by Dianne Drake
She studied him for a moment, her tingling senses still not abating. “Is this some kind of a game, Dante? Did you want to get me into this position to see how far I would go? Because you know what? If it’s a game, you win. I would have done it again with you. Nothing held back.” Including her heart. “So you’ve proved yourself now. Are you happy? You’re a heartbreaker, a real love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy. Nothing’s changed, has it, Dante? You’re still the same bastard who did this to me five years ago then cheated on me with another woman.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
CATHERINE paced back and forth in tiny her office for an hour before she finally sank down onto the couch, kicked off her shoes and pretended she was going to sleep. She knew it wouldn’t happen. Not after what she and Dante had just done…almost done. Would have done right there had it not been for Gianni sleeping in the next room.
What was it in her make-up that made her keep falling for him the way she did, even when she knew what it would get her? Why couldn’t she resist, or simply find the will to walk away?
They’d had their rules the first time. Their relationship was supposed to have been casual and convenient. No strings, or anything that even hinted at permanence. She’d known that going in, yet it hadn’t stopped her from developing feelings. Feelings that, frankly, had surprised her as the rules had been hers, not Dante’s. But then he’d asked her to marry him and the rules had changed. Which had been a mistake that had changed so many other rules in life, including the one where she intended staying single because she’d said yes to him even before she’d taken a breath.
Now here she was, heading in exactly the same direction and, if anything, she needed those rules back now more than ever. Yet look at her. Willing. Able. So close. And she wasn’t able to stop it. So what was it? Something in her? Or in Dante? Was it that unbelievable chemistry that came along only once in a lifetime, the chemistry that stripped away all sense and left only…vulnerability?
Or was it…?
No! She wasn’t going to admit that. Not out loud. Not to herself. She’d called him a selfish bastard for walking away from her all those years ago and not giving her any choices about the way he had been willing to return, then cheating on her when she hadn’t done it his way. That’s where she was going to leave it now because she wasn’t ready to admit that what she’d thought long since over had never stopped.
Catherine let out an exasperated sigh. Another moment or two lost in his kiss would have been too late. That’s one thing she knew for sure, amid all the other uncertainties. “Stupid,” she muttered, as she reached above her head to pull the chain on the light.
As the room was pitched into darkness, though, the memories she was trying to blot out flooded in even more. Dante five years ago, Dante just this evening. She desperately needed that time off she’d asked Max for. He’d said no, but now she was going to have to insist. He’d agreed if that became the case, she could go. So she would.
For the sake of her sanity.
And her heart.
That was it. The perfect solution. She’d go home for two weeks. Back to the States to visit her mother. Back to the States where she would be nowhere near Dante, and she’d have time to think. Good plan. Brilliant, in fact!
That resolve made, Catherine yanked the chain, turning the light back on, then she hopped up from the couch, padded across the carpeted floor to her desk, and turned on her computer. Her first site—one of those travel services. Three clicks later and she was looking at a whole host of airline schedules…One more click and she’d have a ticket.
She was debating the number of stops she was willing to make in her flight in order to get the best deal, her fingers poised above the mouse that would click her acceptance, when a soft knock at her door broke her attention. Dante come to apologize? Or to finish what they’d started?
She didn’t say anything. Maybe he’d think she’d gone back to her house. Or was seeing a patient.
Another knock sounded, however, this one louder. Whoever was out there wasn’t going away. “Come in,” she finally said, bracing herself in case it was Dante. But it wasn’t. It was one of the night nurses, a young woman by the name of Inga who’d been at Aeberhard only a few weeks. She was looking positively stricken about something.
“I didn’t want to bother you, but…”
Catherine gestured her in further than the doorway in which she stood, clinging to the wooden frame.
“But I haven’t been able to find Dr Mitthoeffer. Mrs O’Brian is having muscle spasms and I wanted him to look at her, maybe prescribe a light dose of a relaxant. But he’s not answering his pager or his cellphone.” Dr Johann Mitthoeffer was one of the two general surgeons employed here—he had his own surgical practice and stepped in as a part-timer for a few shifts a week. In fact, the majority of her other doctors did the same—ran their own practice elsewhere and came here for several shifts.
