“We’ve got her stabilized. She’s been coming in and out of consciousness. We’re prepping for the study now.” We go in past the curtain, and I blink down at my new patient.
Shit. The girl’s half my age, vulnerable, likely terrified, and very much needs for me to focus on my work right now. But as I walk over to the bed and look down at her, I realize that focusing is going to be a bit difficult.
She’s a complete knockout. On the tall side, with milky skin, wavy, red hair, full lips, and a body that looks hot even in a hospital gown. Her breasts are half-uncovered so we can attach the sensors and defibrillate quickly if we must, and I have to tear my eyes away.
For fuck’s sake, Damon, get your mind out of her panties and set to work on saving her fucking life! I look over her vitals, then check her chart once Sarah hands it over. “Question. Is her heart rate going back up no matter what drug is being used?”
“Looks like it, yes.” She looks over my shoulder at the chart, then turns the page and points to the EKG readouts. “Sedatives helped some and beta blockers helped some. The calcium blockers didn’t seem to do anything at all.”
“It could be worse than that. Some arrhythmias respond negatively to calcium blockers. That’s why I had you stop them. The study will show us more of what is going on.”
I purse my lips and then hand the chart back to Sarah as I go on. “It’s possible that she may need laparoscopic surgery before this is over. I’ll drive the scope myself. See if they can keep the operating room on standby after they run the study?”
She smiles and nods, seeming relieved. How many times had she tried to call that damned idiot, Campbell, before she gave up and called me? Not too many, I hope.
The poor girl stays unconscious through the entire test; just as well, since it involves threading a scope into her circulatory system. The procedure will only leave her with some soreness and a small entry wound, but the very thought of it gives a lot of patients the shudders. Still, it will save her from open-heart surgery, unless everything in her heart is completely fucked up.
I look over her chart as we wait for the results and am surprised to see an insert from Family Services from only two years ago. Yet another reminder that I shouldn't be staring at her tits, especially openly.
No family. Grew up in foster care. Started off life as Baby Doe after being found in an auto wreck that destroyed her presumed parents, but somehow left her without a bruise.
No record of any distant relatives or foster parents. The facility she was in sent her to the same pediatrician until she aged out of the system, and to my relief, they've sent a copy of her medical records. Dr. Marsh did a much better job in tracking her health issues than the student clinic or, of course, Dr. Campbell.
Reported incidents of light-headedness back through the age of ten. Believed to be anxiety-related, but she has neither a formal anxiety diagnosis nor a diagnosis of PTSD. And yet doctors keep treating her for anxiety anyway, telling her that what she’s been feeling since she was a kid is all in her head.
If there’s one thing I hate more than incompetent doctors, it’s prejudiced doctors. The sort who go in assuming they know what’s what because their patient is a fat guy, or a smoker, or a young woman. Every body is different, and though certain types tend toward certain conditions, diagnosis and treatment are never one-size-fits-all.
The girl, who’s now resting in a nest of wires, sensors, and tubes, her heart still going too damned fast, needs precision as much as she needs empathy. I can offer both, though I can already tell that this one’s going to wreck me if she passes. Occupational hazard; I accept it just as I once accepted that I wouldn’t live past the age of thirty-five.
Half an hour later, I have my answers. I want to talk to the girl before we actually go in and fix the matter, so she knows what is going on. But I'm determined to do the surgery tonight, before Campbell can make any more of a mess of this.
I have them lower the sedation level so she has a better chance of waking up quickly and then have them watch her until she does.
Not long after, they summon me back to her bedside. I walk in, putting on the best fucking bedside manner I can muster before dawn and my first cup of tea. "Miss North? I'm Dr. Chase, the on-call cardiologist."
Her eyes widen as she takes me in. Even in the midst of her terror, I catch an ember of something I didn't expect in her expression. Time enough to discuss that later, though. "Hi," she manages in a breathless voice.
"Hi there. I'm very sorry about meeting you under these circumstances, but I do have some good news for you, if you feel up to hearing it." I catch myself smiling a bit too much and dial it back, chastising myself.
"Good news is pretty welcome about now. I'm guessing I'm ...out of danger, then?" She forces a tiny, brave smile.
I'm arrested by it briefly, then cough into my fist, trying to cover my lapse. "Yes, well, we performed the test that Campbell neglected to give you, and I can now explain to you what is going on in your heart and how we are going to fix it."
"Oh?" She makes the mistake of trying to sit up and almost immediately stops, wincing in pain at the effort. "Damn."
"Well, we haven't patched you up yet, so don't get too impatient to jump out of bed," I joke with her gently. She offers that brave, charming, little smile again.
"So ...what's wrong with me?" Her voice only shakes a little.
"It's called Wolff-Parkinson-White Syndrome. As you told our nurse that you suspected, it is not treated with calcium channel blockers, such as Verapamil. In fact, they're contraindicated. They can make the situation worse."
