by Fiona Lowe
‘You said you’d call me if he woke up.’ Louise’s accusation was loud and clear. In the mother’s mind, Claire had broken a promise to her.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Ryan’s had another bleed. We rushed him to theatre and we’ve just operated on him.’
‘So, this is a just a little setback? He’s going to be all right?’
Claire bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. ‘Unfortunately, it was a big bleed. It caused his brain to swell and it was necessary to remove a small part of his skull to ease the pressure. It’s called a craniotomy.’
‘He’s got a hole in his head?’
The rising disbelief and trauma in Louise’s voice wound through her like poison. ‘The bone flap’s being stored in a freezer at the hospital until the swelling in Ryan’s brain has subsided. When that happens, we can reinsert it.’
‘Are you saying that his brain’s open to the air? That can’t possibly be a good thing.’
‘He’ll wear a special protective helmet while the bone flap’s removed.’
There was a long silence followed by a sharp intake of breath. ‘He’s not going to have brain damage, is he?’
This was the question Claire always dreaded. ‘We won’t know the exact situation until the swelling in his brain has diminished.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘I’m sorry, Louise, but right now I can’t say. It’s too hard to predict.’
She heard the sound of a duvet being moved and feet hitting the floor. ‘Why didn’t you see this coming? Why didn’t you stop it?’
The words whipped and lashed Claire, playing on her days of misgivings that they were missing something. ‘I know this is very hard for you—’
‘Hard!’ Louise barked down the phone, her voice so loud and outraged that Claire jumped. ‘Do you have children, Claire?’
Don’t play this game. You’ll be the one left bleeding. Even if Louise had been a friend instead of a patient’s relative, Claire wouldn’t have confessed her one regret. Somehow, by pursuing the toughest medical speciality to prove to herself, Gundiwindi and the world that she was capable and intelligent, she was suddenly thirty-four, alone and with the chance of motherhood rapidly diminishing.
Alistair walked into the lounge and threw her a questioning glance as he cast tea bags into mugs.
Claire turned away from his penetrating gaze, which despite her determined efforts to stay on task had the uncanny ability to derail her concentration every single time. It both bothered and confused her. She’d always been known for her intense focus and her ability to block out all unnecessary distractions. Over the last few years, her consultants had told her that her natural attention to detail was a perfect trait for a neurosurgeon.
No one outside of her family knew that skill wasn’t natural at all but borne from necessity and honed by sheer determination and bloody-mindedness. It rarely let her down. Even during what she’d considered the ‘heady days’ with Michael, when she’d thought he loved her, her focus hadn’t faltered. However, under the assault of Alistair North’s clear, iron-ore-grey eyes, it wobbled precariously.
‘Louise,’ she said, centring her thoughts. ‘Ryan’s being transferred back to ICU now. When you and your husband arrive at the hospital, Mr North and I will be here to answer all your questions. Just ask the staff to page us.’
She finished the call and slowly lowered the receiver onto the cradle. She knew she should stand up but she wasn’t certain her shaking legs would hold her.
‘Tough call,’ Alistair commented as he opened the fridge.
‘I’ve had better.’
‘Do you take milk and sugar in your tea?’
Despite her surprise at his offer, her head fell back to rest on the couch as exhaustion caught up with her. ‘Just milk.’
‘You look like you could do with some sugar.’
She suddenly craved something sweet. ‘Do you have chocolate?’
‘Surely in the six weeks you’ve been here you’ve learned that any chocolate that enters this room vanishes in five minutes.’ He rummaged through the cupboards and then gave an unexpected woot, holding up a red-and-black box. ‘Will chilli and chocolate shortbread suffice?’
She had a ridiculous and overwhelming urge to cry at his unanticipated thoughtfulness. ‘Awesome.’
He walked over to her carrying two mugs of tea and balancing the box of biscuits on the top of one of the mugs. ‘Here you go.’
There was no sign of the teasing playboy or the supercilious consultant. In her overwrought state, she couldn’t make sense of the change and that troubled her. She stuck to what she knew best: work. ‘We should have done that MRI.’
