More Than a Convenient Bride(12)

He stood, knotting his tie, then pulled on his suit jacket. She sat on  the bed watching him. "Are you sure you're okay with staying home  today?"

"I have my laptop," she said. "I can work here. I have some numbers to  crunch. And phone calls to make. And your mom mentioned something about a  few rounds of poker."

"For God's sake don't let her talk you into playing for money."

Julie laughed. "She's a cardsharp, I know."

"And she's ruthless."

He grabbed his wallet and keys from the basket on the chest of drawers,  hesitating another second. Damn, he really didn't want to go. If it  weren't for the new patient he was seeing this morning, he just might  stick around for a while, have one of his residents do rounds for him.

"I'll see you tonight," he said. He considered kissing her goodbye, but  once he got started he wouldn't want to stop. "Call me if there's a  problem."

"I will."

He was almost to the door when Julie said, "Hey, Luc."

He turned to find her kneeling on his bed. Then she dropped the covers to flash him.

Her breasts were full and firm. Not large by modern standards, but they  fit her just right and he couldn't wait to get his hands on them again.

With that saucy smile, she said, "Have a nice day, dear."

Oh, he definitely would. And an even better night.





 Seven

Luc made it to work with five minutes to spare, stopping in the cafeteria for a cup of coffee on his way up to his office.

"Cutting it close today," his secretary, Ruth, said, looking at the  clock. She was used to him being on time, or most days, a little early.

"Busy weekend," he told her.

"I'll bet. It was a lovely wedding. You two looked so happy, and so in love."

It sounded as if they'd done a pretty good job fooling everyone. But  the happy part? That was real. His best friend was here to stay. What  more could he ask for?

"Tommy James was admitted last night," she said.

"No problems?"

"Not that I've heard."

"How is the rest of my day looking?" He was hoping to get home at a  decent hour tonight. Maybe even a little early. One of his favorite  upscale restaurants had reopened in the past week and he thought maybe  he would take Julie for a nice dinner.

Oh hell, who was he kidding. To heck with dinner. He wanted to get her back in bed and finish what they'd started.                       
       
           



       

He shrugged out of his suit jacket. Ruth took it from him and handed  him his lab coat. "You have a procedure at 9:15, and a staff meeting at  11:30. In the afternoon you have several consultations. And a meeting at  5:00."

He pulled it on and she clipped his ID onto the pocket. It had been  their morning routine for as long as he'd been chief of surgery. A  position that was as much about politics as it was medicine. Ruth, who  had been in hospital administration for three decades, had been his  saving grace.

"So how does it feel?" she asked him, straightening his collar.

Puzzled, he asked, "How does what feel?"

"Being married."

Better than he thought it would. In fact, it was pretty damned  fantastic so far. Friendship and sex without the complications. Who  wouldn't want that? And it was really good sex.

No, it was fantastic sex. And he couldn't wait to get home so they could do it again.

"It's good," he said, and left it at that. "If Julie calls, page me  immediately. My mother had an infection over the weekend. Julie is  staying with her today."

Ruth clucked and shook her head. "I'm so sorry. I noticed at the  wedding that she looked tired. Poor Elizabeth, she's been through so  much."

And every infection seemed to suck more of her strength, more of her  spirit. As a physician, he knew her time was running out. Her body could  handle only so much before it gave out for good. But as her son, he  wanted her to live forever.

"She pushes herself too hard," Luc said.

"She's a proud woman."

More stubborn than proud if you asked him.

Luc left his office and checked on the five surgical patients in his  care, each in different stages of recovery. Knowing the parents would  have a million questions for him, as he would if his son were going in  for major surgery, he saved Tommy James in the pediatrics ward for last.

The boy had come in as a referral from a colleague in Houston that Luc had known since med school.

"This is right up your alley," he'd told Luc when he called last week.  The five-year-old had congenital lumbar spinal stenosis that had begun  to cause him considerable pain, and in the past few weeks he had begun  to lose feeling in his legs. It was a rare condition for a child but  using techniques he'd perfected himself, with Julie's help of course,  Luc could correct the problem by fusing the spine. The parents would be  hard-pressed to find a physician more qualified than him to do the  surgery.

Because it was congenital, this was quite possibly a temporary fix. As  Tommy matured, the stenosis, which started in his lumbar spine, could  gradually work its way upward into the thoracic, then cervical spine.  This might be one of several surgeries he would need to stabilize his  spine before adulthood. But other than his back being less flexible, he  would live a long, productive life. Just not as a gymnast. And he would  have the bonus of impeccable posture.

Luc stopped outside the patient's door, where a nurse stood updating his chart on her laptop.

"Is he all settled in?"

"Yes, Doctor. He was pretty uncomfortable so I gave him pain meds. He's  sleeping now and his vitals are good. He seems like a real trooper. He  always has a smile on his face, even through the pain."

Kids were resilient. It was the parents who were typically the toughest to deal with. "Are the parents in there?"

"His mother stepped out to get coffee. She should be back in a minute."

"And his father?" Luc asked.

"Not here. And from the sound of it, he won't be coming to Royal."

"That's a shame." Luc knew that having a chronically ill child could  devastate the soundest of marriages. He'd seen it all too often. But to  not be there for your child who's having major surgery? What sort of man  was this boy's father?

Though he had studied the chart thoroughly, he gave it another quick  look to be sure that nothing had changed before he stepped into the  boy's room.

He was indeed asleep, and though he looked small and fragile-all skin  and bones-his color was good. Luc checked his vitals again, then he  eased him onto his side to see his back, and checked his feet. Despite  the loss of feeling in his legs, his circulation was still adequate.  There wouldn't be any permanent damage.

He heard someone behind him and turned, his usual greeting on the tip  of his tongue and ready to go...then froze when he saw the woman  standing there.

The spark of recognition was instantaneous, but it took another ten  seconds to determine that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. That it  really was his ex-fiancée, Amelia, standing there holding a cup of  coffee and a gossip magazine. The woman who'd shredded his heart like  confetti and ate it for breakfast without batting an eyelash.                       
       
           



       

"Amelia," he said, more a statement than a question, and regretted it  the instant the words were out of his mouth. But it was too late now.

She flashed him a weak, tired smile. "Hello, Lucas. How have you been?"

Meeting new patients could be hit-or-miss, yet of the dozens of  scenarios he might have imagined, this one didn't even come close to  making the list.

She hadn't really changed all that much. She was a little thicker  around the middle, and a little older. The stress of her son's condition  showed in her face, in the fine lines at the corners of her eyes.

For a good ten seconds he was at a loss for words.

You're the physician, he reminded himself. The one with the upper hand.  And she was just the mother of the patient. Nothing more. He had to  keep this professional. Yet he heard himself saying, "Should I assume  this isn't a coincidence?"

"Yes and no. Tommy's doctor in Houston told me that he knew another  doctor with more experience in this sort of surgery. I had already made  the decision to come when he told me who and where the doctor was  located. Of course then I knew it was you."

"And you came anyway?"

"It's not about me."

She was right. Nor was it about him. And he had no right to question her motives.

Keep it professional. "Why don't we talk about the surgery."

"Okay."

He went into surgeon mode, describing the procedure and recovery in  layman's terms, feeling a bit like a robot. It was the same speech he'd  used countless times before, but now it felt stilted and awkward.