THE PASSION OF PARICK MACNEILL

by Virginia Kantra

  "Hi, there, Kate." Owen Roberts, already in scrubs and white lab coat, bustled into the lounge and made a beeline for the vending machines. "You're here late."

  Kate glanced at the clock on the microwave. Four o'clock. Rounds didn't start for another half hour. "You're here early."

  The burly physician slipped in his change and punched in his selection. The machine whirred and chunked out twin; chocolate pastries.

  "Wanted dessert," he explained. "Wanda's got me on a diet. So…" Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes regarded her shrewdly. "How are you? Everything fine at home yesterday?"

  Yesterday. It took a moment for Owen's concern to penetrate the fog created in Kate's brain by sex and lack of sleep. He'd covered for her yesterday. Quick, betraying color warmed her face.

  "Yes. Thank you. And here?"

  "Fine, fine." He hesitated. "Gerry was asking for you."

  Kate's heart sunk. Gerald Swaim didn't approve of the staff tampering with his precious duty roster. She could just imagine what he'd say if he knew his senior fellow was taking time off to baby-sit one of his patients. Not to mention the night she'd spent practicing her bedside manner on his patient's father. She fought to keep her face neutral.

  Owen crinkled up his cellophane wrapper. "I wouldn't have said anything, but I thought you'd want to know. In case he mentions it."

  He smiled at her tentatively, and Kate surprised them both by smiling back. For the first time, she wondered if their relationship as not-really-equals and not-quite-friends was as much the result of her own defensive attitude as the hospital's male hierarchy.

  "Thanks, Owen. I appreciate it."

  "Happy to help. We're lucky to have you on staff. I told Gerry you deserved a personal day."

  She was grateful for the attending's unexpected support, but his championship made her nervous. "I don't think Dr. Swaim believes in personal days."

  Owen twinkled at her. "Not for the interns, anyway. But you're a senior fellow. You've covered for him often enough."

  "I'm also a woman. I can't afford to conform to some stereotype by neglecting my duties here for my so-called personal life."

  Owen brushed chocolate crumbs from his fingers. "Perhaps it's not having a personal life that's the problem. Perhaps it's the patient you're getting personal with."

  Dismay flared. So he'd heard about the MacNeills. Sharon had warned her. Gossip multiplied in the corners of the hospital like staphylococcus.

  Control kept Kate's face blank, her voice even. If she couldn't compose her emotions any better than some first-year medical student, she deserved the attending's censure.

  "I do my job."

  "Very well, too. I just want you to have the opportunity to keep on doing it."

  He spoke too kindly for her to consider his words a threat. He meant them as a caution, she supposed.

  Before she could respond, Sharon Williams burst into the lounge. "Dr. Sinclair? Oh, Dr. Roberts, thank goodness you're here."

  "What is it?"

  "Apartment fire. They're coming in now. Multiple victims."

  Kate and Owen were already rushing through the door, down the corridor to the hydrotherapy room.

  "How many?" Kate demanded, tugging a sterile cap over her hair.

  Sharon ran beside her. "One adult female—the grandmother—and three children."

  Children. Kate's stomach clenched. She hated it when it was children.

  "Who've we got?" Owen demanded, scrubbing his hands at the sink.

  "Ernie." Sharon named the senior resident. "He's meeting the elevator."

  Gloving, Kate could hear them coming down the hall, running feet, raised voices. Water hissed into the two huge steel tubs which would receive the burn patients.

  "Take a team," Owen ordered. "Ernie'll triage."

  "Got it," Kate said briefly.

  Necessity and training took over. Adrenaline pumped through her, sharpening her mind and senses. Emotions shut down. She could hear her voice and Owen's voice weaving through the children's screams, the grandmother's sobs, the nurses' soothing murmurs.

  "Run a line."

  "Get a heart monitor on her."

  "I want a line on this kid. I don't care if you can't find a vein."

  "Hold her. Hold her. Get the bench in the tub. The water's too deep."

  "Dammit, where's the IV? He's going into shock."

  "We've got smoke inhalation. We need to move to ICU."

  "Start a trach."

