Forbidden to the Playboy Surgeon

Home > Contemporary > Forbidden to the Playboy Surgeon > Page 15
Forbidden to the Playboy Surgeon Page 15

by Fiona Lowe


  Actually, she hadn’t thrown up since last night, and although she’d felt a little nauseous this morning, it had passed by ten and she’d wolfed down a big breakfast. She’d be back at work bright and early in the morning but meanwhile she’d check her roster and count the actual number of days she had left at the castle. Opening her calendar on her computer she looked at the whole year displayed in four neat columns. Blue denoted today, green was days off, yellow was payday, purple was when her rent was due each month, brown was the fast approaching date of her exams and red was her period.

  All of it made for a heartening and colourful display that was balm to an organised person’s soul. Just glancing at the planner made her feel secure and slightly more in control. Who needed spontaneity? There was no pattern to it, which by its nature was not at all reassuring. Cross-referencing with her roster, she clicked her mouse and added in her days off for the next six weeks.

  Job done, she sat back and enjoyed seeing the patterns all the different dots created. She suddenly lurched forward closer to the screen and adjusted her glasses, blinking at a red dot. Her period had been due on the tenth. She knew for a fact it hadn’t come on that date. It had come earlier but she’d been too busy being spontaneous to realise quite how early it had come.

  And it was very light.

  Her stomach rolled. Implantation bleed. The thought she’d dismissed so easily yesterday was a lot harder to shift today. Was what she thought was a light dose of gastro not gastro at all? Was she pregnant? Was what would constitute Alistair’s disaster and her not unwelcome surprise a reality?

  Or not. It wasn’t like her period was always clockwork regular. There’d been times when it was a bit hit and miss, and after all, she’d moved continents and was working long hours in a stressful job. Plus, they’d always used condoms and to her knowledge no condom had broken.

  There was that one time you straddled him before the condom was on.

  She bit her lip. Was that all it took?

  Her contraceptive lectures reverberated in her mind. Oh, yes, it actually took less. She tasted blood. If she was pregnant, Alistair had made it very clear to her that he didn’t want to have a child with her.

  It’s not you, she promptly reminded herself, determined not to let past beliefs pull her down. She knew that all the way to her soul. Alistair didn’t want to have a child with anyone. So why does he work with kids? So often, people who didn’t want children were uncomfortable around them and avoided them as much as possible. Alistair not only worked with them, he was relaxed around them and he had the special skill of being able to calm a sick and terrified child. He’d ace fatherhood so why didn’t he want children?

  No answer was obvious and none made any sense. She couldn’t help but wonder if all of it was connected to losing his father. She was intimately acquainted with childhood beliefs getting tangled up in adult lives and skewing them. Alistair had helped her see that in her own situation but he wasn’t allowing her to help him. He refused to let anyone get close enough to offer any insight.

  She was under no illusions. The reality was that if she were pregnant, she’d be embarking on the difficult but rewarding path of a single, working mother.

  And if you’re not pregnant?

  I’ll be relieved.

  An empty feeling ringed with sadness tumbled through her, leaving an ache everywhere it touched. She gave herself a shake. Of course she’d be relieved if she wasn’t pregnant. She had to be, didn’t she?

  ‘Argh!’ The sound reverberated around the flat. There were too many what-ifs on both sides of the argument. There was only one definitive way to end this constant circular process and find out for certain if she was pregnant or not. Grabbing her phone, her keys and her handbag, she dashed out of the flat.

  * * *

  Yesterday, Alistair had welcomed the extra workload generated by Bailey and Cla—Mitchell’s absence as it meant he hadn’t had to think about anything other than work. Not that he needed to think about anything other than work right now, he reminded himself crossly, swiping the air savagely as he played solo virtual tennis in the quiet Koala Ward’s lounge.

  He’d spent the evening playing with the kids but they were all tucked up in bed now having been hustled away by the night nurse who liked the order of routine. He should have gone home then but the thought of an empty flat had kept him in the lounge playing game after game. He was determined to beat the machine. Determined to get thoughts of Claire out of his head.

