Her eyes directly on him hit harder than the reflection. Five years hadn’t aged him so much as refined him. Not a trace of boyishness remained in his face. Preston had his man-face and, heaven help her, it was glorious. Broad. Cut jaw. Cheeks darkened with stubble despite being freshly shaved.

He didn’t even blink when he saw her, but the pale blue eyes that had always mesmerized her looked tired. And cold. And every inch as devastating as they had always been.

“Hardin.”

His mouth firmed and black brows drew together—more a look of resolve than the scowl she’d expected.

“I was hoping to put off running into you, but we might as well get it over with.” He stepped through the door.

“You’re meeting me,” Dasha blurted out. “Our head is on hiatus. I’m acting head.”

“Am I here on your recommendation?”

He might not be angry, but he certainly wasn’t happy either. Not forgiven—not that she expected to be. She had done nothing to deserve it. Yet.

“Dr. Saunders recommended you to the board.” At her request. She left that part out.

“You’re who I’ll be working with if I stick around now?”

He kept eye contact, and it was all Dasha could do not to look away.

“Yes.”

After work she was so going to need to spend some time with Ben & Jerry. And maybe Jack Daniel’s too.

Dear Reader

One of the most romantic and beautiful places I’ve ever been is the Opryland Hotel in Nashville, Tennessee. Between the conservatories, the miles of opulent corridors with low lighting, the nightly dazzling fountain shows and the Gone-with-the-Wind-like staircase, it’s one of the best places to go if you want to actually get to know the person you’re with. Romantic and massive, it still manages to provide a feeling of seclusion … and an abundance of little private places to steal a kiss.

And it’s never more magical than during the autumn, when every corner is lit up and decorated for the holiday season. When I decided where Dasha and Preston would reside, the when was a no-brainer. I’m happy to share a little bit of this place I love, and if you ever get the chance … visit Opryland in the fall.

Amalie

There’s never been a day when there haven’t been stories in AMALIE BERLIN’s head. When she was a child they were called daydreams, and she was supposed to stop having them and pay attention. Now when someone interrupts her daydreams to ask, ‘What are you doing?’ she delights in answering, ‘I’m working!’

Amalie lives in Southern Ohio with her family and a passel of critters. When not working, she reads, watches movies, geeks out over documentaries, and randomly decides to learn antiquated skills. In case of a zombie apocalypse she’ll still have bread, lacy underthings, granulated sugar, and always something new to read.

Also by Amalie Berlin:

CRAVING HER ROUGH DIAMOND DOC

These books are also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk

Uncovering Her Secrets
Amalie Berlin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEDICATION

To Suzanne Clarke, for seeing something sparkly and worth polishing in my writing, and for all her wonderful advice, patience and assistance with breaking away the rest of the lumpy coal bits.

To the best critique partners and writing pals a girl can have: The Ginger Ninja (Michelle Smart), The Sassy Scot (Aimée Duffy), and—as I write this—The Lovely Birthday Girl (Catherine Coles).

And finally to my husband, for his love and support, for always challenging me and keeping me on my toes, and for proving how sexy a sense of humour can be in a man.:)

Praise for Amalie Berlin:

‘A sexy, sensual, romantic, heart-warming and purely emotional romantic bliss-filled read. I very much look forward to this author’s next book, and being transported to a world of pure romance brilliance!’

—Goodreads.com on CRAVING HER ROUGH DIAMOND DOC

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

HOW COULD A woman be so afraid of a situation of her own making?

Dr. Dasha Hardin stood before the bank of windows in her temporary office, waiting, eyes fixed on the parking lot where she expected Dr. Preston Monroe would park. She did her best to ignore the lump of lead in her belly that had been oatmeal an hour ago. Being the instigator of this meeting didn’t mean she had any control over what was to come, and if he put even half the effort into sabotaging her career as he had done his own, she might as well clean out her locker now. The man couldn’t control his mouth, and if he told what he knew about her past...

When the lead shifted and wobbled around her insides, she gave up her vigil for the physical embodiment of her biggest regret. Waiting for him, watching out windows for someone to come was too gut-wrenchingly familiar. She’d spent too much of her life waiting on someone to come, lost too many hours. This one would come. Probably.

She prowled away from the window and set about tidying the already immaculate space. If he had found out his morning meeting was with her—that she was the acting head of surgery for St. Vincent’s—he might not show up. That was a nice thought.

Fleetingly.

If he came now, that was the better option, otherwise she’d just have to chase him down. She had to try and fix this. She’d promised Marjorie.

She uncrossed her arms and shook her hands out. When had she gone back to the window? Jeez. Calm down, exercise a little self-control. If he came she had to keep the situation civil and professional, and that couldn’t happen if her emotions ran amok.

This was her hospital. Everyone loved and respected her. They wouldn’t stop her just because Preston hated her.

Even if he told them what she’d done.

Probably.

A light knock came at the door, more of a warning that it was opening than a request. She caught his reflection in the window. The oatmeal-lead flipped over, but it took her a couple seconds to make her body turn around.

No matter how she tried to will herself to be calm, her heart continued to square dance against her sternum.

Her eyes directly on him hit harder than the reflection. Five years hadn’t aged him so much as refined him. Not a trace of boyishness remained in his face. Preston had his man face and, heaven help her, it was glorious. Broad. Cut jaw. Cheeks darkened with stubble despite being freshly shaved.

He didn’t even blink when he saw her, but the pale blue eyes that had always mesmerized her looked tired. And cold. And every inch as devastating as they had always been. Having no apparent reaction made it seem like he wasn’t angry at least, even though he focused on her with a strength that left her feeling skewered.

“Hardin.” His mouth firmed and black brows drew together, more a look of resolve than the scowl she’d expected. “I was hoping to put off running into you, but we might as well get it over with.” He stepped through the door.

Did he show anger before detonating these days? A brilliant surgeon he may be, but mercurial. His moods had always been a crapshoot, even before she’d painted a blood-red target on her back.

She should speak. The speech. She’d had a speech prepared, back before fear had eaten it. “You’re meeting me,” Dasha blurted out. “Our head is on hiatus. I’m Acting Head.”

“The lady in HR managed to bypass that bit of information.” Preston took his time closing the door and finding somewhere to stand and fill up the whole room.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come if you knew. Don’t blame her. My fault.” Dasha licked her lips, mouth dry as a winter wind.

“Am I here on your recommendation?” One of his eyes twitched. Should she read something into that? Like the arms folding over his chest weren’t enough body language to clue her into his mindset. He might not be angry, but he certainly wasn’t happy either. Not forgiven, not that she expected to be. She had done nothing to deserve it. Yet.

“Dr. Saunders recommended you to the board.” At her request. She left that part out. “But he did it from home. His wife is ill.”

“When will he return?” He uncrossed his arms.

Good sign? Bad sign? She had to stop trying to read him. This was business. Business spawned by personal mistakes and regrets but still business. Messy business, and she much preferred tidy. “I expect it will be a couple of months.” She had to take another breath to force the remaining words out. “Marjorie’s in hospice care and he doesn’t want to leave her side. But he’s expecting your call, if you want to put off coming to St. Vincent’s until his return.”

“You’re who I’ll be working with if I stick around now?”

He kept eye contact, and it was all Dasha could do not to look away.

