Corey traced a finger along her cheek and, despite the warm night air, Lydia shivered with expectancy at his mere touch

She was struggling to breathe now, terribly so, her body burning with awareness. It was only a kiss, but it held so much promise, such a teasing, tempting glimpse of the man she was starting to adore, that it took all her strength to finally pull her lips away.

“You have to go,” she whispered, reluctance in every word.

“I know,” Corey said, equally reluctantly.” But you know I’d give anything to stay?” His arms were still wrapped around her, the swell of her stomach pressing into him, and Lydia nodded—because she did know. he knew exactly how he felt.

Dear Reader,

Career versus Children.

It’s a tough choice that many women have to face and one my heroine never intended to make—as a busy doctor, Lydia’s career was aways going to come first, last and always. But fate steps in sometimes when you least expect it and always has a surprise up her sleeve.

I enjoyed following Lydia’s journey; the mental struggle to envisage life with a baby on board, and barely a maternal instinct to her name! But that’s only half her problem.…

Happy reading,

Carol Marinelli

The Pregnant Registrar

Carol Marinelli

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

CONTENTS

Cover

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

TAKING a steadying breath, Lydia would have loved to press her face against the cool bathroom tiles, to rinse out her mouth and splash her face with some icy cool water, but the shrill bleeps from her pager merited no such luxury.

She was sure morning sickness should now be horrible distant memory, sure that by five months she should be able to walk into a hospital without diving for the nearest rest room.

Why did the books always get it wrong?

Catching sight of herself as she darted out of the cubicle, Lydia gave a grimace. She’d assumed by the time she hit registrar status that she’d sweep into the ward in chic, well-cut suits and impossibly beautiful shoes attached to thin silk stockinged legs. Not dashing in like some overgrown heifer with baggy theatre blues covering swollen ankles. But the tailored suits she’d envisaged for this stage of her career didn’t equate with the subtropical temperatures of the special care unit and high heels didn’t make for a speedy dash along the corridor. The chocolate curls she’d so neatly tied back this morning were escaping rather alarmingly and she’d have loved to have fiddled with a bit of lipstick, would have loved to have put some blusher on her way too pale cheeks, but there really wasn’t time. As a very new junior registrar on Special Care, the shrieks from her pager could only mean one thing…she was needed, and quickly.

Consoling herself that the last thing a tiny baby would care about was whether the doctor had lipstick on, Lydia wrenched open the bathroom door and practically flew along the highly polished tiles, popping a mint into her mouth as she did so and praying her unfortunate delay would go unnoticed or, more pointedly, wouldn’t have done any damage to the fragile lives that were now in her charge.

Racing through the black swing doors, even though she’d just washed her hands, even though time was of the essence, protocol still had to be adhered to and Lydia squeezed a hefty dose of alcohol rub into her palms as she scanned the special care nursery, watching the crowd huddled around a crib as she deftly made her way over.

She’d so wanted to look cool for this, had wanted to breeze in on her first day supremely in control, to dispel in an instant the questionable merits of filling a three-month maternity leave position with a rather pregnant doctor. But instead of arriving cool and unflappable, it was a rather pale, shaky Lydia that made her way over to the gathered crowd. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘No problem,’ a deep voice clipped, and Lydia looked to the moving mouth on a very tall, very wide-set, very annoyed-looking ogre dressed in theatre blues. His green eyes worked the tiny infant, large hands retaping a probe connected to the baby’s rapidly moving stomach, each tiny fast breath requiring a supreme effort. ‘The drama’s over.’

‘What happened?’ Lydia had to wait a full minute before she got a reply. The crowd was drifting away now and a nurse fiddled with monitors as the avenging ogre suctioned the baby’s airway with surprising gentleness for someone with such large hands.

‘Prolonged apnoeic episode.’ Those green eyes finally met hers, and he flashed a very on-off smile. ‘Extremely prolonged, hence the emergency page.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ Lydia mumbled, realising the direness of the situation she had just missed. Apnoeic incidents in Special Care were part and parcel of the day. These tiny babies often seemed to forget to breathe which would send most staff into a spin, but here under the controlled setting of Special Care it was routinely dealt with. Lydia was used to having a conversation interrupted as a nurse gently flicked the bottom of a baby’s foot in an effort to stimulate the infant into breathing, then resume the conversation as if nothing had happened. An emergency page wouldn’t have been put out lightly and Lydia knew that from where the man was standing there really was no excuse. ‘I got here as quickly as I could.’

‘You’re the new registrar?’

Lydia nodded. ‘Dr Verhagh.’ She knew she should have given her first name, knew her rather brusque response sounded a touch standoffish, but she was desperate to exert some semblance of control here. ‘And you are?’

‘Corey Hughes. I’m the nurse unit manager.’ He shook her hand briefly before turning back to his small charge.

‘Well, Sister Hughes,’ Lydia ventured, watching him stiffen slightly, as male nurses often did when their formal title was used. Hell, why hadn’t someone come up with an alternative title for a male nurse? Lydia mused while attempting a recovery. ‘I mean, Mr Hughes,’ Lydia corrected. ‘Is there anything I can do here? Though it looks as if he’s stable now.’

Checking the infant’s observations on the monitors, Corey gave a rather curt nod of his head. ‘It’s all under control. It was a mucous plug causing the apnoeic episode. We’ve suctioned his airway and he’s doing well now.

‘And by the way,’ he added with a crisp smile that didn’t meet his eyes, ‘the name’s Corey.’

‘I’m aware of that.’ Lydia flashed an equally brittle smile. ‘But I prefer to save first names for the office and staff room. Out on the ward I think it’s more reassuring and less confusing for the parents if we call each other by our professional titles.’ She could feel the colour whooshing up her pale cheeks. She hadn’t meant to come across as quite so brittle, hadn’t wanted to so forcibly erect the barriers on her first day, but something about those green eyes was unnerving her. ‘So if you’d rather I didn’t call you Sister out on the floor, is it OK if I call you Mr Hughes?’

‘Well, if we’re going to be formal…’ Corey flashed her a dark look ‘…then it’s actually Dr Hughes.’