“Have you checked in his office?”
“Lights are out, door is locked,” Inga replied.
Most odd, Catherine thought as she picked up the phone to dial Dr Mitthoeffer’s cellphone. He was reliable, he didn’t just wander off. None of her doctors did. But after three rings, when his phone switched to voicemail, a tiny chill wiggled up her back. Mitthoeffer didn’t know she was in the building tonight so, as far as he was concerned, he was the only Doctor actually in the clinic.
Yet he wasn’t answering!
Catherine stood, grabbed a set of pass keys from her desk, pulled on her white jacket and headed for the door, slipping into her shoes on the way. Two minutes later she was entering Dr Mitthoeffer’s office. “Perhaps he left a note,” she said to Inga, who was right on her heels. She hoped so as with any other scenario, she was afraid she’d have to relieve him of his duty here. Which she didn’t want to do. While they rarely had an occasion to use Dr Mitthoeffer as a surgeon, it was always good to know he was on staff and available as he was an excellent doctor.
Two steps into the office Catherine turned on the light. Immediately, she discovered Mitthoeffer’s tan wool coat hanging on the coat tree. Next to it sat the boots he wore for trudging through the snow.
So he was here.
The warning hairs on the back of her neck shot up, and Catherine practically ran to Dr Mitthoeffer’s desk where, behind it, she found him sprawled in a heap on the floor. His face was the whitish-gray shade of death, causing her to fear the worst as she dropped to her knees next to him, immediately searching for a pulse. Thank God it was there. Faint, thready, but definitely there. “Call a code,” she instructed Inga. Normally a code blue was reserved for a resuscitation and, technically, Dr Mitthoeffer didn’t need that as he had a pulse and he was dragging in tiny gulps of air. But she needed what was available on the crash cart—a cart chock full of emergency medical supplies.
“Johann, can you hear me?” she called, pulling the penlight from her pocket to assess his pupillary action. Sluggish, not following the light.
Stroke?
“Johann, listen to me!”
At first, she wasn’t sure he could hear, but after a long moment he did stir a little, attempting to raise his right index finger. He didn’t open his eyes, though.
“Look, Johann, I need you to tell me what happened, if you can.” A heart attack was a strong possibility, too, and she was beginning to rule out a stroke as he was moving both his arms reflexively now. “Good, Johann,” she said, grabbing her stethoscope from her pocket, sticking in her earspieces and taking a listen to his chest. Seemed normal enough. Heart ticking away, too fast, too faint, but fighting to keep going.
It wasn’t acting like a heart attack either as he was burning up with fever. Even without a thermometer, she could feel the heat rolling off his body. Infection of some sort? “Have you been ill?” she asked, beginning a rapid assessment, starting at his neck. She felt for swelling, abnormalities, and finding none moved on down. “Or allergic to anything?” This could be an anaphylactic reaction of some sor
t, but she didn’t think so.
His eyes fluttered open briefly. Normally a robust man of fifty, right now Johann Mitthoeffer looked twenty years older than that as he struggled to focus on her. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His hand fluttered away from his side, though, and he pointed weakly to his right lower abdomen.
Appendicitis? Most people felt the pain of it, but in some rare instances that wasn’t the case. Occasionally it manifested as only a twinge, or there were no symptoms at all. Was that what was happening here? “Your appendix?” she asked, shifting her position at his side.
He blinked, rather than nodding.
“I think it’s ruptured, Johann.” That made sense. Ruptured appendix, infection. Elevated temperature. Critical illness. She was fairly certain now that the infected appendix had burst, spread its poisons, and Johann had probably been close to dying even before he’d known he was ill.
He blinked again, shuddered out a ragged sigh when she gently prodded his right lower abdomen, and faded back into unconsciousness.
“Dr Wilder?” Inga called, pushing the crash cart in through the office door.
“Oxygen first,” Catherine said, rising up on her knees to look over Johann’s desk. “Get his blood pressure reading, then start an IV. Also…call Dr…No, I’ll do that.”
