THE PASSION OF PARICK MACNEILL

by Virginia Kantra

  In the chair, facing his child, slept Patrick MacNeill.

  Even relaxed in sleep, he looked hard and male and faintly dangerous. His wide shoulders crowded the oversize recliner to its limit. Ignoring her reaction to that long, well-muscled body' Kate slipped to the foot of the bed to check Jack's chart. But she couldn't dismiss the queer twist of her heart at the sight of Jack's face turned confidingly to his father, or the way Patrick's large hand protectively spanned his son's knee as they slept.

  Don't let it get to you, Katie Sue. She forced her attention back to the patient chart, angling it to catch the light from the door. Blood pressure, temp, intake and output all looked normal. Good. Stepping to the side of the bed, she reached for Jack's swaddled hand.

  And then something made her look up, across his out-flung legs, into the deep-set, dark blue eyes of Patrick MacNeill.

  "Is anything wrong?"

  His voice, soft with caution and rough with sleep, reverberated inside her. Scolding herself for both her foolish reaction and the equally unreasonable apprehension that had goaded her here, Kate shook her head.

  "No, I was just … I thought I'd just see how he was doing." Gently, she lifted the sleeping boy's hand. The bulky dressing covered everything but his fingernails. In the dim light from the doorway, his ring finger looked blue. Frowning, she snapped on her penlight.

  At her swift intake of breath, Patrick straightened the recliner, dropping his long legs to the floor. "What?"

  Kate didn't answer, suppressing her own alarm, concentrating on unrolling the ace bandage over the gauze. The child whimpered and was still.

  "What is it?" his father demanded.

  Jack's ring finger had definitely turned blue. His circulation was blocked. Kate cursed silently.

  "Nothing," she said. "I can take care of it. I'll be right back."

  A nurse server loaded with supplies was parked in the hall. She grabbed a pair of sterile scissors and hurried back to the room to find Jack awake and Patrick soothing him in his deep baritone voice.

  "Hey, Jack-o. It's okay, buddy. Ssh, now, it's okay." He'd lowered the guardrail to sit beside his son and hold him. The sight of the two dark heads so close together, the man's broad chest supporting the boy's narrow shoulders, made something quake inside her.

  She drew a deep breath to steady herself and smiled at them both. "Hey, Jack, it's Dr. Sinclair. Do you want to introduce me to your bear?"

  The child regarded her warily from under thick dark lashes. "He's Finn MacCool."

  Kate blinked. She'd figured on something like Fuzzy or Teddy. "Who?"

  Patrick explained, unsettling amusement in his eyes. "Fionn mac Cumhail, the Irish warrior hero. From the Fenian poems."

  "He killed monsters," Jack offered.

  "Oh. Well, good," Kate said. Her own childhood hadn't included Gaelic poetry or heroes, but she understood and appreciated the talisman Patrick had given his son against the monsters that must lurk under his hospital bed. "Do you think he could help me out here?"

  "How?" Jack asked cautiously.

  "Maybe—Mr. Cool?—could hold your left hand, like this, see? And I'm going to hold the other one. I want to take a look at your stitches."

  With sure, gentle movements, Kate tucked the bear into the crook of the boy's left arm and took his right, uncomfortably aware of Patrick's warm bulk and watchful gaze. Jack didn't resist as she unwrapped the gauze dressing.

  "Why?" Patrick asked from over his head.

  Kate concentrated on Jack's hand, addressing her words to them both. "Well, see how this finger is a different color, like it's bruised? That means the vein has too much pressure on it from the little bandage inside. I'm just going to cut a few stitches."

  The child's hand trembled in her own. "I don't want you to cut it."

  "Not your finger," Kate assured him. "Just two stitches. Can you hold still while I do that?"

  Patrick kissed his son's hair. "Sure he can."

  "Is it gonna hurt?" Jack asked.

  "No," Kate stated positively.

  Jack sighed and turned his face into his father's arm. "Okay."

  Patrick's dark blue gaze met hers over the boy's head. "We trust you."

