeling, he nodded toward the bed. “So what’s the deal with the leg?”
It was as clear as his water glass that something about his business still disturbed him. It was equally clear that he wanted to change the subject.
“My question first,” she countered, more curious about his reaction than whatever his call had been about. “How do you feel?”
“Like I was hit by a Mack truck.” Moving gingerly, he set aside the paper someone had obviously gotten for him. Just as carefully, he eased back against the pillows. “Actually,” he muttered, looking paler from the movement, “I think it was a Ford.”
She’d expected antagonism from him. She’d been braced for bluster. She hadn’t anticipated raw sensuality or a dry humor that had somehow managed to survive obvious discomfort.
Feeling her guard drop, she eyed the wicked bruise edged beneath the left sleeve of his gown. She knew there was also one on his left hip. His thigh would be rainbow-hued for weeks. “I understand you’re refusing pain medication,” she said, reaching for the edge of his gown to lower it from his shoulder. “Why?”
“Because I don’t like the way it makes me feel.”
“You’d rather be in pain?” she asked mildly.
“I’d rather be able to think.” He hitched a breath when her fingers moved over the tender joint. “I just want my mind clear. I have things to do and I can’t do them if I can’t concentrate.”
Trying to concentrate herself, she made a mental note to have the nurses ice his beautifully muscled shoulder, then clinically ran her hand over his rock-solid trapezius muscle to the strong cords of his neck. The tension she felt there could easily have been a normal state of affairs for him. Her neck was definitely where she tended to carry her stress. But the impact would have strained his muscles, too.
“You’re going to be sore everywhere for a while,” she told him, frowning at the way the heat of his skin seemed to linger on her hands as she slipped the gown back in place.
“I was the last time, too.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Not this way.” There was an edge in his voice that hadn’t been there a moment ago, a heavy hint of frustration that almost overrode the discomfort. “I broke my other leg skiing a couple of years ago. It’s an inconvenience, but it isn’t anything I can’t function with if I’m not taking anything that messes up my head. And as long as I can move around,” he pointedly added. “So let’s get rid of that scaffolding and just put a cast on it. I need to get out of here.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
Looking at her as if she couldn’t possibly have said what he thought he’d heard, he muttered, “Why not? All you have to do is take that thing off and wrap my leg in plaster of paris. It’ll probably take a couple of days to dry completely, but I don’t have to stay in the hospital for that.”
He was rubbing his temple. The one without the bandage. She didn’t doubt for a moment that he had a headache. She was also beginning to see why he seemed to be giving everyone else one, too. Especially Kay with her regimented routine and Mrs. Driscoll with her hospital regs. She seriously doubted that any man who’d accomplished what he had followed other people’s rules. He did things his way.
That was how he wanted them done now.
Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t in a position to call the shots.
Unfortunately for her, she was.
“You may have had a broken leg before,” she patiently allowed, still more concerned with the way he winced when he moved than with his obstinance, “but there are different kinds of breaks and this particular one can’t be casted. At least not yet. Your mobility is a priority but not our first one. The bone penetrated the skin and our biggest concern is infection. You’ll be able to get around with the scaffolding,” she assured him, referring as he had to the external fixation device. “But right now, you need a three-day course of IV antibiotics. As for letting you out of here, we’ll talk in a few days about how long you need to be hospitalized.”
“A few days isn’t acceptable. If I can get around on this thing, you can give me a prescription for whatever I need to take and I can get out of here now. I need to reschedule a meeting and I can’t hold it here.”
The man was clearly under the impression that it would take more than a speeding truck to slow him down. He also seemed to think her medical opinion of his treatment was negotiable, which, given his injuries, it was not. He held her glance, his carved features set and the furrows in his forehead speaking as much of pain as of impatience. He had work to do and he clearly intended to do it.
He seemed to overlook the fact that, at the moment, he couldn’t make it from the bed to the bathroom without help.
“You don’t seem to understand,” she said, every bit as determined to get her point across. She didn’t doubt for a moment that the man had a few dozen irons in the fire and that any number of them needed tending. Especially the meeting he was obsessing over. She understood career pressure. She was intimately acquainted with job stress. But she also knew that people in pain could be irritable, unreasonable.
