He laughed. 'I don't think you need feel cheated,' he said wryly. 'I don't seem to have a choice but to let go.' He rolled away from her and sat up, his legs over the edge of the bed. 'I'm going to get the coffee and the chocolates. Why don't you climb into the bed and make yourself comfortable?'
He appeared a few minutes later, clad in a ratty old towelling dressing-gown, the tray balanced on one hand. He set it down on the bedside table, shucked off the dressing-gown and got in beside her, then turned to her with a smile.
'Right. Here's your coffee, here are the chocolates, and now you can tell me what you were trying to say downstairs before I talked you into bed.'
Her heart thumped against her ribs, and she took the coffee and stared down into it. It was cool now, the cream congealing on the top, but she had a sip anyway, just to give her a few seconds to find the right words.
Finally she gave up, put the coffee down and turned to face him.
'It's about Alice,' she said bluntly. 'She's your daughter.'
CHAPTER NINE
Max was stunned. Whatever he'd expected, it hadn't been this. He searched Annie's face, wondering if he'd misunderstood, but there was nothing there to indicate that he had.
'Mine?' he said numbly. 'Alice is mine?'
'Yes. She looks just like you.'
'But—she's eight months old. She can't be mine. Eight and nine is seventeen months, not fifteen. We met fifteen months ago. She can't be mine,' he repeated.
'She was premature. They thought she was small for dates, because of all the trauma with Peter and everything, but when she was born she was definitely prem, about thirty-three weeks gestation, so I knew straight away she couldn't have been his, because we hadn't—'
She broke off, shrugging helplessly, and he felt something inside him ease a little. Thank God for small mercies, he thought bitterly. He'd had a hard time dealing with the fact that she'd been pregnant with Peter's child when he'd made love to her, and now he discovered she couldn't have been.
In a curiously painful way, that was comforting.
She went on in an odd, flat little voice, 'He hadn't felt really well for some time, and the holiday was supposed to help him get better and maybe liven up our flagging marriage. He just thought he was exhausted but, of course, he wasn't. So, anyway, I knew she couldn't be his, and as soon as she opened her eyes I knew for sure.'
'Why didn't you tell me?'
'Why?' she asked, sounding puzzled. 'I didn't know till she was born that she was yours and, anyway, I thought you were married.'
'You still should have contacted me,' he insisted.
Annie shook her head. 'How could I? Your relationship with Fiona seemed strained enough, and I didn't know your surname, far less your address. How was I supposed to contact you?'
'Via the hotel? They had my address.'
'And say what? Oh, hello, hope your marriage is going well, and by the way, we've had a baby? Don't be silly! And anyway, we'd agreed that that was the end of it, just that one day. I couldn't contact you without breaking our agreement, and for some stupid reason that seemed important to me.'
Max looked away, swallowing hard. She had a point, of course, but then now, for the last week...
'Why didn't you tell me when you saw me again?' he asked, but she looked away, suddenly evasive, and he saw red.
'You weren't going to, were you?' he said slowly, his temper rising with his voice. 'You weren't going to tell me at all. My God, all that rubbish about her not getting attached to me—it was all just so much hogwash! You just didn't want me to see her in case I realised she was mine!'
He threw off the quilt and shot out of bed, snagging his dressing-gown off the floor and shoving his arms ruthlessly into it. He belted it tightly and rammed his hands into his pockets, then stood at the window staring out over the darkened garden and struggling with his temper.
'Max, please, don't be like this,' she pleaded, but he was deaf to the appeal in her voice. It was drowned out by the sound of the cogs grinding round in his head, and then suddenly everything fell into place.
'If I hadn't asked you to marry me,' he said slowly, 'you wouldn't have told me, would you? You would have kept it from me, and you've got no right to do that. She's my child, Annie. I had a right to know about her, and you were going to keep it from me.'
'No! I was going to tell you tonight. I've got all the stuff ready.'
'Stuff?' He turned round, glaring at her as she sat huddled on the bed, her eyes huge in her pale face. 'What stuff?'