She pushed herself up off the floor, made way for Inga to get through, then instructed the other nurse who’d followed her in to go and prepare the operating theater for surgery. Yes, they did have a small one there. Rarely used, and not set up for anything major. She’d rather have sent Johann to the city—bigger facilities, more doctors—but the trip would kill him, if the poison surging through his body didn’t get him first.
Another of the nurses came in—the director of the night shift. Marie Ober was a stout woman, very no-nonsense, and once she was on the scene Catherine trusted her to make sure everything was done properly. “Get his vitals, then get him ready to transport to surgery. I’ve got to go call Dr Rand and get him in here as fast as I can,” she said, on her way out the door. Dr Rand was the second of their surgeons.
Such good staff, Catherine thought as she ran back to her office to look up Dr Eric Rand’s telephone number. Thank God, he lived only a few short kilometers from the clinic. Otherwise…well, she didn’t want to think about that.
Catherine flipped though her card file and rang up Eric as quickly as her fingers could punch in the numbers. After three rings, his wife answered. “Eric’s not here tonight,” she informed Catherine. “He’s gone to Paris for the next two days, a medical seminar. Since he wasn’t on your surgical schedule, neither was he on call…” The rest of the words were a blur, and when Catherine hung up, her mind was already racing ahead to another plan. Maybe Dr Franz? He was retired from surgery now, and lived some way out, but he could be here in less than two hours. Or Dr Dowd? He wasn’t a surgeon, but he’d gone through part of a surgical residency before switching to sports medicine. And he was just an hour away.
Not good choices, she thought as her mind went to Dante. He could do it. For him, it would be easy even after all this time. She’d seen that before with Mrs Gunter. Dante’s surgical skills were still polished, still perfect.
But would he do it? Resuscitating a woman from anaphylactic shock the way he had done was a simple thing, but this was a life-threatening condition.
And Dr Dante Baldassare was her only hope because this was a procedure she could not work her way through the way she could have with Mrs Gunter’s tracheotomy. This required precise surgical skill, and she wasn’t a surgeon.
There wasn’t time to think, wasn’t time to debate the choices. Johann was hovering so close to death there wasn’t a minute to waste.
Quickly she rang up Max, explained the situation, and asked him to come in and take call, as she expected to assist in surgery. Then she ran down the hall to Dante’s suite and pounded on the door. When he didn’t answer immediately, she went in. “Dante!” she shouted, flipping on the overhead light in the entry vestibule then rushing into his bedroom.
“What the hell?” he shouted.
“I have a patient with a ruptured appendix. Don’t have a surgeon here, can’t get one in time, and can’t get Johann out in time to save his life.”
“And you expect me to do what?” Slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, but made no attempt to get up.
“Operate.”
He shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice dead serious. “I can’t do that.”
“You’re the only one who can.”
“But I can’t. Do you know how long it’s been?”
“Then he’ll die,” she said, not even trying to soften the impact of her words. “Dr Johann Mitthoeffer, our surgeon, is unconscious, his appendix has ruptured, and right now infection is spreading though his body. His vital signs are weak, he’s barely hanging on, and we have no other options. Either you do it, or I’ll have to take a try at it myself.” A thought that horrified her as she was wholly unqualified. But there was nothing else.
“You can’t operate, Catherine. If it’s ruptured, and the infection is already spreading…” Dante gave his head an impatient shake. “You’ll kill him if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“He’s going to die anyway.”
“Do you have someone for anesthesia?”
“My chief nurse was a nurse anesthetist. She’s already prepping.”
“And a scrub tech?”
“Inga will do.”
Forcing out an angry sigh, he rose to his feet. “Have someone call my father or Cristofor to come stay with Gianni. The number for their hotel is in the medical chart.”
Catherine blinked her surprise. “You’ll do it?”