  His words touched her. His confidence flattered and scared her. Her breath lodged in her throat. Ignoring her stupid, totally involuntary reaction, Kate eased the thin point of the scissors under the dark thread of the first suture. "This will only take a second."

  It took five. Patrick raised his eyebrows as she stepped back from the bed. "Is that it?"

  Kate forced herself to smile. "That's it."

  "It didn't hurt," Jack said.

  Her smile came more easily this time. "Good."

  "Now what?" Patrick demanded.

  Her pulse was pounding, as if her own heart could somehow force the blood supply back into the little boy's finger. He was just another patient, Kate reminded herself sharply. Not even her own patient. But her heart was not convinced.

  "Now we wait," she said. "If that's all it was, the finger should… Yes, see, it's pinking right up. He'll be fine."

  She replaced the gauze and the bulky dressing, careful to leave the tips of the boy's fingers exposed. "All done. Now in seven to ten days the other stitches will come out, and you'll be ready to start physical therapy."

  She looked at the chart hanging from the foot of Jack's bed. She ought to make a note. But what would she write? The illustrious Gerald Swaim goofed in surgery, the attending physician missed the signs during rounds, and I saved the patient's finger and their sorry butts?

  Her stomach lurched at the thought. No. She couldn't write that. She scrawled Removed two sutures on the patient chart and escaped into the hall.

  It wasn't enough. She knew it wasn't enough. If one of her interns skimped on his progress notes like that, she'd be all over him like bacteria in a petri dish. But she wouldn't, she couldn't, write anything that could be construed as a criticism of the senior surgeons.

  Anger burned under her ribs. Absently, she rubbed two fingers just below her breastbone.

  The door behind her opened, and Patrick MacNeill care out.

  "Thank you," he said quietly. "You were good with him in there. He's already asleep."

  Kate straightened away from the wall, reaching for her professional composure. "Children are wonderful, aren't they? It's amazing what they can bounce back from."

  Patrick's long, sensitive mouth compressed. Kate realized he'd probably watched Jack bounced too often in his short life. "Yeah, wonderful." He shook his head, as if to dislodge dark memories. "Can I do anything to thank you? Buy you a drink?"

  Kate's shock of pleasure was followed by an equally automatic rejection. "Oh, no." Never get involved with a patient. "No, thanks."

  Patrick didn't appear impressed by her refusal. He didn't move, either. "Sure?"

  Kate bit her lip against the tug of temptation. What about another doctor's patient? What about another doctor's patient's father? What harm could that do?

  She tilted her chin to look up at this tall, dark-haired, handsome man. The fluorescent lights overhead grayed his healthy tan, emphasizing the tiny creases between his brows and beside his month. Lines of temper, she thought, and humor, of passions deeply felt and strongly controlled. It was an attractive combination. But at one-thirty in the morning he looked tired. Kate wondered if he carried the burden of concern all alone. She hadn't seen any other visitors crowding the family room, waiting to share his vigil beside Jack's hospital bed.

  Maybe the man needed a distraction. Maybe he needed a break.

  "Maybe a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria," she said. He grimaced slightly. "I've had the coffee in your hospital cafeteria. Seems like pretty poor thanks for what you've done, but if that's what you want…"

  "That's all I want."

  He shrugged. "Okay."

  They started down the hall. She had to hurry to keep up with him until he noticed and adjusted his steps.

  "Was that a usua
l complication?" he asked as they reached the elevators.

  Honesty and caution warred within her. "Not unusual," she temporized.

  "Dr. Swaim didn't tell me to watch for it," he said, punching the Down button. "He didn't tell me much of anything after surgery, except that it had gone well."

  "Yes, it did," Kate responded without thinking.

  He stopped just inside the elevator doors and pivoted to face her. "Wait a minute. You were there?"

  Challenged with a direct question, she gave an honest answer. His concern for his child deserved that much. "I did—I finished the procedure," she admitted.

  She felt the tension rising in him like a gathering storm. The air in the elevator practically crackled. "And the blocked circulation in Jack's finger? Were you responsible for that?"

  Kate muttered something.

  "What?"

  "I said, I knew having coffee with you was a bad idea."

  "Is that a yes?"

  "No."

