The Surgeon’s Secrets

by Michelle Love

  I pour brandy into my tea, throw a dollop of honey into it, and settle into an overstuffed, brown, velvet chair in my living room to await my delivery. I’ve already told the doorman to receive the pie and how much to tip. I’ll save my bottle of IPA to drink with my pizza.

  My schedule’s off and I could use a nap, but I’m lucky to have nothing else going with work today until this evening. The only possible reason they'll call me in is if they need another emergency heart consult or fix, and that doesn't happen every night. I’m not needed for the average heart attack or gunshot wound.

  The pizza place is six blocks off, and they know how much I tip, so I get my pie in well under half an hour. I’m setting it on the table and opening the box lid for that first whiff of scented steam when my phone goes off.

  Annoyed, I scoop it up and see from the screen that it’s Dr. Campbell’s office. “Oh, hell,” I growl, already annoyed with the man, and especially so for his popping up now. Taking a deep breath, I force myself back into my doctor’s demeanor and answer the call.

  “This is Dr. Chase. May I help you?”

  “Dr. Chase.” Campbell has one of those dull, nasal, whiny voices that never seem to change pitch much. “I understand that you have taken over the care of one of my patients.”

  I can tell he’s annoyed, even past his bland demeanor. It’s all I can do not to grin. Yeah, I did, and she’s going to sue your sad ass, and I’m fucking well going to help her. “I’m sorry, could you be a bit more specific?”

  The truth is—and he damn well knows it—that I am on-call at the ER four nights a week because I spend so much time cleaning up Campbell’s messes. His poor suturing, inability to properly direct nurses, and corner-cutting have often left me fighting for the lives of his patients.

  I have even lost a few, which I despise him for, because all but one could have been saved if Campbell had done his job.

  “Her name is Samantha North. Age nineteen, height five-foot-seven, red hair. You performed an ablation on her this morning at six.”

  Funny how the fucker can rattle off details about her with no problem when he’s feeling territorial, but he barely did a thing to help her when she needed it. “Oh yeah, the college girl who turned up with Wolff-Parkinson-White.”

  There is a long pause. “I did not make that diagnosis.”

  “Right, well, that’s because there was no electrophysiology study done on her. Otherwise, I’m presuming that you wouldn't have had her on the Verapamil, since it’s contraindicated for her condition.” I am smiling a hard, predatory smile that makes my cheeks hurt.

  Fucker. You and I both know you're incompetent and don't care to improve. I came up out of the gutters of London a complete miscreant, and I care about your patients more than you do … all right, especially if they're hot. I'm not anywhere near perfect, and I know it.

  He pauses again. I almost wish I could see his face. Finally, he coughs. “I see. So the ablation was done on an emergency basis?”

  “That was what they summoned me to the ER for, yes.” It’s like he doesn’t even realize how much of a fool he is currently making of himself. I wonder in a fit of charity if he’s had his coffee yet.

  “You realize that you are not in the system for her student insurance, so why did your assistant schedule her for the follow-up consult?”

  I wince. I hate how much the damn nurses gossip and how far and fast that gossip spreads. I’m sure it’s one of his receptionists funneling the information to him, as no one else can stand him.

  “Nora scheduled her because I’m finishing what I started. I’ll be taking her on pro bono. You’ll no longer have to worry about anything to do with her.” My voice is warm, friendly, and reassuring. I don't want him suspecting that I'm going to be helping Samantha bring down a load of karma on him.

  "Oh! Well, fine. If you feel like taking one of my charity cases off of my hands, I'm not going to complain."

  Charity case? That pisses me off for some reason, and I bite back a response. Forcing myself to calm down, I smile again and keep my tone so sweetly pleasant that he'll miss the bald-faced lie. "Yes, this should be the last you hear about her heart issues, except for a note for your files."

  "Thank you for the reassurance," he says obliviously and hangs up.

  "That and the fat fucking lawsuit you'll be facing once I help that girl get everything together," I swear as I set my phone back down. I can't wait to see his face when we nail him on this together.

  I'm good and angry when I go back to my tea, which has cooled too much. I take a few tepid swallows and scowl, thinking hard about what I will need to do to help Samantha build a case. But before I can grab myself some pizza, I catch a glint of light out of the corner of my eye.

  My head swivels on instinct and my eyes fix on the high-rise parking structure across the street. Its top floor is level with my penthouse, giving me an easy, if distant, view of it. There's a man standing at the front edge of the parking structure, up against the railing, facing me.

  All I can tell about him is that he's big, even taller than me, and dressed in dark colors. I catch that gleam from him again, but before I can go for my telescope or the binoculars hanging over the mantel, he turns and starts walking away. He walks with a slight limp, and I'm left wondering if it was just coincidence or something else.

  Chapter 5

  Samantha

  I can’t get tired of taking my pulse, or walking fast, or taking huge breaths of air. My upper thigh hurts on one side, where the scope went in, but I don’t care. I’m recovering fast ...and completely. It’s like Dr. Chase flipped a switch inside me.

