by Olivia Gates
But once he was out of her orbit, he’d revert to his usual numbness. He’d throw himself into the sanctuary of emotional vacuum again. He couldn’t wait.
Emilio’s lips stretched on a pseudo-smile, revealing white, clenched teeth. Only fair. Emilio set Dante’s teeth on edge, too. “Nothing you can do for me, that’s for sure.”
A subtle communication passed between Gulnar and Emilio. Reproach on her side, he-had-it-coming sullen protest on his. Dante felt more lost and alone watching their unspoken argument, the ache of alienation spreading, worse than all his years of estrangement put together. That was an exchange born of entrenched familiarity. And intimacy?
Jealousy seared through him. How stupid was that? How pointless when he wasn’t entitled to it? But stupid or pointless or not, he barely stopped himself from putting his fist into Emilio’s challenging face.
As if he could. His right arm was functioning again, but there’d be no punch-throwing. Never had been and never would be. Not if he wanted to remain a surgeon. But he’d been certain she wasn’t involved. Had he not sensed her involvement with Emilio because he didn’t want to? Or because it didn’t count to her? Just as their encounter didn’t?
Was this how it always was with her? All attachment was on the side of the stupid, addicted males?
And Emilio was certainly attached—not just attracted, but emotionally attached. Yet even in his presence Dante still didn’t pick an answering attachment from Gulnar. That didn’t mean there was no involvement. It could be a purely physical, unemotional interest on Gulnar’s side.
Gulnar and Emilio had fallen into brisk step with him as he hurried out of the small building housing GAO’s modest rented administration office.
He added to his speed. He didn’t want to be in their company, didn’t want to know what went on between them. If they hadn’t come after him now, he would have left tomorrow first thing in the morning before Gulnar came on her daily visit, if she came. He wouldn’t have seen her again, he would have run without saying goodbye…
He flicked Emilio an impatient glance. “So what’s the emergency? I hope it’s something simple for a change. I don’t have time to deal with anything more. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“You are?” Gulnar spoke for the first time, her velvet voice scraping his exposed nerves. “But you’re not fully recovered yet!”
They’d reached his ride, the stately diplomatic limousine the Azernian president had put at his disposal. His uniformed chauffeur was leaning on the hood, smoking. He straightened as soon as he saw him, jumped forward to open his door for him. Dante shook his head at him, his lips going numb. An escape car and no way to escape! Not until he got rid of Gulnar and Emilio. “I’m fine. My luck is holding out. The bullet couldn’t have picked a lesser damage route if it had meant to, and my blood picture is almost back to normal, so I’m almost as good as new.”
“But you should be in hospital for another week,” Gulnar insisted. “Then you should recuperate for another two! All doctors said so!”
“So we’re back to ignoring the fact that I’m one myself, eh?” She opened her mouth. He just couldn’t bear hearing her voice again. He raised his voice, drowning hers. “My professional opinion says I’m well enough to leave tomorrow, and I will. Anyway, if people keep demanding things from me, they must think me well enough. So what am I needed for now?”
He could have sounded less fed-up, should be accessing his professionalism. His despondency wasn’t Gulnar’s or Emilio’s fault. Or anyone’s. Or life’s.
Emilio slowed down, stopped, his hostility even more evident. “We’re so sorry to impose on the time and plans of the madly-in-demand, exalted hero of the Caucasus. But your even more exalted talents as a reconstructive surgeon are being called upon. If you deem it worth your while, of course.”
OK. That was deserved. But it wasn’t in answer to his unintentional arrogance. This was personal. And beyond the instinctive antagonism between two males over a coveted female. Why? Had Gulnar told him what had happened between them?
But what had happened? Nothing much, she’d made it clear. Just the inept fumblings of a half-dead man, grasping for any bits of her life and fire.
The idea that Gulnar could have exposed him, related the incident to her lover—had she laughed as she’d told him? The way she’d struggled not to when he’d been so distressed after she’d taken her first full look at him…
And he’d thought Roxanne’s revulsion had hurt! If his lack of hair had warranted such shock, he didn’t want to think what knowing the full truth would do. Oh, he knew she was too kind, too versed in dealing with affliction to show revulsion. But he hadn’t been about to risk it, had recoiled from her touch when she’d recovered from her shock.