‘Doctor?’ Lydia frowned, her brown eyes darting down to his name badge. ‘But I though you said you were the nurse—’

‘Unit manager,’ Corey finished for her. ‘That’s right. I also have a doctorate in nursing, and from the confusion it’s obviously caused you, I’m sure you can appreciate how difficult it would be for stressed parents to have to listen to me rattle off my résumé every time I introduce myself, so if it’s OK I’d prefer you to call me by my first name.’ As he stalked off, Lydia let out a low, weary breath. It wasn’t actually the best start to her first day, but just as she thought her rather brief dressing-down was over, the avenging angel paused and turned. ‘Could we have a brief word in my office, before the rounds start, please, Doctor?’

His office was appallingly untidy, mountains of paperwork cluttered each and every available space and Lydia was forced to stand for an uncomfortable moment as he flicked on the kettle before moving a mountain of notes from a chair then gesturing for her to sit.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Corey offered.

‘No, thanks,’ Lydia declined, not too keen on a repeat dash to the toilet, but her refusal obviously lost her another brownie point as Corey shrugged and made one for himself, spooning in three massive teaspoons of sugar. Leaving the teabag in, he made his way to the desk.

‘Have you been shown around?’ Corey started, and Lydia nodded.

‘At my interview, though I wouldn’t mind a quick refresher.’

Corey nodded. ‘I’ll take you round the patients as soon as we’re finished here. The formal doctors’ round isn’t until nine, so it might make things a bit easier for you if you’ve at least briefly met them before Dr Browne does his rounds. He doesn’t make too many allowances and the fact it’s your first day won’t stand for much when he starts firing questions.’

‘Thanks.’ Lydia gave a small appreciative smile. Dr Browne’s temper was legendary—the fact Lydia had been working on the other side of Melbourne didn’t mean she was completely out of the loop. The great Dr Browne’s reputation preceded him, but even though she was rather nervous of being the target of one of his scathing comments, her nerves were overridden at the prospect of working alongside such a fabulous mentor.

‘About this morning,’ Lydia ventured, determined to set the tone, to push aside the rather awkward initial greeting and forge a more relaxed working relationship. ‘If I came across as rather formal—’

‘I don’t have a problem with formal, Doctor.’ Corey broke in. ‘What you like to be called is your business. I happen to prefer to work on a first-name basis, but that’s my own personal choice. I can understand where you’re coming from and if you choose to keep a distance then that’s fine by me, we all cope with things in different ways, but for my part I’ve found being on first-name terms fosters a better relationship. The parents are generally here for a long time, particularly with premature infants, and despite the initial slight confusion as to who’s who it’s how I prefer to work.’

Lydia gave a small nod, even opened her mouth to speak, but he clearly hadn’t finished yet, continuing before she even got a word out. ‘However,’ he barked, ‘I do have a problem with doctors who don’t respond promptly to an emergency page. I’ve got two new interns who started last week and they weren’t exactly a lot of help this morning. When a baby goes off, you know as well as I do that experienced hands are needed, and quickly. The fact a registrar was fast-paged meant that a rapid response was called for.’

‘I know,’ Lydia agreed, ‘and I really am sorry.’ She hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was play for the sympathy vote here, to tell this rather arrogant man that she’d had her head down the toilet as her pager had gone off. No doubt he’d roll his eyes, no doubt he’d mentally voice the question that undoubtedly begged—was a pregnant doctor really up to such a demanding job? But even though she’d rather be considered unfit than uncaring, Lydia still didn’t speak up and it was left to Corey to conclude this difficult conversation.

‘Well, thankfully there was no harm done this time. The emergency was dealt with and the baby’s fine, but next time you receive a fast-page…’

‘I’ll be here,’ Lydia said firmly, meeting his assured eyes with a determined glare of her own, grateful for a tiny reprieve when the door flung open and a young nurse breezed in.

‘Sorry to interrupt. I need your signature, Corey.’ Waving a drug chart under his nose, the young nurse looked over and gave Lydia the benefit of a very nice smile.

‘I’m Jo.’

‘Lydia,’ Lydia responded, aware of Corey’s eyes on hers and trying to beat back a beastly blush as she dropped her title.

‘Welcome to the madhouse.’ Retrieving the chart from Corey, she made to go. ‘Are you feeling better?’

‘Sorry?’ Lydia looked up sharply as Jo gave an apologetic shrug.

‘I saw you dashing into the toilet, I doubt you noticed me. I, er, think you were in rather a hurry. If you need a cuppa or anything, just call. Corey makes it like treacle, not exactly the best thing for morning sickness.’

There was the longest silence after she’d gone, filled only by the sound of Corey filling another mug with tea and thankfully pulling the teabag out before it assumed mud-like proportions.

‘Sugar?’

Lydia nodded. ‘Just one, though.’

‘Why didn’t you say?’ Corey asked finally as he placed a steaming mug in front of her, watching as Lydia took a hesitant sip, closing her eyes as the hot sweet liquid hit its mark, warm and soothing and, thankfully, staying put. ‘Why didn’t you just say that you weren’t very well?’

Lydia took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t want you to think I was making excuses.’ She gave a brief shrug. ‘Look, the hospital’s been fantastic. I can’t believe I got the job, given the circumstances.’ She registered his frown. ‘Pregnancy doesn’t normally work in one’s favour when looking for a job.’

‘But it did in this case?’

Lydia shrugged. ‘I’ve got a full-time position for three months while Jackie Gibb’s off on maternity leave, and then, when I come back, we’ll job share. Dr Browne was forward thinking enough to realise that, rather than lose Jackie altogether, job share might be the solution. Most part-time jobs are filled by mothers.’

‘Which you soon will be?’

Her rather nervous smile didn’t go unnoticed. ‘Apparently so.’ She looked down at her softly swollen stomach, disguised under baggy theatre blues but still pretty evident none the less. ‘I’ve got four months to go.’

It was Corey frowning now. ‘I thought morning sickness only lasted for three months or so.’

‘So did I,’ Lydia groaned. ‘Apparently I’m the exception to the rule, though it’s not as bad as it was. At least now it’s living up to its name and only confined to the mornings.’