She's got one hell of a malpractice suit to bring against that bastard Campbell for his misdiagnosis and mistreatment of a life-threatening disease. I am so sick of his shit that I decide to help her if she'll accept the offer. "We took you off the drugs, and I want you to stop taking them when you get home."
She nods quickly. "Yes, doctor. Should I get rid of them?"
"No. Keep them and decide whether you want to take legal action once you are feeling better. You can use them to support your case, since he put you on something that probably made things worse." I look at her and feel a stab of alarm as her eyes tear up.
"I knew it," she said in a shaky voice. "I knew something was wrong. He and his staff weren't listening."
"I'm afraid that Dr. Campbell is somewhat well known for that. Unfortunately, those on campus health insurance don't exactly have their pick of specialists." She nods, still teary-eyed, and before I can stop myself, I reach out and put a hand on her shoulder.
She stops shaking at once and the waterworks slow. She looks up at me and smiles sadly. "So what does this syndrome do, and how do we stop it?"
"Well, the short explanation is that the heart has nodes that send electrical impulses through it and tell it when to contract. You happen to have too many of those nodes. They fire at their own rates, and for much of your life, they were likely firing almost in sync with one another. That means they were telling your heart to contract at the same time.
"That means for most of your life, your heart beat like a normal heart. Sometimes the two signals would get out of sync and you would get dizzy, but they likely always went back into sync with one another.
"But, somehow, this year, the two signals went out of sync, and now each one is telling the heart to beat at different times. And your heart is beating extra fast and unevenly to keep up with what the signals tell it to do."
I watch her face as she struggles to digest what—despite my simplifying it as much as possible—was a standard-issue doctorly info-dump. She looks thoughtful, then raises her head to look at me.
"Okay. Thank you for figuring that out for me. Now ...how do we fix it?"
Chapter 3
Samantha
I’m about to trust my life to the hottest doctor I have ever seen—and I’ve had my share of medical emergencies. Holy crap, though, this guy ... Looking at him almost takes my mind off the fact that he’s going to
thread a weird robotic tentacle through my veins.
He’s got some kind of British accent—more working-class than Oxford—but despite that, he looks Mediterranean. His wavy hair is almost jet black, and he has it pulled back into a short ponytail at his nape. He has olive skin, liquid brown eyes, and a Roman nose above a wide, well-shaped mouth.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered under that white lab coat, and even in my drugged haze, I can’t help but notice that he moves like a panther. But most of all, he’s got me captivated because he has the answers, because he cares enough to do his job right, and because he’s about to fix my problem instead of just throwing pills at it.
The surgical theater is small, and computer screens and equipment dominate one of its walls. I lie on the table while the anesthesiologist prepares my deep sedation. Meanwhile, Dr. Chase is walking me through what’s going to happen next.
“Radio frequency ablation is not a long process. We already went in once to run the test, and it will be a simple matter to go in again. I’d estimate half an hour to go in with the laparoscope, and then we’ll monitor you until tomorrow.”
“That’s it? You’re telling me that I could be well by tomorrow morning.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. No more pills? No more dizzy spells? No more being afraid my damn heart will give out?
“Well, more or less. You’ll need to take it easy for about a week after everything you have been through, but normally, this is an outpatient procedure. We'll cause the extra electrical node to stop sending signals using radio waves, and then you’re done.” He checks my vitals, then makes a few notes. “Right, well, I should go get ready. See you when you wake up!”
The anesthesiologist, a tiny Filipino woman with graying roots, smiles at me and gives Dr. Chase a nod. “All right, sweetie, I’m going to put this in your IV port, and it’s going to make you very relaxed. You won’t actually remember anything afterward.”
“So, like when I got my wisdom teeth out?” I’m nervous, but this is going to happen; it has to happen. And pretty soon I’ll be too high to care about what’s going on anyway.
“Like twilight sleep, yes.” She takes a syringe and slowly empties the milky fluid inside into my IV line. “And here we are. Now, I’d like you to count back from one hundred for me.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling a different sort of dizziness. A warm rush seems to be riding through my veins. “One hundred ...ninety-nine ...ninety-eight ...ninety-seven ....”
“Uh?” I wake up in a small recovery room, feeling a little bit of pain on the inside of one thigh. I’m sleepy and a little queasy, and the pain is completely gone except for that ache in my upper thigh. I lie there blinking, shocked by the loss of time and memory, even though I was warned.
My heart is beating slowly as the monitor beeps along. It picks up as I notice it, but not by much. I don’t hurt; I take a huge breath and my chest doesn’t ache. I have no trouble filling my lungs with air, something I haven’t been able to do in a long time.
Intrigued, I press two fingers against my pulse to double check. It feels ...normal. Even. It’s not racing at all.
Holy crap. He got it! Dr. Unexpected British Hottie actually fixed me!
All I can do is lie there and stare at the ceiling for a while, grateful tears leaking down the sides of my face. I’m not going to die. I’m going to be okay.
And I have Dr. Chase to thank for it.
