But that night, he dreamed about her—a triple X-rated dream that ended much too soon and left him lying awake afterwards for an hour.
He didn’t know what was happening to him.
* * *
‘It’s supposed to be a brilliant collection,’ Tarsha said, the following Thursday night.
She’d asked him if he would accompany her to the opening of an exhibition—‘be my handbag,’ as she’d phrased it—and he’d agreed, as promised.
‘Look good, won’t you?’ she’d cajoled him on the phone. ‘People will be there. I need to impress.’
So here they were, impressing like crazy, in a crush of other people doing the same thing as they wandered around the museum-quality collection of costumes from the star-studded history of the Australian film industry.
Laird took an hors d’oeuvre and examined his own profound state of dissatisfaction with a critical eye. He was bored. He felt instinctively hostile to almost every woman he saw…and even more hostile to the ones he actually talked to…because they were all too rich or too thin or too self-obsessed or—
Because they weren’t Tammy Prunty, basically, and because he couldn’t kid himself for a second that they were anything like her. This was what it boiled down to, and he was horrified about the strength of his feelings on the subject. For heaven’s sake, he barely knew the woman.
You know enough, said a part of him he hadn’t known existed, and that he didn’t trust.
‘Earth to Laird,’ Tarsha drawled. The crush had begun to thin. The hors d’oeuvre platters and wineglasses were emptying. People had started to leave. ‘Where are you tonight? You’re miles away.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Work?’
‘No. Not work. Well, sort of.’
‘Someone at work?’ she shrewdly guessed.
‘Uh, yes. Someone at work.’ Someone who filled out a surgical scrub suit very, very well, and who hid what was arguably her best feature under her cap. ‘It’s OK. Go and talk to someone important.’
‘Laird, you’re being nice enough to pull handbag duty, I can express an interest in your life. Besides,’ she added with ruthless honesty, ‘the important people are leaving now, and I’ve talked to them already. Tell me about this woman at work.’
‘I never said it was a—’
Tarsha gave a knowing smile. ‘I read the look on your face. You didn’t have to.’
Her female perception was his undoing.
‘It’s idiotic, Tarsha. I think I could be falling in love with her.’ The fatal words fell from his lips as if spoken in the confessional.
They sounded crazy, even to his own ears, and he completely understood Tarsha’s sceptical tilt of the head. ‘Then you’ve known her for a while…’ she murmured thoughtfully.
‘No, not very long at all.’
And, so help him, he told her everything…
Tarsha was right.
Her common sense and well-articulated cautions carried Laird home from the exhibition opening in a better frame of mind, and he was sure, for a whole eleven hours, that he had the problem licked.
‘I’d hate to see you getting into some awful situation, Laird.’
True.
‘You said yourself you hardly know her.’
True again.
‘That kind of mismatched relationship is unfair to both people involved, and with all those kids…’
Once again, hard to argue.
He arrived in the NICU at six-forty on Friday morning after a good night’s sleep, ready to focus on the problem babies, convinced it was going to be a good day, and with Tarsha’s warnings about the temporary insanity of this knocked-sideways feeling about Tammy Prunty metaphorically clutched to his chest like a protective shield.
The suggestion she could be a gold-digger he’d objected to, but Tarsha had told him, ‘Gold-diggers don’t always come with bleached hair and fake boobs.’
‘Mmm, she doesn’t need those…’
‘OK, so she’s not a gold-digger.’
‘No, but I take your point.’
‘You do have family money, and that very nice investment property.’
‘Well, hobby farm.’
‘But even if she’s not a gold-digger, I can still think of half a dozen scenarios here, and they all end in tears.’
Laird definitely didn’t want anything that ended in tears. There were enough of those in the NICU already, and the bright photos of healthy babies on their pin-up board didn’t seem bright enough. They’d had a new admission overnight. Normal full-term pregnancy, mother in her late twenties, and then a baby born with a struggling heart and a list of abnormalities that suggested a rare genetic defect.