‘You had it pretty bad, then?’ Corey asked as Lydia grimaced.

‘It was awful. For the most part it’s gone now, but for some reason, within half an hour of stepping into a hospital, no matter how well I feel…’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘I’ll spare you the details. But once it’s over, it’s over, at least until the next day.’

‘Must be the smell,’ Corey mused. ‘My sister used to say just the smell of the place made her feel dizzy every time she came to see me at work.’

‘Used to?’ Lydia looked up, hopeful Corey was about to reveal his sister’s secret, a remedy perhaps that she hadn’t heard about, but from his stance she soon realised she’d picked up on something rather personal and dropped the subject as Corey deftly ignored her question, standing up and gesturing towards the door. ‘How about I give you that handover?’

Taking a last quick sip of her tea, Lydia stood up and for the first time since their awkward meeting they managed a simultaneous smile. ‘About before,’ Lydia started, but Corey waved a large hand dismissively.

‘Forget it. Now, I know there was a reason…’

‘I—I meant the first-name business,’ Lydia stammered. ‘I really do prefer Lydia—I don’t know what I must have been thinking.’

‘Hormones.’ Corey winked.

‘That’s a terribly politically incorrect thing to say.’ Lydia grinned, stepping through the door he held open for her.

‘Oh, there’s plenty more where that came from.’

The same light-hearted chatter continued out on the ward, from Corey at least, various nurses looking up and smiling, introducing themselves as Lydia slowly worked her way around the room. Lydia tried to smile, tried to come up with the odd witty response or friendly greeting, but it was as if her mouth didn’t know how to move any more. She could feel the sweat on her palms as she dug her nails into them, feeling horribly awkward and exposed and praying for a fast forward when all in the unit was familiar.

Special Care Units were intimidating at the best of times, but Corey obviously ran the place well. Somehow there was a balance between quiet efficiency and relaxed friendliness which was no mean feat given the direness of some of the babies’ health and the anxious parents taking each painful step along with their child.

‘Patrick Spence.’ Corey stopped at the incubator where they had first met. ‘He’s six days old now…’ his eyes moved to the little boy still struggling with each ragged breath ‘…which makes it your one-week birthday tomorrow, little guy.’ Rubbing his hands with the mandatory alcohol, Corey put his hands inside the incubator and stroked the tiny infant’s cheek, and such was the tenderness in his touch Lydia felt her breath catch in her throat. They had stopped at every incubator, Corey had regaled the most painful tales but not for a second had he erred from professional detachment.

Till now.

Handling of sick infants was kept to a minimum, yet here was Corey gently stroking this baby’s brow and there was an expression on his harsh, sun-battered face Lydia couldn’t read.

‘We normally save the cuddles for Mum and Dad, but this little guy’s missing out on both counts,’ Corey offered by way of explanation, his eyes never leaving the babe. ‘But we’re more than happy to fill in, aren’t we, Patrick?’ Clearing his throat, he pulled his hand out, fiddling with the oxygen-flow meter for a moment or two before carrying on.

‘Patrick’s mother arrived at the labour ward in advanced second-stage labour. She’d received no antenatal care and a rapid labour followed. Born at thirty-two weeks gestation, as well as being premature, he was also small for dates. Multiple anomalies were noted at birth and on investigation he was found to have major cardiac defects.’

He was silent for a moment as Lydia read the cardiac surgeon’s reports, along with endless reams of ultrasounds, chewing thoughtfully on her lips as she did so. ‘He’ll need surgery,’ she murmured, ‘and preferably sooner rather than later.’

‘Or later rather than sooner.’ The irony in Corey’s voice wasn’t aimed at her and Lydia didn’t have to look up to realise that. Babies this sick and this small were a constant juggling act: drop one ball and the whole lot came tumbling down. To survive, Patrick needed his heart defects corrected, but for his tiny body to make it through the complex surgery he desperately needed to gain some weight and stabilise medically if he was to stand a chance. ‘Twenty-four hours after admission his mother became agitated, and was finally diagnosed as suffering with alcohol withdrawal. Valium was given and the drug and alcohol liaison service notified.’

‘Patrick has foetal alcohol syndrome?’ As Corey nodded, Lydia looked back at the small babe. Foetal alcohol syndrome was one of the few completely preventable causes of congenital anomalies. The babies suffered various levels of handicap, from mild learning difficulties and facial deformities to cardiac problems and marked retardation, but from Lydia’s brief assessment of Patrick, his visible anomalies didn’t entirely fit the picture. Heading to the wash basin, she scrubbed her hands before examining the babe more thoroughly.

‘Have we sent off for a DNA work-up?’ Lydia asked, examining Patrick’s hand and feet, peering closely at his face and taking in the almond-shaped eyes and low-set ears.

‘We have,’ Corey responded, and for a second as she looked up Lydia thought she saw a flicker of admiration in those guarded green eyes. ‘What do you think?’

Lydia gave a brief shrug but it was far from dismissive. ‘He looks like a trisomy baby; of course Down’s syndrome is a far more palatable diagnosis title than foetal alcohol syndrome, but in this case I think it could be both.’

‘It’s a tough call,’ Corey said thoughtfully, ‘but I’m actually glad to hear someone say it. As soon as Jenny, the mother, started to show signs of alcohol withdrawal Patrick was basically labelled as an FAS baby, but I think it might be a touch more complicated, I guess we’ll have to wait for the labs, and on current form we could be waiting another couple of weeks.’

‘How is his mother coping with the news?’

‘She won’t come and see him. Apparently Jenny’s admitted she has a problem with alcohol and has agreed to rehab, but to date she’s refused to come and visit Patrick. She’s talking about putting him up for adoption.’

Which was far easier said than done. The world seemed to be crying out for healthy pink babies but a handicapped child with special needs would take months, years even to place.

If ever.

‘What about the father?’

Again Corey hesitated. Handing her a wad of notes, he gave a small shrug.

‘What father?’

His two words said it all.