  Kate watched her own hands, moving with deliberate urgency, fighting slippery bodies and splashing water and death. As she battled, time blurred, each moment, each task, frozen in crystalline precision, whole minutes disappearing in the rush to accomplish it all.

  Hours later, they were done, the wounds washed and dressed. Four survivors hooked to fluid lines and pressurized oxygen rested in a double-room suite, to take what comfort they could from each other's presence. The mother had finally arrived from work. Owen was with her now, trying to help her make sense of what had happened to her family.

  Kate dropped her mask and stripped off her gloves. The ebbing emergency took all her energy with it, leaving her drained of everything but fatigue. A headache trembled behind her eyes.

  "Kate." Sharon touched her arm. "You have a visitor in the waiting room."

  She nodded, missing the nurse's next sentence in her eagerness to finish up her business here and go home. She regretted her haste a moment later when she thumped through the unit's doors and stumbled unprepared on Patrick MacNeill.

  He was too big, too male, too healthy. Too much. His dark eyebrows lifted, and abruptly she realized how she must appear to him, disheveled, drenched and stinking of scorch and antiseptic soap.

  She swore. "Dinner. I forgot. Sorry."

  It wasn't an apology, Patrick thought, or even an explanation. She looked exhausted, brittle, brilliant, vibrating like a jet propeller blade. And none too happy to see him.

  He stood slowly, spoke quietly, gauging her reaction. "I went to your apartment. When you weren't there, I called here. The desk nurse said you were almost finished up."

  She rubbed two fingers just beneath her breastbone in a gesture he was learning to recognize. "We got the call right before I went off shift. I didn't even think… What time is it?"

  "A little after six." It was nearer seven, but he wasn't going to belabor the point, not with her face as pale as a saint's in his mother's missal.

  He'd almost called this dinner off. They needed some distance—okay, he needed some space—to figure out where things stood after last night. The only thing he was sure of was that sleeping with Kate hadn't eased his itch for her, or his mind at all.

  She was a busy professional woman. She didn't need distractions any more than he did. But now all he could see was that she was tired, uptight, and alone.

  "I'm sorry," she said again.

  This time he heard the regret behind the defensive challenge. Unable to stop himself, he raised his hand to trail one finger down her damp, smooth cheek.

  "Stop apologizing. You're not the only one with scheduling conflicts."

  Those tiny twin frown lines formed above her nose. He nodded to a corner of the waiting room where Jack scrunched in one of the child-sized chairs, coloring.

  She controlled it, but he caught her tiny start of surprise. Well, what woman would expect a lover to bring his kid along on what could be called their first date?

  "Do you really think we need a chaperone?"

  Damn, she was quick. But he and Jack were a package. The sooner she accepted that, the better.

  Patrick shrugged. "I couldn't get a sitter."

  She turned those too-observant brown eyes on him. "And you've been gone almost a week. You wouldn't want to leave him your first night back anyway. Hey, Jack." She spoke softly, a measure of tightness easing from her shoulders. "What are you drawing?"

  The boy tilted his head and slanted her a smile, still half focused on his big white art tablet. "A get-well card
. For Grandpa."

  She strolled over, kneeling beside him to take a look. Their heads were nearly on a level. The sight of those two faces, so dissimilar in features and coloring, so alike in their expressions of assessing interest, jarred something loose in Patrick's chest.

  "Great pterodactyl," Kate commented. "Orange is a cheerful color. How's your grandfather doing?"

  "Okay, I guess." He looked to his father for confirmation. "Better," Patrick said. "Fighting with the doctors to go home."

  Jack swivelled in his chair, confiding, "I told Daddy maybe you could go take care of Grandpa, but he said you had people to take care of here. Did you make them better?"

  Kate rubbed her face with her hand in the first overtly vulnerable gesture Patrick could remember. "I'm trying."

  He remembered their conversation the night of Jack's surgery. Her face bleached under the cafeteria lights, Kate had argued she found her work rewarding. She needed to feel she made a difference in her patients' lives, she'd said. He wondered how it was possible to hold on to that hope in the midst of pain and frantic action. Who soothed her when her work was done? Who healed her?