“Yes.” After work, she was so going to need to spend some time with Ben & Jerry. And maybe Jack Daniels too. She could make some kind of boozy ice-cream cocktail. Get one of those beer helmets to hold her booze-a-thon and wear out her treadmill. She needed to move. She used up her daily capacity for refined immobility while in surgery; outside the OR sleep was the only other thing that kept her fairly still.

He didn’t say anything.

She drummed her fingers against her thigh and waited, holding his gaze. Silence wasn’t her favorite, but the longer he went without erupting into a full verbal assault, the easier it got to be around him.

He was still Preston. He was still inherently good at heart, even if he tended toward selfishness. Not that she could say anything about that. Old Dasha was like that too. Much more than New-and-Improved Dasha.

New-and-Improved Dasha had spent time on her people skills and increased her frustration tolerance. She waited until it seemed like he was also waiting on her to say something else. “If you’d prefer to wait until Dr. Saunders returns, you can work directly with him on his cases, but the board wants you working with a surgeon on staff for a probationary period before they decide to finalize the privileges.”

“Probation?” he repeated, his voice rising ever so slightly. Okay, yeah, the meeting was wearing on him too. Maybe she should have worked up to that bit.

Preston had never responded well to limits. He plowed his way through obstacles, something that had attracted her to him back in school. That had been the start. Sometimes she wondered if she’d have made it through medical school and residency without that rivalry—even after it had grown into a relationship, the rivalry had still been there.

Preston’s idea of support had usually involved him taunting and teasing her until she felt driven to do just as well as she knew he would do. Sometimes Dasha had been certain she’d only pulled it off out of spite. And that crippling need to prove she was as good as everyone else. Worthy of his challenges. Worthy of his friendship...

She sucked in a deep breath. Getting through this meeting meant avoiding those sorts of detours into their past, or at least the emotions that had driven her. She had to stay on point.

As she’d stormed ahead when she should have trod lightly, she did her best now, under the weight of his stare to at least soften the blow. “This is not about your surgical ability. You’re brilliant with a scalpel and I don’t think anyone would ever deny that, but your people skills are the worst.”

“I’ve never betrayed a friend,” he drawled, no longer dancing around the past. “So, between the two of us, I’d say my people skills were superior.”

Keeping this completely businesslike and gentle just wasn’t going to work—he’d just demoted her from ex-girlfriend to ex-friend. Too much tension hung between them to avoid all the unpleasantness that had come before—all the unpleasantness she’d caused—but she still wanted to try. “Be that as it may, you have a reputation for being difficult. Which I’m certain you know.”

“No, I don’t know. Explain it, Hardin. I’m difficult?” There it was. Anger. Dampened, kept from burning hot right now, but still present.

God, those eyes. Ice-blue they may be but she could swear there were tiny flames dancing in his pupils. Never mind what that tone... “I’m trying to be tactful, Preston.”

“Yes, I can see that. One thing I always appreciated about you was your directness. Spit it out.”

“Fine. Everyone expects you to be an ass.” Dasha stuffed her hands into her pockets. New-and-Improved Dasha didn’t do that because cultured people didn’t do that. It was an old habit. Old Dasha did this. She yanked her hands back out and forced them to relax at her sides. “St. Vincent’s has a close-knit community. The board likes it that way, the department heads make certain everyone works and plays well together. Staff, administration and physicians, we’re all people and, no matter what, conflict needs to be handled civilly.” God help her if he brought up how badly she’d worked and played with him. Dasha plowed forward like the thought never occurred to her.

“The board wants good reports about good behavior—that means you can’t just speak your mind. Other people can, but other people aren’t as sharp-tongued as you are. You cannot pick fights with people. And if you have it in you after all those long exhausting hours of not fighting with anyone, maybe you could work a few of the miracle procedures that makes the board willing to take the risk.”

“Why are you willing?” Those eyes followed her every movement.

Willing might be overstating that. “Dr. Saunders and I are both willing to—”

“That’s not what I asked,” Preston cut in. “I get why he’s willing. Why are you willing? What does it get you?”

A clean conscience? Cleaner...

The peace of knowing she’d righted a terrible mistake? Or tried to...

There was no gently working up to subjects with this man. He stormed ahead, setting the pace and expecting everyone else to keep up. And he really didn’t seem inclined to back off the subject now. She might as well do it quickly and cleanly. Maybe it would even salve his pride to know that she didn’t view this situation as doing him a favor. “I owe you.”

His gaze narrowed slightly.

Dasha waited for him to say something, but when that failed to happen she added, “And you’re an amazing surgeon, Dr. Monroe. You would be an asset to St. Vincent’s.”

He shifted, still quiet but mulling things over, if she had even the tiniest ability to read him anymore.

The fact that there was no immediate refusal didn’t really help her endure the silence. She looked down, away from his eyes—like that would give him some privacy to think—and got distracted by the shape of his body. Lean and broad. He filled out the blue scrubs like he was meant to sell them. Dasha had never found scrubs flattering, but there was something equalizing about everyone having to wear shapeless, wretched clothes that did nothing good for most figures.

Until it came to Preston.

He looked good. Narrow hips. Long legs. Broad shoulders. Lean. A swimmer’s build. But he was a runner. Like her—and yet another way they’d been rivals. In the class. At the track. During residency. Her libido had been shut down for years, and five minutes with this man and she was undressing him in her mind.

Before he had a chance to answer, the phone in her pocket buzzed and she fished it out to look.

“Big accident on I-40.” She looked him in the eye then. The man had worn scrubs to an interview, he’d come ready to work—or he had before he’d realized with whom he’d be working. As nice and easy as she’d wanted to play this, there was a chance he’d say no if she just asked him to come along. The only way Dasha knew how to make Preston do what she wanted? Make it a competition...dare him. “I’ve been summoned to Trauma One. I see that you came prepared to work, but I know that having to work with me might be too much for you to handle. I don’t want to make you do anything you just aren’t able to do, but do you think you could give us a hand? Maybe it will help you decide whether you want to stick around.”

The way his eyes narrowed made her worry that she’d played the wrong card.

“I know what you’re doing,” he said, his voice level enough to raise warning bells. “Do it again and I’m gone. I don’t really care what you think. If it didn’t sound like you needed help, I wouldn’t help. Maybe you can learn something from me.”

Before she could say anything, he was out the door and heading in the direction of Emergency. A quick lock of the door and Dasha ran to keep up with his easy jog.

Of course he knew where he was going. He probably memorized the layout of all the buildings before coming. And she was already lagging behind. But that was okay. No, it was better than okay. He would help. They’d need his help today.

And she knew one more thing now: he still looked on her as a rival, otherwise he wouldn’t have had to have the last word. And he really wouldn’t have thrown down the proverbial gauntlet.

Maybe he wasn’t so different after all. She could work with this Preston.

Probably.

* * *

A tractor trailer had turned over, crushing some cars and causing others to pile up, bringing to the ER the kind of injuries Preston expected. Until he saw two people pinned together by a length of steel rod. “What was the semi hauling?” He dragged on gloves and followed Dasha to the unlucky couple.

She called orders as a nurse helped her into a gown and gloves.

The grim looks he saw on the staff’s faces couldn’t be because he was there... Something was wrong. Something besides the carnage.

“You’re looking at it,” a nurse said, nodding to the skewer. “They were in the car together and had to be cut out.”

X-rays hung on the light board, side by side. The woman had a pierced lung, but she was conscious, with fluid currently draining. The man had abdominal trauma. Possibly pierced through his liver. Unconscious.