Glancing down at the patient notes, she read quietly for a moment. Patrick really had had a difficult start to life. Not only was he born eight weeks before nature intended, with major health problems, he had succumbed to several of the obstacles premature babies faced. His immature lungs had meant he had required forty-eight hours on a ventilator but he had been weaned off that now and was breathing with the help of continuous positive air pressure, a direct, measured flow of oxygen, commonly known as CPAP, but his marked jaundice was still proving to be a major problem and Lydia rummaged through the unfamiliar order of this hospital’s files, trying to verse herself on Patrick’s relevant issues.

‘Here.’ Taking the notes, Corey turned to the back of the folder, locating the blood results for her in a second, not even acknowledging the quiet murmur of thanks Lydia imparted as she studied the blood-work closely. Despite the intensive phototherapy to correct his jaundice, Patrick’s serum bilirubin was still rising and her forehead puckered in concentration as she plotted his results on the graph before her. If they couldn’t get the levels down, Patrick would need an exchange transfusion to remove the toxic blood and replace it, which would hopefully prevent organ damage.

Corey was obviously thinking along the same lines. ‘It’s an uphill battle at the moment, but we’ll get another blood result around midday and hopefully there will be some improvement.’ His eyes moved back to the little baby and they stared for a solemn moment at their small charge, watching the almost transparent abdomen rising painfully up and down with each rapid, exhausting breath, his face grimacing with the pain and effort of merely staying alive.

‘Do you ever just want to take them home?’

‘Heavens, no!’ Her response was immediate, a sort of knee-jerk reaction, an instant erection of the barriers Lydia created just to survive her work. But even as the words left her lips Lydia realised how awful she must have sounded, watching the tiny headway they had made disappear in a puff of smoke. As Corey’s eyes narrowed, she realised he hadn’t actually expected an answer, that he had been talking more to himself than to her. ‘I mean…’ Swallowing hard, Lydia gave a helpless shrug. How could she tell him she was having enough trouble getting her head around the fact she’d be bringing her own child home from hospital in a few short months, let alone someone else’s? ‘I just try not to get too involved.’

When he didn’t respond she pushed on regardless, trying to somehow rewind, to wipe the slate clean without revealing too much of herself. ‘It’s sad and everything, awful actually…’ Her voice trailed off, realising how awful she was sounding, as if she had a plum in her mouth, hating the sound of her own voice as she reeled off a few more platitudes while knowing it was useless.

Unfeeling bitch.

She could almost feel him punching out the letters as he labelled and pigeonholed her, but as Dr Browne and his entourage swept into the ward the rather uncomfortable conversation was left behind as Corey gave a small eye roll. ‘Ready for the off?’

The ward round took for ever. Dr Browne was rather old school and even Lydia was slightly taken aback by the in-depth discussions at the cots, sure the barrage of scenarios he detailed wouldn’t be very comforting for the anxious parents. After a rather gruelling hour it was a rather washed-out Lydia who finally sat down at the nurses’ station, simultaneously clicking away at the computer and wrestling with a mountain of notes to write up the ward round findings and formally prescribe new courses of treatment as the junior doctors set to work on the barrage of tests and drug charts that needed completing. Looking up, Lydia noted Corey quietly making his way around the unit, talking in turn to each of the parents, presumably answering the multitude of questions the ward round would have thrown up and hopefully clarifying a few issues.

He was good, she had to admit it. Most NUMs would be dashing off to a meeting or holing themselves up in the office by now, but Corey had barely left the shop floor all morning.

He was good-looking. too.

Where that thought had appeared from Lydia had no idea. For the last few months she had wandered the world in a curiously asexual state, too focused on her own troubles to register irrelevancies like looks, gender, emotions. Now suddenly here she was, five months into the most nauseous pregnancy in history, sworn off men for the next millennium at the very least, staring across the ward at a man she knew absolutely nothing about and who, more to the point, was probably gay! Giving herself a mental shake, Lydia dragged her eyes back to her notes, trying to cross-reference some lab results on the computer as she filled in the patients’ history in her vibrant purple scrawl. Even though she was a registrar, even though she probably wrote the blessed word five times a working day, as she stumbled through the mental block that the spelling of the word ‘diarrhoea’ eternally produced she found her eyes drifting back to him.

Very good-looking, she mentally reiterated, in a rugged sort of way. Dark curls that needed a cut coiled on the back of a very thick neck, and the set of his wide shoulders made him look more like a rugby player than a neonatal nurse, which, however politically incorrect, begged a question in itself which Lydia answered this time in a nano-second.

Corey Hughes was definitely not gay.

He looked up then, a slightly confused smile crinkling his eyes as he caught her staring. An extremely unbecoming blush whooshed up Lydia’s cheeks as he made his way over.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked, frowning in concern as Lydia fanned her cheeks with a prescription chart.

‘Everything’s fine. It’s just a bit hot in here.’

‘Did you want something?’

She was about to say no but, remembering she’d been caught staring, Lydia forced a hasty question. ‘I’m trying to get into the computer to see if Patrick’s labs are back. I haven’t had much luck.’

‘Have you used the right password?’ Coming round to her side of the desk, Corey peered over her shoulder, leaning forward and tapping away as Lydia sat rigid, staring at the back of his very large hands and trying and failing not to check for a wedding ring.

Absent, as was her pulse for a second as Corey’s arm brushed her cheek.

‘You’re already in,’ he said, bemused. ‘Did you type in the correct UR number?’

‘That must be it.’ Lydia flushed even more as Corey tapped away and Patrick’s results appeared on the screen. ‘They’re still not back.’

‘They won’t be till lunchtime.’ Corey frowned. ‘I already told you that.’

‘So you did.’

He obviously wasn’t one for small talk. He made his way back across the ward and resumed whatever it was he had been doing as Lydia stared helplessly at the screen, cheeks flaming, heart pounding, trying to ignore the delicious lingering waft of his after-shave, stunned at the response he’d elicited from her, curiously irritated at her body’s rather unloyal response.

She was pregnant, for heaven’s sake.

Wasn’t that supposed to exalt her to some sort of nun-like status?

Wasn’t her libido supposed to vanish with her waist line?