  Damn it, she wasn’t the first woman he’d broken up with. She wouldn’t be the last.

  Other breakups didn’t touch you. This one has.

  He refused to acknowledge that. Hell, he’d dated other women for longer than he’d dated Claire so he had no reason to be affected by this breakup. The two of them wanted different things out of life. She had a choice in wanting a family, but he did not. End of story. Move on. Find someone else to have fun with. It wasn’t like there weren’t plenty of candidates to fill Claire’s place.

  Just this morning, he’d been called down to do a consult in the cardiothoracic ward, and while he was trying to locate the child in question, he’d come across Maddie, the pretty and chatty physiotherapist he’d sat next to at the ball. She was working with Penelope, the cute little girl with the sunny disposition who’d been in and out of hospital all her life. She’d become one of the cute-as-a-button, tug-at-the-heartstrings faces of sick children in the Save Paddington’s campaign. Her photo, along with others, was on posters and billboards all around town.

  Penelope, who was wearing a pink tutu, lay with her head and chest tilted downwards while Maddie’s cupped hands postured and percussed her patient’s chest, loosening mucous and easing the child’s breathing.

  ‘Hello,’ Penelope said with a big smile. ‘You’re not one of my doctors.’

  He smiled at her precociousness. ‘I’m Alistair. I’m a brain doctor.’

  The child considered this. ‘My brain works really well. It’s my heart and lungs that don’t work so good.’

  ‘Hello, Alistair,’ Maddie had said with a wide smile as if she was protecting him from a difficult reply. ‘Where have you been hiding lately? I haven’t seen you since you stole my bread roll at the ball.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been busy,’ he said, feeling oddly self-conscious. Part of him wanted to say, With Claire. ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘I do.’ She smiled again and this time her chocolate eyelashes fluttered at him. ‘But all work and no play makes for a very boring life. I’m a big fan of breaking up the work with a bit of fun. I’ve heard you’re of a similar mind?’

  You bet I’m having fun. Claire’s throaty voice filled his head and he found himself comparing Maddie’s flirting green eyes with Claire’s studious yet sexy caramel ones. The physiotherapist’s came up lacking. ‘I better go and find Olivia McDermott,’ he’d said, backing quickly out of the room.

  A few short weeks ago he’d probably have taken Maddie up on her offer. Before Claire. Feeling warm, he loosened his tie and took another swipe at the virtual ball, thrusting his arm out hard and fast. Now, it was officially After Claire, except the damn woman was still at the hospital. All day yesterday he’d waited for her resignation to ping into his in-box, planning to expedite her leaving as quickly as possible. It hadn’t arrived. The first thing he’d done when he’d hauled himself out of another fitful night’s sleep this morning was to check for the email. It still hadn’t come.

  Despite that, he’d been stunned an hour later when he saw her standing next to Bailey, waiting for him on the ward. Her oval face had been slightly paler than usual but determination had squared her shoulders, rolling down her spine and spearing through her gorgeous—ridiculous—high heels to plant her firmly in place. All of it had said, I’m not going anywhere. It had rendered him momentarily speechless.

  He hated that she
’d said, ‘Good morning, Alistair,’ before he’d been able to give his usual nod and greeting. From that moment, he’d felt as if he was on the back foot for the rest of the round and that she’d been directing the play. Hell, even Bailey, who looked like death warmed up, had been less distracted than him.

  At the end of the round when everyone had scattered he’d found himself asking her quietly, ‘Are you sure you’re well enough to be back at work?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she’d said with a return of the crispness that had been such a part of her when she’d first arrived from Australia. Then she’d looked him straight in the eye and added, ‘I plan to make the most of my remaining seventy-two working days here at the castle.’

  His mouth had dried at her announcement that she wasn’t leaving. She was going to be at work five days a week for the next three months and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. But he knew women and a jet of anxiety streamed through him. ‘You do know that your staying makes no difference to us?’