Her words tumbled out loaded with blame. ‘We should have done more. We caused this.’
‘Hey,’ he said, his grey eyes suddenly stern. ‘We did not cause this. We both operated on him and we both saw exactly the same thing. This bleed was hidden by the original haematoma. That’s why it wasn’t showing up on the scans. On the plus side, if he’d bled anywhere else instead of in ICU, he’d probably be dead.’
Culpability pummelled her so hard it hurt and she was unable to control her belligerent tone. ‘How is that supposed to make me feel better? He wouldn’t have been in hospital if it weren’t for the fire. We’re supposed to pre-empt disasters like this. Now he’s sicker than when he arrived.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Alistair said with frustrating logic and calm. ‘The craniotomy gives him the possibility of recovery. We’ve done everything we can to give him a chance at the best possible outcome.’ His face softened into friendly lines. ‘I know this sucks, but it’s just one of those god-awful things that happen sometimes.’
‘I don’t accept that,’ she said so emphatically her hand jerked. Hot tea spilled over the rim and onto her skin. ‘Ouch!’
He immediately removed the mug from her hand. ‘I’ll get you some ice. Meanwhile, open wide.’ He shoved a shortbread into her mouth.
For reasons she couldn’t fathom, she’d done as he’d asked and obediently opened her mouth. Now, more out of surprise than anything else, she bit into the soft, buttery, chocolate goodness and embraced the kick of chilli. It shocked her senses in a much-needed way and she wiped her tea-covered hand on her scrub. A large red welt with a white centre rose fast on the base of her thumb accompanied by a furious sting. Wearing surgical gloves was going to hurt for the next few days.
Alistair returned with an icepack wrapped in a red-and-white-checked tea towel. His large hand folded the pack around hers and the burn of the ice tangoed with the burn of his hand. He lifted her left hand and placed it over the pack. ‘Hold that there for ten minutes.’
‘Thanks.’ Irrational tears threatened again along with an equally irrational sense of loss as he removed his hand. What the hell was wrong with her?
‘Shortbread sugar starting to hit?’ Alistair asked, his brow furrowed with mild concern.
Not really. Her head was spinning and she felt strangely adrift and utterly drained. It was as if a decade of fatigue had just sideswiped her. She’d been working so hard and for so long doing everything on her own, proving she was as good as or better than her peers, and fighting harder than anyone to stay on top that she wasn’t used to anyone looking out for her. Right now, nothing was making sense, especially this version of Alistair who was being remarkably kind.
Her entire body sagged heavily and it took almost more effort than she had to keep herself upright. She had a ludicrous urge to drop her head onto his shoulder and take shelter there, sleeping for a week.
Have you completely lost your mind? You’re at work. He’s your boss and just no. Got that?
Aghast that her jumbled thoughts had somehow managed to get to this point, she tried squaring her shoulders in an attempt to summon up her professional decorum. No
t once in her career had she ever lost control at work and tonight wasn’t the time to start—especially not in front of Alistair North. No, the moment the ten minutes was up, she’d stow the ice pack in the freezer, bid Alistair a crisp goodnight and head home to bed for a much-needed sleep. Everything would make sense again after a good night’s sleep.
And if it doesn’t?
She’d worry about that if and when it happened.
* * *
Alistair rubbed the back of his neck, slightly bewildered and definitely disconcerted by this version of Claire Mitchell sitting next to him on the couch. Her reaction to what had been a routine craniotomy was out of proportion and out of character. When he’d first met her, he’d picked her as being meticulous, ambitious and with a ‘take no prisoners’ approach to work. It wasn’t that she didn’t care—she was indeed empathetic—but she always put the medicine first. Surely Ryan Walker’s unexpected deterioration couldn’t have been the first time she’d been faced with an unanswerable medical conundrum?
Whatever it was, it was obvious it had upset her greatly. As her consultant, it was his job to help her work through it. But how? He sipped his tea and pondered the matter until a possible solution came to him.