The parents wanted answers and reassurance, and no one could give those yet. For the moment they were treating the symptoms, going through the literature and deciding on tests.
On his way to take his first look at the baby, Laird passed Tammy with another new mother—a teenager, out of her depth, who’d given birth to a baby with intrauterine growth retardation. The little boy had needed breathing support but he was doing well enough now to be out of his cot and in his mother’s arms.
Tammy was asking the mother about breast-feeding. He heard a whole two lines of their conversation, but that was enough.
‘I’m not sure if I could handle it,’ said the teenage mum.
‘You never know about something until you try it,’ said Tammy gently, her head bent towards the tiny swaddled bundle in the young mother’s arms, her voice full of its usual warmth and hope and spirit and music.
Tarsha’s arguments fragmented in Laird’s head like tissue paper in water, leaving only Tammy. His memories of the morning at the garden centre. His growing reliance on her efficiency and dedication at work. The way she looked, and the way she sounded. The way she tasted her son’s bubble-gum ice cream and managed to act as if she liked it.
You never know about something until you try it.
Against all logic, that was exactly what he was going to do. Try it. Follow this dizzying new feeling to see where it led. Because Tammy was right. More right than Tarsha. You never knew until you tried.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘WE’LL have to increase his ventilator settings,’ Laird said.
‘He’s teetering on the edge, isn’t he?’ Tammy murmured. ‘Are we calling it renal failure?’
Every baby in the unit had seemed to go through a medical crisis in the last week, and so far the next week didn’t look as if it would be much better.
Adam Parry’s kidneys hadn’t yet begun to work properly, and if they didn’t do so soon, he wouldn’t survive. The Thornton baby had had his pyeloplasty to correct the blocked ureter. He was recovering, but his little system didn’t like the antibiotics so he wasn’t eating well.
Worst of all, little Riley, the sickest of the Vitelli triplets, had died, his bowel destroyed by necrotising enterocolitis and his brain suffering a second major bleed, despite Laird trying every treatment strategy in the book.
With the dark roots growing out of her untended blonde hair, Alison Vitelli had dragged herself back from Riley’s heart-breaking funeral to be with her surviving two babies, and Tammy just couldn’t look at the anguished expression on her face without getting a lump in her throat.
Now, Sunday evening, Adam Parry had reached the ten-day milestone, but he was swollen with fluid. His kidneys had begun to pass tiny amounts of urine—three millilitres on Friday, five yesterday, but none overnight, another few millilitres today. It wasn’t enough.
His stressed and worn-out parents had gone to snatch a rare meal away from the hospital. Tammy had left her mother at home, putting the kids to bed, and had driven the new, blessedly shorter commute to work, gearing herself up for a twelve-hour overnight shift.
She’d found Laird in the unit, moving back and forth between several very ill babies and frowning in a way that made her want to reach her fingertips up and smooth out his brow.
‘We’re not
calling it renal failure to the parents,’ he answered her. ‘But if his kidney function doesn’t improve soon, there’s not much hope. I want to see ten mils a day, minimum.’
There was almost nothing they could do. Baby Adam had been started on small amounts of breast milk—a millilitre every four hours, less than you’d feed a newborn orphaned kitten.
At least Max was doing better.
Although the most at risk immediately after birth, he’d strengthened fast. His heart was still enlarged, but the open duct had closed on its own and he’d been taken off the ventilator and put on CPAP—continuous positive airway pressure. Like his brother, he was being fed breast milk in tiny amounts, two millilitres every two hours, and soon he should be able to move into the high dependency unit. Fingers crossed, it wouldn’t be that much longer until he went home.
Laird stayed watching Adam while Tammy wrote some figures down on his chart. She sensed that Laird had something to say. There was something about the movements of his hands and the uneven sound of his breathing. An in-breath, as if he was preparing to speak, and then a controlled sigh.
Something was on his mind. She steeled herself to hear it—some heroic, experimental intervention he would suggest for Adam, which she couldn’t believe would do any good. The little boy was too frail. They just had to count those precious millilitres, hold their breath and wait.
