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Prescription: Baby
Jule McBride
Ford Carrington had everything–a sterling reputation as Maitland's finest pediatric surgeon, beautiful women on his arm and enormous wealth. He didn't realize he wanted anything more, until he discovered he was about to become a father….Katie Topper loved her work…and Ford Carrington, though he didn't know she existed outside the operating room. But when they abandoned their roles and turned to each other in one night of passion, there was no going back to the way they had been. And going forward would present challenges that neither one of them could have imagined….
From Megan Maitland’s Diary
Dear Diary,
I ran into Katie Topper in the nursery today. She looked a little tired, but thank goodness she’s back from Houston. Ford Carrington simply hasn’t been himself since she left. Of course, nothing has been sane around here since little Cody turned up on our doorstep! But I suppose gossip and scandal bring out the worst in people. Just look at all the women crawling out of the woodwork trying to claim that darling child. And now this Janelle person appears out of the blue, saying she’s the mother, causing a scene!
It’s all simply too much. I need time to think, time to decide what to do next. If what Janelle says is true…well, I just don’t know. Could I really be that sweet baby’s grandmother?
Dear Reader,
There’s never a dull moment at Maitland Maternity! This unique and now world-renowned clinic was founded twenty-five years ago by Megan Maitland, widow of William Maitland, of the prominent Austin, Texas, Maitlands. Megan is also matriarch of an impressive family of seven children, many of whom are active participants in the everyday miracles that bring children into the world.
When our series began, the family was stunned by the unexpected arrival of an unidentified baby at the clinic—unidentified, except for the claim that the child is a Maitland. Who are the parents of this child? Is the claim legitimate? Will the media’s tenacious grip on this news damage the clinic’s reputation? Suddenly rumors and counterclaims abound. Women claiming to be the child’s mother are materializing out of the woodwork! How will Megan get at the truth? And how will the media circus affect the lives and loves of the Maitland children—Abby, the head of gynecology, Ellie, the hospital administrator, her twin sister, Beth, who runs the day-care center, Mitchell, the fertility specialist, R.J., the vice president of operations, even Anna, who has nothing to do with the clinic, and Jake, the black sheep of the family?
Please join us each month over the next year as the mystery of the Maitland baby unravels, bit by enticing bit, and book by captivating book!
Marsha Zinberg,
Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator, Special Projects
Prescription: Baby
Jule McBride
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Jule McBride received the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award for Best First Series Romance in 1993. Since then she has penned thirty more heartwarming love stories that have met with strong reviews, been nominated for awards and made repeated appearances on romance bestseller lists. A three-time Reviewer’s Choice nominee for Best American Romance, Jule has also been nominated for two Lifetime Achievement awards in the category of Love and Laughter.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
DOCTOR FORD Freeland Carrington.
Seeing him outside the operating room could turn her face as red as her hair and her knees to water. If he passed her in a hallway or politely held open a door, cold sweat would break out above her lips, and if he should ever kiss her—outside her wickedest dreams—pediatric nurse Katie Topper feared her iron-clad constitution would give way and she’d drop into a dead faint like the Texas Southern belles she loved to hate.
For two years, she’d wanted Ford Carrington. She damn well respected him, too, but now she’d stooped to lusting after him while he was performing surgery. This was even worse than letting her mind stray to him during the Sunday services she sometimes attended with her papa, where Reverend Kenneth would work himself into a full lather, preaching hellfire and brimstone.
Hellfire Katie knew about of course. Her papa lovingly joked that more than the usual quota coursed through her Irish blood. It was probably why she couldn’t keep her mind off Ford. Not that she wasn’t doing her job. She’d arrived in the OR before the others this evening, double-checking the monitors and insuring the supply drawers were stocked.
“I’m ready to finish closing now, Katie.”
Ford’s warm voice—all melting Southern molasses mixed with Northern prep school polish—made her gut tighten. “Ready, Dr. Carrington,” she said.
Momentarily lifting gloved hands smudged with blood, Ford scrutinized the monitors before he took a needle from Katie, leaned down and began stitching the patient, this time closing skin, not internal tissue. “Great work, everybody,” he commended. “Looks like this baby’s going to make it. Those monitors stable, Jerry?”
“Yeah,” said a technician.
Just as another tech lowered the easy-listening country music Ford always played while he operated, he glanced up. “I appreciate your rounding up those size four clamps for me, Carrot Top. I needed them.”
Katie’s heartbeat quickened at the use of her nickname, and she braced herself against the unwanted feelings. “No problem,” she managed to say, the end of the sentence slowing into a gait that was pure east Texas. “Dr. Nelson always grabs more of those clamps than he has a right to for OR seven. Anyway, I’m just glad this baby’s going to make it.”