‘Would it help if we took Ryan’s case to peer review? I doubt they’ll disagree with our treatment plan but the process will reassure you that we did everything we could.’
‘Peer review doesn’t have to deal with Ryan’s parents,’ she said, her voice cracking. Her shoulders slumped. ‘Louise Walker hates me.’
Ah. So Claire Mitchell wasn’t just about protocol and paperwork after all. Underneath her automaton tendencies and prickly exterior existed a regular person. For whatever reason, something about Ryan’s case had got under her skin. He knew all about that. At some point in every doctor’s career, one patient would touch them more than the others. ‘Louise Walker is a terrified mother.’
‘I know.’
Her eyes, now as round as huge saucers of warm caramel, looked at him. He got an unanticipated urge to dive right in. That won’t help matters. You don’t really like her. Baffled, he blinked and then as his vision came back into focus he saw her beseeching distress urging him to understand.
‘I made Louise leave the hospital today. I insisted on it.’
He rushed to reassure her and at the same time get himself back on solid ground. ‘And rightly so. The woman was exhausted.’
Her fingers plucked at invisible balls of lint on her scrubs. ‘She made me promise to call her if Ryan woke up.’
Worry pulled tightly behind his eyes. ‘Promises are always fraught...’
Her chin, which he’d noticed tended to tilt up sharply whenever she felt under attack, barely lifted. ‘I’m not a novice.’
‘No.’
‘And of course I’d have called her if Ryan woke up. It was hardly an unprofessional assurance.’
Suddenly, his veil of confusion lifted. With piercing clarity, he saw exactly where this was going. He felt for her—he really did. ‘When you rang Louise just before, she thought—’
‘That I had the first piece of good news in two weeks.’ She sucked her lips in tight and blinked rapidly. It wasn’t enough to prevent a tear escaping and running down her cheek beyond the reach of her glasses. She crooked the forefinger of her uninjured hand and brushed it away.
Bloody hell. Unlike a lot of men who froze in the presence of a distressed woman, he was always moved to assist, which was why he’d already made his registrar a cup of tea. But now, seeing the usually stitched-up and almost too-together Claire Mitchell falling apart in front of him sent a visceral spike of pain into him, cramping his gut. ‘Why didn’t you ask me to make the call?’
Her free hand curled into a tight fist and her chin dropped towards her chest. ‘You were very clear about it being my job.’
‘Bloody hell, Claire,’ he said softly, the words coming out on a puff of air. He felt like the worst boss in the world. ‘I don’t understand. You’ve queried me and judged my opinions more than once in the past few weeks. Why on earth did you decide this telephone call was the one thing you weren’t going to question?’
‘All I know,’ she said so softly he needed to strain to listen, ‘is that I’ve destroyed Louise Walker. I’ve made her pain ten times worse.’
Her head rose and her woebegone expression ate into him like acid on paper. It was as natural as breathing to put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You haven’t destroyed her,’ he said quietly.
Her head fell forward onto his shoulder and he patted her gently on the back. ‘Deep down you know that. You’re just having a rough night.’
She made a muffled noise that sounded half like denial and half like a hiccough. He smiled at the very normal snorting sound coming from someone he’d thought kept a wide distance between work and her emotions. He found himself stroking her hair, the fine strands like silk against his palm. With her head now resting under his chin, the scent of cinnamon and apples drifted upwards.
Memories flooded back—a large homey kitchen warmed by the continually heating Aga, the beatific, round face of Cook and the aroma of brown sugar and butter. Everything he associated with the comfort of childhood was centred on that kitchen. Not once in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined it wouldn’t always be there waiting for him when he returned home from boarding school. Twenty-six years had passed and he still missed it.
Claire raised her head, her cheeks blotchy and her eyes red-rimmed. Her gaze was fixed doggedly on the wet patch on his shirt and her small hand patted it as if the action was enough to dry it. ‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry.’
