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Casualty Of Passion
Sharon Kendrik
Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing 100th book! Many of these books are available as e books for the first time.The man from her past…Kelly Hartley thought she had turned her back on her childhood dreams of being a surgeon, much like the naïve fantasies of the man who stole her teenage heart. But three weeks in to her new training post, she discovers that the new surgical registrar is that same man – Lord Randall Seton.When he disappeared from her life years before, Kelly promised never to make the same mistake again and initially keeping her distance isn’t hard when he is so scathing about her career change to GP! But can Randall prove that Kelly can still embrace all her dreams, both that of being a surgeon… and being with him?
He looked...
Admit it, Kelly, she thought reluctantly. He looks like a dream. Every woman’s fantasy walking around in a white coat.
She stared into eyes the colour of an angry sea, trying to equal his dispassionate scrutiny, trying to convince herself that it was just the shock of seeing him again which made her heart thunder along like a steam train.
Casualty of Passion
Sharon Kendrick
writing as Sharon Wirdnam
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader (#u62a88bdc-2758-51f5-bd86-70e81cbcbbbf),
One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.
There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.
I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”
So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?
I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.
Love,
Sharon xxx
Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.
SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…
For the stars of Blood Transfusion—the great Vera Hanwright, and in fond memory of Eleanor Lloyd.
CONTENTS
Cover (#uebc50eaf-7bf2-549b-8c87-2968e68eef6b)
Title Page (#u86c243dc-b2d7-57fc-ba0f-35deb528cb13)
Dear Reader (#ud4b58937-b8c5-5d36-a727-3cf5223b9fcc)
About the Author (#uc48e1cde-621e-54ae-a044-8631f2e66faf)
Dedication (#ufb7748d0-cd76-5969-9ec9-ee4e135ebadf)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_af00e15f-ad9c-5397-9a05-984591d465be)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_2333f8f7-0353-56e4-b301-dd7e5e4b4958)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_5e95a72a-a65c-52b8-8e40-e81029892540)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_d1dc7046-68bb-5a96-8a28-ecd5d3a468a7)
‘I TELL you, it was him— I actually saw him!’
Kelly heard the disbelieving sighs which followed this intriguing statement and wandered round into the female clinic room of St Christopher’s world-famous accident and emergency department, her curiosity aroused.
She grinned at the three nurses huddled there. ‘Sounds interesting. Saw who?’
Two of the student nurses looked to their undisputed leader, Staff Nurse Higgs—a statuesque blonde with magnificent smouldering blue eyes, who had given Kelly a particularly hard time since she’d arrived as casualty officer just a month earlier, since she didn’t take kindly to what she obviously saw as competition. Now she shrugged her magnificent shoulders and stared at Kelly as though she had just met her for the first time. ‘We’re talking about the new surgical registrar,’ she said reluctantly.
Kelly blinked. ‘Oh? We have a new surgical registrar on the rotation every couple of years. What’s so special about this one?’
Staff Nurse Higgs’s bosom swelled with excitement. ‘This one—’ she paused for dramatic effect ‘—just happens to be a lord!’
Kelly quickly picked up an ampoule of penicillin that was sitting on a dressing trolley and pretended to study it as a tiny shiver iced her skin into goosebumps beneath the white coat she wore. ‘A lord?’ she queried carefully, noting objectively that her swallowing reflex seemed to have gone to pot.
‘Mmm!’ said Staff Nurse Higgs, almost licking her scarlet lips. ‘Lord Rousay—a real member of the aristocracy! And that’s not all—he’s young, he’s bloody gorgeous, and—’ there was a dramatic pause ‘—he’s single! What do you think about that?’ Her eyes narrowed, her instinctive ability to sniff out gossip alerted. ‘Are you OK, Dr Hartley—you’ve gone awfully pale?’
‘Yes, of course I’m all right,’ answered Kelly briskly. ‘Why on earth shouldn’t I be?’
