Out of His League

“Mr. Farell?” She said the name correctly this time.

He smiled. Look at me, he willed her.

She glanced at him, then blinked, startled and went back to staring at her screen. “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice, “you’re obviously someone famous, and I’m making you uncomfortable....” Blood seemed to drain from her face.

Usually, he would interject, reassure her and make her comfortable, but...he was genuinely interested in hearing what she had to say. And he got the feeling she didn’t speak her mind too often to people, preferring to keep things to herself.

“I’ve...had a bad morning,” she continued, still not looking at him. “I just got some...difficult news. If you’d like, I’ll have another anesthesiologist called in to assist with your surgery. But I assure you, I’m very capable at what I do, and once I’m with the rest of the team, I will be fine—”

“I want you,” he blurted.

She blinked at him. Her eyes lingered on his, then traveled the length of him very quickly, up and down. She swallowed. “Why?” she asked.

He liked the sound of her voice—soft and calming. And it was completely inappropriate for the situation, but his body was giving a sexual response....

He crossed his arms over his lap. Smiled nonchalantly at her and gave her an uncharacteristic, honest answer. “Because I’m scared as hell at what’s going to happen to me, and I don’t want anybody else but you to know. Okay?”

“Me?” She put her hand on her heart.

“Uh, I figure you’ve already seen me at my worst. I don’t want to have to explain it to anybody else again.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s logical.”

“It is.”

Their gazes held for just a split second too long. There was...something there. An attraction, and on her part, too. And no, it wasn’t as meaningless to him as overcoming a challenge—getting a woman who wasn’t impressed with his celebrity to come to his side. It was...deeper than that.

And it was crazy to think so based on a two-minute meeting. Maybe he was just so scared witless about the cancer talk, it was making him think crazy things.

Carefully, Elizabeth LaValley put down her computer tablet. He got the impression that this action in itself was significant for her.

“Mr. Farell,” she said slowly, “your surgeon is very good. He’s our best, in fact, and I can vouch for him.”

“Not all cancer can be cured,” he murmured. “People die. I’ve seen...people die.”

Again, that pale face. “I know.” Her voice caught, and her hand went to her mouth.

“Tell me, Lizzy,” he said softly. “Uh, is it okay if I call you that?”

“I... Yes. I’m fine, really. It’s fine.” She waved her hand, looking flustered. “It’s just...we had a cancer scare in our family five years ago. My three-year-old nephew had leukemia. Today is the day he gets tested, to see if he’s really cured.”

“And you’re worried?”

“My sister thinks he’s sick again.” She shook her head. “No—we’re supposed to be talking about you. This is your surgery. Your anesthesia. In a minute, your surgeon—the head of the team—will be coming to see you.”

She picked up the tablet again and very carefully sat to read his case notes. There was fresh concentration in her gaze. Her blinking had stopped. Her hands weren’t shaking.

“Lizzy, I’m sorry about your nephew.”

She shook her head again. “He’ll be fine, Mr. Farell. Today, we’ll be removing a tumor from your right ring finger—a growth on the bone—but from your tests, there are no solid indications it’s cancer. Of course, the tumor will be tested as soon as it’s removed, but that is standard procedure.”

He’d lost her. But she needed to prepare for her job performance in the minutes ahead—of anyone, he could understand and appreciate that. “How long will it take to get back the results?”

“Typically, a few days for the lab work,” she said. “But, once the doctor opens up the finger and sees the tumor, he can usually rule out cancer by sight.”

Jon drew in a breath. She was gazing at him, her forehead creased. He got a feeling she didn’t look at too many of her patients like this. Really look at them, really let herself see them as people instead of as medical problems to be solved.

“Thank you, Lizzy,” he said quietly.

She blushed. “It’s Elizabeth.”

“Call me Jon.”

Her teeth bit down on her lower lip.

And because things were looking so much better now, he pushed his luck. “I have another request that I was wondering if you could help me with.”

* * *

TALKING INAPPROPRIATELY to a patient? This was so unlike her; it was surreal.

The only thing that explained Elizabeth’s uncharacteristic unprofessionalism with Jon—with this patient—was that, silly as it sounded, her grandmother had called her Lizzy.