He’d wanted to erase the moments of insanity, to return them to warm spontaneity, to keep her as a friend at least. She’d accepted his overtures, jumped on them more like, relieved. He should have been, too. He hadn’t been.
Hearing her saying it hadn’t mattered, then behaving accordingly, had torn him up! He’d wanted it over, but he wanted it to have mattered! He wanted the memory, the belief. To cherish. To sustain him.
One more thing he’d have to live without.
Dante made another detaining gesture to his fidgeting driver. “No need to get nasty, Fernandez. I may not be dying, but you’re not catching me at my best either. Sorry if I was short but I just spent a very trying hour with Kauffman. If you’ve ever dealt with him, you know what I’m talking about. So, again, what’s the emergency?”
Emilio’s grudging consent to the enforced truce was evident. “It’s not exactly an emergency…”
Gulnar stepped in front of Emilio, took over the situation. “I believe it is. Did you hear about last night’s bombing?”
Dante shook his head, his chest closing. Gulnar’s lips tightened. “Terrorists hit a housing complex in Fajana, the nearest town to Srajna. During initial triage we had one hundred and ninety-five cases, fifty-four of them urgent. I assisted in ten, including Dimitri Ivanov’s. Dimitri is a GAO recruit, too, and he was injured when he went in to save a trapped family and the building collapsed completely. He had massive intra-abdominal bleeding and contamination from a ruptured spleen and large bowel and a split liver.”
Dante’s chest constricted more, at the atrocity, but equally with crushing relief. So this was what had kept her away! Focus. It’s not about you now. “You performed damage control surgery?”
“Yes. All bleeding vessels have been ligated and solid organ sources of hemorrhage packed and the bowels stapled shut. After transfusions and irrigating the peritoneum he’s been left open to guard against abdominal compartment syndrome.”
He nodded, finally accessing his professional control. “Good. Definitive organ repairs should be in no less than 48 hours, after he’s stabilized.”
Gulnar frowned. “That’s what his surgeon is saying. But Dimitri’s face has also sustained massive injuries. Dr. Moya said he wasn’t touching them, that an ocular blow-out fracture isn’t an emergency, and anyway, that with Dimitri’s precarious general condition, facial deformities and future functional problems were the least of our worries now.”
“And you don’t agree?”
Conviction and urgency warred on her exquisite face. “No! But since I’m just a nurse, my opinion carried no weight. So I need you—someone whose opinion they’ll all accept. Only you can determine if my fears are justified before it’s too late, and if they are, to do something about them.”
A shiver of pride ran down Dante’s spine. The faith lighting her eyes, firing her words and tone. She honored him with her belief. He had that of her at least.
Eagerness followed pride. Being of use when no one else could be, the challenge of restoring a damaged fellow human, the intricacies and surprises and problems entailed in surgery and getting through them, solving them, reaching the best possible outcome—it was all he lived for.
And it wasn’t enough any more.
<
br /> To prove how deficient it was, Gulnar stroked his arm, her tenderness stroking his raw heart. “Was I out of line? If you’re not up to this…”
He wanted to haul her to him, to drown in her life and caring. He crushed the urge in clenching fists. “I’m fine. Let’s do this.”
One second, everything existed. Emilio, his chauffeur, the busy street of the Azernian capital, the glaring sun, the pungent, dizzying scents in the air. The next, only she did. Gulnar. Passion and life and beauty incarnate. She reached for him, her supple arms going around him in a gentle hug that trembled with the effort not to give in to its inherent fierceness. Still afraid of hurting him?
Didn’t she know she hurt him by just existing? Oh, hell, why was she hugging him? Why was she changing the rules again?
His confusion met Emilio’s bleakness over her head and realization jolted through him. Emilio was used to this, to Gulnar making intimate overtures—and more?—to other men as he watched.
But why did he put up with it? If they were lovers? How could he?