Ford chuckled. “As slow as you talk, Katie, this boy’ll be full-grown and winning rodeos before any of us leave the OR.”
That got a good-natured laugh.
Katie arched a sparse red eyebrow. “Making fun of my drawl, Dr. Carrington?” He always did.
He wore a green surgical mask, and she could tell he was smiling by the way his dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “Is that a challenge I hear? Haven’t you learned not to mess with me yet?”
“Rule number one,” she returned. “Never make fun of how us Texans talk, Dr. Carrington. Those are fighting words.”
“Fighting words? You think you’d win?”
“I know.”
He chuckled. “So, you’re a fighter, huh?”
“Sure am,” she replied, still reminding herself that Ford Carrington didn’t even know she existed outside the OR. She also knew nonmedical professionals might look askance at their casual banter and black humor, but joking relieved tension. Ford teased liberally, and Katie was the target since she could dish it out as well as take it. The repartee meant nothing special, but coming from Ford, it made her heart stutter.
Luckily, she was leaving Austin for a training program in Houston tomorrow, and she wouldn’t see Ford for three months. Surely the separation would cure her hopelessly juvenile crush. “I’ve got two brothers, Dr. Carrington,” she prompted, narrowing her green eyes wickedly, “so I didn’t have much choice but to learn to fight, and fight good.”
“Don’t forget, I was raised in Texas, too. I might be tougher than I look.”
Sometimes she kicked herself for rising to the bait—after all, he was Maitland Maternity’s chief pediatric surgeon—but somehow, she could never stop herself. “Your Texas and my Texas are two different places,” she informed him.
“That so, Carrot Top?” She watched as he surveyed his work, calmly drawing the needle through flesh. “What’s my Texas?”
“Neiman Marcus, thoroughbred horses and studio-produced country music.”
Only his narrowed eyes hinted at the focus he brought to his task. Unfailingly alert, they were steely and chocolate brown, flecked with gold. “And your Texas, Katie?”
“Getting grub at Pok-E-Jo’s Smokehouse after a trail ride.” Despite how the man set her teeth on edge without even trying, she chuckled. “If you ever want to hear real country music, Dr. Carrington, you just let me know.”
“What’s this fake country music you think I listen to?”
“Oh, you know. k.d. lang. Tanya Tucker. Dolly Parton.”
He raised a lazy jet eyebrow. “What’s wrong with Dolly?”
“Old Dolly’s okay,” Katie conceded. “Just not new Dolly.”
“Keep it up, Katie, and I’ll start thinking you’re a snob.”
Behind her mask, Katie’s jaw dropped. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“You’re the socialite, Dr. Carrington.”
“You’ve got me there.”
Smiling, Katie glanced at the patient. The three-week-old boy on the table was named Jesse, and he hadn’t had a fighting chance before this operation. Even now, it was hard to believe he’d pull through. His slight five pounds could easily be cradled in Katie’s hand, and the rise and fall of the tiny, too-pale chest made her think of the delicate balance of nature in the woods she loved. Looking at the sickly child and feeling her heart pull, she thought of the tops of dandelions right before they blew away, and the fragile wings of birds, and the threads of spiderwebs. Life was so precious, and sometimes so unfairly fleeting.
Five pounds. Jesse was tiny, and yet for his mama, who was right outside the operating room, he meant the entire world. That was why, moments ago, Katie had sent a message to her, letting her know that an infected incision from a previous GI surgery had been cleaned and successfully resutured.
Katie could barely imagine the woman’s stress, and yet, as many tragedies as Katie had witnessed at Maitland Maternity, she’d seen far more miracles. Glancing up, she found herself staring into eyes that made her melt. Gently, Ford probed, “You still with us, Carrot Top?”
“Sure thing.” But as Ford fell to work once more, she felt strangely unsettled, as if he’d read her innermost thoughts. Deep down, she’d been wondering if she’d ever have her own little bundle of joy, her own miracle. She wanted a baby she wouldn’t have to leave in the hospital nursery at the end of the day. She wanted to be the woman waiting at the curb with a newborn in her lap and a balloon tied to the arm of a wheelchair, while the man she loved brought around the car, anxious to take his family home.
Stepping slightly back from the table, Katie held her gloved hands turned upward. “Tell me when you need me again.”
“Thanks, Katie.”
She watched his hands, noting their size and the long, slender, mesmerizing fingers. His eyes had grown piercing in their intensity. What little of his skin was visible—mostly high, chiseled cheekbones—was tanned the color of pecans, and through the transparent hairnet that covered a high, patrician forehead, Katie could see touchably thick, raven hair through which she’d often imagined running her fingers. When dressed in street clothes, without his scrubs, he looked more like a model than a doctor.