  I’m all smiles. I’m brimming over with joy and vindication. I’m full of defiance as well. Fuck you, Death. Fuck you, Dr. Campbell. I found the right man for the job, he fixed the problem, and neither one of you is going to see me until I’m damn good and ready —except in court!

  I want to dance my way out of the hospital entrance and past the big tree loaded with charity envelopes. I settle for a fast walk, amazed at how my heart doesn't race.

  I’m going to live.

  It’s five in the afternoon and the long twilight of early winter is starting to stretch the shadows out around me. A golden tinge of sunlight shows through the low clouds. The wind bites and I shiver, my delight dampened a little by reality. I have no shoes except for the slipper socks provided by the hospital, no coat, and no money for a cab.

  I pause under the overhang and flinch back from a gust of wind. Oh crap. The hospital is at least twenty blocks from my dorm, and it’s forty-five degrees out.

  I might make it, but it’s going to hurt, and I’m fresh out of the hospital. If only I’d been able to grab my wallet on my way out of the dorm on a stretcher. But I wasn't conscious.

  Before I can brace myself to take my first steps home, I look up—and to my surprise, I see a black Prowler driving toward me. It pulls up at the curb and the window slides down, revealing Dr. Chase leaning toward me from inside.

  “Bit cold for stocking feet,” he says with a soft smile.

  Now the flips taking place in my stomach turn a lot more pleasant. I walk up to the car and can’t help but smile back. “Yeah, I, uh ...could use a ride home.”

  His smile widens, without looking predatory. “Get in, then.”

  The way I grew up has given me a good radar for creeps, and it’s not being set off, so I open the door and slip into his passenger seat. It's warm and dry, and the seat I settle my back against radiates heat into my muscles.

  “Thanks. That’s another one I owe you.” I sigh in relief as I buckle up. “I’m in the dorms. I’ll direct you.”

  “Are you particularly eager to go back there? Though if you wish to rest up alone, I can hardly blame you.” He glances at me curiously before pulling away from the curb.

  I lift an eyebrow, wondering about his alternative. “I’ve been sleeping for hours. I'm just starved.” I want to load up on grease and protein right now, even if it isn't the h
ealthiest choice.

  “Do you like all-meat pizza?” he asks, and I shoot him a surprised look before nodding. The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Good, because I’ve one I can pop in the oven if you’d like to come by. I ordered it for myself, but then I got busy with paperwork.”

  “Don’t tell me you have details for this malpractice suit already.” My eyebrows go up. This guy must really dislike Dr. Campbell if he’s this dedicated about my lawsuit.

  “Actually, yes. Just some starting stuff but ...he called and made a bit of a nuisance of himself, and after that and what you went through, I was more than a bit motivated.” He pulls out of the lot and into traffic. For a moment, his tone turns grave. “You’re not the only person he’s nearly killed with his negligence.”

  “So he’s the anti-you, then?” Campbell seems to be pompous, aging, incompetent, and lazy. Whereas Dr. Damon Chase is ...amazing.

  “Pretty much, yeah.” He snorts. “Believe me, even if I didn’t like you, I’d still want to see him lose his license to practice. The man’s a menace with a scalpel and he’s even worse with prescriptions.”

  “So you do think that I’ll have a case?” A mix of anger and hope boils inside of me.

  He smirks. “Easily. The man's negligence could have killed you, or, at best, left you with permanent heart damage. He’s been sued sixteen times for malpractice and settled every time.”

  “Sixteen times?” I shudder and focus on the hunk next to me to get my mind partway off this horror. How is he allowed to keep practicing?

  “Yeah, that I know about.” He purses his lips. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll clear out time a few evenings a week, pick you up, and handle dinner. “We’ll get together after your classes and go through everything needed. In return for my help suing that prick, I am going to ask you to put in a complaint with the Medical Board. The more of those he gets against him, the sooner he will lose his medical license, and we’ll finally see the last of him.”

  He winks at me, and I nod back, feeling my determination intensify.

  “I don’t want him to be able to screw up anyone else’s life like this. And I want some of my own back after what he did. This isn’t okay.” My voice breaks a little.

  “No,” he replies, jaw set. “It shouldn’t be allowed.”

  We drive. My heart is beating fast—for a reason now—and it doesn't hurt. If anything, this rising excitement makes me feel even more alive than before.

  "So how are you doing after resting up? I haven't gotten a chance to look at your discharge file." He deftly maneuvers the powerful car through traffic. How long did it take him to sort out driving on the other side of the road, I wonder idly.

  I beam. "I feel like I could run a damn marathon. I'm serious."

  He looks over at me before heading for the highway on-ramp, his lips quirking. "Well, don't. Or at least wait a week."

  "I will. Don't want to mess up your work. Besides, my thigh feels like I banged it on the corner of a table." I rub it gently through the hospital pants I left in.