And her grandmother had died when Elizabeth was eight, the same age her nephew Brandon was now.

Fresh tears sprang to her eyelids. She bit down on her lip again. Control. Stay in control.

She was just so vulnerable now, ever since Ashley had told her about Brandon. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to stop the trembling.

The surgeon approached Mr. Farell. A professional athlete getting the most experienced doctor on staff...no surprise there. Elizabeth stepped aside, relieved to be able to step into the shadows.

Talking to the patients presurgery was the least favorite part of her job. She would as soon die as admit this to anyone, but she’d chosen anesthesia as a medical specialty because the bulk of her duties involved dealing with patients while they were unable to move or speak and therefore couldn’t interact or cause conflict with her. All that was required, interfacing-wise, was typically a five- or ten-minute consultation before the procedure. Right up Elizabeth’s alley.

But this man...Jon Farell...had just blown all her experience out of the water. Even now, as the surgeon talked on and on, regaling Jon, asking him questions, adding to his “cocktail banter stories” by interacting with a Captains pitcher, Jon kept glancing at her. Meaningfully, as if the two of them shared a secret.

She rarely stared at men. Her life was too private for that, Albert not considered. But this man...

She’d been fighting an urge to lean closer and smell him. Very strange, but she did understand the scientific principal behind it. Sex pheromones, it was called. The theory stated that Nature, in her infinite wisdom, ensured that people with complementary genetic traits were attracted to one another. Someone with a family tendency for diabetes, say, was attracted to someone else with specific immunity against it. A way for survival of the species, so to speak.

Scientifically, then, she wasn’t physically attracted to Jon Farell, but her DNA was.

Intuitively, it made sense. Jon was the physical opposite to her. He was athletic and strong, with ice-blue eyes. His face bore the fine, delicate features of Nordic ancestry, but mixed with something else—a blending of another culture that gave him bronzed, sun-kissed skin and long brown hair, mysteriously streaked on the left side with white. His hair wasn’t dyed white, but was naturally white, as in, the absence of color. Somewhere along the line, probably through blunt trauma, a small section on his scalp, about a quarter inch wide, had been injured such that he no longer had any pigment in the hair follicles.

Overall, it made Jon Farell look...beautiful. And with his warm, musically pitched voice, it gave him the mysterious aura of some past, mystical culture.

He set her workaday French and Scottish genes on fire. Which had probably contributed to her opening her mouth and admitting things to him that she would never in a million years tell anybody else.

It made him uniquely dangerous to her.

The aides prepared to wheel Jon’s gurney into the operating room, and she stepped forward, doing her job. As the rest of the team moved into position, she put relaxants into Jon’s IV line. Waited until those ice-blue eyes flickered closed.

She felt her shoulders relaxing. He was in the customary pose of her customary patients. He was no longer a threat.

“Lizzy,” he murmured suddenly, and she jumped.

“Yes, Jon?” She leaned closer.

“Please tell me afterward what the doctor said about the malignancy. Can you do that?”

“I’ll...”

But he was out. It was just as well.

They wheeled him into surgery, and she set him up to monitor him with her equipment. Waited while the nurse—that lucky woman—tied his beautiful hair up into a cap before placing pads on his chest and a cuff on his arm. Elizabeth eased him into unconsciousness by selecting a syringe and inserting the drugs into his IV.

He was truly out then.

Briefly, Elizabeth wondered how she could possibly communicate to Jon afterward, as he had asked, but she put that out of mind and went back to her customary, safe place. With deft hands—she’d done this hundreds of times, after all—she intubated him.

For the first time, she was touching his body, albeit with gloves on. She gently placed a tube into his airway to take control of his breathing during the operation.

Then she sat back at her cart behind the surgery drape and observed her machines. That was what anesthesiologists did.

He was not the famous Jon Farell now. He was any patient.

But still, when the surgeon isolated and removed the tumor at long last, she couldn’t help searching the doctor’s eyes.

Good news or bad?

And either way, how would she tell Jon?

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER THE SURGERY, and with Jon wheeled safely to the recovery room, Elizabeth hurried to the hospital day care center where her nephew and her sister waited for her.

In a private room, she gave eight-year-old Brandon a cursory checkup, questioned him and checked his vital signs.