‘You’ve gone as white as a ghost—and look, your hand’s trembling.’ The eyes narrowed even further. ‘You don’t happen to know Lord Rousay, do you?’
No, I don’t know him, thought Kelly bitterly. I thought I did, but I was young, foolish, naïve. I was just a nobody he tried to take advantage of. She shook her head, but not one strand of the dark auburn hair in its constricting chignon moved. ‘Know him? Now, why would I know him?’ she said brightly. ‘There happen to be over twenty medical schools in the British Isles, with thousands of students, and while I know that lords in the medical world are pretty thin on the ground ...’ She paused for breath, her voice unusually high, and as she looked at their faces she realised that she was completely over-reacting. ‘No, I don’t know him,’ she finished lamely, not caring that she lied.
At that moment, she was saved by the bell. Literally. The sharp insistent peal of the red telephone on Sister’s desk shrilled into their ears.
The emergency telephone: the one which never rang except in critical and life-threatening situations.
Nurse Higgs sped off, Lord Rousay temporarily forgotten, and Kelly followed her, her long and sleepless night shift banished by the rush of adrenalin which always accompanied a crisis. Life in the accident and emergency department was one long series of crises.
When she reached Sister’s office, Nurse Higgs was just replacing the receiver. ‘There’s a child coming in,’ she said succinctly. ‘Aged two. Been savaged on face by a Rottweiler dog. Injuries extend to neck—the ambulance men are querying tissue damage to her airway. They’re trying to intubate her, but there’s swelling, apparently.’
‘Bleep the duty anaesthetist,’ said Kelly quickly. ‘And can you send an experienced nurse into the resuscitation room to make sure the paediatric airway set is open? Did they say how bad the wound is?’
‘No.’
‘Well, when they arrive — ’ But Kelly’s sentence was never finished because at that moment they heard the insistent sound of the ambulance’s siren as it sped to the back entrance of the department.
‘That’s them!’ said Kelly. ‘Come on!’
Kelly ran out to greet it, Nurse Higgs hot on her heels. As soon as the back door was opened, Kelly climbed in, the blood draining from her face as she saw the extent of the child’s injuries. No matter how experienced you were, it never left you—that feeling of helplessness when you saw someone who was terribly injured, especially when you were dealing with a toddler like this one.
The little girl was barely conscious. Shock, Kelly decided. Her breathing was stertorous but steady, and there was an airway in situ.
‘We couldn’t manage to intubate her,’ said the driver, as he helped unhook the intravenous fluid bag from the drip stand before rushing the stretcher into A & E. ‘You’ll need an anaesthetist for that—the tissue is swollen.’
‘He’s on his way,’ said Kelly briefly.
All the way into the department and along the short corridor to the resuscitation cubicle, she quizzed the drivers.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Gemma Jenkins.’
Kelly bent her head and said softly into the child’s ear, ‘Hello, Gemma—I’m Dr Kelly. You’re here in hospital and you’re safe.’
Gemma remained unresponsive. Kelly turned worried eyes to the second ambulance man. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Only a few minutes ago, thank God.’
‘Do we know how?’
The driver’s mouth twisted with distaste. ‘The dog belongs to the mother’s boyfriend. He brought it round after a lunchtime session up the pub, rather the worse for wear. He disappeared into the bedroom with the mother, leaving the child to “play” with the dog.’
Kelly nodded. ‘I see. Do we know where the mother is now?’
‘She’s following behind in a taxi. With the boyfriend.’
Kelly raised her eyebrows. ‘But surely the mother wanted to accompany Gemma?’
‘She’s hysterical.’
‘As well she might be,’ said Kelly grimly.
‘What she wanted,’ said the ambulance driver, in the kind of weary voice which indicated that he had seen too much of the dross of life not to have become a cynic, ‘was to comfort the boyfriend. He’s worried that she’ll press charges.’
Kelly, too, had grown used to the vagaries of human nature: these days she was rarely shocked, but this comment left her momentarily speechless. She shook her head in despair. ‘Come on—let’s get her on to the trolley.’
