CHAPTER ONE

      “YOUR HÔPITAL is all you have on your mind, mon ami. You should take the night off. Enjoy with me. Drink the champagne, look at the pretty women. All work and no play makes Dr Paul Killian a very old man very fast. And once you wither up and blow away, what will become of your hôpital then?” Bertrand Léandre threw back his head and laughed heartily, then took a puff of his big fat Cuban cigar. A mountain of a man in his tuxedo, he was big, broad and obviously the domineering factor in the room, domineering in every physical aspect. And the people at the party responded positively to him, hovering around him, listening and laughing.

      All except Paul Killian, who was already tired. For them, it was a party. For him, it was work. He couldn’t even remember when he’d taken the time to enjoy, and it was a pity because as parties went, Bertrand Léandre always threw the best. But raising funds for his hospital was a vital part of Paul’s job now, and Bertrand had the funds Paul needed. More than that, he attracted the funds, so there was no turning his back on generosity, especially when he wanted to add a new children’s wing and buy another whirlpool therapy tub.

      Paul laughed. “All work and no play adds a whirlpool to physical therapy.” He tugged at the tight collar of his starched, white shirt. Tuxedos weren’t his style. Neither were the silk bow-ties nor the stiff, shiny black shoes that protocol demanded with the formal ensemble. Horrible dress for a man who had gotten use to the garb of Kijé and found it not only fetching but comfortable. Gauzy pants, loose cotton shirts, sandals. If anybody had told him two years ago when he arrived on Kijé that the tops of his toes would soon be tanned, he would have laughed.

      But they were now, as were the toes of every other fair-skinned person who spent their time in a tropical paradise. And that’s what Kijé was. A tropical Caribbean paradise. Blue skies, blue waters and those legendary balmy breezes, none of which required formal garment.

      But an evening in a tuxedo was part of the job, and shedding comfort for formality was worth all the bother because people, overall, were generous at these affairs. And he counted on that generosity to improve the condition of his hospital. Bottom line. That’s what he was about. Finding the funds that made Killian Hospital run.

      Paul flagged a passing waiter for a flute of ginger ale, because he bypassed the Dom Perignon at these affairs when he was representing the hospital and so much was at stake. “And as for the pretty women, even if I did notice them, when would I have the time, Bertrand? You know my life. Do you think a woman in her right mind would even look twice at me if she knew that I was destined to run off at a moment’s notice?” He’d been married to a beautiful woman who hadn’t been able to abide the lifestyle. She’d wanted to wake up every morning looking at his face on the pillow next to hers, which had turned out to be a rare occurrence in their marriage. Traditional domesticity wasn’t his strong suit, but it’s what Joanna had needed. Too bad they hadn’t known that before they’d married. “Tried it once, mon ami, and you know how that turned out.” And trying it twice wasn’t on his agenda. So he didn’t tempt himself. All work and no play…the substance of Dr Paul Killian.

      Bertrand snorted.