Only one thing made sense. Emilio knew it was either accept it or lose her completely. And he’d chosen the lesser evil.
If so, Emilio had to be insane. Suicidal. Loving a woman and watching her throw herself at other men—that was the ultimate evil, utter devastation.
But if Emilio was that obsessed, that sick, what about Gulnar? Was that how she got her kicks? Was that what turned her on? That would make her even sicker.
No. No, she wasn’t. Couldn’t be like that. There had to be something he was missing, misinterpreting. Something crucial. Yes, this was it. He was too jumbled to know what to think, was jumping to the ugliest conclusions.
Gulnar kept her arm around his waist as she turned to Emilio. “Thanks for the ride, Emilio. I’ll go back to the hospital with Dante. We’ll meet you there.”
Emilio gave Dante one long, tempestuous look then turned away without a word!
Gulnar turned up a bright face to him. Too bright. “Shall we?”
A malignant suspicion hit him, almost doubled him over. Carefully, he extricated himself from her caressing arm, took a step away, willing the ache clamping his body to ease, to let him breathe, talk. “What is this, Gulnar? Are you using me to punish your lover?”
She didn’t look indignant, didn’t voice any objections, just took his hand in hers, towed him to the black-windowed limousine. She slid in first, tugged him behind her and rapped out rapid Azernian to the driver. The man who looked more like a special forces agent than a chauffeur gave her an eager nod before she slid the sound- and sight-proof communicating glass shut. The next second, the car jolted forward and screeched away, tossing Gulnar backwards on the seat.
She sat there, looking at him, her eyes full and fathomless, rocking and pitching beside him with every violent turn the car made. He’d long sagged back on the seat, nerveless, his heart pounding. Then she just nestled into him.
Everything disappeared. Only the heat of her melting back into his flesh, a missing part of him that had been cleaved out and now restored. Only her head on his heart stopping it from erupting from his chest, her trembling arm around him keeping him from going to pieces. Only her softness and resilience and comfort and torment.
And he’d been surprised that Emilio would do anything just to remain near her? What would he himself do? Anything at all seemed a small price for anything with her…
Thoughts boiled over and evaporated.
He surrendered to her when she reached up, rained soft, tender kisses all over his face, doused him in contentment and heartache, in pleasure and sorrow. He wanted to weep with it all, crush her to him and reproach her for depriving him of her closeness and caring all those days. And now there’d be no more. He wouldn’t even have the memories.
But she was giving him something now. He closed his arms around her, hoarding all he could of her for the empty existence ahead, his blood roaring thick and raw in his ears. He felt her breathless words reverberating in his chest, rather than heard them.
“You should know, Dante. Even if I were the kind of woman who’d play one man against another, I’d never use you—never you, Dante. What’s more, Emilio isn’t…”
She fell silent on a trembling breath, burrowed deeper into him. His heart tightened, his senses overloaded, his mind staggered. Feeling her, knowing it would be for the last time—too much! He squeezed her tighter, groaned his anguish and confusion. “Emilio isn’t what?”
“Emilio isn’t, has never been and will never be my lover.” She rolled her head on his shoulder, raised her face up to him, close, real, overflowing with sharp and urgent emotions, her beauty and vitality piercing him to his core. “Will you be?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“WHAT did you say?” Gulnar looked up at Dante as they entered Srajna General Hospital’s intensive care unit. His night-dark eyes stared down at her, filled with storms—of what? Wariness? Reluctance? Temptation?
He said something again, and again it didn’t register. She only heard the drone of his dark, rich voice over the hot, thick throb of mortification in her ears.
He’d been stunned by her offer. He’d stiffened then had sat there unmoving, his arms no longer taking her, containing her, just limp around her, his eyes closed and his breathing erratic, until they reached the hospital. She’d been so distressed by his reaction, and more by causing it, she hadn’t even worked up enough co-ordination to move away. Sitting there, pressed to him, her every breath laden with his scent and agitation, her ears filled with the cacophony of their hearts’ thundering, that had been her first glimpse of true torment.
But none of it mattered now. Dimitri. Concentrate on him!