'Photos, her first sleep-suit—all sorts of things. I was going to ask you to come back with me, but then we ended up here. Max, please, don't be angry. I had to be sure—'
'Sure?' he said, totally confused now. 'Sure of what?'
'Of you. Sure that you would be good to her, that you really wanted me for myself and not just for her, sure that you weren't just a promiscuous philanderer and didn't care about anything but yourself.'
Promiscuous philanderer? It was so far off the mark it was almost funny, but he wasn't laughing.
'That, coming from you, just takes the biscuit,' he muttered.
'Excuse me?'
'You heard,' he snapped. 'For God's sake, you were married.'
'And you were engaged! Don't try landing me with that one, we were both in the same position as far as commitment is concerned. We were both equally at fault.'
He scrubbed a hand through his hair and sighed harshly. 'Whatever, that doesn't alter the present. Now I have a daughter that I've only ever caught a glimpse of once, and I reckon there's a good chance I would never have known about her at all, because you had to put me through some sort of stupid test!'
Annie slumped against the headboard, her arms wrapped tightly round her waist, and shook her head in denial. 'Try and see it from my point of view, Max. I didn't know you—not really. Not enough. I had to be sure. She's so precious, I couldn't take risks with her—surely you understand that? You would have done the same if she'd been yours.'
'She is mine!' he growled, and the last vestige of his control snapped.
'Oh, get out!' he said, ramming his hands through his hair in frustration. 'Just get dressed and get out. I don't want you here—not now, maybe not ever. I don't know. I need to think. Just, please, go.'
He turned away, hardening himself to the sound of Annie's muffled crying as she dressed hastily. He heard something rip, and a little sob, and then she was going, her bare feet running down the stairs. Moments later the front door banged shut behind her, and he felt the tension drain from his shoulders.
Max slumped against the window-frame, staring sightlessly down into the garden. He could see the path in the light spilling from the kitchen window, but then it went hazy and started to swim, and he blinked angrily and slammed his hand against the wall, just catching the edge of the window-frame with his knuckle.
Pain shot through it, but he ignored it and headed for the stairs, taking the untouched coffee-tray with him. There was a foil wrapper on the floor near the door from the condom he'd used, and he kicked it viciously across the room before going down.
Pity he hadn't thought about that before, he thought disgustedly. It could have saved them both a great deal of grief, and then he wouldn't have had this to deal with.
He slammed the tray down in the kitchen and yelped. His hand was agony. He looked at it, and gingerly prodded it. There was nothing much to feel, but when he got hold of the end of his ring finger and wiggled it, he felt bones grate sickeningly.
He sat down abruptly on the bar stool and nursed it against his chest. Damn. He'd broken it. He'd broken a bone in his hand, and his right hand at that, so he wouldn't be able to operate for days, maybe weeks.
Steve Kelly was already busy enough, without taking on his work, and he couldn't trust Mike Taylor to sew on a button, which meant Annie, and because she hadn't sat any of her surgical exams yet he would have to oversee all her work.
Which would mean being with her every time they ha
d to operate, training her, watching her every move, smelling her perfume, wanting her despite his better judgement, having his heart flayed raw because he was such a fool.
She could have just told him about the baby, but she'd obviously been hanging on for the big prize, marriage to a consultant. She'd done it once, why not do it again?
His logic was confused, he knew, but it was too close to home for him to analyse it, and anyway, it was all too familiar. Another Fiona, he thought bitterly, and tears of anger and hurt and disappointment stung his eyes.
Well, not now, he vowed to himself. He wouldn't marry her now if she were the last woman in the world!
And he would fight her for his daughter...
He'd got a spiral fracture of the fourth metacarpal. It was spectacularly pretty on X-ray, and Matt Jordan was suitably jovial about it.
'That's a classic boxer's injury,' he said with a grin. 'What were you doing, punching someone's lights out?'
'You don't want to know,' Max growled. 'How the hell am I going to operate?'
