Forbidden to the Playboy Surgeon

by Fiona Lowe

  * * *

  Alistair’s mind fought the pea-soup fog that encased it as he watched Claire’s mouth move. Then her words hit him and everything rushed back. The virtual tennis. His dizziness. His almost certain belief that he was dying.

  I love you.

  His hand immediately moved to his left shoulder, his fingers frantically feeling for the small box-like device that had been part of him for the last five years. The shape and scar he’d hidden from Claire. All he could feel was adhesive tape and discomfort.

  ‘It’s gone,’ Claire said matter-of-factly. ‘Thomas removed it.’

  He didn’t understand. If Thomas had removed his pacemaker he’d be dead. But he couldn’t be dead because he could feel the warmth of Claire’s hand and the softness of her skin against his. ‘If it’s gone, what’s keeping me alive?’

  ‘The world’s smallest pacemaker. It’s wireless, and it’s sitting snugly in your right ventricle doing its job perfectly.’

  ‘Wireless?’ He knew he sounded inane but he was struggling to piece everything together.

  She nodded and squeezed his hand again. ‘Tell me. Exactly how long had you been playing virtual tennis when I arrived to find you on the verge of collapse?’

  He thought back and automatically scratched his head, noticing the IV taped to the back of his hand. ‘I’m not sure. Some of the kids wanted a tournament so I organised it and I played too. We started before dinner and kept going until Sister Kaur hustled them off to bed. I suppose I stayed a little bit longer after that.’

  She made a sound that was half a groan and half despairing laugh. ‘Alistair, that adds up to about five hours.’

  He shrugged and the stitches in his shoulder immediately pulled. Ouch. ‘So? I had the time. It’s just swiping a plastic bat through the air. It’s not like I was lifting weights for hours on end.’

  She dropped her head for a moment before lifting it and pushing her glasses up her nose. She gazed at him, her eyes full of love and affection with a hint of frustration. ‘I know it wasn’t weightlifting or rugby but substantial repetitive action for that length of time isn’t recommended for people with pacemakers.’

  The events of the evening came back to him and he started joining the dots. ‘I should have gone home but I was procrastinating. I didn’t realise how long I’d been trying to beat that bloody machine.’ I was too busy thinking about you. ‘Did I damage a lead?’

  ‘Thomas will explain it all to you but he thinks it’s more likely you exacerbated a fault. The good news is your new pacemaker’s titanium. There are no leads and the battery and pulse generator are all combined into one tiny device the size of a pill.’

  He glanced at the monitor and saw the perfect run of sinus rhythm. ‘It’s working.’

  ‘It’s working very well indeed.’ She winked at him. ‘So now. Back to the fact that you love me.’

  The relief at being alive took a hit from reality. God, how was he going to get out of this situation without hurting her? Without hurting himself. ‘I thought I was dying.’

  She didn’t flinch and she didn’t break her gaze. ‘I know.’

  A long sigh shuddered out of him. ‘Now that you know all about my secret time bomb, you can understand why me loving you doesn’t change a thing.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘I disagree. I think it changes everything.’

  He threw his arm out towards the monitor and the pump. ‘You saw me collapse. You worked on me. You know I could die at any moment and I refuse to put you through that.’

  ‘So, what? We just live miserable lives apart and when I die before you at ninety, then you’ll realise what a dumb idea this is?’

  He pulled his hand away from hers, needing to break the addictive warmth that promised what he couldn’t have. ‘I’m not going to live until ninety.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  But he did. ‘Claire.’ He sighed again. ‘You deserve a long and happy life with someone who can give you healthy children. Someone who will be around to see them grow up. I can’t promise you either of those things.’

  Her mouth pursed. ‘The pacemaker overrides your SA node’s propensity not to fire. With that sorted and without pesky leads getting in the way of your—’ she made quotation marks with her fingers ‘—“live for the moment” obsession of playing virtual tennis for five hours, then the odds are in your favour to live a long life.’