“Who’s on call for Cardiac?” Dasha asked.

“Stevens,” someone answered, then added, “But he was in the accident.”

The cardiac surgeon had been involved in the tractor trailer wreck?

“Is he injured?” Dasha never stopped moving but her dismay showed for a second before the wall came up. Preston checked the wound on the unconscious man and listened to his breathing then moved to repeat the check on the woman.

“He didn’t make it.” The same nurse who had answered him.

“Who’s on call?” Dasha moved past it, asking questions of different people, compiling the information she needed to see this through.

If the whole staff were as close as Dasha claimed, he could understand the grimness.

A faint burning started in his left eye. Not tears. Tears would be better. It was the other thing. A warning his eyes were acting up. The last thing he needed, an attack on his first day. Possible first day. If he stayed. It was starting to feel like some psychosomatic self-sabotage. But the job was the best part of him, even his subconscious had to realize that.

It was stress.

He should’ve been more prepared to see her. He’d known it would happen. He just hadn’t expected it to happen first thing.

He also hadn’t expected her to be so different. Long hair, blonde in that multicolored way he didn’t entirely get... Clean-faced. Put together. But the long hair looked good on her. Thick and straight. Sleek. Polished. Shockingly polished. She was trying so hard to be tactful. It was like speaking to a Dasha twin but wondering the whole time if he’d been Parent Trapped. Was this really the good twin, or was it the tomboy with scraped knees dressed up in her sister’s haircut and clothing?

That probably qualified as stressful. Left him a little off kilter.

On her way back to the female patient, Dasha stopped to press her upper arm against that of a nurse, just long enough to break her stride. A touch to comfort...albeit a strange one to keep her gloves clean, but a kind gesture anyway.

A second later she was with the female patient, said a few soft words to her, then straightened and resumed directing. “Dr. Monroe, you’re with me. Everyone, we need to wheel these two into the OR. We’ll separate them there.” The nurse she’d touched looked misty-eyed but jumped in to help. They all worked seamlessly as a team. Not just people working together.

Not once had he had that. Not since residency. He’d forgotten how she could do that...make people want to be their best. Strange contradiction in her character.

Think about it later. Time to work. Preston would never wish this kind of accident on anyone, but submersing himself in work was exactly what he needed.

A group surrounded the gurneys. Pounding feet and squeaky wheels announced transit of the unlucky couple through the hospital to the freight elevator—the only one big enough to take the gurneys in the position the steel rebar had locked the couple into—then to the large operating room.

“Dr. Monroe, you’ve got Mr. Andrews.” Dasha didn’t look at him as she spoke but kept an eye on her patient.

He’d like Mrs. Andrews. In truth, that was probably a two-surgeon job, but they only had so many hands. Maybe he could help Mr. Andrews and then give Dasha a hand, if Mrs. Andrews survived that long. Lots of blood vessels in the area that could be damaged.

They settled in the large operating suite. Neither patient was conscious now. Blood loss did that.

Dasha handed him the surgical saw. “Would you?”

Deferring to him? Okay, that was surprising. He always loved the saw—had almost gone orthopedics because of it. Did she remember that?

Later. Focus. Figuring out her motivations would drive him insane, and now was not the time. She was just another surgeon in a dicey situation with him.

The sound of metal on metal bounced off every hard flat surface, roaring at near-deafening levels while the steel teeth chewed through the rod.

As soon as it had cut through, Dasha’s team pulled Mrs. Andrews’s table over, locked the wheels and got to work.

Preston handed the saw to his surgical tech, had his gown and gloves changed, and cut in, following the rod through so much shredded flesh.

As he got to work, the burning in his eye subsided. Maybe he was off the hook. Maybe work really would save him. He and Mr. Andrews would save each other.

“Talk to me,” Dasha called, though she needn’t have lifted her voice. Back to back, they weren’t close enough to touch but Preston could swear he felt her. The air vibrated between them. Or maybe they were touching somehow. Her gown? His? Just something else he needed to ignore.

“Liver pierced. Most of it shredded. There’s enough intact to salvage. Working on the bleeding now.” Of which there was a large amount. “Yours?”

“Working on the bleeding,” she echoed, but in her voice there was a sound he could still identify. She didn’t think Mrs. Andrews was going to make it. But if he knew nothing else about Dasha, he knew she didn’t like to lose.

“I need to know if they got hold of Nettle,” Dasha said, her words rushed, agitated.

But she wasn’t talking to him. Let her deal with the rest of department. His focus was in front of him.

How much worse would this morning have been if he and Dasha had had nothing to do but sit around and reminisce? Remember that time when we were dating, and you broke my heart and left me handcuffed to the bed while you stole my fellowship? How much trouble would his mouth have gotten him into then? It certainly would’ve taxed this new leaf he struggled to turn over.

His mouth had caused him years of trouble, and was the reason he had to work with the woman he’d spent the past decade quasi-stalking.

The best way to avoid Dasha? To know where she was. Know where she worked. Know what conferences she attended. Know where she lived, where she likely shopped, dined and visited. Avoidance of that level required intelligence.

It wasn’t really stalking. It was more like anti-stalking. In a stalker sort of way.

And now she stood behind him, no more than a yard away.

Another hour passed.

“How’s it going over there?” She asked for updates regularly but hadn’t made any more attempts to manipulate him by riling him. Something else he should put off thinking about until later when he was deciding whether to come back to St. Vincent’s.

“Closing,” Preston answered. “Transfused two pints of blood.” No doubt this wasn’t exactly what the board had in mind for supervised practice.

“Good. I need you.” To help with the surgery. She needed his assistance with the surgery. The words she’d chosen were bad, but they had no hidden meaning.

“How is she doing on blood?” he asked.

A surgical nurse helped him out of his gown and gloves and into a fresh set.

“Up to three, probably adding another...” She never looked away from her patient.

His first view inside the woman’s chest nearly robbed him of breath. “We could do with a cardiac surgeon.” Could they ever. But in the small cavity his hands joined hers, and they worked in tandem to repair damage that appeared irreversible.

“That’s who I’ve been asking for updates on,” she muttered, but she still worked. She wouldn’t give up. It was one thing he could give her credit for. Well, that and her skill. On a professional level Dasha was good. It was as a human being that she had failed.

His left eye twitched. He squinted. Sometimes taking charge of those muscles helped. Sometimes it didn’t. Working with Dasha might be a deal-breaker. He’d have to think about it.

Later.

When he relaxed the muscles around his eye, his sight sharpened and he saw it. There was a small cut on Mrs. Andrews’s heart, but it had not gone through. “Damn.”

“What is it?” Dasha stopped what she was doing long enough to look where his hands were.

“She needs to go on the pump,” Preston said. “Now.” That the heart wall had held this long was a miracle.

“Get the line in her. Go femoral, we don’t need any more holes north of the belt,” Dasha said, then went back to what she was doing. Already the techs were getting the heart-lung machine in place. They’d started moving the second he said the word pump. Preston could get used to that.

A cannula landed in his hand and he prodded around on the woman’s thigh to find the artery, swabbed with alcohol and threaded it in. By the time he was ready for the return line, the nurse was waiting for him.

He’d no more gotten it settled than a man pushed into the OR.

Nettle. Preston recognized him then. The name hadn’t rung any bells but he’d met this cardiac surgeon before. A golfing buddy of his father’s. Which was all Preston needed to know about him. He could jump to some conclusions on his own. Probably decent at his job, but arrogant, and proud of that arrogance.