Not that it made a scrap of difference. From the black looks Corey flashed at her every now and then, from the rather terse way he addressed her, this was one relationship that was clearly set to stay professional.

Oh, well, Lydia sighed, pulling out her hair tie at the end of a long and exhausting day, snapping the folders closed and flicking off the light in the cupboard that doubled as her new office.

‘I thought you left ages ago.’ Corey looked up as she wandered past his office.

‘One day in and I’m already behind on the paperwork.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Corey grimaced, gesturing to his overloaded desk. ‘I was supposed to be off at four. Four a.m. more like.’

‘You’ve only got yourself to blame.’ When he frowned, Lydia smiled. ‘Most NUMs shut themselves in their offices for the best part of the day.’

‘Not my style.’ Corey shrugged.

‘Then stop complaining.’

She was almost smiling and so was Corey, clearly getting her rather dry off-beat humour.

‘I’ve been thinking about your problem and maybe you should come into work a bit earlier,’ Corey ventured as Lydia made to go.

‘Sorry?’ Turning, it was Lydia’s turn to frown now.

‘In this line of work there will always be paperwork. Why not do only the essentials at the end of the day and leave the rest till the morning, come in half an hour earlier?’ When Lydia’s frown remained he addressed her as one would a bemused three-year-old. ‘Your morning sickness—you said it hits you within half an hour of setting foot in a hospital. If you come in early, you can spend a bit of time acclimatising.’

‘Oh!’ Lydia blinked a couple of times, the solution so simple she couldn’t believe she hadn’t already thought of it.

‘And you’ll have more of the evening to put your feet up and relax.’

‘Better and better.’ Lydia smiled.

‘And I’m sure your husband will be pleased to see a bit more of you.’

She couldn’t be sure, the light on his overhead desk didn’t allow for an absolute inspection, but for a fleeting second Lydia swore his cheeks darkened.

‘There’s no husband.’ As Lydia swallowed nervously, Corey filled the uncomfortable silence.

‘Boyfriend, then.’

‘No boyfriend either.’ Another nervous swallow and when her voice came it was strangely high. ‘When I say no husband, what I meant was—’

Corey put his hand up. ‘You really don’t need to explain. I mean, I just assumed you had…’

Lydia looked down at her bump, which seemed to be growing like Pinocchio’s nose before her eyes, determined to make her feel as fat and as sexless as it was possible to feel, but dragging her eyes up, meeting Corey’s full on, her bump seemed to fade into insignificance, the cocktail of hormones fizzing through her bloodstream at that very second definitely not maternal. ‘It’s a natural assumption,’ Lydia said softly. ‘So natural, in fact, that I was naı¨ve enough to think it myself. We just got divorced.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Corey started, but it was Lydia putting her hand up now.

‘Don’t be.’ She gave a small shrug. ‘At least, not on my account. I’m saving all the sympathy for this little one.’

Putting a hand up to her stomach, Lydia felt the soft swell of her child beneath and for an awful moment she felt the appalling sting of tears on her lashes, struggled with a bottom lip that seemed to be involuntarily wobbling, before forcing a very brittle, very false smile. ‘’Night, then.’

‘’Night.’ Either he didn’t notice or politely ignored the slight tremor in her voice. Clicking on his pen, he turned to his notes as Lydia scurried through the unit, blinking back tears as she watched the two-by-two world of the neonatal unit, the mothers and fathers hovering by the cots, staring at the fragile miracles they had created, loving each other, leaning on each other. Not for the first time, Lydia wondered how on earth she could do this on her own.

As if on autopilot she washed her hands, made her way to the only incubator that didn’t have a parent beside it, stared at the little scrap of life who really knew what loneliness meant for a moment, before slowly putting her hand in and gently soothing the restless, furrowed brow.

‘What have I got to complain about, Patrick?’ Lydia said gently, smiling softly as he relaxed under her touch. ‘What have I got to complain about?’

CHAPTER TWO

LYDIA hated shopping.

Correction. Lydia loved shopping, adored trying on clothes, slipping her feet into strappy little sandals and pondering her purchase over a well-earned caffe latte.

She merely hated food shopping.

Still, it beat walking into an empty house…Leaning on a trolley that had a mind of its own, Lydia wandered aimlessly along the aisles, staring in utter bemusement at the rows upon rows of nappies and trying to fathom why it had to be so dammed complicated. Some were in kilos, some were in age, some spoke about softer outer, and stay-dry inners with tiny little teddies that faded when the nappy needed changing. Not for the first time, Lydia felt a surge of panic well inside her.

What on earth was she doing?

How on earth was she supposed to cope with a living, breathing, crying, demanding baby of her very own when she couldn’t even decide what type of nappies to purchase? Sure, she dealt with babies every day, handled the most fragile infant with skill and confidence, made life-and-death decisions in the blink of an eye, but, and here was the big one…

At the end of the day she went home!

Picking up speed, she drifted out of the baby aisle, pushing aside her intention to make one purchase a week for the baby. Why change the habits of a lifetime? She always did her Christmas shopping at the last minute and undoubtedly the baby gear would be dealt with in the same vein.

It would all get done in the end.

Humming abstractedly to the piped music, Lydia filled her trolley with a stash of meals for one, before turning into the soft-drink aisle, her lethargic spirits lifting as with a jolt she saw Corey Hughes—or at the least the back of him.

It was becoming a rather familiar response these days. They’d been working alongside each other for a week now and even though the atmosphere between them was still strained, to say the least, even though Lydia thought him a rather arrogant know-all, her body simply refused to listen, insisting upon darkening her face with a blush and sending her heart rate into overdrive every time she glimpsed him!

Disappointingly, though, one arm was rather protectively around an incredibly tiny, incredibly pretty woman, while with the other he struggled to contain the most appallingly behaved child in the history of the world.

For a second Lydia considered making a hasty U-turn, darting back to the relative safety of the nappy section, but the thought of Corey catching her making a rapid retreat, of seeing the effect he was having on her, was enough incentive to beat back her blush. She sauntered in what she hoped was a casual way along the aisle, pretending to concentrate on the soft drinks, practising a casual hello and smile in her head as she worked her way nearer, then realising as she edged closer that she needn’t have bothered.