  He dropped his gaze, wishing it were that simple.

  Suddenly two deep lines carved into her intelligent brow. ‘It’s not just the pacemaker, is it?’

  Every other time she’d pressed him for information he’d been able to deflect or walk away. Today was different. He wasn’t just physically trapped in a hospital bed hooked up to equipment; he was also trapped by his declaration of love.

  ‘This is something to do with your father, isn’t it?’

  His heart raced. ‘Why did I fall in love with a MENSA member,’ he muttered darkly.

  She gave a wry smile and raised his hand to her lips. ‘Because I’m good for you and you’re good for me.’

  And he recognised the truth in her words but it wasn’t enough to convince him that he should drag her down with him. ‘Dad dropped dead at forty-seven from a myocardial infarction.’

  ‘That’s young.’

  ‘Exactly. It dramatically changed my life and my mother’s. We didn’t just lose Dad, we lost our home and everything familiar. My grief-stricken mother retreated into herself and it took her a long time to tread a new path without him. She did the best she was capable of doing but I ended up fatherless and half motherless for many years. I wouldn’t inflict that on any child.’

  He’d expected her to offer soothing murmurs but instead she asked perfunctorily, ‘Did he have an arrhythmia like you?’

  ‘Not that we knew, but given he just dropped dead with no warning, it’s safe to assume that he did.’

  She frowned. ‘So, no episodes of dizziness? No pacemaker?’

  ‘No,’ he said irritably. ‘I thought I’d established that. He was fit and healthy and then he was dead.’

  She ignored his terse tone. ‘How old was his father when he died?’

  ‘Seventy-five.’

  ‘Heart attack?’

  ‘No. Tractor accident.’

  ‘Alistair, have you ever read your father’s autopsy report?’

  He was getting sick of the interrogation. ‘Of course not. I was a child.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said emphatically, her eyes suddenly shining. ‘You were a kid.’

  ‘You’re not making any sense.’

  ‘Okay.’ She tucked some hair behind her ears. ‘Do you remember when I was telling you about my fabulous mentor, Strez, and how he freed me from Gundiwindi’s preconceived ideas? You said, “But not from its legacy.”’

  He didn’t know where she was going with this but he did remember the conversation. He answered with a reluctant, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think you’re suffering from a legacy too.’ She leaned in closer. ‘Even though you’re now a qualified medical practitioner, the trauma of losing your father at a vulnerable age has blinkered you to the facts. I think you’ve made a massive non-scientific leap that connects your father’s early death with your heart block. The result is an erroneous belief that you’ll die young too.’

  ‘It’s not unreasonable—’

  ‘It is. The statistics don’t support it. Thomas told me you have a two per cent chance of dying from your heart condition. That’s way better odds than crossing Piccadilly Circus at rush hour.’

  Her words beat hard against his belief that he had a faulty heart just like his father. A belief cemented by the crusty cardiologist who’d said five years ago, ‘You can’t fight genetics, son.’

  ‘That may be but it doesn’t r
ule out me passing on a faulty heart to a child.’

  ‘And I could just as easily pass on my dyslexia.’

  Frustration bit him. ‘That’s completely different.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  Her acceptance surprised him and he studied her. She immediately speared him with an intense look that belied her words and made him squirm.

  She continued briskly. ‘We don’t know yet if your condition’s inherited or if there are other factors. Want to tell me exactly what happened five years ago?’

  He sighed. ‘I was working really long hours and training for an ironman competition when I had my first episode of heart block.’

  ‘Athlete’s heart syndrome?’

  ‘Yes and no. It’s complicated.’

  ‘You need to talk to Thomas and get all the facts, but I know for certain that my dyslexia’s inherited. My grandmother and great-grandfather never learned to read. There’s a chance a child of ours may have learning challenges.’

  A child of ours.

  The thought tempted and terrified him in equal measure. He fought back. ‘Why don’t you get this?’ he asked tersely. ‘Dyslexia’s not a life-threatening condition.’