Tammy was literally holding hers, waiting for what Laird would say.
And she could feel his presence like a…a time bomb, or something.
Ticking.
Dangerous.
Ready to blow something apart.
She’d been thinking about him too much since that morning at the garden centre a week ago. Wondering what he was doing at certain moments of the day, wondering if he’d planted all those orchard trees and eucalypts himself or if he’d had fleets of burly gardeners to help, remembering the way he’d smiled, hearing his voice and thinking of questions she wanted to ask him.
Tammy herself was the thing getting blown apart, as it turned out.
‘I’ve been wondering if you’d like a repeat of that coffee,’ he said finally, almost knocking her off her feet with the unexpectedness of it, shattering her composure, sending her emotions flying. ‘We didn’t get much of a chance to talk last weekend. Or, at least, when we did it was mostly to the kids.’ He gave a slow grin. ‘Felt as if I’d got off lightly. You should at least have had a refill on your latte.’
‘You don’t have to do this, Dr Burchell.’
Why are you doing it? We’ve already had our date-that-wasn’t-a-date. You saved me twenty dollars.
What was it that musketeer types said in times gone by, after a duel? Honour is satisfied. Well, it had been, in this case, on both sides.
‘Please stop calling me that, Nurse Prunty,’ he said, in a tone of studied, teasing patience.
It rattled her. He wasn’t flirting. And if he was, she didn’t want him to…and yet she liked it. Really, really liked it. Hated herself for liking it, but felt helpless to do a thing about her reaction.
‘I mean, I wasn’t serious to begin with, about the coffee deal,’ she blurted out, feeling her face begin to burn. ‘The Thornton baby’s hypernephrosis was a lucky guess, that’s all. And you’ve made good on it anyhow. One latte. Five ice creams. Honour is satisfied.’
He laughed at that last bit and she wished she hadn’t said it. Maybe it wasn’t what duelists said at all. Was he laughing with her or at her? What should she trust? Her gut or her head?
She saw his eyes fix on her face, and looked down at Adam Parry’s chart to escape their cool, intent, grey light. It didn’t work. She could feel that he was still looking at her, and that he was seeing too much. Too much of the heat. Too much of the mixed emotions. Too much of the giddy awareness. Too much of her soul.
What else did he want to say? Hadn’t she let him off the hook, if not all that gracefully?
Take the out I’m offering, Dr Burchell, please!
Tom’s desertion, not just from their marriage but from any supporting role in her life, had rocked her so much. She didn’t want this kind of a challenge, didn’t want her hard-won equilibrium rocked in such an unexpected way. Didn’t want to have to be brave enough to trust a man again.
Not now.
And maybe never. Wasn’t she brave enough in so many other ways? Settling into the role of aging family matriarch had real appeal.
Nonsense, said her hormones, her nerve-endings, her heart. You’re young. You’re a woman. You want.
Love and adventure and newness and safety and, yes, sex.
‘OK,’ he said finally, and she began to breathe again as he walked away.
While, all right, at the same time fighting this stupid, stupid disappointment because she hadn’t permitted herself to jump at the offer, whether he’d meant it or not.
Great, Tammy, accept a duty offer of coffee with a man who’s so far out of your league he’s not even playing the same football code. Remember those kilos on your butt! They’re there for a reason!
They managed to get away from each other’s awkward auras at last. She busied herself with the Parry twins and he busied himself with other babies, and at some point he must have left because she looked up, cautiously, then looked around searchingly, and couldn’t see him anywhere.
Thank goodness.
I wish he’d come back.
Oh, Tammy, you fool!
For the next five days, while tiny Adam’s kidney function slowly and precariously improved, she was aware of Laird whenever they met up in the unit and she hated it. Why did she always look for him? Why did she keep a running note of where he was, when he arrived, when he left? Why had her ears tuned themselves so precisely to the sound of his voice? Why did she remember every word they said to each other and replay whole conversations over to herself in bed at night and driving home?
And she hated it all the more because surely he could see her reaction.