  "Are you telling me you weren't responsible?"

  Fatigue and worry ate at her. She couldn't be sure anymore if she were covering Swaim's butt or her own. She didn't want to say anything that could implicate the surgeon or jeopardize her own chances at an attending post. But sympathy for Patrick's burden—and pride in her own accomplishments—wouldn't let her keep silent.

  "I'm telling you I didn't operate on that finger," she said carefully. "But I watched. The procedure went well. Everything looked fine. Sometimes unanticipated complications just happen."

  "Like you just happened to stop by."

  She was thankful when the elevator doors opened and stepped through them briskly. "I like to check on my patients."

  He caught up with her in two strides. She felt his gaze on her as he weighed her response and then nodded, accepting it. "All right. Dr. Sinclair…" Reluctantly, she turned to face him. "I'm grateful."

  His voice was earnest, his expression, warm. Kate's cheeks heated with pleasure.

  She looked about seventeen when she blushed, Patrick thought, amused. The sight of the decisive lady doctor pink-cheeked with confusion woke a dormant sense of masculine satisfaction. He was going to have to watch himself. With a little encouragement, he might start grunting and thumping his chest.

  "Especially since Jack isn't really your patient," he added dryly.

  "If he were, I'd still check on him. I just wouldn't have coffee with you."

  Her prim attitude tickled the hell out of him. He couldn't help himself. "No? How about sex?"

  "Mr. MacNeill—"

  "Patrick," he said, mildly sorry about aggravating her after her competent intervention and her kindness to Jack. He must be more tired than he'd thought. He gestured toward the cafeteria line, empty except for the bored-looking server and an intern swaying on her feet. "What'll you have?"

  "Coffee. Black."

  She was still ticked, he realized. Well, no wonder. "Come on," he coaxed. "I owe you. And I appreciate the company. Really. Thanks."

  Her smile flickered. She did have the damnedest smile. It lit her whole face and started a warm glow deep inside him. "You're welcome," she said.

  She accepted a tray and a place in line, bypassing the soggy sandwiches and yogurts on ice to help herself to coffee and a cellophane-wrapped slice of Boston cream pie. His surprise must have shown, because her chin angled up again.

  "I missed dinner," she explained defensively.

  "I'd spring for a hamburger, you know. Even a salad."

  "This is all I want."

  And if she wanted to deprive herself, it was none of his business. Patrick shrugged. "You're the doctor. You do have your four major food groups there." Smiling at her blank look, he pointed to the whipped cream with the cherry on top and the spongy yellow cake. "Dairy. Fruit. Carbohydrates. And Jack's personal favorite, chocolate."

  Her chuckle was warm and surprisingly husky. If a man weren't careful, he could waste a lot of time figuring ways to hear it again.

  "Yes, well, Jack can use the extra calories. Burn survivors typically need to replace a lot of weight. I don't."

  Dropping his selection-chips and an apple—onto her tray, he paid the cashier. "You look fine to me." Very fine. Her blue scrubs and limp white coat didn't completely disguise her curvy shape.

  "I don't need compliments, Mr. MacNeill. I have no illusions about my body type."

  He shook his head over her stubborn denial of her own attractiveness. "You do if you think there's a single thing wrong with it. And call me Patrick."

  "Thank you. You can call me Doctor."

  For a moment, he thought she was serious. Jarred, he set the tray down on an empty table. And then he caught the buried mischief in her eyes, and his own grin surfaced in response.

  "My name's Kate," she said, offering her hand.

  Her clasp was like the rest of her, smooth and strong. Patrick bad a sudden image of those soft, competent hands moving over his body and practically broke a sweat.

  Hell. He needed sleep. He needed his head examined. And since the first was unlikely and he'd always strongly resisted the second, he released her hand quickly and sat.

  "You're working late tonight," he observed. "Are you on call?"

  "No. I like to work at night. It's quiet. I can get a lot done." He surveyed her sitting across the table, small and rounded and brown like a sparrow hawk, with a raptor's keen eye and quick intelligence. She wore no rings. She said she didn't date.

  "Your family doesn't object? Your roommate, maybe?"