“Dr. Hardin, step back, please,” Nettle said, allowing a nurse to help with the gloves.

“She’s got a laceration that isn’t through the muscle.” Preston gestured to the area where the rod had scuffed up Mrs. Andrews’s heart.

“I see it,” Nettle said.

Preston stayed put but lifted his hands free and out of the way, ready to go back in if needed. Yes, he wanted the cardiac surgeon to get there, but now he just felt uneasy and over the years he’d learned to trust that feeling. No way was he leaving without a fight, he just had to try and handle it...tactfully.

Dasha talked the surgeon through what had been done, her team continuing with the pump to get the blood cooling so they could stop her heart and repair it. She hit all the pertinent details, which should’ve made him feel better about the hand-off. But a report wasn’t the same as having seen where the rod had been.

“Thank you both. I’ve got it from here,” Nettle said.

“Don’t you need another set of—?” Preston almost got through his question.

“I have another set of hands. I brought them.” Just then the door swung open and a younger version of the man made his way to the table.

“I’d still like to stay and help.” Preston tried to keep his request in a moderate, reasonable tone. Surely the man couldn’t object to that. “I’ll stay out of the way unless you need me.”

“If she needs her appendix removed, you’ll be the first person we call,” Nettle said. His tone light, no aggression there, but it reeked of condescension.

Nettle had obviously not gotten Dasha’s memo on being nice to everyone.

Preston caught Dasha shaking her head almost imperceptibly at him. Not the time to fight. He knew that. Of course it wasn’t the time, but there was no other time to make a stand and stay with the patient. He couldn’t just leave now and ask later over drinks.

“She’s in good hands,” Dasha said diplomatically, and began trying to steer him toward the door.

“You can’t be all right with this,” he hissed in her ear.

“No,” she whispered back, “but it isn’t going to help Mrs. Andrews if we distract him.” She surreptitiously nodded to a camera above the table.

Preston pulled off his gloves and gown and headed for the door. As soon as she was through it, he grabbed her by the elbow. “Where is the monitor?”

“Next door.” Dasha fished her keys out of her pocket again, and before a minute passed they were crowded around a monitor, following the surgery.

“Is this recording?” Preston asked, looking the room over. “Can we zoom in or something?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know.” Dasha didn’t look away from the screen, but she did get the phone and managed to dial while they watched. “It should be fine. He’s got excellent stats and qualifications. He’s a good surgeon. A little territorial...and it was weird of him to kick us out. Do you two know one another? It seemed like he knew you and didn’t like you.”

“I noticed.” He kept his eyes on the screen. It’d be easier to see if he was there—and easier to pay attention if Dasha was anywhere else—but Mrs. Andrews was her patient too and he wasn’t going to be Nettle-like and kick her out just because her proximity bothered him. He was tough. He could handle it. He’d had five years to get her out of his system. This was just like taking a recovering alcoholic to a bar...the temptation was there, no matter how much he knew it was a bad idea to even think about it. Ignore her scent. Don’t think about the way she tasted. Don’t think about her at all.

If he paid attention to the small screen, to everything the surgeons were doing, he could see if they were in trouble, and—he prayed—have time to get there. Not that it was likely they’d not be able to handle whatever situation they got into, but he just didn’t want to let go. The idea that Mr. Andrews would have to recover from surgery and from losing his wife was too much to stomach on his first day. Especially with all this Dasha business he had to stomach.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Dasha spoke, interfering with his plan to ignore her.

“We’ve met. Nothing happened. But he golfs with my father. I imagine Nettle hears a lot of ranting from Davis P.,” Preston muttered, forcing it to the back of his mind now that he had to try and see clearly from the angle of the camera and the small screen he was viewing on.

“Mr. Andrews is awake.” She passed the phone to him, letting him get an update on his other patient.

“Tell him she’s still in surgery.” He paused and then added, “And with really good surgeons.”

God, he hated lying. The man might be a good surgeon—that was still up for debate—but he was an ass. And all this talking interrupted his monitoring. He hung up and refocused. Someone had to make sure it was done right.

* * *

Dasha kept one eye on the screen and the other on Preston. Alone in a small room together...at least they reeked of surgical soap, nothing sexy about that.

Despite a near hiccup with Nettle, Preston was a professional in surgery. Somewhere in the back of her mind Dasha had known he would be, even if she’d irritated him just moments before. He took his work seriously. He took his patients and his duty to them seriously. Which was what made the situation at Davidson West, his last hospital, so confusing.

Something had to have happened. Something she needed details about. The missing details worried her.

Fainting during surgery could be disastrous. If he’d simply been ill, the spell had been nothing to dismiss him over. If he’d been drinking, there would’ve been criminal charges filed. It really couldn’t be something bad. Accidental. Not his fault. Had to be.

Or could it have been bad judgment? Something that made him so serious about keeping an eagle eye on Nettle? A bad call didn’t necessarily equate with something criminal...

And then there was the strong possibility that he’d simply made too many enemies among the board members and they’d been looking for a reason to get rid of him. Any reason. A man didn’t go through five hospitals in as many years without there being a problem.

Whatever it was, she had to find out before they went into another OR. Then later she could focus on finding a way to curb his tendency to shout loud angry words at people who irritated him. And probably it would be smart to be easy with him. Well, as easy as she could be while keeping him in line.

“What did—?” Dasha stopped as Preston leaped up and bolted from the room. “Where are you going?”

“He’s closing,” Preston said over his shoulder, stepping into the scrub room and grabbing a mask to put over his face.

Dasha followed. “Good?”

“No. Not good. There’s a nicked vessel I was repairing. I had to stop to start the pump then he ordered us out. I didn’t get it totally finished.” He barreled through the scrub room.

“Are you saying—? Dammit!” She fumbled for a mask and followed him through the swinging doors.

“You’re not done, Dr. Nettle,” Preston said, shaking his head as he entered.

She should be glad he was still using titles. It was a nod toward him trying diplomacy first. A good sign.

“I am,” Nettle stated.

“You missed a small bleeder,” Preston said, his posture aggressive even if he spoke levelly.

“I assure you I didn’t. Leave my OR.”

“If you close right now she...will...die.” Preston enunciated every word, his hackles rising higher every time he was blown off.

“Dr. Hardin.” Nettle addressed her instead. “Get him out of my OR.”

She laid a hand on his arm. Preston shrugged it off and gave her such a withering look he convinced her he was right. The temporary position came with a certain amount of authority she was expected to use to settle disagreements like this. “Dr. Nettle, please take one more look.” Request. Diplomatic. She hoped.

“Is your ego really so big that you can’t even look where I saw it?” Preston added. He could suck all the diplomacy out of any suggestion. “If you let her die because you’re too big an asshole to listen, I will file the malpractice complaint myself.”

Threats. Great. Although his words came nowhere near violence, it still managed to sound like he planned to kick Nettle’s butt if he didn’t listen.

And Dasha would have to say something to him about that later. But right now she had to back him up.

Nettle sighed. “Where do you think you saw it?”

“Switch to the other side of the table.” The side Preston had been on earlier. “You probably can’t see it from where you are.” To his credit, he didn’t approach the table, merely directed from several paces away. Very precise instructions: where to look; when to move tissue aside.

“I’ll be damned.” Nettle frowned. “It appears you were right, Dr. Monroe.” He set about repairing the damage.

