Love Without Measure. Caroline Anderson
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Teach me to look where I’m going, won’t it? Are you sure you shouldn’t cut those trousers?’
Kathleen laughed. ‘And have you sueing me for a new pair? Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.’
‘You’d better be,’ he muttered, grim-lipped, and subsided on to the pillow with a groan. Together Anna and Kathleen eased the trousers down, slipped his good foot out, and carefully removed them from the damaged one without even making him wince.
Perversely he looked disappointed, and Anna almost laughed.
The skin was very scraped, and Anna could see his foot was lying at a strange angle. Kathleen straightened up and smiled.
‘I’ll get a doctor to come and have a look at you, Mr James, while Staff Nurse Jarvis cleans you up a bit more.’
‘They’re in the corridor. Jack’s just coming,’ Anna told her, and Kathleen nodded and went out quietly through the curtain.
‘This looks very sore,’ Anna said as she pulled on gloves and cleaned the skin a little. ‘Am I hurting you?’
‘It is rather tender,’ he said a bit stiffly, and Anna stopped as soon as she had wiped away the worst of the blood and dirt from around his graze. It was obvious that the fibula was broken, so he would probably need an anaesthetic to set the bone and there was no point in torturing him for the hell of it. Whoever examined him could see enough now.
The curtain swished beside her, and she felt a shiver run over her skin. She didn’t need to look to know it wasn’t Jack Lawrence. Gorgeous though he was, his magnetism was strictly limited to Kathleen. This man, though …
‘Mr James? I’m Dr Haddon. I gather you’ve hurt you leg—mind if I have a look?’
‘Be my guest.’
He bent his head over the leg, checked the foot for warmth and sensation, and then tutted quietly. ‘It looks a bit nasty, doesn’t it? I think we need an X-ray first, to assess the extent of the damage, but I’m pretty sure you’ve just broken the bone at the side of your leg—the fibula. You may have damaged some of the bones in your foot as well, but the X-ray will pick that up. Whatever, you’ll need an operation to fix that bone properly, I’m afraid.’
The man sighed heavily. ‘Can’t you just put a plaster on it?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Sorry. It won’t heal unless we can pull the bone-ends into alignment, and that will need surgery, I’m almost sure.’
‘Damn. I’m supposed to be flying to America tomorrow.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, you won’t be going—not for a good while.’
He swore, softly but fluently. ‘I have to go,’ he repeated.
‘Sorry, old chap, that’s the way it goes,’ Patrick told him calmly.
It didn’t calm him noticeably. ‘I’ve got my mobile phone here—do you mind if I make some calls while I wait?’ he asked, already flicking up the aerial.
‘Be our guest,’ Patrick told him, and, making sure the sides were up on the examination couch, Anna followed him out to fill in the X-ray request forms and get Patrick to authorise them.
Behind them they could hear Mr James’s voice on the phone.
Tallen off the pavement and broken my goddamn leg—what? I said I fell off the bloody pavement!’ he yelled.
Patrick grinned at Anna. Oops. I think our business executive’s heading for a mid-life crisis,’ he said softly, and she chuckled despite her intentions to have nothing to do with him.
He followed her into the office, perched on the edge of the desk so that his lean, well-muscled thigh was just inches from her hand, and watched as she made a total foul up of the first form.
‘Damn,’ she muttered, and, screwing it up, she lobbed it towards the bin and missed.
‘Calm down. You’re getting like Alan James.’
She snorted, but tackled the next form slowly. ‘There—could you sign, please?’
His hands were fascinating—tanned, the backs lightly scattered with dark hair, the fingers strong and straight. She forced herself to look at the ring on his left hand, to remind herself that he was married.
That was when she saw the scar, a jagged white line that ran from thumb to wrist. She found herself touching it before she knew what she was doing.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
He glanced at it dismissively. ‘I don’t know. I was helping at an earthquake, pulling rubble off the remains of a school.’
‘An earthquake?’
‘Mmm. Here, he can go through now.’
She took the form, clearly dismissed, and went and wheeled Mr James through to X-ray, trying not to let idle curiosity distract her from her job. Except that earthquakes in this country were rarer than hen’s teeth …
Mr James was still on the phone. Grudgingly he put it down and subsided to a steady grumble for the X-ray. Sure enough, it was a clean fracture of the fibula with no other damage to the foot, but it would need plating to draw it back into alignment.
As she wheeled him back to the cubicle Nick Davidson, the orthopaedic SR on take, appeared and walked towards them with a grin.
‘Is this my patient?’
‘Yup—here are the plates, and this is Mr James.’
Nick introduced himself and shook the man’s hand. ‘My name’s Davidson. I’m the orthopaedic surgeon who’s going to be fixing this. Shall we have a look?’
He thrust the plates up into the light-box and grunted, then pointed to the broken ends of the bone, explaining to Mr James what he was going to do. ‘When did you last eat?’
‘Last night.’
‘No breakfast?’
‘I never have time.’
‘Good—this once. When did you drink last?’
‘Coffee at eight before I left home.’
Nick glanced at his watch. ‘Nine thirty-five. OK, we’ll take you up to the ward and prep you, and I’ll tack you on the end of my list. You’ll go to Theatre just before lunch, OK?’
‘If it’s really necessary,’ he grumbled.
‘It’s really necessary.’
He snorted. ‘I’ve got more calls to make—can I have a private room?’
‘Only if there’s a single room free at the time. Ask the staff on the ward.’
He left, and Mr James stared after him. ‘Is that it?’
Anna was astonished. ‘What did you want him to say?’
‘I want to know when I’ll be up and about—when can I leave hospital?’
She stuck her head out of the curtains and called after Nick. ‘Mr James wants to know when he can leave hospital.’
Nick turned, walking backwards down the corridor as he spoke. ‘Whenever he feels ready,’ he called back. ‘I suspect about a week. Then he’ll need two weeks at least with it up, and another week or two slowly mobilising. Five to six before he’s walking regularly with crutches. And no, he can’t fly tomorrow.’
She went back into the cubicle. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Bloody ridiculous,’ he growled. ‘Is he a consultant?’
Anna took a steadying breath. ‘No, he’s a senior registrar.’
‘I want to see the big cheese—I’m not going to be fobbed off with some incompetent junior