  Her eye roll was so swift and strong that the floor felt like it had moved under his feet. ‘No need to worry, Alistair. You made your feelings abundantly clear. Besides, I learned from the master on how to clearly separate work and play without any inconvenient overlaps. I’m here because it’s the best place for me to learn. Everything else is immaterial.’

  And he was the master, so why in heaven’s name did his mind keep slipping back to the fundraising ball and the subsequent nights they’d shared. Because it was good sex.

  This time his subconscious gave an eye roll.

  If it was just about the sex, why do you treasure the laughter and time shared on the picnic by the Serpentine? Why did you watch a chick-flick with her on the couch? Why did you spend whole nights at her flat? You’ve never done that with a woman before.

  Anger stirred and he swiped the air again with an even harder thwack, sending the virtual ball scudding back across the screen. It suddenly looked out of focus and he blinked to clear his fuzzy vision. Was it rather warm in here? He threw off his tie without missing a point.

  Remembering fun times with Claire didn’t mean anything more than that he liked her and enjoyed spending time with her. When had that become a crime?

  And what do you fondly remember doing with McKenzie, Islay, Rebecca, Eloise and Leila? Shall I go on?

  Shut up.

  He served with gusto, slicing through the air so hard his arm hurt. Sweat beaded on his brow. He leaped around the lounge, volleying the virtual ball, determined to beat the damn machine.

  Will the world end if you admit that you love me?

  Claire’s distinctive voice with its rising inflection was so loud in his head she may as well have been in the room with him. Yes, damn it. It will. He couldn’t love her because if he did, then his carefully constructed new world—his post-ironman world—would tumble in on itself and bring with it all of the old pain. Pain he’d already endured once before. Pain he didn’t intend to deal with again and he sure as hell wouldn’t inflict it on anyone he loved.

  And you love her.

  The reality hit him so hard he felt light-headed and the room spun. The game buzzed at him, telling him he’d missed a shot. He started over, serving fast and faulting. He blinked away double vision, suddenly feeling unbelievably tired and cloaked with an overwhelming sense of fatalism. What did it matter if he loved Claire? Nothing good could come of it so there was no point telling her. He’d survived worse and he’d survive this. In seventy-two days she’d be gone.

  ‘Alistair?’

  Heat and cold raced through him at her voice but he didn’t turn. Instead, he kept playing despite feeling that with each shot it was increasingly difficult to raise his arm. ‘Claire?’

  ‘Is it possible to add Harrison Raines to tomorrow’s surgical list?’

  ‘Fine.’ He took another swipe with the plastic racquet and the room listed sideways. He staggered, fighting to stay upright.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ But the word echoed in his head. He didn’t feel fine at all. The edges of his mind filled with grey fog. The racquet fell from his hand and he reached for the back of the couch to stop himself from falling.

  Terror gripped him. Memories assaulted him. It had been a long time but he knew this feeling. He tilted sideways.

  ‘Alistair!’ Claire yelled his name as he fell.

  After that everything was a blur as he slipped in and out of consciousness. He heard the thud of shoes on linoleum. Felt Claire’s hand on his throat, seeking his pulse. Heard her say, ‘God, his pulse is twenty-eight.’ He recognised Bailey’s voice yelling to get the crash cart.

  ‘Alistair.’ Hands shook him. ‘Al. Do you have pain?’

  Claire’s beautiful face floated above him and he tried hard to fix it so it was still. He couldn’t manage it.

  Was this it? Had his borrowed time come to an end? No! He didn’t want to die, but he already felt disconnected from his body as if he was on the outside and looking down on everyone frantically trying to save him. With a monumental effort he tried again to bring Claire’s beautiful face into focus. Behind her sexy thinking-woman’s glasses, her eyes burned with terror and pain. He wanted to change that.

  It was suddenly vital to him that his last word to her wasn’t a terse, ‘Fine.’ He didn’t want her to remember their last real conversation when he’d cruelly said, ‘Unlike you, there’s nothing wrong with me.’ Oh, the irony.