It was Dante who tore his eyes away first, cleared his throat as he headed for their patient in ICU. “I just asked if 3-D X-rays are available for me to review.”
Gulnar knew there weren’t. “I’ve seen only regular X-rays. I don’t think there is a 3-D facility in this hospital.”
He wasn’t impressed with the news. “Just get me every investigation and X-ray.”
Gulnar turned to the senior ICU nurse, translated.
“I need this bed turned around.” Dante stood back as his order was carried out. Gulnar stood beside him, horror sweeping her again at the sight of her dynamic young friend lying there like a gutted corpse, with his abdomen wide open and covered in plastic. And his face…
She was used to the worst. She’d had the worst. But when it was someone she cared about…! It was just another reminder not to care, never again.
What about Dante?
No. She could care about Dante. She did. So much—lord, so much. It was safe to care, she told herself, to let herself feel as deeply and as totally as she wanted. Then he’d be gone and she’d never know what happened to him.
Wouldn’t that finish her off? Losing him when he walked away?
She no longer cared what happened to her after he was gone. She wanted whatever she could have.
Dante had taken his position at Dimitri’s head, was giving his nightmarishly distorted face a long, assessing look. She could almost feel his diagnostic mind going into overdrive. Then he exhaled.
Gulnar winced. Please, let it be better than she thought. Let Dante, with his extensive experience, have a different, ameliorating opinion.
His gaze roamed over the rest of the ICU staff then back to her and Emilio, the only two English-speaking people around. “History, status and current measures?”
Emilio picked up the Azernian-written charts, looked at Dante. “He was in the debris for six hours before extrication. He’s been intubated and on bag-valve mask with 100 per cent oxygen since extrication. On the last recording, ten minutes ago, pulse was 128 with irregular ectopics, BP 90 over 60 and oxygen saturation 90 per cent.”
Dante absorbed the facts, started to examine Dimitri’s injuries by extra-gentle palpation, assessing the lacerations, pausing to feel the crackling of bone fragments and the give of undermined structures.
“GCS at the scene and all through until he was anesthetized?”
Gulnar looked over the rest of Dimitri’s deficient case file, filled with reports from everyone who’d handled him from the bombing scene onwards. This hospital was totally unused to and unequipped to handle mass casualty situations. It had been chaos, with so much disorganized and missing.
She sifted through the messy notes, not finding any mention of Dimitri’s Glasgow coma score.
She looked at Dante, exasperated. “He was conscious at extrication, so he couldn’t have been much less than fifteen at the scene. When I saw him immediately before surgery, six hours later, he was a six. Dr. Moya said that the debris pressure had stopped blood flow. Once it was lifted, abdominal bleeding increased, and he went into shock. He attributes Dimitri’s deterioration to that.”
And how she wished he was right! His opinion that Dimitri wouldn’t withstand the extended anesthesia of a lengthy reconstructive procedure, while on the surface conservative and pessimistic, was better than hers. Dante met her eyes. Seemed he shared her pessimism!
Her heart plummeted. Dimitri was too precious to lose. A rare and true source of hope around here. He made such a difference, so many people needed him. Like Dante…He just had to live—and live whole! But at the moment it looked he’d either deteriorate and die, or at best live deformed and disabled. The two possibilities skewered through her. Please, please.
Dante concluded his examination, looked at her. “Three walls out of four of both internal orbits are destroyed. Has there been no ophthalmological exam?”
Gulnar leafed through the reports. “Left eye only. Nothing mentioned about the eye’s condition, just that there was no optic nerve cupping. I guess this supports Dr. Moya’s diagnosis that there’s no intracranial injury or rise in pressure.”
Dante’s massive shoulders rose in irritation. “It tells me nothing. For all I know, his right eye is lost, and his left eye is, too, by now. A lot can happen in fourteen hours. It’s a sorry fact in mass casualty situations that seemingly non-life-threatening stuff gets overlooked and that as soon as a casualty looks stable, it’s on to the next unstable one.” Another exhalation. “Let’s take a look at his eyes, and his brain through them.”