The outgoing, towheaded boy showed no symptoms of renewed cancer. Nothing that Elizabeth could outwardly see. On the contrary, he seemed as energetic as ever—he fidgeted and had a difficult time sitting still. Elizabeth told him to wait for his mom in the hospital day care center, and then she led her sister to a long, quiet corridor, encased in glass, that overlooked the Boston skyline.

In the midday light, Elizabeth stared at the thin, stylishly dressed, older sister who was so different from her, it was hard to believe they’d come from the same parents.

Ashley paced back and forth, jittery, her high-heeled boots clicking on the floor. She was rubbing her arms as she walked. “It’s happening again.”

Elizabeth’s pulse sped up. “What is happening again?”

“I can’t take it,” Ashley said. “The tests...the trips to Boston...the stress of worrying...”

“Ashley, he seems fine. A normal, active eight-year-old. Give the tests a chance to ease your mind. What time is his appointment?”

“Twelve o’clock, and I can’t be there.” Ashley stopped pacing. “Lisbeth, I need you to help me with Brandon, just for today while we get through this.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Elizabeth said as calmly as she could. There was a reason she kept her family at arm’s length. Ashley’s appearance this morning was the least of it.

But her sister’s chin took on a stubborn tilt. “If Brandon is sick again, you work at the hospital. You’re the best person to help him.”

“I’m glad you’ve come to that conclusion.” Five years ago when Brandon had been diagnosed with leukemia, Ashley had refused to allow Elizabeth to have anything to do with Brandon’s treatment. She’d been the devoted if slightly martyred mother who had hovered over him at every appointment.

Elizabeth’s reaction to the boy’s sickness, on the other hand, had been to study all she could about the illness. She’d consulted with Brandon’s doctors, and, as a medical student affiliated with the hospital back then, surreptitiously checked to make sure that he was getting the best and latest of care. All of it done behind the scenes, of course, with the guarantee of no attention drawn to herself.

“Ashley, I am not good with children. You know this.”

“You work with sick people,” her sister insisted.

“Brandon is not sick! He is healthy and he needs to get back to school!”

“You have a car,” Ashley said, hugging herself and staring out the window. “The school’s not too far from here...”

She didn’t appear to be listening to Elizabeth. Then again, she was Ashley. Even as a girl, she’d been fueled by emotion. A queen of drama. Born pretty, Elizabeth’s older sister had been the head of a clique of girls who’d ruled the neighborhood. Maybe that had been her coping mechanism to their chaotic home life. Elizabeth had coped by hiding in the public library, doing her homework or looking at National Geographic magazines. She had skipped two grades and had been accepted at college in Boston at sixteen, which had been her escape, and from which she’d never gone back.

Elizabeth tapped her foot. This meeting was unnecessary. She could spend precious time—time she did not have, since she was on duty and had a case to prepare for—explaining to her sister why she could not drive Brandon a half hour to school, in the opposite direction, and then back again, cutting out of her job at the hospital to pick him up. It didn’t make logistical sense.

But Ashley’s mind was not logical or ordered. Elizabeth needed to cut to the heart of the matter for her.

“What’s really going on here?” Elizabeth asked quietly. “Why can’t you sit with Brandon through his tests and then take him to school as usual?”

Ashley stopped pacing. But Elizabeth stepped closer and noticed her sister’s body was twitching. Her skin seemed clammy, and she smelled like...

No. Oh, no.

Their mother drank, but to Elizabeth’s knowledge, her sister never had.

Elizabeth certainly never did. She didn’t chance touching the stuff. That behavior was common, she had read, in children of alcoholics.

“Ashley?”

“I...have an appointment with a counselor today,” her sister confessed.

“That’s...good.” It was excellent, in fact. That showed Ashley was taking charge in an appropriate manner. If Elizabeth had the time, she’d delve into the how and where...check out this counselor and offer her sister medical advice.

Elizabeth glanced at her watch. In another minute the surgical nurses would be paging her. “Ashley, I really need to get to my next patient.”

Ashley’s thin shoulders straightened. She’d lost weight, Elizabeth noticed. “I’m leaving Brandon with you at the hospital today.”

“That isn’t possible.” The emotional response was elevating her pulse, but Elizabeth willed it away. “I have a full schedule of surgeries.”