Corey was so engrossed in cartons of orange juice that, had she stripped off and congad naked behind her shopping trolley, she doubted he’d have even looked up. Instead of disciplining his appalling child, instead of forcing the squealing, tantrum-throwing toddler back into its stroller, his deep loud voice droned on and on about the merits of home brands as opposed to named ones, to check for any special offers and, of course, to always look at the contents. It might look like a bargain but if there were only four hundred mls in the container…

It was at that point that Lydia questioned the merits of first impressions.

That sexy, rugged, good-looking guy evaporated there and then. To see him at his domestic worst truly pulled the wool from Lydia’s eyes and she was eternally grateful for it.

She hated meanness in men, hated it more than anything in the world, well, except for adultery, but that wasn’t the issue here. She could just imagine him in the loo-roll section—he’d probably whip out a calculator and work out the sheets per roll and the benefits of two- as opposed to four-ply.

‘Lydia!’

Truly caught, she had no choice but to smile, but due to her sudden insight there was no trace of awkwardness. ‘So you’re a late-night shopping addict, too.’

‘Absolutely.’ Corey smiled warmly. ‘Fewer people…’

‘More chance of spotting a bargain.’ Lydia muttered. Glancing down at her own trolley, she realised how empty her statement sounded. For all her determination, for all her self-conditioning and occasional attempts, somehow cooking chicken massala from scratch seemed so dammed complicated and, perhaps more to the point, when flour and coconut milk weren’t staples of your larder, so damned expensive.

She was saving money really!

Still for tight gits like Corey, her trolley probably did look rather extravagant!

‘This is Adele.’ Corey gave a wide smile as Lydia nodded politely. ‘And this is Bailey.’

Bailey didn’t look up. He was too busy pulling orange juice off the shelves and creating chaos to care about introductions as Adele stood silently, her pretty face almost surly as she eyed Lydia, clearly uncomfortable at the intrusion.

‘Best get on.’ Lydia smiled, moving gratefully into aisle four and immersing herself in two-minute noodles.

They met again at the checkout, Lydia blushing to her roots as Corey counted out the notes to the cashier, checked and rechecked his change with the unfortunate Adele while Bailey helped himself to a large slab of chocolate from the display stand.

‘Poor woman,’ Lydia muttered to the checkout girl as finally they moved off.

‘Oh, I don’t know…’ The checkout girl looked dreamily over her shoulder as the trio departed, didn’t even offer Lydia the mandatory ‘How are you tonight?’ ‘I think he’s kind of cute.’

This was the bit she hated—unloading the groceries from the boot of the car, lugging them up the garden path and heaving the bags into a dark, empty house. No one to come out and offer to help, no one to moan she’d forgotten to get coffee-beans…

No one, full stop.

Not that she minded her own company. When Gavin had still lived there, invariably he’d be away on some course or interstate on some business trip—at least, that’s what he’d said he’d been doing, Lydia thought darkly, filling her freezer with her purchases. She hadn’t minded a bit—in fact, she’d actually enjoyed it in many ways. Having beans on toast, or just toast for dinner, even taking the said toast into bed and curling up with a good book.

Gavin had hated that.

Come to think of it, Gavin had hated a lot of things in the last few months of their marriage.

Slamming the freezer door closed, Lydia pulled a couple of slices of bread out of the pantry and loaded them into the toaster.

Toast, a good book and bed.

What more could a girl want?

‘I’ve saved you a ticket.’

Frowning into the telephone that seemed to be permanently glued to her ear these days, Lydia looked up.

‘For what?’

‘The special care unit Christmas fundraising ball. It’s held every year at the beginning of December and it usually turns out to be a great night.’

‘No, don’t put me back on hold,’ Lydia yelped as finally a human voice responded, but as the music droned on Lydia settled back for the long haul, digging in her pocket for a proverbial ten-dollar note then baulking as she eyed the gold-rimmed ticket more closely. ‘Two hundred dollars!’

‘It’s a black-tie do.’ Corey shrugged. ‘And the money goes to a good cause.’

‘It’s a bloody rip-off.”

He thought she was joking. Looking up, she watched him laugh, waiting for her to pull out her cheque book, to sign herself up for taxi fare both ways and a maternity ballgown that would make the ticket price pale into comparison, but for the first time in her adult life Lydia couldn’t do it, couldn’t write a cheque for the sake of it, couldn’t rob Peter to pay Paul. Suddenly money mattered when it never had before.

‘I’ll let you know.’ Frowning into the telephone, Lydia turned away but still he persisted.

‘You’re not working.’ Corey grinned. ‘I’ve checked, so there’s no excuse.’

‘How about this for an excuse?’ Swinging her chair around, Lydia met him face on, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at having to admit the appalling truth, her voice too harsh, too sharp as she choked on the pride she was being forced to swallow yet again. ‘For someone who’s so up on the price of orange juice, for someone who checks their change three times before moving off from the checkout, you’re terribly careless where other people’s money is concerned.

‘Did it never occur to you that just because I’m a registrar, just because I’m supposedly affluent and raking it in—maybe that isn’t the case?’ She watched his eyes widen, watched as he attempted to beg to differ, but Lydia was on a roll now. ‘Would you be quite so accepting if your wife strolled home with a two-hundred-dollar ticket in her hand?’

‘I don’t have a wife.’ Corey shrugged.

‘Well, girlfriend, then,’ Lydia snapped. ‘The poor woman’s received a five-minute lecture into the variances of orange juice prices and she has to show you her cashier’s receipt, yet you don’t bat an eyelid when it’s a co-worker’s money you’re spending!’

Suddenly the temperature seemed to have dropped, suddenly the usually stifling nurses’ station seemed to be taking on arctic proportions. As she watched his face darken Lydia knew she’d gone way too far. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘That was way below the belt.’

‘It was,’ Corey agreed grimly, and Lydia shifted uncomfortably as he carried on talking. ‘Adele’s not my wife and neither do I have a girlfriend or a son.’ He watched her frown, watched her squirm for an uncomfortable second before continuing.