'You aren't,' he was told bluntly. 'Not for a week or two, at least. I'll need to put a nerve block in your hand to reduce it, then strap it up. Maybe a cast, maybe a splint—depends how sensible you are with it and how stable it is.'
'Can't you just pull it?'
Matt's eyebrows shot up. 'Just like that, without an anaesthetic? I can. I'd rather not. You'll probably yell the place down.'
'Oh, for God's sake, man, it's not a Colles' fracture, it's only a damn finger. Just do it,' Max said heavily. 'Just pull the damn thing straight and let's get on with it. I don't want any anaesthetic and I don't want a load of fuss. I have to go to work.'
Matt shrugged. 'OK, if you insist. Just don't say I didn't warn you.'
He got hold of the end of Max's finger, counted down from three and then gave it a sharp tug and twist. Fire shot up Max's arm, and he grunted with pain and clamped his teeth together hard.
Matt ran his finger down the back of Max's hand and nodded. 'Very good. You didn't scream. Right, don't move it, let's have another picture.'
Thankfully it was in place, because for all his silence Max didn't think he could really face having it pulled again. Matt strapped it to a splint, garter-strapped the finger to the adjacent one and sent him on his way with painkillers and strict instructions, most of which he fully intended to ignore.
He went up to the ward and, as luck would have it, the first person he ran into was Annie, looking chalk white and blotchy with red-rimmed eyes.
Guilt stabbed at him, but he dismissed it. She was the one who should be feeling guilty.
Then she caught sight of the strapping on his hand, and her eyes widened. 'Max? What have you done?' she whispered.
'I broke a bone.'
'What? How? Why?'
'Why? I hit something with it,' he said bluntly, and she closed her eyes and gave a ragged little sigh.
'Oh,' she said weakly. 'I thought—for a moment— I'm sorry. After Peter...'
Of course, fractures were particularly significant for her. Still, that wasn't his problem. 'Bad luck,' he said a little harshly. 'You don't get rid of me that easily. I hit it good and hard.'
'Good,' she said, with a rallying of her old spirit. 'I hope it hurt like hell.'
'It did, actually.'
'Excellent. Excuse me, I have work to do.'
Max put his arm up to block her way. 'Not before we've spoken.'
'I have nothing to say to you,' she said coldly. 'Anything I might have said—'
'I am your boss,' he said, pulling rank in a way that made him extremely uncomfortable but just then seemed the only way to deal with the situation. 'I want to talk to you about work. We need to make arrangements to cover my theatre time until this heals. That means you, I'm afraid. I can't operate, but I can supervise, and you can learn.'
As the ramifications of that sank in, Annie paled and closed her eyes. 'Fine. Just tell me when and where.'
'I will—and the rest of the time, I suggest you make yourself scarce. And I want to see Alice. I'll come round tonight at seven.'
'She goes to bed at seven.'
'So I'll come at six.'
'She has supper then, and her bath.'
'So I'll feed her and bath her. She might as well get used to me. And don't bother to be there. I'll deal with your mother.'
She snorted. 'You'd be safer dealing with me. Maternal instinct is a dangerous thing—and anyway, there's no way you're touching my daughter without me being there. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.'
Annie turned on her heel and walked away, her heart breaking. She'd cried all night, sobbing into her pillow so she didn't disturb Alice, and then over breakfast she'd managed to convince herself that Max just needed time for the news to sink in and he'd be fine. By the time he got to work the storm would have blown itself out and he'd be calm again and willing to talk to her.
Or not, she thought bitterly. Oh, Max, why? You stubborn idiot. Why can't you see it?
She turned the corner and went straight into David Armstrong's chest.
'Oops—Annie?' He held her at arm's length, peered at her tear-stained face and tutted gently, 'What is it?'
'Max,' she said unsteadily, and then she was cradled against David's big, solid chest and he was comforting her like a child.
'Come on, let's get out of the corridor,' he said, and led her into the day room, empty at that time of day. 'Now, tell Uncle David all about it.'
'Oh, hell, I can't. It's too complicated.'
'Work or personal?'
'Personal.'
'You knew each other before, didn't you?' he said softly.