“I know. I already talked to a nurse about the emergency child care program for employees that you have here.”

“You did?” Elizabeth said drily.

“Lisbeth, here is his insurance card and hospital ID.” Ashley shoved the patient cards at her. Then she tightened her jacket around her as if to close the pain inside. “Please kiss Brandon for me.” Her voice wavered. “And tell that lady ‘thank you’ for watching him while you and I talk.”

“Ashley—”

“I have to go!”

Elizabeth watched, gaping, as her sister hurried away down the corridor.

“What time will you pick him up?” she called after her, but Ashley just waved her hand and disappeared around the corner.

Now what?

Elizabeth racked the logical side of her brain. Actually, her entire brain was logical. She dealt in facts, not “what if” flights of fancy.

Fact one: Brandon needed to be escorted to his appointment. Thank goodness for the aides in the child care department. Of course she would normally accompany Brandon herself, but a patient receiving scheduled wrist surgery needed her care as his anesthesiologist.

She quickly dropped off Brandon’s insurance cards at the Emergency Hospital Day Care, and then rushed back to her post.

On the way, she passed the post-op room where Jon Farell would be recovering.

She wanted to slow. She wanted to stop in and see how he was doing. Catch a glimpse of those ice-blue eyes.

He might be lucid by now, and she had embarrassed herself enough already. Nearly losing her reserve and showing tears in front of a patient—it was so uncalled-for, so unlike her normal personality that the entire event had been...ludicrous.

She was Dr. Elizabeth LaValley, and she did not drop her veil of privacy for anybody.

Not even for men with understanding eyes and pheromones that smelled like heaven to her.

* * *

IN JON’S DREAM, he was sitting in a room, brightly lit by white light, on one side of a conference table. On the other side was a kindly, older man who looked familiar but who Jon couldn’t recall ever meeting. Max, his agent, was there, too, but he wasn’t speaking, he was just listening.

Jon seemed to be having an earnest conversation; he was telling the man what he was doing in baseball. He was trying to explain why it was imperative that he be allowed to continue.

“I’m not ready to stop,” Jon told the man. “I still have so much to do.”

He said a lot more to the man, too, but as soon as Jon spoke the words, he seemed to forget what he’d just said. He was trying to concentrate, but it wasn’t possible.

“I understand you,” the man said, something Jon clearly remembered. “It’s time to get serious.”

Yes! Jon understood exactly what he meant. He’d been coasting for too long. If he worked harder, he would be allowed to continue playing pro ball. He would not have to stop this life that he loved so much.

It’s time to get serious.

The thought filled him with hope. Even Max seemed to agree.

When Jon woke, his heart was pounding, the dream fresh on his mind. He knew exactly where he was. Inside a brightly lit recovery room. He felt groggy, his throat sore, his nonpitching hand numb. He looked down and saw it was bound in a thick bandage.

He tried to sit up, but nausea swept over him. He put his head back down. All of a sudden, he heard a child’s voice whisper next to him, “You’re Jon Farell!”

The nurse hustled over and bundled the child off.

Jon turned his head right, then left. “Where’s Lizzy?” he asked thickly.

“Lizzy? Is she the woman in the waiting area who keeps asking about you?” the nurse asked. “I told her that as soon as you eat some crackers and drink some ginger ale, we can call the doctor and get his okay to sign you out.”

“No. I want Lizzy. My...other doctor.”

“Dr. LaValley? She’s presently administering to a patient in surgery.”

“I need to see her. Elizabeth...LaValley,” he enunciated as best he could, but his words were slurring.

“That’s my aunt!” a voice piped up. It was the kid. The boy who’d recognized Jon.

“Brandon,” the nurse said to the boy, “you know you’re supposed to be in the day care center.” She picked up her telephone and made a call.

“Leave him,” Jon muttered weakly. He still felt so...sluggish yet full of purpose. He supposed dreams did that to people.

No, not a dream, a vision. And it was so clear. He had to get out of here. Had to get started.

The kid trotted over to his gurney. Jon blinked at him. Whatever medication they’d pumped him full of, he would be shaky for a while. He squinted, concentrating as hard as he could.

