Ultimate Heroes Collection

by Various Authors

  Ah. The baron. ‘How nice for him,’ Sophie said coolly.

  Abby frowned. ‘Don’t be so hard on him. He’s a nice bloke.’

  He was upper class—and Sophie knew from experience just how not nice they could be. ‘Yeah. I bet,’ she said sarcastically, before she could stop herself.

  ‘He is. He’s buying drinks for everyone on Thursday night, and he’s included the auxiliary staff and the cleaners,’ Abby protested.

  Sophie shrugged. ‘So? He’s a baron. Rich. He can afford it. It’s an empty gesture, Abby.’

  Abby frowned. ‘He’s not a snob, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s genuine.’ She added what she clearly thought was her trump card: ‘Guy likes him.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘Soph, I don’t understand why you’re so anti.’

  ‘I’m not anti. I’m just saying I don’t like politics and I don’t think they have any place in hospitals. We should be looking after our patients, not playing games.’

  ‘Charlie doesn’t seem like a game-player.’ Abby took a swig of her coffee. ‘Let’s agree to disagree, shall we?’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ Sophie raised her own cup.

  They’d been talking shop for about five minutes when a tray clattered onto the table next to theirs. ‘Hi, Soph.’

  ‘Hello, Guy.’ She smiled at him. And then looked up at the man standing next to Guy—into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

  Baron R. C. Radley.

  The photographs in the gossip rags simply didn’t do him justice. In the press he always looked slightly unreal—with a perfect tan, even white teeth and not so much as a faint shadow under his eyes or a blemish on his skin.

  In the flesh, he was something else. Tall—about six feet two, she’d guess—with dark hair cut just a little bit too short. Sculpted cheekbones, a haughty nose—very patrician. Except his lower lip was full and gave him a slightly vulnerable air, and there were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that told her that he smiled a lot.

  Her pulse started to hammer, and the back of her neck tingled. Gorgeous didn’t even begin to describe him. Neither did mouth-watering. He was both—and more.

  Please, don’t let her mouth be hanging open.

  ‘Let me introduce you,’ Guy said. ‘Soph, this is Charlie. Charlie, this is Sophie Harrison, the senior registrar on Andy’s team.’

  Charlie placed his tray carefully on the table and held his hand out. ‘Pleased to meet you. And I’m sorry I missed you this morning.’

  He had a posh voice. The sort that usually raised her hackles. So why did she suddenly want to purr? Not good. Not good at all.

  Sophie was aware that Abby and Guy were both staring at her. Oh, yes. She was meant to shake the baron’s hand. Though when she did, she wished she hadn’t. Her skin was actually tingling where it had touched him.

  No way. She wasn’t going to fall under the spell of someone like him—a womaniser and a toff. Absolutely not. ‘Sorry I couldn’t wait.’ For you to bother to turn up. ‘I had a full list.’

  ‘Of course. Patients are nervous enough before an operation—the last thing they need are unexpected delays.’

  Not quite the reaction she’d been expecting. Wasn’t he supposed to be offended that she hadn’t waited to tug her forelock?

  Before she could reply, one of the nurses came over. ‘Hey, Charlie!’

  Batted eyelashes—and Sophie would bet that the nurse had just breathed in hard. Certainly, her bust was difficult to ignore. Her name tag said that she was from the emergency department. Don’t say their new director of surgery had already started working his way through the nurses?

  ‘I thought you might like to know how Mrs Ward’s getting on. She’s stable and we’re sending her home.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Charlie said.

  ‘How’s Liam?’ she asked.

  ‘Out of Theatre. Guy did a good job.’

  Sophie frowned. ‘Am I missing something here?’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you?’ the nurse asked. ‘Our Charlie’s a hero. He was on his way in this morning when he saw this kid stuffing fireworks in this old lady’s letterbox. One went off in the boy’s hand—and the old lady had angina. Charlie rescued them both.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were involved in the rescue as well,’ Guy said. ‘So that’s why you were late this morning?’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘I just called the ambulance, as anyone else would have done.’

  ‘Don’t be modest.’ The nurse batted his protest away. ‘The paramedics reckon you’re a hero. The papers have been ringing up, too—they want a picture of you.’