  "That's completely normal. And I hope you're finding it better than open-heart surgery." He winks, and that makes me laugh a little.

  "It's true. The old way I'd be in recovery for a long time, right?"

  "That and, well, it gets a bit gruesome, but you'd need an entire blood transfusion by the time we sewed you up." He merges us onto the highway. I look over and see the gold and pink setting sunlight sparkling across the rippled surface of the lake.

  "I'm really glad you have a better way now, then. I just ...look. I owe you a lot—" I start, trying to walk around the issue of how fast I'm becoming infatuated with him. I want to tell him how grateful I am—I’ve already learned that life is too damned short.

  "You owe me nothing," he cuts me off firmly. "Look—is Samantha all right?"

  "Yeah," I say after a brief hesitation. “You can call me Samantha.” I can feel myself blush shyly at this new familiarity.

  “Good. Damon’s fine here. Look, Samantha, this is my job. Also, I don’t feel like this will be over for you until you get some justice. I understand conflict’s stressful, but what Campbell put you through was more than just stress.” He moves the Prowler into the fast lane and starts whipping along, a hair faster than the cars around him.

  It’s thrilling to sit in the passenger seat of a car like this and hear the engine revving under me. In a way, my life’s in Damon’s hands again, and the thought unexpectedly turns me on. I squeeze my knees together, eyes widening as I realize another thing Damon has done for me.

  One of the aspects of my heart problem that I hated the most is that when my chest hurts every time I get excited, it takes all the fun out of sex. I hadn’t even had a sex drive to speak of for at least six months. Before that, I was still rebounding from a bottom-of-the-barrel, high school boyfriend who stuck around too long.

  The ride feels too short before Damon pulls us into the underground parking lot of a gorgeous, modern, high-rise apartment building. I stand close to him as we ride up the elevator. He's wearing a little cologne. Something spicy—bay rum, I think.

  I still don't feel tired. "It's amazing," I murmur, leaning back against the mirrored wall of the elevator as it rises toward the twenty-fifth floor. "I really think I could stay up for hours longer. I can't remember the last time I felt like this."

  "Technically, you won't have. Even if the effects of this anomaly didn't fully manifest until six months ago, it still detracted from your quality of life. But mild discomfort and problems, one can get used to. The level of pain and debility you were experiencing the last couple months, however, couldn't exactly sneak by forever."

  Surprisingly, no one else gets in the elevator on the way up, and I hope no one does. I'm happy standing in an intimately small space while alone with him. "No kidding. I was pretty terrified. It felt like I was ...dying."

  "Well ..." He hesitates a moment as the elevator comes to a stop at the top floor. "I didn't want to bring this up until you were fully recovered, but ..."

  I stare at him, my eyes widening slowly. "Then you really did save my life."

  "Just don't think you owe me anything for it, all right? Saving you was my job. It doesn't imply you have a personal debt to me."

  He keeps emphasizing that. I wonder why. "Hey, look, I'm just still coming to terms with this. I know it's your job, but that jackass Campbell didn't do his, and it could have killed me."

  "I know. It's just that when I’m helping with your heart issue, or any other time I'm wearing my doctor's hat, it's not a favor I'm doing you. This bit with dinner and legal stuff, that's a favor. But not the surgery. You deserved to have someone competent fight for you."

  There's something so grim in his expression that I wonder if someone has given him trouble for helping out patients in the past. Or maybe he thinks I'm worried that he will take advantage in some way.

  Either way, I'm smart enough to step carefully around the subject if it's a sore point for him. "Sorry, then."

  "No, it's all right. I'm happy that things went well and that you're excited about it." His voice goes warm again as we walk off the elevator and into the tiny penthouse lobby, which is decked out with a beautiful skylight ceiling.

  I want so much to tell him that I'm getting just as excited about spending time with him as I am about finally being healthy. But when he finally opens the door to his sprawling penthouse, all I can do is stare.

  Chapter 6

  Samantha

  Polished wood paneling lines the walls, along with an entire wall made from reinforced glass that runs the length of the building on one side. Saddle leather couches in deep brown face an entertainment center that dominates most of a side wall. A balcony enclosed in glass runs all the way around the building, from what I can tell.

  “Wow.” Other than that, I’m speechless.

  His grin is a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, well, I grew up in public housing—council flats, we call them—one of the nastiest areas in all
of London. I promised myself I’d get a nice place once I got older.” He pauses, then shrugs a bit. “I don’t spend much on luxuries outside of the place itself and my car, so I figure I can indulge myself.”

  “I’m not complaining. This is lovely.” Not much in the way of Christmas decorations, aside from a pine and holly wreath over the entryway that adds a nice odor to the room.

  I notice the fancy gas fireplace in one corner and walk to it, extending my fingers to its warmth. There’s a single photo on a mantel otherwise dominated by geodes and fossils, and I take a look at it.