  Admiration for her moved him. Ignoring her slight resistance, he slid his hand under the fall of her hair and massaged her tightly corded neck.

  "Sometimes it takes a while to get better," he said. "Even when the doctor does her job really, really well."

  Jack nodded. "Like with my hand."

  "Like with your hand," Patrick confirmed. They needed to get out of here. Jack needed dinner, Kate needed a break from the hospital, and he needed to take his hands off her before he embarrassed them both. "Anybody hungry?" he asked heartily.

  "I'm starving," Jack said.

  Kate pulled away. "I'm not exactly dressed for dining out."

  He let her go. For now. "Yeah, well, with Jack along that romantic, let's-be-French restaurant I had in mind is out anyway."

  She glanced down at her soiled blue scrubs. "I'm not even dressed for burgers."

  "We can drive you home if you want. Wait while you change."

  "Daddy, I'm starving to death."

  Patrick suppressed a flicker of irritation at his son's near whine. They were already an hour past Jack's usual dinner time, and the boy had been remarkably patient waiting for Kate. He patted the pockets of his jacket for more snacks. "Have another cracker."

  "I don't want a cracker."

  "How about this," Kate proposed. "I have clothes here in my locker. Give me five minutes to shower, and we can go out for pizza."

  "Yeah!"

  "You want pizza?" Patrick repeated.

  That faint flush he loved suffused her face. "He likes pizza."

  He grinned at her defensive tone. "Pizza it is." He'd never known a woman to get ready in five minutes before—Holly had liked her hair and makeup to be just so—but Kate managed it.

  He smiled in approval when she returned to the waiting room, tidy in slacks and blouse, her shiny hair secured in a barrette. "All set?"

  A burly doc in gold wire rims bumped through the doors behind her. "Kate, good job with the old lady. Did you talk to Ernie about—"

  He checked, shrewd hazel eyes skipping from Patrick to Jack. Instinct had Patrick going on alert, his hands balling in his jacket pockets.

  "Excuse me," the doctor said politely. "I didn't know you were busy. Mr. MacNeill, isn't it?"

  He knew the guy. Roberts, that was it. Patrick nodded. "Dr. Roberts."

  "That's all right," Kate said hastily. "Yes, I went over everything. He can page me if there's a problem."

  "Wonderful. Well." The physician shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I won't keep you. Going out somewhere?"

  "To dinner. Kate needs a break."

  "Ah. Yes." His broad-featured face worked with brief, internal debate before he stuck out his hand. "Have a nice time, then."

  "Thanks." Patrick shook, his gaze sliding to Kate. She was wearing her doctor's mask again, and the tension had returned to her shoulders.

  He waited until they were at the elevator before he asked. "What the hell was all that about?"

  Kate entered the elevator and turned, staring straight ahead at the sliding doors. "I'm not sure. If I had to guess, I'd say Owen's not going to report seeing us together to Dr. Swaim."

  Jack hovered by the control panel. "Can I push the button?" he asked.

  Distracted, Patrick replied, "Yeah, go ahead. Why would he?"

  "Which one?" Jack persisted.

  "L. For lobby. Why should it matter if he sees us together, Kate?"

  "It shouldn't It's just Swaim's been touchy about his practice lately. It's like he wants me to take over in surgery, but he doesn't want me taking any of his patients. It's weird."

  "Have you talked to him yet?"

  "Sort of."

  "Is that yes or no?"

  The doors opened on the lobby, and Kate strode through. Patrick kept up with her easily, one hand outstretched to Jack, trotting in their wake.

  "I mentioned my concern, all right? He said I was imagining things, that he was simply a very busy man. But afterwards I noticed he started turning over a lot of the OR procedures to Owen and me."

  She bolted out onto the lit sidewalk and whirled to face him. "The man is a surgeon. The head of the burn unit. I'm not going to embarrass him by questioning his ability."

  "Or risk your job by ticking him off."

  "Or risk my job. That's right."

  She headed for the staff parking garage.

  Patrick caught her arm. "Whoa. Slow down. The car's that way."

  "I have my car."