‘Adele’s my sister, Bailey’s my nephew, and for your information I personally couldn’t give a damn about the price of orange juice, but given the fact my sister was involved in a car accident two years ago and she has changed from an eloquent, educated woman into someone with the personality of an errant teenager, it seems rather more fitting to show her that ten dollars can be spent on staples like bread and orange juice rather than a basket full of crisps and bubble gum or cheap wine and cigarettes.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Lydia’s voice was a faint whisper. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

‘Not as sorry as I am,’ Corey responded curtly, and picking up his stethoscope he shot her a black look before stalking off to his office. She was vaguely aware of a voice on the telephone line, vaguely aware of someone asking how they could help, but mumbling her apologies Lydia hung up the telephone, appalled at what she had done and desperate if not to put things right exactly to at least make some sort of amends.

Knocking on his office door, she neither expected nor received a response. Pushing the door open, she stood for a hesitant moment watching as Corey scribbled furiously on the paperwork in front of him, determinedly not looking up. Lydia rather less determinedly moved the pile of folders herself this time and, after making sure the door was firmly closed behind her, tentatively sat down.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So you said.’

‘I’d like to explain something—’

‘There’s really no need,’ Corey cut in, fixing her with a most withering glare.

‘But there is.’ Dragging her eyes down, Lydia went to fiddle with the solid gold band around her wedding finger, as she did when she was nervous, but like everything else familiar to her it wasn’t there. ‘What I said out there was wrong. Whether Adele is your sister, wife or girlfriend, I had absolutely no right to pass judgement on you, no right to infer you were mean.’ She was tying her fingers in knots now. ‘Which you’re not, of course, but even if you were, even if you do care about the price of loo rolls…’

‘We were in the soft-drink section,’ Corey pointed out, and if she’d looked up at that point she’d have been rewarded with a ghost of a smile. ‘Where do loo rolls come into it?’

‘They don’t.’ Her eyes did meet his then, briefly, awkwardly and she immediately pulled them away. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I was way out of line.’

‘You were,’ Corey agreed, but more gently this time. ‘But I was probably being overly sensitive.’ Those massive shoulders moved downwards as he gave a ragged sigh, and Lydia saw the lines of concern grooved around his eyes. ‘There’s a lot going on there.’

‘With Adele?’

Corey nodded. ‘She was a lawyer. Hard to believe it now, but she was the epitome of sophistication. Somehow she and Luke made it all look so damn easy.’

‘Luke’s her husband?’ Lydia checked, wincing when Corey continued.

‘Was. He was killed in the car accident. Adele was in a coma for six weeks. We were so close to making that awful decision—to discontinue treatment. She was so sick and there really seemed no hope.’

‘But look how well she’s done,’ Lydia said optimistically, her voice trailing off as Corey shook his head.

‘She suffered massive brain injuries—she’s got frontal lobe damage, which means no inhibitions and no responsibility for her actions. Sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing.’ Strained eyes met hers. ‘You’ve seen Bailey. No doubt you think the kid needs a good smack, to be disciplined…’

Lydia shook her head, but her blush gave her away.

‘You wouldn’t be alone,’ Corey said sadly. ‘Bailey was in the accident as well. He’s undergoing a load of tests, they’re not sure if he suffered brain damage himself or if he’s got attention deficit disorder. His paediatrician has even started to suggest autism.’

‘What do you think?’ Lydia asked, hearing the doubt in his voice.

‘I think it’s a rather more basic problem.’

‘Such as?’ The room was deathly quiet now and it took an age for him to answer.

‘Neglect,’ Corey said finally. ‘I’ve made so many excuses for her, rushed over there to clean up before the social worker comes, filled up her fridge with healthy food. I go round every night or morning and bath him, cut his toenails, clean his ears, all the things Adele wouldn’t even think of doing, but…’

‘It’s not enough?’ Lydia ventured, watching as Corey shook his head sadly.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Corey admitted. ‘So if I jumped down your throat out there, it was with reason.’

‘You had every right to jump down my throat,’ Lydia said softly. ‘Even without what you’ve just told me. I know I can be harsh sometimes, know I can come across as rude. In fact, it’s becoming rather a habit.’ Tears were appallingly close now, but she blinked them away, picking instead at an imaginary piece of fluff on her theatre blues. ‘I seem to be eternally putting my foot in it these days, snapping people’s heads off, saying the wrong thing…’

‘You’ve got a lot on your mind.’

‘I know,’ Lydia admitted, ‘but so do you and yet you still manage to come to work with a smile. It would be nice to manage a simple greeting without messing things up.’

‘I think you’re being a bit harsh on yourself. I haven’t had any complaints from the staff and the parents seem to like you.’

‘Because I talk to them about medicine,’ Lydia snapped, and then bit it back, shrugging her shoulders helplessly at her own abrasiveness. ‘Six months ago I was an entirely different person.’ She gestured to the window, and they stared out through the half-open blinds for a second or two before Lydia carried on talking. ‘See Jo there, chatting away while she works, laughing at something someone’s said? Well, that was me. I knew all the staff, and I don’t mean just their names, I knew what was happening in their lives.’

‘You’ve only been here a couple of weeks,’ Corey pointed out, but Lydia shook her head.

‘I’m a fast learner. I get on with people, or at least I used to.’ Green eyes were staring at her now, the anger gone from them. But Lydia knew he deserved an explanation and, perhaps more pointedly, she wanted to tell him her story, though why she couldn’t quite fathom.

‘I thought we had a good marriage. Gavin was a pharmacologist working for a big US drug company. He was away a lot, but I didn’t mind.’ Corey didn’t say anything, just headed for the inevitable kettle, making a cup of tea as she carried on talking. Lydia was infinitely grateful for the reprieve from his gaze as she told her difficult tale. ‘He was involved in drug trials on my old ward. It was terribly complicated and meant he was there a lot.’

‘You didn’t mind?’ It was the first time Corey had spoken, his hand hovering over the sugar bowl but his back still to her. ‘Seeing him at work every day?’