“I sure as hell don’t want to. I haven’t held a scalpel in five years except in those few minutes with your peanut allergy patient, and you’re giving me a patient who probably won’t make it. It’s not a good situation, Catherine, and I hate like hell that you’re dragging me into it. But, yes, I’ll do it but only because you don’t give me another choice.” He pointed to the wheelchair at the side of the room. “Take me down in that. It’ll be faster.” Then he threw on a robe and dropped down into the chair, and they were off, not a word spoken between them until they reached the operating theater.
“Your father is on his way,” Inga told Dante, as Catherine wheeled him into the prep room. “I’ve assigned one of the nurse aides to stay with your son until your father arrives.”
Dante managed a pleasant smile for Inga. “I appreciate that,” he said, then pushed himself to the edge of the wheelchair, and stood. “Now,” he said, turning towards Catherine as Inga scurried from the room, “I need surgical scrubs, shoe covers and whatever the hell they use as protective gear in surgery these days.”
He was in a snit. She didn’t blame him. Under the same circumstances she would have been, too. In a snit, or worse. And as she watched him pull off his silk pajamas and slip into surgical scrubs, paying no heed to the fact that he was quite naked underneath or that she was watching, and as he limped his way over to the surgical supply shelf for protective eyewear, it hit her. That admission she didn’t want to say aloud, or even think. An admission that was pounding at her. She loved Dante. Was in love with him. The real kind of love. The kind that hadn’t died over all these years.
She’d never, ever been just a little in love with him, as she’d tried to convince herself she was. In fact, she’d never loved him as much as she did right now.
She’d never tell him, of course. Couldn’t tell him. His life scared her. And he scared her for all the things he was, and wasn’t. But the man she was watching at this moment was the man she’d always known he was…the one she’d fallen in love with years ago, when she’d been too stupid to realize that it had been more than a crush or a reaction to their chemistry.
Catherine wasn’t sure that this startling revelation meant anything in terms of her own life, because she still couldn’t hav
e Dante. But the little tangle of apprehension that had been sitting in the pit of her stomach since he’d come to Aeberhard had just shrunk. Knowing for sure what she felt was bad. But it was good, too. “Thank you,” she whispered, as he pulled on a surgical cap. “Thank you for doing this.”
He gave her an odd look, and his eyes softened. “It scares the hell out of me, Catherine. I shouldn’t be going anywhere near that patient, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. If the man wasn’t about to die, I wouldn’t.”
She smiled sympathetically. “You’ll save him, Dante. You’re a brilliant surgeon.”
“In the past. A long time ago.”
“Maybe. But I don’t believe you’ve forgotten it, or lost your skills,” she said softly. Walking over to Dante, she stopped in front of him, leaned up and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I don’t believe that at all.”
Turning to the sink to commence scrubbing, he tapped the foot pedal to let the water flow, then dipped his arms into the spray. “You’ll be there?”
“Right across the table from you.”
He turned and studied her face for a moment, as she studied his. From that point on they didn’t say another word to each other. Not as they scrubbed, not as they finished dressing, pulled up masks and walked into the operating theater.
Not until she was standing across the operating table from him, and he was calling for a scalpel.
If he’d thought the pain after his accident had been the worst thing he’d ever experienced, he’d been wrong. This was the worst pain. Right now! His legs burned so badly he couldn’t move them. His hands ached from the tension of gripping the scalpel so tightly he’d actually cut off circulation in his fingers twice during the three-hour procedure. And there were no words to describe what was going on in his neck and back.
He was so out of shape. How had he ever done this before?
Honestly, he couldn’t remember. He’d been in top condition back when he had been a surgeon, but overall he was in much better physical shape now. His body was toned in only the way an athlete would be. He worked out and exercised daily because races were an event of endurance. They were long, hard, fast. A human body had to be ready for the competition, had to be ready for the pounding that went on for hours. Yet a human body also had to be ready to do what he’d done, and his body was not. Thank God Hans had heard news of what was happening and had come into the clinic. For the last hour and a half he’d literally acted as a prop to Dante, letting Dante shift his weight to Hans when he’d needed to. Then afterwards, when the surgery had ended, and Catherine had been closing the incision, finishing the other last details, Hans had been the one to help him into the wheelchair, then brought him here to the whirlpool.