  She folded her arms across her chest. ‘It is if it’s not treated.’

  He snorted. ‘No one ever died of dyslexia.’

  ‘People with low self-esteem and no hope die every day,’ she said softly, the message in her words sharp and clear.

  ‘We wouldn’t allow things to get to that,’ he said quickly, stunned by his strong need to protect a child that didn’t even exist. ‘We’d be on the lookout for any signs of dyslexia. We’d make sure they had access to early intervention. They’d get all the help they needed to thrive.’

  ‘Of course we would,’ she said evenly. ‘And in exactly the same way, we’d get be on the lookout and get an early diagnosis and intervention for any child of ours who had a cardiac arrhythmia.’ A smile wove across her lips. ‘I think that’s called checkmate.’

  ‘Claire,’ he heard himself growl. ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Alistair,’ she sighed. ‘It really is. With your pacemaker, your heart’s pumping life through you just as it’s been doing without error for the last five years, but you’re not taking full advantage of what technology’s offering you. You can let irrational fear continue to rule your life and keep everyone at arm’s length or you can take a chance, embrace love, accept some low-level risk and share your life with me.

  ‘The choice is yours.’ Without waiting for him to reply, she rose to her feet and left the room.

  Her words filled his head, duelling with his long-held beliefs about his life and the decisions he’d made long ago. Not once in five years had he ever questioned them. Hell, he’d accepted his fate and got on with his life, so why was he even considering what she’d said?

  Because you’ve never been in love before.

  How could it be so simple and so bloody complicated? Claire painted a picture of a life with her and children—a life he wanted badly, but either way he risked hurting her.

  ‘Alistair.’ Thomas Wolfe strode energetically into the room wearing a grey suit, a crisp white shirt and a pale blue tie. He’d obviously been home and acknowledged the new day with fresh clothes. Only the shadows under his eyes hinted that perhaps all wasn’t quite as it appeared. ‘Good to see you’re awake.’

  Alistair grimaced. ‘I hear I have a state-of-the-art pacemaker.’

  ‘The silver bullet.’ Thomas’s eyes lit up. ‘It’s a great invention. And you can play as much virtual tennis as you want, although at thirty-nine, your shoulder might object.’

  Alistair sat up a bit higher. ‘You’re not that far behind me, old man.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Thomas’s smile was wry. ‘The good news is your cardiac enzymes and ECG are both normal. Your groin will feel a bit sore for a few days and you can’t walk until tomorrow, but other than that, you’ll be feeling yourself again very soon. No need to let this hiccough slow you down.’

  ‘Hiccough?’ He heard the disbelief in his voice.

  ‘It’s unfortunate the lead became damaged but you were close to a battery replacement anyway. In a way, you did yourself a favour. This pacemaker is a huge leap forward in the treatment of heart block, and apart from not being able to go scuba-diving or joining the armed forces, your life’s your own.’

  Was it? Immediately, Claire’s accusation that he’d made a massive non-scientific leap about his condition burned him. ‘My father died suddenly at forty-seven.’

  ‘Of an MI?’

  ‘I always assumed.’

  Thomas checked the tablet computer in his hand. ‘Your cholesterol’s low, your blood pressure’s in the normal range and you don’t smoke. All of it puts your risk factor for an MI as very low.’ He rubbed his neck. ‘Your father could have died of an aneurysm or numerous other things. If it was an MI, then I think you’ve inherited your mother’s heart genes. If you can get hold of your father’s medical history, I’d be happy to take a look. Meanwhile, you having problems is not something I’d be betting any money on.’

  Again Claire’s voice sounded loud and clear in his head.

  You can let irrational fear continue to rule your life and keep everyone at arm’s length or you can take a chance, embrace love, accept some low-level risk and share your life with me.

  A feeling of lightness streaked through him almost raising him off the bed and he stuck out his right hand. ‘Thank you, Thomas. You have no idea how much I appreciate your straight-talking.’