“It happens on occasion,” Preston mumbled, still cloaked in anger and clearly with no intention of leaving until Nettle had finished and Mrs. Andrews was safe.

Dasha stayed too. This temporary position interfered with her new paradigm: avoid confrontation. Staying out of fights made it more likely that she could keep Old Dasha at bay. Old Dasha was a little too much like Preston. But if she could change, so could he. In theory.

Preston might lack people skills but he wasn’t wrong. And it was unlikely there would be any complaints filed against Preston. Mrs. Andrews wasn’t out of danger by any stretch, but there was one fewer vulture circling because Preston hadn’t backed down.

She just needed him to figure out some other way besides verbal attack to secure that kind of cooperation. He needed a new paradigm too.

Like yesterday.

CHAPTER TWO

IN PRESTON’S MIND, St. Vincent’s had always represented a strange contradictory utopia. The idealized dream job. The hospital where he should’ve always been, rather than the sentences he’d endured under the thumb of Davis P.

But it was also the thing that had cost him the only woman—no, the only person—he’d ever really felt accepted by. Felt motivated by. Maybe he’d been wrong all this time. Maybe there had been nothing special between them, no chemistry or affection. Maybe she was just that way with everyone.

If he hadn’t been all that special to her, it lessened her betrayal. Sort of.

And that thought didn’t help at all.

He stood in the men’s room, where he’d taken sanctuary after Mrs. Andrews’s chest had been closed, and focused on the eye currently threatening to spasm. He could feel it lurking in the tightening muscle.

Stepping to the side, he grabbed some paper towels and wet them so he could apply them to his infuriating left eye.

He couldn’t have been wrong about their friendship. Impossible. And he really couldn’t have been wrong about the sexual relationship. No one could fake the passion they’d shared.

And thinking about sex and Dasha was also a bad idea.

He wrung out the towel and wet it again.

This morning, the offer from the head of surgery at St. Vincent’s had felt like a reprieve. A stay of execution. He wouldn’t have to call in his father for favors—which was how it had been seeming. He’d never done it before, and the idea of starting now stuck in his throat. The fact that he’d even considered it galled him, let alone the idea of volunteering to suffer one of Davis P. Monroe’s epic lectures.

The only other option was starting over in a new town, far from the man’s shadow.

Now it just seemed like he was swapping one evil for another. And this evil, while undoubtedly better looking, couldn’t be trusted to have his best interests at heart. He wasn’t even sure he believed her claim that she’d arranged this because she owed him.

His eye twitched open beneath the wet towel then refused to close. He dropped the towel in the sink and focused. The eye had opened so wide it looked surprised.

Scratch that. He didn’t look surprised in one eye. He looked like Popeye.

He could definitely add stress to his triggers.

As if sensing a moment of weakness, his phone in his thigh pocket started to vibrate.

Preston fished it out and looked at the screen. Davis P. No way. He sent it to voice mail.

He couldn’t stomach a lecture right now. And, really, he didn’t see that he’d be able to suffer one and hold his tongue for the rest of the day. Not when he was questioning his past, his future...hell, even his value as a surgeon, as a man.

Better text something.

Just like that, the decision was made.

Can’t talk. At work. Took position at St. Vincent’s.

Home. He’d go home, give the injection in his left eye—the biggest offender. He’d been hoping to treat the problem with medication, the kind he could take with water. But another attack this soon made it injection time. Maybe switching to the botulin injection would be enough to counter the stress he expected Dasha to stir up.

Sixty days. He could handle two months to be at the hospital he’d always wanted. He just had to tread lightly around Dasha. Not get too close. Forget what had happened. Forget the feelings.

And when his probation was over, he could go back to forgetting her.

* * *

Mid-afternoon on any given Middle Tennessee October day closely resembled summer. Hot during the day but cold at night.

Dasha hated October, and had since she was a child. Her father had left in an October. Her mother had died in an October. And now Marjorie’s illness was just another reason to hate it. Lord, was it stupid for her to get embroiled with Preston in an October.

Another look at the clock. Clock-watching wouldn’t make him arrive earlier.

Once in the OR, she’d be standing still for hours. She should sit. Or tidy. Yes, tidy some more. There was always something to tidy up. Life got even messier if you let your environment get out of order because uncontrollable forces collided with you.

Of course, all the uncontrollable forces colliding with her meant she didn’t have much to tidy now. She grabbed her scrub cap and stood waiting as the second hand passed the twelve.

Time to go down. He’d probably changed his mind. Good. She’d tried, given it a day. If he decided against the position now, she wouldn’t chase him. She was making up for screwing him over five years ago, not trying to make him like her again. She still didn’t need that.

Shaking the right key out of the ring, she exited her office and locked up behind her.

Preston met her at the door.

“You’re almost late,” Dasha muttered, then remembered she was supposed to be the good one this morning.

“It’s called being on time,” he drawled.

“I just thought you were an early arriver usually.” She clicked the lock and stuffed her keys into her pocket.

His eyes called her on that lie. “Only when you made me be.”

“Okay, I thought you’d changed your mind,” Dasha said, sighing.

“Were you relieved?” He had his scrub cap in hand. He also had a slight swelling on his left eyelid. “That sounded like disappointment.”

“Honestly? A little.” Some time last night, while reflecting on her day, Dasha had decided she needed to be honest. Detached and honest. Preston was used to Old Dasha, he didn’t appreciate New-and-Improved Dasha much. “What’s wrong with your eye?” Someone had hit him, she knew it. She just hoped it wasn’t Nettle.

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Preston, if we’re going to do this—”

“Stop. Let me make myself clear.” He turned to face her, stopping everything else until he’d spoken. “There is no we. We’re not doing anything together. We’re not friends. We’re not rivals. We’re not ex-lovers in for a sappy reunion. This is not us building a happy highway into the future together.”

She held his gaze, waiting for the rest.

“At the end of the probationary period we’ll be people who occasionally stumble across one another at work. If your motives don’t jibe with this scenario, tough.”

“I have no other motives.”

“Fine, you have no other motives.”

“You have no reason to believe me, I get it. But for your own benefit, stow the sarcasm. Stow the aggression,” Dasha said. “Make friends, not enemies. No matter what you think of me, if the staff catch you throwing barbs at me, you won’t win any points. And just so you know, I’m not the girl I was five years ago. I’ve grown up. Take my advice. I honestly want you to succeed.” She stepped around him and made tracks for the nearest stairwell—moving target, harder to hit.

But that only mattered if he didn’t take her advice to heart and didn’t throw barbs at her in a public setting where others could hear him. They really wouldn’t care for it.

They walked in silence, but no matter how soft his shoes kept his footfalls, she was still unpleasantly aware of the man following. When they reached the room, she held the door for him, as if kind gestures would make him believe she was legit.

He reached the sinks, tied his cap on and turned on the water to start the long process of scrubbing his hands.

She scrubbed in silence, sneaking looks at him in the glass that separated the scrub area from the operating room. Lead by example. Help him build the new paradigm he needed.

“I need to know what happened at Davidson West. I need to know why you fainted.” She tried to keep her voice level, emotionless. Or at least nonjudgmental.

“It’s complicated.” He glanced at her reflection in the glass.

“So is every surgery ever. I can keep up.” And please don’t say it was booze, drugs, or something else bad.

