Casualty Of Passion. Sharon Kendrick
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going on in here?’ came a deep, aristocratic drawl.
The three of them looked at the door, where the tall, dark and rangy form of Randall Seton stood surveying them through narrowed eyes.
The man replied in time-honoured fashion. ‘Push off, you stuck-up git!’
There was a silence of about two seconds, and then Randall moved forward, his whole stance one of alert, healthy and muscular readiness. He radiated strength and he spoke with quietly chilling authority; but then, thought Kelly somewhat bitterly, that was the legacy of privilege too.
‘Listen to me,’ he said softly. ‘And listen to me carefully. Dr Hartley has just been caring for your daughter in Casualty. So have I. I’ve just stitched together the most appalling wound inflicted by an animal that I’ve ever seen, praying as I did so that it will leave as little scar tissue as possible. An anaesthetist is currently pumping air down into her lungs, because where the dog’s teeth ripped at her throat it caused such swelling that if an ambulance hadn’t been on the scene so promptly, her airway could have been obstructed and your daughter could have died from lack of oxygen.’
The mother gave an audible gasp of horror, as though the reality of what had happened had just hit her.
‘She is shortly going to be admitted to the children’s ward,’ he continued, ‘where she will be looked after by another series of staff. Now we’ve all been doing our job, because that’s what we’re paid to do and that’s what we chose to do. What we do not expect is to be criticised or insulted for doing just that. Have I made myself perfectly clear, Mr— Mr—?’ The dark, elegent eyebrows were raised in query, but there was no disguising the dangerous spark of anger which made the grey eyes appear so flinty. At that moment, he looked positively savage, thought Kelly, but he somehow managed to do it in a very controlled kind of way. But there again, Randall was the master of self-control, wasn’t he?
‘Landers,’ gulped the man. ‘Yes, Doctor. I understand.’
‘Good.’ Then the dark-lashed grey eyes swept over Kelly. ‘Can I see you for a minute?’
Nine years, she thought, slightly hysterically, and he asks can he see me for a minute. Breaking up with Randall—not that such a brief acquaintanceship really warranted such a grand-sounding title—had been the best thing which had ever happened to her. But she had often wondered, as women always did wonder about the first man who had made them dizzy with desire, just what would happen if they saw each other again. What would they think? What would they say?
She had never imagined such an inglorious reunion taking place in a tiny and scruffy little office in one of London’s busiest A & E departments, nor him saying something as trite as that.
He looked ...
Admit it, Kelly, she thought reluctantly. He looks like a dream. Every woman’s fantasy walking around in a white coat.
He was lightly tanned. Naturally, he was tanned; he was always tanned. In the winter he skied down the blackest runs in Switzerland, and in the summer he holidayed with friends around the Mediterranean on a yacht which he had owned since the age of eighteen. Nine years hadn’t added a single ounce of fat to that incredibly muscular body, honed to perfection by years of rigorous sport. The hair was as dark as ever, almost too black—a gypsy ancestor had been responsible for the midnight gleam of those rampant waves, he had once told her—sure!—and it curled and waved thickly around a neck which Michaelangelo would have died to sculpt.
She stared into eyes the colour of an angry sea, trying to equal his dispassionate scrutiny, trying to convince herself that it was just the shock of seeing him again which made her heart thunder along like a steam train. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid that I’m busy just now taking a history.’
He gave her a cool smile, the flash in the grey eyes mocking her. ‘When you’ve finished, then?’
It would never occur to him to take no for an answer. ‘I’m afraid that I may be tied up for some time.’
He shrugged the broad shoulders. ‘In that case, I’ll chase you up when I’m out of Theatre.’ His eyes glittered. ‘I can’t wait.’ It sounded awfully like a threat.
She wanted to say, Why bother? What was the point? Instead she shrugged her shoulders indifferently—a gesture which deserved to win her an Oscar. ‘If you like,’ she answered coolly. And picked up her pen again.
‘And now, Miss Jenkins. If you’d like to give me a few more details ...’
She didn’t have time to think of him again during that shift; she was absolutely run off her feet. A middle-aged man came in on a stretcher with his leg badly broken in three places, and then a teenage girl was admitted with an overdose.
‘How many has she taken?’ Kelly asked her white-faced and trembling mother as she handed her the empty bottle.
‘Only ten. That’s all that was left in the box. She left a note. It said—’ and here the woman started sobbing helplessly ‘—said it was to pay me back. I wouldn’t let her go out last night, you see. Told her she had to revise for her exams, or she’d end up like me, Doctor, struggling just to survive.’
‘Ssssh,’ said Kelly softly, as she handed the sobbing woman a paper handkerchief. ‘Try not to distress yourself.’
‘She will be all right, won’t she, Doctor?’ asked the mother plaintively.
Kelly nodded, and answered with cautious optimism. ‘I’m confident that she’ll pull through. She’s in good hands now.’ Though it was lucky that the pills the girl had taken did not have any major side-effects.
She watched while the nurses, garbed in plastic gowns, gloves and wellington boots, put a wide tube into the girl’s mouth and worked it down into her stomach. Then they tipped a saline solution into it, and waited for her to start retching. The physical ignominy of this uncomfortable procedure would hopefully make the girl think very carefully about attempting such an overdose again, Kelly hoped. Because what had started out as an angry gesture could have ended up with such tragic consequences.
She had been working in Accident and Emergency for just three weeks, but already she had discovered that her job was as much social worker as doctor—if she allowed it to be. And, frankly, she didn’t have the time to allow it to be. The lives that people lived and the conditions in which they lived them sometimes made her despair, but there was little she could do to change anything, and accepting that had been a hard lesson.
It was seven o’clock by the time she finished, although she’d been due off at six. She had been held up with a cardiac arrest, and by the time she took her white coat off and washed her hands she was bushed, and could think of nothing she would like more than a hot bath, a good book, and an early night, particularly as she was not seeing Warren until tomorrow.
She set off for her room, through the winding corridors of St Christopher’s—one of London’s oldest and most revered hospitals. The main corridor was particularly impressive at night, and the ornately carved marble pillars dating back from a more prosperous time in the hospital’s history cast long and intricate shadows on the well-worn stones of the floor.
Kelly heard a sound behind her. A sound she knew so well.
Sounds echoed on this particular floor and foot-steps were normal in a hospital. Day and night, people moved in endless motion.
But Kelly stiffened, then remonstrated silently with herself. Of course she wouldn’t be able to recognise his footsteps. Not after nine years.
She turned round to face whoever was close behind her, as any sensible female doctor would.
And it was him.
‘Hello, Kelly,’ he said, his voice a deep, mocking caress, and Kelly felt herself thrill just to the sound of him speaking her name. He managed to make it sould like poetry, but he had always had the ability to do that.
And as she stared into