  She fluffed at that, but her eyes remained sharp and steady. "Are you asking me if I'm living with someone?"

  "Yeah, I guess I am."

  "I have a cat," she offered, deadpan.

  He laughed.

  Smiling, she elaborated. "Well, I told you I don't have time for a human relationship. Dogs need to be walked, and fish aren't great conversationalists. Blackie's there when I get home, she eats what I give her and she sleeps on my bed. See?"

  The strange thing was, he did see. He saw a dedicated professional woman made for love and starved for company. He wondered what made her choose a life so different from his own, so apparently at odds with her warm nature.

  "Yeah, after a tough day dealing with hospital cases, I guess nothing beats curling up with a cold beer and a cat," he teased.

  Her lips tightened. "Something like that. And for the record, I find my work very rewarding. I enjoy being able to make a difference in so many patients' lives."

  He didn't doubt it for a minute. And after what she'd done for Jack, he was sorry to have offended her. "Now, we have a dog," he said, turning easily back to the subject. "And a fish. Also two white mice in a cage and a snake in the woodpile."

  "You're kidding."

  He smiled, enjoying the stunned expression on her face and the surprisingly wistful look in her eyes. "Nope. You're welcome to come by some time and see."

  "And you take care of all that?"

  "Jack takes care of them. I take care of Jack. It works out pretty well."

  "He's a lucky boy. My mother wouldn't even let me keep a hamster."

  "She didn't like pets?" he asked sympathetically.

  "It wasn't that," she said quickly. Defensively. "She just didn't have time for them. I mean, she was a single parent."

  Patrick lifted his eyebrows. So was he.

  Kate shook her head. "I mean, she thought I wouldn't take good care of one. I had my schoolwork and my sister and…"

  He took pity on her obvious discomfort. "You have a sister?"

  She took a deep, relieved breath at the change of subject. "One. Younger. Amy. She lives near here with her two children. How about you?"

  "Two. Also younger. Con and Sean."

  His mimicry won him another smile. "Very Irish," she commented.

  "Blame my mother. My brothers even called me Paddy until we were all old enough for me to beat it out of them."

  That time she laughed outright. The husky sound loosed something war
m and liquid in his chest.

  "Maybe I should try that with my sister. She still calls me Katie Sue."

  "Katie sounds Irish."

  "It's not. It's just one of those awful, double Southern names like Betty Lou or Billy Bob. I hate it."

  He crumpled his chip bag. "Deserting your roots?"

  Kate stiffened. There was enough truth in his mildly voiced accusation to sting. "No more than you are. Where are you from, Yankee? Boston?"

  A corner of his mouth kicked up. She tried to ignore the feminine flutter produced by that fascinating quirk, tried not to admire the confident good humor with which he responded to her gibe. "Close enough. Quincy, Massachusetts."

  "And what brought you from Quincy, Massachusetts, down to the Carolinas?"

  "Uncle Sam. I was stationed down here. Flew Harrier jets out of Cherry Point for a while."

  Everything he said brought his background into sharper focus, masculine, alien, exciting. She was out of her depth. Possibly out of her mind. Had she actually imagined that this warrior needed her comfort? That this male animal exuding sexual confidence could be interested in her stilted conversation?

  Caution tugged her back. But something about the tall, dark man on the other side of the table exerted a pull on her mind and her senses. Fascination and curiosity drew the next question from her. "What made you give it up?"

  "Jack," he said simply. "My own dad served too many tours overseas when I was a kid. I wanted my child to know both his parents growing up."

  So the warrior had given up jets to fly charter planes in North Carolina, surrendering one objective for another. Compassion twisted Kate's heart. The drunk driver who had smashed into the car carrying Patrick's family had killed more than his wife. He'd destroyed his dream.

  She reached across the formica table to touch Patrick's muscled forearm, shaken from her usual self-possession by her realization. "What about other family?" she asked, thinking of that empty waiting room. "You mentioned your brothers, your mother. Didn't they…?"

  At her compassionate gesture, he withdrew. "Didn't they what? Come down? Yeah. Say how sorry they were? Sure. Help pick up the pieces? Absolutely."