“And personal,” Preston said, his words careful and measured. Careful enough to raise red flags. Swollen eye. Personal fainting issues. It couldn’t be drugs.

“Sleep deprivation from something?” She hoped, and scoured her brain for any illnesses presenting with those symptoms, but they just didn’t go together. Syncope and swelling... Heart disease?

“Yes.” He met her eyes in the reflection, scowled and turned to look at her directly. “Stop it.”

“No. What caused it?” She stomped the faucet pedal and with her hands aloft faced him.

“Something. Personal,” he reiterated, and then added, “Stop diagnosing me. I know that face.”

“Is it your heart?” she asked, and when he started walking tried a different tack. “Are you sleeping better?”

“Like a baby.” He flashed a toothy smile at her.

He wanted to drive her nuts. So secretive. “It’d really help me to know what’s going on with you.”

Apparently Preston had decided he was done talking about it. And now was a really bad time to hit him. Her hands were clean. Her patient was waiting. She followed him out. After getting gowned and gloved, she approached the table and smiled at the large woman lying on her back, staring up at unlit lights.

Time to take her own advice and stow it. She had a patient to put at ease. “Morning, Angie. How’re you feeling? Excited?”

Bariatric surgery often made the overweight excited. If the woman hadn’t needed surgical help with her weight, they might never have discovered the problem with her twisted and backward intestines until the day it became a life-threatening emergency.

“And nervous,” Angie admitted, though her words were a tad slow from the pre-op medication.

“Everything’s going to go great,” Dasha said, smiling down at her and then nodding to Preston, who’d joined her on the other side of the table, all smiles and charm. “This is a colleague, Dr. Preston Monroe, and he’s going to assist in your surgery today.”

“Are you a good doctor?” She may be nervous and drugged, but even in that state the woman reacted to Preston’s crazy blue eyes with a groggy smile.

Dasha would have laughed if she wasn’t irritated with him.

“Number one in my class, Angie.” He winked at her.

“How do you know Dr. Hardin?” Angie mumbled.

“We were in school together.”

And residency. Hopefully Angie was too out of it to realize that Preston had just taken a roundabout way of saying she wasn’t as good a surgeon as he was.

“Dr. Hardin said it’s a difficult surgery,” Angie garbled.

“She likes to say stuff like that. Makes it seem more impressive later.” Preston smiled down at the woman and nodded toward the anesthesiologist at her head. “Time to take a nap.”

A little goofy chuckle slipped out of her patient, but the anesthesiologist was there with the gas, saving her from a showdown with Preston that Angie would hear.

“I like to be honest with my patients,” Dasha muttered. “One hundred percent.”

“You were honest.”

“And I don’t need you cutting me down to them either. They should feel confident in—”

“I wasn’t cutting you down,” Preston cut in. “It was banter, and it put her at ease. She was confident.”

“You charmed her. And you lied,” Dasha said, then leaned over and whispered, “which you should do with the staff, not just the patients. Charm them. You know how.”

“Relax. If you’re worried about the staff liking me, maybe you could act like you do. Set an example,” he whispered back.

“Fine,” Dasha whispered through gritted teeth, and stepped around to her preferred side for this procedure.

“Malrotation and gastric bypass?”

“Malrotation and sleeve gastrectomy,” she corrected in her most cheerful voice, and tried really hard not to consider the irony of the condition for their first scheduled surgery.

Malrotation. Badly twisted-up insides.

Sounded about right.

* * *

Preston pulled his cap off as he exited the OR and made a beeline for the nearest bathroom—his usual routine. Part necessity, part just needing to be alone for a few minutes.

He’d lied to Angie. It was a hard procedure. Long. And he needed to stop fighting with Dasha. It didn’t gain him anything. She was right, everyone liked her. No good could come from the antagonism he felt around her. He wanted St. Vincent’s. As much as he’d like to pretend otherwise, his surgical skill alone wouldn’t get this job for him. And time had repeatedly proved that his skill couldn’t keep jobs when his mouth interfered.

On the plus side, at least at the end of day two, he felt firmly reassured that Dasha had the skills to avoid sullying his reputation, or using him to boost her own.

It also felt good to know he’d helped someone. The woman’s life would improve. They’d mitigated the danger of an emergency situation in the future.

And his eyes hadn’t so much as twitched the whole time. Maybe the injection was going to do the trick. Even if it caused that eye swelling Dasha had grilled him about.

On the way back out, he spotted Dasha and a male surgeon standing in front of the OR door, speaking in low, heated tones. He leaned and listened, not wanting to interrupt yet. Eavesdropping might not be cool, but this was a public area. If they’d wanted privacy, they should have sought it. It wasn’t his fault if they didn’t notice him listening.

“You don’t have to deal with him,” Dasha said, her brows pinched in that way they always had before she got into it with someone.

“I will eventually,” the man said. He looked familiar. Maybe. Preston tended to forget any but important faces, and even then sometimes...

“Leave Preston to me. I can manage him.” She shifted her weight to her back foot, planting herself. If she hadn’t just said she’d manage him, he might be amused at her fighter’s stance over a conversation. Someone she actually looked like she might fight with? That didn’t fit with her Be Nice, Make Friends motto.

It was the first time he’d seen that look since arriving. The man must be annoying her. If he hadn’t been talking about him, Preston might have decided to like the man.

“You only think you can manage him,” the man said. “What about everyone else?”

“He’s going to do fine. Better than fine. You’ll see. You’ll be glad he’s here,” she said.

Dasha was defending him. It took a second for that realization to really penetrate.

“Doubt it,” the man said.

“This will all work out.” Dasha sounded as put out with this man as she regularly did with him. “Just drop it, Jason.”

“His father can’t even manage him.”

Jason? And knew Davis P.? Oh, hell. Time to interrupt.

“My father stopped managing me when my voice dropped.” Preston leaned off the wall and approached. “Preston Monroe.” He stuck out one hand, a gesture that was hard for a man to ignore. “You must be Frist.”

“I am.” Jason Frist, neurosurgeon and golden boy, as far as Preston’s father was concerned. The son he’d always wanted. The ideal held up to him when his father lamented his choice of specialty. That Jason. Friends with Dasha too. Or maybe more than that with Dasha. It took a certain kind of closeness to lecture someone.

Frist took Preston’s offered hand and gave it a shake. “No offense, man.”

Words surged into his throat, but he remembered his pep talk of minutes ago and stopped the verbal eruption with a choke. He cleared his throat. “You’re worried about the department. I get it. You don’t need to worry.”

“Good to know. I have to be off. Appointments this afternoon. Hardin. Monroe.” Frist exited fast, which was something at least. He didn’t harp on the subject, and he didn’t call Preston on the lip service.

Preston felt Dasha’s gaze before he actually saw it, prompting him to turn back to her. “You know, I was coming back here to congratulate you on your performance in surgery and apologize for the situation with Angie, then I heard the conversation and wanted to choke you. You think you can manage me.” He folded his arms and leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb.

“You can—”

“And then I saw you defending me,” he cut in before she really got going. “Now I don’t really know what to think. You looked like you were about to sock Frist in the nose. Did you know I was there?”

“I didn’t. But would it make you feel better if I said yes?” She lifted her chin and stared him in the eye. “I’m setting an example.” Just when he thought she was gearing up to fight, she smiled at him. A real smile—alight with mischief and challenge. And if he hadn’t known what to think before...