Her skin always showcased the slightest blush, especially when she was wearing a cap to confine her hair. The movements they all made around these babies were so quiet and careful, the slightest piece of clumsiness in his presence—because of his presence—was magnified to elephant size. It was never anything more than a fluttering of her fingers at the wrong moment, or a hesitation over a monitor setting, but around these babies, those things showed.
She was terrible at hiding her feelings, especially the unwanted, negative ones.
The only answer was to go on the attack with her best weapon—humour.
Yet somehow even this deserted her, and everything she said in his hearing was lame and silly to her ears.
By the time she finished her fourth shift for the week, at three o’clock on Friday afternoon, every nerve had frayed at the edges.
Adam Parry had been taken off those heartbreakingly small doses of breast milk, because his bowel wasn’t coping, so the mood was tense as afternoon nurses handed over to evening staff. Fran sat slumped beside him, only moving when she went to spend some time with Max. She’d lost her pregnancy weight and more since the birth.
‘Is it confirmed that he has NEC?’ Tammy’s replacement asked, well away from the mother’s hearing.
‘Not yet. We’re still hoping. Just giving his bowel a rest and hoping it’ll start working soon. His kidneys are still a real worry, too.’
‘Shoot!’ said the other nurse. ‘And they’re such good parents! They’re both wearing themselves out.’
‘When are you on again, Tammy?’ asked another nurse, Dorinda, as they left the unit together and headed for the lift.
‘Monday.’
‘Same here. And I’m going away with my husband for the weekend.’ Dorinda made a jazzy movement with her hips.
‘I’ve got a whole two hours, which sounds as good as a weekend to me, right now. Sarah and Lachlan are going to friends after school, and the triplets have a party until five.’
‘Going to do something good? Buy shoes?’
‘Yeah, right. Buy some killer heels, have a Fijian sugar massage, browse through expensive antique malls and load up on extravagant amounts of jewellery.’
The other nurse stopped in her tracks suddenly, and swore.
Tammy gave her an inquisitive look and stopped, too, just as Laird caught up to them metres from the lift. For once, her ultra-sensitive Laird Burchell radar had switched itself off, and she hadn’t realised he was behind them. She blushed instantly now that she knew he was there, of course.
He pressed the lift button, while Dorinda explained, ‘Letter to post. Left it on the desk in the unit.’ She was already heading back for it. ‘Thanks for mentioning antiques, or I wouldn’t have remembered.’
‘The letter is about antiques?’
Dorinda was already halfway down the corridor. ‘No, tenants at my mother’s damaged the furniture, letter to the real-estate people,’ she called back. ‘Doesn’t make sense, but it just connected in my head somehow. Antiques, furniture, letter. You know how it is.’
Tammy was left alone with Laird, waiting for the lift.
In silence.
Getting hot all over.
Cursing herself for being such a fool.
‘Instead of antique malls or a massage, how about that coffee today?’ he said, just before the lift arrived.
‘I was just joking about all that. I wasn’t really going to have a massage.’
‘I didn’t think you were,’ he replied, his tone deceptively mild. ‘Probably counts as time and money spent on yourself, and you’re not allowed any of that.’
She looked at him, open-mouthed. How did he know?
‘Not my business?’ he said.
His smile was sneaky. Yes! Downright sneaky! No man had a right to smile like that, so wide and white and twinkly and gorgeous, when she was trying so hard to stay immune. It wasn’t fair.
‘Nope,’ she replied, not letting her voice go breathy. ‘It’s not your business.’
‘Is that why you said no to coffee the other day?’ he persisted. ‘Because it was something for you, not something for the kids?’ The interrogation was lazy, the way a cat could almost lazily play with a mouse. ‘That’s the theory I’ve been working on.’
Six Sexy Doctors Part 1 (Mills & Boon e-Book Collections): A Doctor, A Nurse: A Little Miracle / The Children's Doctor and the Single Mum / A Wife for ... / The Playboy Doctor's Surprise Proposal Page 20