  ‘Claire.’ His voice sounded far, far away but she must have heard him because she lowered her head to his.

  ‘It’s okay, Al,’ she said frantically. ‘I refuse to let anything happen to you. You’re going to be okay.’

  He wanted to lift his hand to her cheek and feel her soft skin against his but he lacked the strength. ‘I... Love... You.’

  The last thing he heard before his hearing faded was her choking cry and then everything went black.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AS CLAIRE STARED at the contents of the St John’s Hospital vending machine, she knew down to the tips of her toes that she never wanted to relive the last few hours ever again. Not quite. She smiled as she dropped coins into the machine. She’d happily relive hearing Alistair say quietly but clearly, ‘I love you.’ Was there anything more truthful than words spoken by a man who thought he was dying? She didn’t think so. He loved her and she’d been right about that; however, it brought cold comfort when she’d been desperately worried she might never have the opportunity to hear him say them again.

  Selecting orange juice, cheese and biscuits, and chocolate, she sent up another vote of thanks that by a stroke of luck or, as Thomas Wolfe had said to her, due to ‘the mountain of unrelenting paperwork’ that he’d still been at the castle at ten-thirty last night. Not only had he accompanied Alistair in the ambulance, he’d been very generous to her. As she wasn’t family, without his consideration she’d have been denied any information about Alistair’s condition and certainly not been allowed in to see him. Not that she’d seen him yet, but she lived in hope. Meanwhile, Thomas had reassured her that the surgery had gone well.

  Along with Alistair’s collapse had come a lot of answers to unasked questions. Why he was so hell-bent on living for the moment, although it seemed an excessive response to his condition. Then again, who was she to judge?

  She unwrapped the thick and gooey chocolate-coated caramel bar and just as she bit into it a nurse walked over and enquired, ‘Dr Mitchell?’

  ‘Thaff’s me,’ she stuttered, using all her facial muscles to haul her teeth out of the caramel.

  The nurse caught sight of her food stash and shot her a sympathetic smile. ‘You got the five a.m. sugar drop? I get it too. Always feel a little bit nauseous at this time of the day.’

  Claire nodded, still battling the quicksand-like properties of the caramel.

>   ‘Mr North’s just waking up now,’ the nurse continued. ‘As his mother isn’t due to arrive until midmorning, Dr Wolfe said you could sit with him.’

  Bless you, Thomas. ‘Thank you.’

  They walked the length of the ward from the waiting area to the nurses’ station and the nurse pointed to the door opposite. ‘He’s in there. I’ll be in shortly to do his observations.’

  Claire opened the door and stopped abruptly just inside. Alistair, always so vital and full of life, lay semi-upright in the narrow hospital bed. A sheet was pulled up tightly to his waist and a white hospital gown took over from there covering his torso to his Adam’s apple. His face held slightly more colour than the cotton but not by much. Wires connecting him to the monitor snaked out from under the gown along with the IV that was connected to a pump that buzzed and purred. The rhythmic beep of the monitor, representing each life-giving heartbeat, broke the silence of the room.

  Although she’d seen similar scenarios over and over since her first hospital visit as a medical student all those years ago, this was the first time someone she loved lay connected to all the high-tech machinery. Her heart beat faster in her chest and it took every gram of self-control she had not to rush over and throw herself at him and say, ‘You scared me so much.’

  Besides the very unwise idea of body slamming anyone who’d just undergone surgery, she knew that words like You scared me and Never do that to me again were not going to work in her favour. Alistair loved her but that hadn’t stopped him walking away from her once before. She wasn’t giving him a single excuse to do it a second time.

  Walking slowly, she sat herself in the chair by the bed and slid her hand into his. He stirred, his head turning, and his eyes fluttered open. ‘Welcome back.’ She smiled, squeezed his hand and added softly, ‘I believe you love me.’

 

‹ Prev