She was still in there, beneath all the polish and tact... Before he could think of anything to say, she headed off down the labyrinthine corridors to the stairs she’d taken down from her office. Still a creature of habit. Still someone who could make his belly flip over.

Preston followed. He was on probation with her, this wasn’t about him wanting her to smile at him again, because that would be stupid. A couple of quick steps helped him catch up and he looked down at her. “Have you been getting that much?”

“Getting...” Dasha took a few seconds, but soon shook her head. “Not really. If they feel that way, they haven’t said anything. I don’t expect them to unless you pull a Preston.” She grinned again. “Jason’s just freer with his words with me.”

“You together?” Why did he ask that? It didn’t matter who she was with.

Dasha gave him a weird look, but they were only a few steps from the office and she waited until they were inside before she answered, “Why would you ask that? Jason is my friend. We started here around the same time.”

“Yes, but your friendship with him links you to my father. Did he put you up to this?”

“I don’t know your father, Preston.” The weird look turned into a guilty one.

Preston squinted, risking a cascade from those hyperactive eye muscles. “Did he put you up to this? Save his idiot son’s career? Because I don’t want this position if it’s through him.”

She paced to the desk and leaned against the front of it, folding her arms over her chest. Hiding something? Or just trying to distract him with—?

“I get that you don’t like your dad, but not everyone is his puppet.”

Trying to distract him. Definitely trying to distract him. “Direct answer, Dasha. Now.” He closed the distance to stand over her, close enough to shake some sense into her if she didn’t stop...whatever it was she was doing with her cleavage...

“Your father did not put me up to anything. I do not know him. Jason does not deliver orders or requests on your behalf from Davis Monroe.” Dasha stared him in the eye the whole time she spoke, and then for a few seconds after for good measure, daring him not to believe her.

Well, he didn’t want to believe her.

Which was really too bad, considering he did believe her.

Still not ready to stop antagonizing her, he continued to hold her eye. “You sure you’re not trying to impress Frist and win his tender affections?” It wasn’t flirting. It was teasing. Joking around...

Watching her try to decide if he was playing with her or picking a fight tickled him. In the spirit of cooperation, he decided to make it easy on her. “It’s okay to want to marry a neurosurgeon and have two point five abnormally brilliant little spawn with him.”

“I don’t want to marry him,” Dasha said slowly, and then shook her head, the smile that came with it more rueful than sparkling. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Just so you know, when you’re feeling touchy about something, you have a tendency to joke about it. It’s a bad poker face, Preston.” She whirled out from between him and the desk, grabbed her bag and headed for the door, bag slung over her shoulder. “We’re done for the day.”

“Do I? It’s because I’m so damned sensitive to the needs of others, everyone can see my concern, no matter what I say.”

Did she not get that he was playing with her? He paused, smile still in place but he had to think about it...make sure that it stayed put so she could pick up on the teasing. She always used to be able to recognize a joke. She’d had a great sense of humor. Aside from the sex and the way she had motivated him, their playfulness had been something he’d never been able to replicate with anyone else. It mattered. Well, it had. Not now...except that it bothered him she’d changed so much, or bothered him that she was pretending to be so different. He wasn’t sure which was more accurate, only that he was bothered and she seemed different.

If he could ignore the manner of their parting—and that was something he had to do to even envision this arrangement working—then he had to think about the good things. The idea that he may not have really known her at all rankled more than it should have. More than the betrayal maybe.

He grabbed the strap of the bag as she waltzed by, expecting him to follow, and stopped her in her tracks. “Did you fail to recognize that I’m trying to ease things here with us? Are you really so different now than you used to be? You changed your hair, you changed your wardrobe and you’ve changed from being direct to beating around the bush to avoid confrontation...but have you lost your sense of humor too? Or was all that an act back then?”

“You’re joking now too, right?” She jerked on her bag but he didn’t let it go, and from the timbre of her voice he could see she wasn’t intent on being tactful. “I always changed my hair—every month, if you recall. I’m wearing work clothes—you can’t wear tank tops and flip-flops in your professional life. And being tactful is the way you build relationships with people until you know them well enough to be blunt. That’s all part of being an adult.”

“And the sense of humor?” Preston held fast to the strap, the only way he knew to keep her in place without actually touching her skin.

She kept enough tension on the bag that the strap was taut, as rigid as her posture. He’d expected her to take a fighter’s stance, but again he was wrong. She leaned slightly away from him, partially from the tension she kept on the bag, but it was more than that. Flight. If he let go now, she’d be out the door, leaving him to lock up.

“There’s not a lot going on in my life right now that I find funny. And you’ll just have to excuse me if having you tease me about dating is one of those things I don’t find funny.”

“Relax, Dasha.” He started to relax his arm, but she kept up the tension on the strap. “Stop pulling.”

“You stop pulling.” She pulled harder, forcing him to keep his hold.

“You’re going to fall over the second I let go. We’ll both let go at the same time. On the count of three, okay?” Sadly, this wasn’t the most ridiculous confrontation he’d ever gotten into at work. It was just the first time he had gotten into a fight at work where he didn’t know he was right from the outset.

* * *

The countdown shamed Dasha into compliance. She let go of the bag. Preston didn’t fall, but he did bash himself in the cheek when his arm rebounded.

“Right, I’m off,” Preston muttered, and dropped the bag on a nearby chair, prowling for the door.

“Wait...” She had to tell him something. What had she...? Oh, right. “Um, Dr. Monroe, we’re on call this weekend. I’ll call you if we get pulled in for any emergencies.”

He nodded and left, leaving her to try and puzzle out what had happened. What had set her off?

Well, there was the questioning of who she was as a person, as if who she had been had been so much better. How could he even insinuate that after the way things had ended? And he didn’t even know New-and-Improved Dasha, so he was just reacting to her being different than he expected.

But that wasn’t really what had got her. He’d get to know her now, everyone changed as they matured, and he’d get used to the new her. It had been the joking about Jason that had got to her. She didn’t need to explain herself or her current relationship status—or that the only man in her life was her convertible, which she’d named Belvedere for some unfathomable reason...

If she had been interested in Jason—which she wasn’t—that wouldn’t be cheating on Preston. But in the moments after he’d teased her about it that’s what she’d felt like. That’s what it still felt like. And if that told her anything, it was that though her methods in the past had not been right, she really did have to go to extremes to stay away from him. She hadn’t set eyes on him for five years, and she still felt like she belonged to him. So stupid...

Twenty minutes later Dasha climbed into her car.

To hell with running today. She should visit Marjorie and Bill. No call duty tonight, but tomorrow she’d be on and planning anything on a call weekend never worked out.

Plus, she wanted to go. Sort of.

Every time she visited, Marjorie was a little further gone. Asleep a little longer. Voice a little weaker. And it became a little harder for Dasha to hold on to the scrap of hope that she’d turn this disease around.

She’d heard about miraculous cures, inexplicable spontaneous remissions, but she’d never witnessed one. Now she stood at the edge of losing her second mother. The trauma surgeon who’d tried so hard to save Dasha’s mother, and who had cried with her when she hadn’t been able to. And who’d remembered Dasha and taken her under her wing after she’d selfishly thrown Preston to the wolves to make sure she could get to St. Vincent’s.

And she was once again being selfish by thinking about how Marjorie’s imminent death affected her. Me, me, me.

Flowers. She should get flowers.

Or donuts.

Or both.

At least it was something to do, kept her from feeling helpless.