“What you need right now are antibiotics. If you don’t get them, you could get an infection and, trust me, that’s the last thing you want. If you do get one, we’re talking six weeks of IV therapy. If that doesn’t work, you could lose your leg. It gets bad enough and we can’t control it, you could lose your life.”
He didn’t seem nearly as impressed as he should have been with the consequences. “Scare tactics, Doctor?”
“I’d be happy to bring you a few case histories to back up my conclusion.”
“I’d rather have a copy of the Financial Times.”
“Fine. You can cooperate and be back on your feet in a few months, or do it your way and have it take longer. And by the way,” she added, in that same velvet-over-steel voice, “you might not be acting like a wounded bear if you’d take what I prescribe. The pain is only going to get worse. Especially when they get you up in a few minutes so you can move around. I guarantee you’re not going to want to stand up without it.”
Pulling a small, rubber-tipped reflex hammer from her pocket, she swallowed her irritation at the deliberate challenge in his eyes and moved to the end of the bed. “Can you feel this?” she asked, refusing to let him bait her any farther as she ran the instrument over the top of his foot.
The relief Chase felt at the faint tickling sensation was buried as promptly as the fear he’d denied when he’d first seen the metal pins protruding from the bandages on his leg. Aching everywhere, trying desperately not to think about it, he purposely waited until his doctor glanced toward him before he acknowledged her.
“I feel it,” he finally said, trying to decide if he was impressed with her aplomb or just plain annoyed by it.
He did know he was intrigued.
With her attention on her exam, his glance skimmed the feathered sweep of her hair. It was too short for his taste, barely enough for a man to gather in his hands. But the color was incredible. Shades of ruby and garnet gleamed like lines of fire in rich, dark cinnamon. And it looked amazingly soft. Almost as soft as the skin of her long, graceful neck and the delicate shell of her ear.
A pearl stud gleamed on her earlobe. Simple. Understated.
Her profile was as elegant as a cameo.
Alexandra Larson looked nothing like someone who would replace hips and knees and piece together broken bodies for a living. With her delicate features and doe-soft brown eyes, she looked more like some advertiser’s idea of a kindergarten teacher. Or a dancer. He’d always been under the impression that orthopedic surgery required a little muscle. If he had to guess, there wasn’t a whole lot beneath the narrow white coat covering her scrubs.
He had no problem with her not looking like his idea of a doctor. He had no problem with her being female. His problem was with needing a doctor in the first place—especially one who seemed to think she knew his body better than he did.
Shelving that little annoyance, he settled back, mentally whimpering as he carefully let his body relax against the mattress he was certain had been constructed of concrete. As sore as he was, the surface felt as hard as a slab and was just about as comfortable. He tried to overlook that, too.
What he couldn’t overlook was how he could so easily recall her from last night. He’d been too drugged to fully comprehend much of anything beyond the pain and the need to get to a phone. But, somehow, he could still remember the soothing tones of her surprisingly sultry voice and feeling strangely calm when she’d rested her hand on his shoulder.
That feeling completely eluded him now. As she continued her examination, his thoughts flashed to the accident that had landed him on her operating table. A couple of seconds one way or the other and he wouldn’t have been in the intersection when that idiot had blown the red light. If he’d called to confirm his appointment from the airport rather than heading straight for his meeting, it wouldn’t have happened. If he’d taken an earlier flight instead of eking every possible minute out of the afternoon, he would already have been at the hotel.
The accident hadn’t been his fault, but that didn’t stop him from being angry with himself for not preventing it. He knew he’d been preoccupied. He’d been thinking of the two men he was to meet in the hotel’s lounge, worrying about what he would think of them. Or, more importantly, what they would think of him. He had no idea how he’d be received and the uncertainty had him feeling more unsettled and uneasy than he’d felt in his entire life.
He was thinking he’d give up half of everything he owned just to get that meeting over with when he felt his doctor’s hand rest on his bare calf. Small and soft, its warmth penetrated his skin, mercifully drawing his attention from his thoughts and focusing it on the one part of his anatomy that hadn’t been throbbing until he caught her scent and felt her touch when she’d checked his shoulder.
He’d had no idea that surgical soap could smell so appealing. He didn’t know either what she wore with it that made it so seductive. Or, how she could lower his blood pressure even as she raised it.
“I understand you’re from Seattle. If you’ll give me the name of your personal physician, I can start arranging a transfer to a hospital there, if you’d like.”