The pads of her fingers warmed his skin through the fine cotton. ‘No need to apologise,’ he said, intending to sound hearty and encouraging, but the words came out husky as if he was suffering from a cold. ‘Worse things have happened to my shirts.’
‘The thing is, I’ve never done anything like this at work before.’ She sounded utterly poleaxed. ‘You must think I’m a total basket case.’
‘No.’ He knew he should say more. He should tell her that everyone has a bad day occasionally, that doctors are human too, and some cases have a deeper impact than others. But her heat was weaving through him and creating so much havoc that he was having trouble remembering his own name, let alone articulating anything beyond a single syllable. In a desperate attempt to regain his equilibrium, he caught her hand, encasing it in his, stopping her jerky strokes.
She stilled for a moment and stared at his white hand covering her tanned one and then, slowly, she lifted her face to his. Her liquid eyes were a mirror to her embarrassment, confusion and sorrow. Once again, he wanted to make her feel better, because anyone who worked in medicine had spent time in that dismal place and it was dangerous to linger there too long. He was about to say, ‘Tomorrow’s another day,’ when he glimpsed something indefinable beyond the chaotic swirl of emotions. The shadows told him it wasn’t new. In fact, it had the intransigent look of an indelible stain that no amount of soap, salt or methylated spirits could remove.
Was it doubt? Fear? Inadequacy? Surely not. But whatever it was, it hit him hard in the solar plexus and held on tight like a lasso. Whatever it is, it’s wrong. It shouldn’t be part of her. It doesn’t belong there.
The need to vanquish this malignant thing and banish it from her eyes—from her soul—pulled him down towards her. His lips touched her damp cheek in a consoling kiss and the tang of salt zipped into him. He was about to pull back when her head turned and suddenly his mouth was softly touching those plump, ruby-red lips. They were soft and tear-cooled. He tasted the heady essence of bergamot.
Stop now.
He was about to pull back when her lips opened infinitesimally. He was immediately rushed by the unexpected spicy zap of chilli. Hot. Sizzling. One hundred per cent aroused woman. His breath left his lungs and for a m
oment he was rendered utterly still, unable to think, move or feel.
The tip of her tongue flicked against his lips so lightly and so quickly that his brain couldn’t decide if it had even happened or if he was imagining it. But his body knew. Good God, it knew. He dropped his arms to her waist and hauled her in against him before opening his mouth and welcoming her in.
She came to him without a moment’s hesitation, filling him completely. Her tongue explored, her teeth nipped, her heat and flavours exploded through him until he was nothing but a river of pulsating sensation. Her free hand wound its way through his hair, her fingers digging into his scalp as if she needed to hold on to something to keep herself tethered to earth.
He understood exactly. Kissing her was like being in free fall. He returned her kiss with one of his own—deep, thorough and practiced until he heard a low guttural moan coming from Claire. Usually that sound made him smile and reinforced not only that he knew exactly what he was doing but that he was the one in total control.
Not this time.
His usual measured composure with women was unravelling faster than a skein of wool in the paws of a cat. He had the strangest awareness that somehow she’d turned the tables on him completely. What had started out as a quick and reassuring kiss to console her was now a kiss that was stripping him of the protective layers he’d spent five years cementing into place.
Break the kiss. Now. Right now.
But his body overruled him again, craving what was on offer and seizing it like a drowning man grips a life preserver. He slid the utilitarian black band from her ponytail, and as her hair fell to her shoulders in a sun-kissed cascade, it released its treasured aroma of spices and apples. Golden strands caressed his face and he breathed deeply. Claire’s sweet behind was now in his lap—he had no idea if he’d pulled her there, if she’d climbed in or if it was a bit of both. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was here, now and her.
Her hand cupped the back of his neck, her fingers splayed. His hand, which had been gripping her hip, now slid under the loose top of her scrubs. His palm instantly tingled as it touched warm, smooth skin. He spider-walked his fingers along her spine, absorbing every rise and dip until he reached the wide strap of her bra.