  ‘Any time.’ Thomas shook his proffered hand. ‘I’ll see you in the morning before you’re discharged but any other questions just call me.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Thomas, before you go, can I ask you a favour?’

  * * *

  One of the hardest things Claire had ever done was walk out of Alistair’s hospital room yesterday morning but she’d felt it was her only option. It was that or hit him over the head in frustration. Or beg. She certainly wasn’t going to beg. The old Claire may have begged but Alistair had taught her that she didn’t need to beg anyone for anything. The lesson wasn’t without irony.

  Still, she’d been sorely tempted to beg but she’d fought it. In her mind, two things were very clear. The first was that Alistair loved and valued her. The second was that if they were to have any chance at happiness, Alistair had to come to his decision freely and not be cornered or cajoled into committing to her. She also knew that his love for her was a big part of the problem. He didn’t want to hurt her and yet by protecting her from life—from his life—he was hurting her ten times over.

  ‘How’s the boss?’ Andrew asked as they stripped off their surgical gowns.

  ‘If he takes his doctor’s advice, he’ll be back at work next week.’

  ‘So we can expect him here tomorrow, then.’ Andrew winked at her. ‘I imagine he’s got women lining up to look after him so perhaps he will stay away for the week.’

  A bristle ran up Claire’s spine. ‘The man needs to rest, Andrew.’

  He grinned. ‘Sure. But hey, what a way to rest.’

  Claire hit him with the folder she was holding. ‘Go and check your patients in recovery.’

  He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Yes, Mum. On my way.’

  She walked to the doctors’ lounge and made herself a late-afternoon snack to keep her energy levels up. She was eating a plate of cheese and biscuits when her phone rang. ‘Claire Mitchell.’

  ‘Thomas Wolfe, Claire. As Alistair’s indisposed, I was wondering if you could help me out.’

  ‘Ah, sure. Do you have a patient who needs a neuro consult?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. He’s a high-profile private patient and coming here’s difficult with the...um...’

  ‘Picket line,�
� she supplied as her thoughts roved to a possible celebrity child.

  ‘Exactly,’ Thomas said firmly. ‘They’re sending a car. What time suits you?’

  ‘I’ll be free in an hour.’

  It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps it was a royal child, but as she opened her mouth to ask, Thomas was already saying, ‘Excellent. I’ll get the porter to buzz you when the driver arrives.’

  ‘Can you give me some de—?’ The line went dead. She waited for him to call her back or send a text but nothing came. A skitter of excitement raced through her at the idea of a very top-secret patient. At least it would take her mind off Alistair.

  * * *

  The car wasn’t a limousine nor did it have any distinctive crest or signage on it, so Claire wasn’t able to glean any clues about the mystery patient from her transport. When she’d quizzed the driver he’d replied that he wasn’t at liberty to disclose who’d ordered and paid for the car.

  Despite the evening traffic, the drive was thankfully short and soon enough she was standing on the porch of a Victorian town house with a royal-blue door. She rang the recessed brass bell and waited, her curiosity rising and her stomach churning. She probably should have eaten more before coming. She listened intently for footsteps. About thirty seconds later she was still listening. She was about to ring the bell again when the door opened.

  Her stomach rolled and she felt her eyes widen. ‘Alistair?’

  He stood in front of her wearing faded jeans and a button-necked light wool jumper that lit his grey eyes to a burnished pewter. His hair was its usual messy chic and the addition of a five o’clock stubble shadow on his cheeks made him sexier than ever.

  ‘You’re not a celebrity child.’

  A momentary look of confusion crossed his face. ‘Ah, no. Was I supposed to be?’

  ‘Thomas led me to believe...’ Actually, Thomas hadn’t given any details at all. She’d jumped to those conclusions all on her own. ‘Never mind. You’ve been discharged,’ she said, stating the obvious and trying to keep calm when all she wanted to do was hug him tightly. ‘You’ve got your colour back,’ she said crisply.