“I’m not leaving Honeygrove until I’ve done what I came to do.”
She hesitated. “Fine,” she said, again, when he was pretty sure what she actually thought was “great.” “We’ll just keep you here, then.”
“I need a fax machine.”
Something like resignation washed over her delicate features. Or maybe it was annoyance. The way she schooled her features as she crossed her arms made it hard to tell for sure.
For some reason he couldn’t begin to identify, her forced calm annoyed the daylights out of him.
“I heard,” she informed him, all business. “Unfortunately, we’re not equipped to set up an office in a hospital room. If you need something sent, I’m sure Mrs. Driscoll would be happy to take care of it for you.”
“I’m not asking to use your personnel or your equipment.” Curbing the quick flash of exasperation, he closed his eyes, fighting for the calm she seemed to manage with such exasperating ease. “I’ve already explained that.”
“You haven’t explained it to me.”
She had a point. She also actually looked willing to listen, which was more than anyone else had done so far. “I’ll buy a machine if someone will just get me a phone book so I can have one delivered and set up. I have a meeting in Chicago on Tuesday and I’d planned to finish the contracts this weekend. The drafts are in my briefcase, which no one can seem to locate,” he pointed out, trying hard to hold back his frustration but pretty sure he wasn’t succeeding. “If I had them, I could work on them instead of lying here doing nothing. Since I don’t, I’ll have my attorney fax me a copy. I’d have my secretary do it, but she’s at her son’s wedding this weekend.
“I know I won’t be going to Chicago myself,” he countered, sharp claws of frustration gripping hard when she pointedly glanced at his leg. “My attorney will represent me. That’s what I pay him to do.”
His terseness caused the soft wing of her eyebrow to jerk up. Looking a little cooler than she had a moment ago, she picked up the chart she’d dropped on the end of his bed. “I’ll get you the number for the fax at the nurses’ station,” she said, sounding as if she were willing to be reasonable even if he wasn’t. “You can have them sent there.”
“That won’t work.” There were changes he needed to send to his attorney and his attorney would have to send the documents back once the changes were made. Aside from the fact that he’d prefer his business dealings to remain confidential, he had other projects he needed to stay on top of, and he knew as sure as stocks rose and fell that the hassle with the head nurse wouldn’t be worth the trouble. “Attila out there has already pointed out that the nurses aren’t secretaries—”
“It’s General Sherman…I mean Kay,” his suddenly fatigued-looking doctor hastily corrected. “The woman’s name is Kay.”
“Fine. I’m sure General Kay isn’t going to like having her precious routine interrupted. I can do everything myself if someone will just get me a phone book.” His voice was low, partly because he had no intention of losing control to the point where he raised it; mostly because his throat felt as if he’d swallowed sandpaper.
That frustrated him even more.
“I also need to have the meeting I missed last night,” he muttered. “But that’s something I can’t do until you let me out of here.”
And that’s what bothered him most, he thought, and shoved his fingers through his hair.
Alex saw him wince, then heard him hiss a breath when the suddenness of his movement caught up with him and pain radiated from his shoulder. She didn’t doubt for a moment that his agitation had only increased the pain in his head. Strain dulled his eyes. Except for his bruises, the sheets now had more color than his face. She didn’t know if he was the most stoic man she’d ever encountered, or the most masochistic. She would concede that he was the most driven.
She truly didn’t care about his wheeling and dealing. Her concern was getting him well and keeping him comfortable while she was doing it.
“I realize you have obligations,” she conceded, certain he wasn’t coping with the pain anywhere near as well as he wanted her to believe. “But I don’t think you appreciate how much trauma your body has sustained. I’ll have your nurse bring you a phone book and I’ll change your pain medication to something that will take the edge off and leave your head clear. But you might as well call whoever handles your schedule and have them cancel everything for the next couple of weeks.”
She turned to avoid his scowl and headed for the door. “Oh, yes. One more thing. Your condition right now is, officially, stable. Do you want that released to the press, or do you want no comment.”
“I already gave my statement to the woman from the administrator’s office.”
“And you overstated your condition and understated the accident.”
For a moment, he said nothing. He just watched her with his brow furrowed while frustration warred with the pain that undoubtedly frustrated him, too. “I’m not going to argue with you, Doctor. Go with your call on the condition, but leave my estimate of the accident alone.”