The door opens, and I look up—expecting a nurse—but it’s him, and he’s smiling like he’s trying not to gloat. “How are you feeling?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.
“Much better,” I breathe. “Is that ...is that it?”
“Once you’re discharged, I’ll want to see you in my office in about a week. I’ll make sure you’re given an appointment card with directions.” He puts his stethoscope in his ears and warms the business end with his hand before laying it above my left breast.
He smiles after a moment. “Deep breaths?” I oblige, and he withdraws, nodding. “Yeah, I’m ninety-eight percent certain that this is sewn up. As is your leg, which may be sore for a few days.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I say, managing to stop my eyes from leaking again. “I don’t know what I would have done ....” I trail off, because I do know. I would have died, and it would have been at least partly Campbell’s fault.
The thought sobers me a little, but not because it scares me. Now that I can think beyond the possibility of dying, I’m thinking about the possibility of suing.
“Don’t think of it. You’ll be fine now if you look after yourself for a few days.” His voice goes from professional to almost tender, distracting me from my growing anger.
I sigh and sit up easily this time. He reaches over and adjusts the backrest for me. The little bit of extra care makes me smile, but it feels unnecessary—I already feel better than I have in months.
“I have to think about it, though,” I admit. “Because I’m gonna go sue the crap out of Dr. Campbell once I’m well enough.”
He chuckles, and there’s a dark gleam in his eyes now, intriguing me. I stare back at him, tilting my head, and he finally says, “You know, I’m absolutely done with that idiot as well. Would you like some help with lawsuit preparations?”
My heart leaps. It has plenty of reasons to leap—he has healed it, he wants to help me even though he doesn’t have to, and ...he is hot as a Chicago summer. Smiling, I reply, “I’d like that.”
Part Two
Chapter 4
Damon
I can’t wipe the smile off my face by the time I make my way back home. Saving anyone’s life is always one for the win column, but Samantha ...well. That girl is special.
Too damn young for me, but I'm still pretty smitten. I know I’m offering help because a part of me just wants to keep her around for a bit longer. And thanks to pure happenstance, I know that she wants to keep me around as well.
The funny part is I know she is quite interested, but I have doubts about taking advantage of that knowledge. I’m not supposed to know she’s interested—that information slipped out while she was drugged. She got very ...chatty ...while sedated. Of course, she won't remember it now.
“Oh, wow, you're so hot! Are you single? Do you want to go out with me now that I'm not gonna die?”
It was absolutely adorable. The nurses and my colleague, Dr. Pinoy, all giggled, and I grinned and acted embarrassed and awkward—all the while hoping no one noticed that I was hard as hell. And my expression made my staff giggle more.
But I didn't say no—only that I would think about it. And I am thinking about it as I drive home ...a lot.
Being a doctor, I see a lot more of my patients than members of pretty much any other profession. Not just their guts or the insides of their veins, but more skin than most people would prefer—including me, sometimes. And tending to Samantha, I saw quite a bit.
A perfect breast that I had to ignore, the curve of her inner thigh as I inserted the catheter, and the smooth slope of her belly as the nurses adjusted her draping. Her obvious sex appeal was a distraction, but I fought it off and did the work to save her life, without looking at or touching her inappropriately.
At any other time, the sight of the flawless, silk-skinned globe of her breast would have driven me to at least try flirting with her. There was no ring on her finger. There was no worried boyfriend in the lobby, and she had even asked me out.
Only problem is, I’m her doctor. I can end up before the medical board on ethics charges if I’m fucking her and treating her at the same time. Even once I’m done treating her—which will be in a week—it could cost me my position. If it gets out, anyway.
I have an excuse to see her, but not an excuse to sleep with her. Just the thought of sleeping with her drives me a bit crazy. Last time I felt this turned on by a woman was years ago, with Molly back in London—in fact, Samantha heats me up even more.
Not going to do a thing about it unless she’s vocal about being into it, though. Sometime
s what a lady is open to trying when she’s drunk on some inebriant is not what she’s ready for when she’s sober. I may be a rogue and a bastard, but not when it comes to women—or my patients.
There’s something bleak about driving back home during the morning commute hours. I’ve done it many times over the years, usually because I was in on an ER consult or emergency surgery. And before that, there was all the times with my crew back home in London.
I check the clock on the dash: it's 8 AM. “Damn my luck, none of the pubs are open.” I hate coming home with my cock hard and my stomach empty.
I could have used a hot meal and a pint or two at Monk’s, but I’ll have to settle for ordering something up. At least a lot of delivery places in Chicago do morning hours. I am, and have always been, a disaster in the kitchen.
I get back to the penthouse and start looking up pizza places. Chicago-style pizza is, without doubt, the best in the world. I order a large, all-meat, extra cheese—the sort I’d nag my patients about if it wasn’t usually their sedentary lifestyle that was fucking them up anyway. I’ll burn off that beast of a pizza in the gym between today and tomorrow, which is about how long it will take me to finish it.
The Surgeon’s Secrets Page 2