  So this was what it was all about. Baron Radley, Hero of Hampstead. A PR opportunity. The hospital would be delighted to get some positive press instead of pointed comments about superbugs, declining standards and lengthening waiting lists.

  ‘They’re not getting a picture. And the press office can handle the calls,’ Charlie said. ‘I’m a doctor. I did what any other doctor would have done. That’s all.’

  All? Sophie didn’t think so. He might be a doctor—but he was one with a title. And one who’d been linked in the press with too many gorgeous women to count.

  He flashed a smile—one she’d bet he’d practised. A lot. ‘But thanks for telling me about Mrs Ward.’

  It was a dismissal, and the nurse knew it. ‘See you later, Charlie.’ She actually gave him a coy little wave. What was it about this man that fried women’s brain cells? Sophie wondered in disgust.

  Though that smile was definitely a lethal weapon. She’d have to be careful. Very careful.

  ‘So what happened?’ Abby asked.

  ‘Full-thickness burns to the palm of the dominant hand and two amputated fingertips. Guy did an excellent job of debridement and repairing the fingertips,’ Charlie said.

  ‘And Charlie did the skin grafts.’

  Usually, skin grafts were delayed for a couple of weeks after the burn, when the dead skin started sloughing off—but in certain cases, such as fingers and eyelids, primary skin grafts had to be made as soon as possible after the injury to reduce the likelihood of infection.

  ‘I assume he’s staying in Paeds for a few days?’ Sophie asked. Burns to the hand were very difficult to manage at home, and there was a high risk of infection by Streptococcus pyogenes in the first week. The boy would definitely be on a course of antibiotics to reduce the risk of infection.

  Charlie nodded. ‘I want to keep a check on him in case of fibrotic contractions.’ The fibres around the burn often contracted as they healed, and could cause problems with movement. The likelihood was that the boy would need multiple plastic surgery operations. ‘Plus he needs to keep his hand elevated.’ That would reduce the risk of swelling, or oedema, which could cause problems as the burn healed.

  ‘I think you’ve made a hit in ED,’ Guy said.

  Charlie grinned. ‘They’ll get over it. When people get to know me better, they’ll realise I’m just like any other surgeon around here.’

  Like any other? Hmm. Sophie didn’t think so.

  ‘I’m happiest when I’ve got a scalpel in my hand,’ Charlie added. ‘Now, please, let the coffee here be better than at my last place …’

  Smooth. Very, very smooth.

  But Sophie wasn’t tugging her forelock to anyone.

  She gave him a cool little smile, and turned her attention back to her lunch.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘I CAN’T believe Tom didn’t even notice his foot was gangrenousl’ Abby said.

  ‘Type-one diabetic, male, early thirties, single, lives on his own—no, I can buy it,’ Sophie said.

  Abby shook her head. ‘I can’t, even though I know people with diabetes are more at risk of foot infections and ulcers—their circulation doesn’t work properly and it affects the motor, sensory and autonomic nerves.’

  ‘Which means?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘The motor nerves supplying the smal
l muscles of the foot and the calf don’t work properly so the weight-bearing bit of the foot is distorted,’ Abby recited. ‘The effect on the autonomic nerves means the foot doesn’t sweat, and the sensory nerves don’t work so the patient doesn’t feel any pain.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Sophie thought Abby was shaping up to be an excellent doctor—she knew the textbook stuff. Now she just needed to understand her patients a bit more and empathise with them. ‘You don’t feel it, so you don’t do anything about it. Nearly half the time diabetic patients spend in hospital is because of foot problems.’

  ‘But surely he must have seen it?’ Abby asked.

  ‘He probably hoped it would just go away on its own. A lot of people do—they’re scared of doctors and hope if they ignore the problem it’ll go away.’

  Abby shook her head in disgust. ‘So why didn’t his diabetic nurse pick it up?’