The kid was about eight, Jon estimated, with sandy hair and those sneakers kids wore that lit up when they walked. He shrugged out of his backpack and grabbed for a pen.

“Can I get your autograph?” the kid asked. He was missing one of his front eyeteeth.

Or maybe Jon was hallucinating. “How do you know who I am?”

“Everybody knows Jon Farell. You have twelve wins, eleven losses, a four-point-one-five season ERA, and one hundred forty-two strikeouts.”

Huh. Jon didn’t even know all that. He usually ignored his stats.

Those numbers weren’t great, though. He should be doing better. If he were honest with himself, he’d slacked off this summer. The playoffs had seemed a certainty, so maybe the team had socialized and hung out partying together more than they should have.

He had a vague feeling that had been part of his dream. He wasn’t sure, but he thought they had touched on the topic....

He struggled to sit up.

“Hurry!” the kid whispered. “The nurse is coming back.”

“Maybe you should get your aunt,” Jon said.

“She’s in surgery.” The kid looked at him earnestly. “She’s a famous doctor.”

“When I see her again,” Jon slurred. “I’ll give her an autograph for you to take home.”

“You should drive to her house and give it to her there. I’m eating dinner at her house tonight. I’ll tell her you’re coming to see me.” The kid turned around so his back was to Jon. Dangling from the boy’s backpack was a cardboard address label, freshly filled out in blue ink. “That’s where she lives.”

With Jon’s good hand—his pitching hand, which, thank God, felt fine—he drew the label closer, just out of curiosity. Dr. LaValley’s address was in Medford. Huh. That’s where he’d grown up. The vision meant something, but he’d known that before he even saw where Lizzy lived.

He squinted at her street address. He was vaguely certain it was near the school he’d attended as a kid, but Jon’s GPS would know for sure. He dropped back on the bed.

“Brandon! Leave the patients alone!”

Brandon let the nurse take his hand and lead him away. Jon thought the boy might have winked at him.

He still felt so groggy and confused. A second nurse brought him a plastic cup filled with ginger ale, and a packet of saltine crackers that crinkled in its cellophane wrapper.

“Can you ask Dr. LaValley to come here, please?” he asked, pushing away the crackers. “I have a question for her.”

“Let me know the question, and I’ll get it answered for you.” The nurse was speaking loudly. She didn’t need to. He understood her perfectly.

“I want to talk to her,” he said as clearly as he could. The words weren’t coming out so easily. His throat felt sore. Why was that?

“I’ll tell her that you asked for her,” the nurse said.

“I need to talk to her...about the surgery. About what happened to me...” Damn it, he was getting tired. And his finger was starting to throb.

The nurse walked away. Jon peeled back the sheet that covered him. Swung his bare feet to the cool floor. He could feel himself tottering.

In a split second, two nurses were at his side, swinging him back onto the bed.

“He wants to talk to Dr. LaValley,” one of the nurses said to the other nurse.

“Mr. Farell?” The second nurse was in his face now, talking loudly. “Jon?”

“I want to speak to Dr. LaValley,” he repeated.

“That isn’t possible. She’s in surgery. But she left a message for you. She said to say that the procedure went favorably. She said to emphasize the word favorably.”

That was code: Lizzy didn’t think he had cancer. That was good. That was...

Exactly what he’d asked for in the vision. His wish was coming true.

But he still had his end of the bargain to hold up.

Jon leaned back on the pillow. There was so much he could do to improve himself during the off-season. And now that he was out of surgery, he would get right on it.

CHAPTER THREE

JON DIDN’T LET Brooke accompany him in the elevator up to his penthouse, and he remembered to ask for everything back that he’d given her to hold for him: wallet, keys, medallion. He wanted no excuses for her to contact him later under pretext of forgotten belongings. The sooner he was back to focusing on his baseball career and in the care of Max alone, the better off he would be.

Once in his apartment, he crashed on his pillow and slept off the aftereffects of the surgery. He woke at midafternoon, his mouth dry and his finger throbbing with pain, but he refused to take the painkillers the doctor had insisted he leave the hospital with. Instead, he swallowed two acetaminophen tablets with a huge glass of water, before falling back into bed and lapsing into a sleep that felt like a coma. He didn’t wake again until his phone rang.