Stop it! How many times had she gazed too long into Ford Carrington’s arresting midnight eyes while he closed a patient?
Too many.
That was why leaving Austin tomorrow was imperative. Surely, after spending three months in Houston, she’d forget about him. But so far, no matter how she fought it, he always wended his way into her thoughts. While grooming her horse, riding the mower at her papa’s farm, or running to the feed store, she’d recall some moment, like a picture frozen in time: Dr. Carrington slipping from the doctors’ lounge; Dr. Carrington shooting her a smile as he opened a door.
With any luck, she’d meet a man in Houston.
Already, she’d sublet her apartment, and tonight she was staying with her papa and brothers at the farm, where she still kept her horse. Houston was close enough that she could visit on weekends, but she would do her best not to. She needed the time away. Her bags were packed, her car was gassed up, and she’d convinced herself that three months without Ford would cure her of this pointless obsession.
They were night and day, after all. He was old money, and she was backwoods farm stock and proud of it. His family had come to America on the May-flower, and pedigree was still so important to the Carringtons that Ford’s mother, Yvonne, had chartered an Austin branch of the Texas Genealogical Society; his father, David, oversaw Austin’s largest charity, the Carrington Foundation, which made bequests in the millions each January to health-related causes.
Society women were Ford’s usual companions, and it was rumored around the hospital that he’d probably propose to Blane Gilcrest, a tall, svelte, willowy woman with straight blond hair, breasts as discreetly small as a runway model’s and slender manicured fingers that she kept ringed with sparkling diamonds.
Not only was Ford practically engaged, he was seven years Katie’s senior, her co-worker and mentor. Still, during tense moments in the OR, Katie knew she’d witnessed what Blane never had—the determination Ford brought to bear when saving a child’s life.
Ford had to win against death.
What was the source of his feverish, formidable drive? she wondered. What secrets made him want suffering children to live at any cost? Why did he work so relentlessly?
Of all the surgeons at Maitland Maternity, he was the most competent, dedicated and controlled, and Katie had often seen his tough-minded tenacity win him the hearts of terrified parents, like Jesse’s mama. Ever since she’d first locked eyes with him over the operating table, Katie had fallen hard.
“That’s a wrap, folks,” said Ford. Once he was finished, he turned, preparing to wheel out a cart of instruments.
“You don’t need to get that cart,” Katie protested. “It’s my job.”
“You think I’m afraid of a little dirty work?”
“You should be. Someone might mistake you for a nurse and make you change bedpans or worse.”
“Lord knows—” Ford’s dark eyes lighted on hers, sparkling in a way that seemed less than professional “—I’d swoon if I saw a bedpan. Drop into a dead faint. Now, c’mon, Carrot Top. Can you get the door for me, before you clean up our patient?”
“With pleasure. Are you going to talk to his mama?”
Ford nodded. “I’m on my way.”
It was always wonderful when you could bring good news from the OR, Katie thought, wedging open the door with her hip. Simultaneously freezing and burning as Ford brushed past her, she caught a whiff of clean, male scent, noticeable among the antiseptic smells to which Katie would never become accustomed. Unexpectedly, Ford leaned closer, and she instinctively veered back, her startled eyes widening in question.
“When you’re done—” his low-voiced drawl sent a shiver through her “—come over to my place, Katie. Before you leave for Houston, there are some…things I need to discuss with you.”
“Things?”
“My address is on your desk.”
She knew exactly where he lived. The house—a huge old rambling place of white-painted brick with red shutters and crisp ivy growing on trellises—was on a showy, seven-acre spread at the end of a private road. The lifestyles section of the newspaper ran articles anytime his decorator, Nan Rowe, redid so much as a bathroom. Katie’s knees weakened. “Come over? But why? What—”
“Looking forward to it,” Ford murmured.
Losing her usual professional composure, she half lurched after him. “Wait a minute. Ford—I mean, uh, Dr. Carrington—what things do you want to discuss?”
His tall, loose body merely glided over the threshold.
She stared at his back, fighting a rush of annoyance as her eyes dropped from his broad shoulders to a tight butt and long legs. Did he have any idea how much he tortured her? Or how presumptuous it was to think she’d drop everything and rush right over to his house? Not that she wouldn’t go, she supposed. But what if she’d had plans?
But you don’t, do you, Katie?
Exhaling a beleaguered sigh, she headed for the baby. Oh, maybe Ford’s interested in the training program in Houston, she suddenly thought. Yes, that’s it. Maybe he wants to recommend it to other nurses. Or to discuss her working with Cecil Nelson’s surgical team upon her return from Houston. Yes, Ford’s invitation—command, she mentally corrected, bristling again—was nothing personal. She and Ford Carrington lived worlds apart.