  ‘Because,’ Sophie said, ‘he didn’t turn up for any of his appointments. He got divorced last year and his mum told me yesterday he cut himself off from the rest of the world. The only reason we know about his foot is because he had a hypoglycaemic attack at work and the foreman insisted on him coming to hospital. Lucky ED was clued up enough to guess if he wasn’t keeping his glucose levels under proper control, he probably wasn’t looking after himself and might have a bit of ulceration on his feet as well.’

  ‘A bit of ulceration? Soph, the entire dorsum of his foot is necrotic!’ Abby said, aghast.

  ‘Yup.’ The top of Tom’s foot was red, swollen and puffy, and the tissue beneath was dead. ‘The sad thing is, it could all have been avoided if he’d come for treatment earlier.’ Sophie sighed. ‘The gangrene’s too bad for me to save his foot. I just wish I could have done reconstructive surgery on it—which I would have been able to do if he’d seen us weeks ago. He might have lost a toe or two, but it would still have been workable. Whereas this … It’s going to take him months of physiotherapy to get used to a false leg.’

  ‘What does Charlie say?’

  ‘Same as me. It has to come off.’ Sophie had checked with him the previous afternoon, and together they’d explained the options to Tom. She’d been impressed by the way Charlie had handled it and had tried to give Tom some dignity. ‘He’s doing the op with me this afternoon. We’ve been giving Tom an epidural for the last twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Studies show he’s less likely to suffer from phantom limb pain after the amputation,’ Sophie explained. ‘We’re going to do a below-knee amputation—I need to go high enough to make sure the tissue I cut through is healthy. Why?’

  ‘Because otherwise there’s a risk the wound will break down and become ulcerated, so you have to do another amputation. You’re going below the knee—mid-tibia—because it’ll improve his mobility with a prosthesis,’ Abby added.

  ‘Perfect textbook answer,’ a voice said beside them.

  Sophie did her best to ignore the tingling at the back of her neck. Charlie was just another one of the team, and she was going to treat him accordingly. He was just another doctor. So what if he had the sexiest mouth she’d ever seen? So what if his neck just invited you to caress it? The two of them were worlds apart, and it would stay that way.

  ‘Want to come and watch, if Guy can spare you?’ Charlie asked. ‘The full op takes about an hour and a half, but if he can only spare you for part of it, that’s fine.’

  ‘Could I?’ Abby beamed at him. ‘I’ll go and ask Guy!’

  When she’d gone, that left Charlie and Sophie together. Alone.

  Well, they had to work together. Just because she didn’t like what he stood for, it didn’t mean she’d be deliberately obstructive—not where work was concerned. Patients took priority in Sophie’s eyes.

  ‘How’s Tom?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Pretty miserable. And wishing he’d seen a doctor earlier,’ Sophie said wryly.

  ‘Poor bloke. But there was too much necrosis for us to be able to save the foot.’ He looked at Sophie. ‘You didn’t mind me asking Abby if she wanted to watch, did you?’

  ‘No. It’s good experience for her.’ And he had at least said it was on condition Guy could spare his house officer. He wasn’t just expecting everyone to drop everything because the director of surgery said so.

  ‘I noticed you coaching her just then,’ Charlie added.

  Sophie shrugged. ‘Just doing my job.’

  ‘Some surgeons hate dealing with junior doctors.’

  ‘Abby’s keen, bright and fits in well with the team. I’m more than happy to help,’ she said stiffly.

  There had definitely been an undercurrent to her words. What? Was she saying she didn’t think he fitted in with the team? Charlie sighed inwardly. He hadn’t been there long enough to know if he’d fit in or not. But Sophie wasn’t even giving him a chance. He’d been drawn to her when he’d overheard her coaching Abby—the encouragement in her voice, the smile on her face, those beautiful brown eyes lively as she’d talked about the operation. He hadn’t been able to stop himself joining in.

  And she’d frozen on him completely.

  Until that moment he’d had no idea how cold brown eyes could be.

  But he’d never met her before yesterday. He was sure of that: Sophie Harrison was definitely a woman he’d remember. So it couldn’t be anything he’d done personally to upset her.

  It had to be the baron thing.

  OK. He’d deal with it. After the operation he’d pull rank, take her for a coffee and straighten things out between them.