Annie nodded. 'Yes. We met last year. We didn't really get to know each other, but...we were getting on so well, but now...' She sighed. 'It's just a stupid misunderstanding, but I just can't get through to him, and he's so angry with me.'
'Been there, done that,' he murmured. 'Julia and I did exactly the same thing last Christmas, then something happened that forced us to work together, and we realised just how much we meant to each other.' He hesitated for a moment, then said, 'Do you want me to talk to him?'
'No! He won't listen to you, and I don't want to air our laundry in public, if you don't mind. Oh, that's sounds awful,' she said tearfully, 'and it's not that I'm not grateful, but it's just so personal, we have to sort it out ourselves.'
'OK.' He squeezed her shoulders. 'Will you be all right now? I have to go and see my patients before I start my list, and I'm on the drag as it is. Julia was feeling a bit rough this morning and I didn't like to leave her until I was sure she was all right. The baby's due in a few weeks and she's finding it all a bit much.'
'I'll be fine. I hope she's OK. Thanks, David.'
'My pleasure. You take care—and if there's anything I can do, just holler.'
'I will. Thanks.'
She smiled, probably a pretty weak effort but it was the best she could do. After he'd gone out, she sluiced her face at the basin in the corner and blotted it dry, casting a despairing glance at the mirror in passing.
She looked awful—hideously unprofessional, apart from any other consideration—but it would take more than make-up to cover the ravages of the night.
Especially if she kept on topping up the effect throughout the day, as she seemed to be doing.
Oh, damn.
She straightened her shoulders and dragged in a huge breath. She could do it. She'd be fine. She'd get through the day—somehow.
Her bleeper called her, and she was summoned to the geriatric ward where their patient from Sunday was going downhill. He'd been the one she'd operated on alone, the one with the encapsulated bleed that had finally started to leak just before she'd opened him up, and she'd thought she'd done everything necessary.
Now it looked as if he needed to go back to Theatre urgently, and she didn't know what to do about it. Steve Kelly was on a day off, Mike Taylor was totally inexperienced and that left her and Max.
O
h, great.
She examined the patient's abdomen, checked his charts again, felt his pulse, thin and rapid and definitely not right, and gave him a reassuring smile.
'Well, Mr Andrews, I'm afraid you're going to have to go to Theatre again. You seem to have another problem that's developed, so I'll get you prepped and up there as soon as possible. Do you feel up to signing the consent form for me?'
He nodded weakly. 'I'm glad it's not just my imagination. I do feel rough,' he' admitted. 'This pain goes right through to my back—it's awful.'
'Don't worry, we'll sort you out,' she assured him with more confidence than she felt.
She paged Max, and told him, and he sounded less than thrilled.
'Better get him up to Theatre fast. Sounds like an aorta.'
'That's what I thought,' she said, beginning to panic. 'He's got bruising down the inside of his thighs, coming down the femoral canal. I. must have missed it on Sunday.'
Max just grunted. 'I'll see you in Theatre in a minute,' he told her.
She found the ward sister, and within minutes Mr Andrews was up in Theatre and she was opening him up again, with Max standing over her like an avenging angel.
Please, God, she prayed, don't let me have made a mistake. Don't let him die.
'Get some retractors in there and get all that bowel out of the way,' Max snapped. 'Let's get a look at this fast.'
He didn't like the look of the patient's colour at all, and unless he'd missed his guess—
'His pressure's dropping,' Dick said crisply.
'I don't doubt it,' Max retorted, reaching in and shifting the bowel with his left hand, too impatient to wait for Annie.
She hooked the retractors round the bowel, held it out of the way and they peered in.
Mr Andrews's aorta had ruptured behind the peritoneum, the lining of the abdomen, and so the blood was trapped by the bulging membrane. Every heartbeat stretched it more, and it was going to go with a heck of a pop any second.
Repairing it was a highly skilled job, better suited to a vascular surgeon, but there wasn't a specialist in the hospital at the moment. Max could do it, but it was going to test Annie's skills to the limit.
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