  He didn't say anything. He didn't let go of her arm, either. Kate blew out a sharp breath, exhaling bad humor. "Oh, all right. You can drive me back to pick it up later."

  He could. Or he could take her home and help her work off that temper in bed. Deciding she wasn't ready to hear that option yet, Patrick led the way silently to the Volvo and unlocked the doors.

  "This is going to be fun," Jack announced, bouncing into the back seat.

  Patrick glanced from his son's bright face to Kate's guarded one.

  Fun. Right.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  «^»

  Kate stared up through the windshield at the blinking red neon sign. "Bowling?" Her disbelief was evident in her voice. "We're not eating dinner at a bowling alley."

  "Sure we are." Patrick cut the engine and unfastened his seat belt. "My old DI runs the place. Makes great burgers. And Jack can get a slice of pizza."

  She relaxed slightly. "But we're not actually going bowling."

  He angled himself in his seat to look at her. "Why not?"

  "Well…" She searched for a reasonable objection. She was tired and tense and in no mood to make a fool of herself in front of Patrick Probably-Bowls-Strikes MacNeill. "Can Jack manage a ball, with his hand?"

  Patrick grinned. "Jack still uses two hands. And we'll pull bumpers down in the gutters. He'll do fine."

  "Great," Kate muttered. "Then I can be out-performed by a four-year-old."

  Patrick paused in the act of swinging out of the car. "You can't bowl?"

  She glared at him. "My sister can."

  Amy could bowl. Amy could bowl and shoot pool and do any number of things that required time and money and friends. Kate had always been too stubborn, too broke and too shy.

  "Time you learned, then," Patrick said. His grin broadened, and her heart actually fluttered. "You'll do fine. It'll take your mind off whatever's bothering you. You might even enjoy yourself."

  She doubted it. But she let Jack take her hand and tug her through the sliding doors into the well-lit, echoing bowling alley. It smelled of floor wax, disinfectant and old shoes, with an overlay of popcorn and beer. Kate sniffed. Not disagreeable, she decided, after the stench of burns hanging in the hospital's sterile air.

  League bowlers with matching shirts and polished bags practiced at one end. A children's birthday party chattered and crashed at the
other. Patrick settled Kate at a center lane, while Jack pattered off to find a ball.

  He eyed her feet assessingly. "You'll need shoes. What do you take, an eight?"

  "Seven and a half," she replied without thinking.

  He went up front to pay their charge, collect their shoes and place their food order. Kate eased back cautiously in her molded plastic chair, her attention captured by the three teenage boys in the next lane. They postured and cracked jokes, plainly showing off for the pretty girl bowling with her family on their other side. They reminded her of Sean. She smiled.

  "That's better," Patrick said, setting a burger basket in front of her. Jack scrambled onto the seat beside her. "What are you thinking of?"

  "Your brother," she replied, and had the pleasure of seeing his brows snap together in a frown.

  "Don't waste your time," he advised.

  She tilted her head, seized by an unfamiliar desire to test her own feminine power. "Why? Do you think I'm too old for him?"

  Patrick scowled, handing Jack a napkin. He stuck a straw into his soft drink. "No."

  Oh, she was enjoying this. "I got the impression he liked me."

  "Yeah, he did. He does. But then, our Sean likes most women. He's commitment-shy."

  "Mmm." Thoughtfully, she selected a French fry and dipped it in ketchup. "Runs in the family, does it?"

  His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Do you want a list of my commitments, Kate?"

  Her heart jolted as if she'd just administered herself a shot of epi. Careful. She'd known what she was getting into when she'd decided to go to bed with Patrick MacNeill. He'd offered her pleasure, not promises. A shared respite from responsibility, not an added obligation. If the intimacy of the night had tempted her to think otherwise, she had only to remember the way he'd closed himself up from her presence in his house this morning. She'd been deceived once about a man's intentions. She'd be a fool to delude herself now.

  "Not necessary," she said coolly. "Unless you're trying to convince me to keep score."

  Amusement relaxed his face. "You really haven't done this before, have you? It's done electronically."

  "Oh. No cheating, then?"

  "No cheating."

  She wondered if they were still talking about bowling, but didn't have the courage to ask. "Too bad."