  For professional reasons, of course. He wasn’t stupid enough to get involved with somebody he worked with. Unlike his younger brother, he didn’t mix work and play. Even though Sophie Harrison pressed all his buttons. Long blonde hair she kept caught back from her face with a clip in a way that made him want to remove it and run his fingers through it. Deep brown eyes he could drown in. And a perfect Cupid’s-bow mouth that made him want to cup her face in his hands and kiss her.

  And if he did it, he had the feeling she’d break both his legs.

  Professionally, they might be able to work together. Socially, no chance. So he wasn’t even going to go there.

  ‘I’ll see you in Theatre, then,’ he said.

  ‘Sure.’

  Was it his imagination, or was there relief on her face—relief that he hadn’t suggested having lunch together? Suppressing the sting of hurt, he walked away. It wasn’t personal. He needed to find some middle ground, some way for them to work together. It’d take time. He just had to accept that and live with her suppressed hostility in the meantime.

  Sophie’s spine tingled as she walked into the changing rooms. It was the adrenalin rush she always had before an operation, the one that kept her on the top of her game. When she’d worked with Guy, he’d always said that the day she stopped being nervous before an operation was the day she should hang up her scrubs—because you should never, ever take anything for granted in surgery. Even apparently routine jobs could suddenly change, develop an unexpected complication.

  She changed quickly, tucked her hair into a cap, put her mask on and went to scrub up. Charlie was already there—clearly he’d already done his nails and the initial wash because he was scrubbing his hands and forearms. Nice forearms, she thought absently. Strong. Nice hands, too, strong and capable. For one shocking moment she actually wondered what they’d feel like on her skin.

  Then she shook herself. It wasn’t going to happen. She’d sworn that his type would never touch her again.

  Once they’d finished scrubbing up and were gowned, gloved and masked, they went into the operating theatre. Tom had had the choice of a spinal block or general anaesthetic—he’d opted for a general. It carried more risks than a spinal, but she could understand that he didn’t want to know what was going on. How could you just lie there as a surgeon removed your foot and half your lower leg? Even though you wouldn’t be able to feel it and the anaesthetic meant you wouldn’t be able to move anyway, you
’d know exactly what was happening. You’d hear everything.

  And it would be unbearable.

  ‘Poor man. He’s got a tough time ahead of him,’ she said.

  ‘What’s going to happen after the operation?’ Abby asked.

  ‘We’ll check his bandages aren’t too tight after about eight hours, then remove the drains a bit later without disturbing the dressings. In a couple of days he’ll start gentle physiotherapy to make sure there are no contractures at the hip or knee joints. And we need to get in touch with the limb-fitting and rehab departments as soon as possible,’ Sophie explained.

  ‘Over to you, Dr Harrison,’ Charlie said quietly.

  Sophie checked that the anaesthetists were happy to proceed. ‘OK, Abby, I’ll talk you through what we’re going to do. In the old days they used to just slice off the limb and leave it to heal—it reduced the risk of gas gangrene or tetanus, but it was hopeless trying to fit a prosthesis to the limb.’

  Charlie would be the best one to explain about the skin flap. But what did she call him? Mr Radley? She wasn’t up on Debrett’s, so she didn’t know what you were supposed to call a baron, but she was pretty sure it wouldn’t be ‘Mr’. Did she copy his formality or strike a blow for the common people and call him ‘Charlie’?

  In the end, she went for a cop-out. ‘Our director of surgery will explain about the skin flaps.’

  Then she made the mistake of glancing up. All she could see were his eyes above his surgical mask. Gorgeous slate-blue eyes. Sexy slate-blue eyes. But there was also a glint of amusement there. Was he laughing at her?

  Just like his type had laughed at her before. She lifted her chin. ‘Problem, Radley?’

  ‘No, Harrison.’

  He was definitely laughing at her, and Sophie scowled as she made the first incision.

  ‘Abby, the blood supply to the tissues of the lower leg is better at the front than at the back, so what I’m going to do is something called a “skew flap”. It’s a long posterior flap of muscle, with equal skin flaps. Harrison’s going to cut about twelve centimetres below the tibial tuberosity, so it preserves the patient’s knee joint and makes rehabilitation easier.’