‘Not in the slightest. I mean, we were so busy there wasn’t exactly time for social chit-chat, at least not on my part.’ She watched him spoon the sugar into her mug, watched as it passed the one mark and went to two, didn’t even think to stop him as a third sugar hit was ladled into the brew. Accepting the sickly offer, she took a sip, glad of the sweet warmth before she continued. ‘You asked where the loo rolls came into things.’ A hollow laugh filled the room. ‘Suddenly we were rowing about everything, even down to loo rolls, but whenever I pushed, whenever I asked what was wrong, I got the same response: “I’m just tired.” I knew that wasn’t it, knew there must be something else…’ Her voice trailed off and Corey spoke for her.

‘He was having an affair?’

‘Of course.’ She watched as he blinked in surprise at her openness, even managed a wry smile of her own as she found her voice again. ‘But that’s not the best bit. As I said, I knew there was something wrong and finally Gavin came up with an answer. He wanted a baby, figured that now we were in our thirties it wasn’t such an unreasonable request.’

‘You didn’t want children?’

Lydia shook her head. ‘No. When people asked, I always qualified that with “not for ages”, but the honest answer is I really didn’t want to have a child. I love my work, loved my husband, it was truly enough for me.’

‘But not for Gavin?’

‘Seemingly not. He knew I didn’t want children and with hindsight I guess it was the one thing he could hang on me, apportion blame to. I guess he didn’t know me well enough.’ Tired, confused eyes met his. ‘I came off the Pill.’ Her voice dropped so low it was barely audible. ‘Figured I was being selfish. After all, it was hardly an unreasonable request—we’d been married five years, for heaven’s sake. I should have held my ground.’

Realising she’d lost him, Lydia gave a tired shrug.

‘It turned out he never wanted a baby either. It was just an excuse, an excuse to dust away the rows, to explain the sudden lethargy and the problems we supposedly had. Gavin no more wanted a child than I did. I found out he was sleeping with one of the nurses on my ward.’

‘Oh, no.’ She heard the genuine shock in Corey’s voice but it bought no comfort. Lydia was far too used to being the centre of gossip, way too used to the incredulous reaction to the news.

‘Oh, yes! He’d been sleeping with Marcia for three months, and the worst part was I thought she was my friend.’ Her eyes screwed closed for a second. ‘She was actually my best friend. I thought we were really close, I’m not one for opening up…’

‘I’d never have guessed.’

His dry comment even forced a tiny smile but it didn’t last long as Lydia continued her painful tale. ‘I’d even confided in her about our problems, told her I was thinking of coming off the Pill…’ Gripping her fists tightly in her lap, Lydia took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I know it was a one-off, know most people don’t behave like that, would be appalled by Marcia’s behaviour, but I simply don’t know how to respond any more, I don’t know who I can trust.’

‘You can trust me.’ The directness of his statement caught her unawares, dragged her out of her introspection, enough to at least meet his eyes. ‘I know I’m no compensation for an errant husband and a lousy best friend, but I can be a good ally when needed.’

Lydia nodded. ‘When you asked for the money—’

‘Forget it,’ Corey said. ‘It was my turn to be insensitive, my turn to make stupid assumptions. You’re right. Because you’re a registrar, because you’ve got fabulous nails and immaculate hair, I assumed you were loaded.’

‘Immaculate hair.’ Lydia gave an incredulous laugh. ‘It’s all over the place.’

‘So is Nicole Kidman’s,’ Corey pointed out.

Lydia gave a dry laugh. ‘Ah, but mine’s naturally chaotic.’ Peering down at her hands, Lydia stared at her nails.

And very nice they looked, too! But only because she’d given up biting them, only because she’d awarded herself a weekly home manicure as a treat for not chewing the blessed things.

‘As seemingly unplanned as this baby was, I had at least worked out the basics.’ Her eyes were still focused on her nails, the uncomfortable subject of money not really allowing for eye contact. ‘I was due long service leave, I’d worked at Bayside for years, I had more sick days and annual leave owing than anyone I’ve ever met, the pay office was always ringing and insisting I take a break…’

‘But the roster never accommodated,’ Corey filled in wisely, and Lydia nodded.

‘I could have taken close to a year off on full pay, bar shift allowance, but at the end of the day I couldn’t do it, couldn’t stay there another minute, with everyone knowing my business, everyone feeling sorry for me.’

‘Did Marcia leave?’

‘Why would she?’ Lydia responded, surprisingly without bitterness. ‘When I was more than ready to?

‘So now I’m having the baby Gavin insisted he wanted but evidently didn’t and facing three months off with no maternity leave pay. And as I bought Gavin out, I’ve now got a mortgage that would feed a third world country.’

‘You can make him pay,’ Corey ventured, but watching her stiffen he changed track. ‘Sorry, wrong choice of words. What I’m trying to say—’

‘I know,’ Lydia gulped. ‘And you’re right, I could make him pay: drag him through the children’s court for alimony and child support. But I’m not going to do it, Corey, because guess what? I neither want nor need his help. He signed himself out of this marriage when he slept with Marcia, and for a guy who’s so wrapped up in saving lives with his bloody drug trials, he couldn’t even raise a smile when he found out I was pregnant. So if you think I’m going to run to him with a begging bowl…’ She stopped, realising her anger, however merited, was misdirected. ‘I’d love to go to the ball, love to dig in my bag and sign a cheque, but the simple truth is I can’t.’ Lydia gave a dry smile ‘Have you seen the price of nappies?”

‘Wait till they’re weaned and hit the orange juice!’

She would have laughed but tears had started. Corey pushed a box of tissues over the desk and when she couldn’t quite reach it he came around, wrapping her in his arms as if she were a rugby ball, letting her cry as if it was the most natural thing in the world, not remotely embarrassed as he held her and wiped rivers of mascara from her cheeks.

And somewhere in mid-gulp, somewhere between another tissue and a glass of water, those arms that were holding her didn’t feel quite so comforting any more, the aftershave filling her nostrils not quite so reassuring…

Panicky and out of control would be a rather more apt description, and for the first time in months it had nothing to do with an errant husband and a baby that hadn’t been on the agenda.

For the first time in months it had everything nice to do with being a woman.

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.