Half an hour later Dasha slipped into the bedroom and joined Bill, sitting by the bed, watching Marjorie sleep. She made her customary check of the equipment and room, making sure everything was as it should be, and then plopped onto the arm of his chair.

“He’s giving you a run for your money, eh?” Bill murmured.

“That obvious?” Dasha whispered back, not wanting to disturb Marjorie.

“The sigh gave it away.”

“Didn’t realize I’d sighed.” She slouched, dropping her bag onto the floor. “He just sort of dredges up everything again. I’d like to stick with the here and now, but it’s looking less and less likely that I’ll be able to do that.”

Bill winced. He knew everything Marjorie knew, and Marjorie knew it all. All the way down to her getting out before she’d ended up turning into her mother—devoted to a man she could never have.

“Don’t worry. I didn’t hit him. He kind of hit himself after we had some kind of showdown over my bag, though.” Yeah, that would help him not worry. Perfect. “I don’t know exactly how that happened, but he was joking around with me. I don’t know why he was. Maybe because of Jason.”

“Jason giving you trouble?” Bill’s frown didn’t express a lack of worry. Still not helping.

“Not exactly. He’s just worried about Preston causing trouble. And Preston kind of caught Jason talking about him.”

“Heaven help us. Did you get it sorted out?”

“I think so.” Dasha shrugged. She really wasn’t going to mention Nettle.

“I’m sorry I can’t be there to help with the situation,” Bill said.

“Don’t. It’s nothing you should apologize for. You’re right where you need to be.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s nothing you should have to get involved with anyway. My doing. All mine.” She thought for a moment and added, “And his father’s not helping. I don’t know exactly what happened between the two of them, but he said some things that makes me think they have a kind of feud.”

“The senior Monroe meddles,” Bill murmured. “We were surprised when you got the fellowship. Davis had arranged for it to go to Preston. All he had to do was show up that day.”

Dasha’s jaw dropped and her stomach curdled. “Why...you never said anything.”

“Would you have felt better?” Bill asked, leaning forward in the chair so he could hold her gaze better as they talked.

“No.” It didn’t really change anything. If anything, it would have made her less certain of Preston’s opportunities. “Probably worse.”

Bill nodded, not elaborating. They’d been protecting her. She still never expected that from anyone, even after the past years of being included in Marjorie and Bill’s lives, even with those she loved, she never expected protection.

“I think I need to stretch my legs.” He stood, and then gestured her to slide into the seat...and off the arm of his favorite chair. “Will you stay?”

She nodded, his revelation spinning in her head.

“Later I’m making my famous takeout,” he said as he wandered toward the door, talking to himself now more than her. “Mexican, I think. Feels like a taco kind of day.”

It felt more like a burrito day to her. Wrapped up, confined, lots of messy stuff hidden beneath a pretty, soft, white, flavorless case.

Why tell her now? To protect her? To give her extra fortitude she’d need to handle whatever Preston threw at her? Or maybe because he’d just known she was ready to hear it. How nice would it be for a relationship man to get her that way?

She’d have to let them know her better for that to happen.

Did Preston even know about the fellowship? Might explain why he thought that Davis was manipulating her into giving him the job.

Well, if he didn’t know, she couldn’t tell him. It didn’t matter, not really. She’d done what she’d done, and saying that he would have gotten it because of his father just sounded like a cop-out. She hadn’t known, she’d just assumed he’d get it because he was better than her. And then she’d consoled herself with the knowledge that he’d have tons of other opportunities, and she needed St. Vincent’s.

No good could come from telling him. Best case scenario, it would just give him something else to resent his father over.

“You’re frowning.”

Dasha looked up when she heard Marjorie’s voice, and then rose to go sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m practicing looking serious and formidable.”

“What are you really thinking?” Marjorie smiled.

“Thinking other less productive things.” Dasha smoothed the blankets down, tucking and tidying. “I got the invitation for the winter ball today. I’m thinking of getting something classy to wear in honor of the fancy-pants hotel where it’s held. You know, slit up to here and down to there, and covered in sequins. I’m thinking orange with lime-green accessories.”

“You should be thinking escorts and not trying to scandalize me with your fluorescent monstrosities,” Marjorie murmured.

She was smiling, though. Dasha would probably wear that hideously described dress if it would make Marjorie smile. “Hair teased out high enough for squirrels to nest in.”

“And a top hat.”

Dasha’s turn to laugh. “Hair teased into the shape of a top hat.”

“Enough foolishness now. How are you doing with Preston?”

“Oh, well...I really have no idea. Mercurial as ever. Evasive then charming. Antagonistic and then playful. I really have no idea. He’s still there and no one has filed any official complaints. At least, not that I know of.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, Dasha.”

“He joked with me earlier. And I yelled at him a little bit.” That story lost something in translation.

“Why?”

“It was... I don’t know. I’m not entirely sure what happened.” Dasha waved a hand in the air, trying to get past the subject she suffered a lack of words on. “Don’t worry. I’m not giving up yet, and he might not go nuclear on me.”

“You need to figure it out, honey. Even if you don’t want to dwell on it,” Marjorie advised, and then in her soothing way followed on by addressing the needs of the other soul in her care. “Bill’s said no to outside nursing, but I want you to talk him into getting someone to come in here at night. He’s not sleeping like he should.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure it’s someone good.” Dasha leaned in and kissed Marjorie on the cheek, her throat suddenly thick enough to make her voice raspy. “Just until you’re well enough to look after him yourself.”

She had to hold on to the idea of a miraculous recovery.

CHAPTER THREE

FLOOR-TO-CEILING windows ran the entire length of Preston’s loft, which had been converted from a nineteenth-century third-floor warehouse in the heart of historic downtown Nashville—where much of Nashville’s night-life now was located.

The glow from neon signs and streetlights illuminated his apartment in soothing blues and greens, and unless he had to read something or stab himself in the eye with a needle Preston left the lights off. Even while working out on his climbing machine.

It also made him feel a little better, a salve to his ego, that the low lighting at least downplayed the pink flowers on the stupid gel mask he’d resorted to wearing. The woman at the pharmacy had claimed it soothed tired eyes, but so far he didn’t feel soothed. And neither did his eyes. He might as well have bought pantyhose, feminine hygiene products and something with wings—whatever those were.

So much for the injections fixing the problem. One day. One freaking day without any symptoms, was that too much to ask? Today it had kicked up again, not even at the hospital this time. That was something. He’d noticed the feeling as soon as he’d opened his eyes, so it had started when he’d been asleep. Either that, or he so strongly remembered the sensation he’d worked himself up a phantom leg type of situation.

Whatever the reason, it wasn’t good. He couldn’t do another round of injections already and his attempts to manage it with medication worked about as well. Time for more aggressive tactics—before he lost everything. That possibility seemed more real with the eye situation than it ever had because of his mouth. Felt more personal too. Like a real failing rather than being unable to suffer idiots.

He climbed faster. Running built great endurance, but did nothing for the upper body. And did equally little to help him work out the aggression he’d been feeling of late.

Saturday, on call and nearing evening, it looked like he might have a reprieve. Strange that there’d been no calls. Maybe Dasha just hadn’t called him in.

Maybe it was a hint that he should cut and run. His constant failing on personal vows to maintain professional distance with her said he wasn’t as over her as he wanted to believe. He swung from baiting her to flirting with her to growling at her. Out of his damned mind.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.