To Kelly’s intense relief, the anaesthetist arrived and began to intubate the little girl. If he’d been delayed, Kelly could have done it at a pinch but, unless you’d had specialist training, trying to get an airway down a child’s tiny trachea was notoriously difficult, particularly if the area was as swollen as this child’s. The most common mistake was to insert the airway into the oesophagus instead of the trachea.
While the anaesthetist was extending the neck, Nurse Higgs began taking pulse, respiration and blood-pressure recordings, while Kelly gently wiped the blood away from Gemma’s face so that she could see how bad the wound was.
It was bad enough. A great gaping gash which extended jaggedly down the left side of her face, but which had fortunately just missed the eye.
Kelly glanced up at the anaesthetist. ‘How’s her breathing?’
‘Stable. And she’s coming round.’
At least with the child’s condition stabilised the danger of respiratory arrest had been allayed for the time being, thought Kelly, and she turned to Nurse Higgs. ‘She needs suturing. Can you bleep the plastics surgeon?’
‘The plastics?’ queried Nurse Higgs, and the hostility which she had been showing towards Kelly since she had started three weeks ago finally bubbled over. ‘Aren’t you going to do it yourself?’
Kelly frowned with anger at the implied criticism. ‘Nurse Higgs,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m adequate enough at stitching, but not arrogant enough to play God. I’m not sufficiently experienced to do delicate work of this nature—a botch-up here could cost a young child her looks and leave her with an unsightly scar. Now, are you going to bleep the plastics man for me, or am I going to have to do it myself?’
Nurse Higgs’s eyes sparked malicious fire, but she bustled out without another word.
The anaesthetist raised an eyebrow. He was a tall, pale man, infinitely calm like most of his profession. ‘Trouble?’ he queried mildly.
‘Nothing that I can’t deal with,’ Kelly answered resolutely, as she dipped another piece of cotton wool into the saline solution and very gently wiped some dried blood away.
‘Report her,’ he suggested.
Kelly shook her head. ‘I’ll manage,’ she said, and dropped the used piece of cotton wool into the paper bag which hung on the side of the trolley.
They worked in silence, until the glimpse of a blinding white coat out of the corner of her eye told Kelly that the plastics man had arrived, but before she could get a proper look at him, she heard a horribly familiar laconic voice.
‘I’m here to suture.’
Kelly looked up briefly, her eyes flicking to his name-badge. ‘Randall Seton, Surgical Registrar’. His title, Lord Rousay—his still living father holding the title of Lord Seton, which Randall would one day inherit—was of course absent.
She swallowed, and looked down at the child again. ‘I asked for someone from plastics,’ she said. ‘Not a general surgeon.’
He was already taking off his white coat and removing the gold cuff-links from his pristine pinstriped shirt. ‘And there isn’t anyone from plastics available,’ he drawled, ‘so you’ve got the next best thing. Me. Get me a pair of size nine gloves, would you, Staff?’
Staff Nurse Higgs had miraculously appeared by his side, like the genie from the lamp, and was staring up at him like an eager puppy. There was none of her delayed hearing problem in evidence today—the one which habitually had Kelly repeating her requests—and she sped off immediately to do the surgeon’s bidding.
Kelly continued to clean the wound, her heart racing. She was professional enough not to let him know how much his closeness bothered her, woman enough to be unable to deny the potency of his attraction.
‘Right,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s have some local anaesthetic drawn up, shall we, Staff?’
The voice was the same. Centuries of breeding, the finest schools, the big, country houses, privilege from the word go had guaranteed that Randall would speak with that confident, beautifully modulated English accent, as precise as cut glass. But it differed from the popular conception of the aristocratic voice, because it was deeper, sardonic, mocking—worlds away from the popular idea of the upper-class twit. It was an exquisite voice—smooth as syrup and dark as chocolate, the kind of voice which sent shivers down the spine of every woman from sixteen to ninety.
The wound was almost completely clean, and he had gloved up and was ready to start suturing.
