‘He probably had to visit Anne on his way,’ Phoebe said, then wondered why she didn’t feel the usual pang of annoyance associated with such a thought.
Was it the false security of Nick’s arm around her waist, or the way he was dropping little kisses on her temple?
Totally meaningless, of course. He was probably watching Charles out of the corner of his eye as he did it, and taking great delight in taunting his colleague.
Which wasn’t entirely fair and she should resist, but her body, perhaps as a result of the short-circuiting the previous afternoon, wasn’t responding to the move-away messages her brain was sending it.
‘I thought you had a very important meeting with a potential donor this morning,’ Charles snapped at Nick as he drew closer.
‘Not till ten-thirty,’ Nick said calmly. ‘Though I guess we should be moving, sweetheart.’
Charles winced at the endearment and sent Phoebe, who had by this time extricated herself from Nick’s clasp, a frown of utter contempt.
It’s your fault, she wanted to say, but she knew it wasn’t—not entirely. Charles had cancelled arrangements they’d made to eat together after work, usually to rush off to Anne’s assistance, but when he was with her he’d acted like a perfect gentleman.
Too perfect?
Was that why he continued to take such responsibility for Anne?
‘Good morning, Charles,’ she said, parroting the words Nick had suggested she say. She smiled brightly in Charles’s direction but couldn’t meet his eyes, then, with legs suddenly willing to carry her anywhere as long as it was away from these two men, she strode briskly into the lobby. She nodded at the security guard and flashed her ID at him, then dashed down the corridor to their suite of rooms.
With any luck, Nick and Charles would both go into their offices where Sheree, their shared secretary, would have a pile of work waiting for each of them.
Phoebe slipped off her light linen jacket, exchanging it for a freshly laundered white coat, combed the chin-length dark hair Nick’s embrace had mussed, then entered the bigger of the two consulting rooms where their camera and computerised equipment were set up. Joanne, their regular nurse, was on leave, and there was no sign of her replacement, a grumpy female who had made it obvious she thought skin was a very unexciting organ. Eight pounds and eighteen square feet of boredom! That was her outspoken opinion of skin.
Phoebe sighed. Sheree had doubtless alerted the nursing supervisor to this problem, but until a replacement arrived, and possibly even then, the task of explaining to patients what they were about to do would fall to her.
Mrs Dixon was already waiting, right on time for her six-monthly check. Phoebe brought her through to the examination room.
‘No need to tell me about it, ducks,’ she said cheerfully. ‘The doctors here have been taking pictures of my lumps and bumps for years now. I’ll take off my clothes, shall I?’
‘Now, there’s a suggestion I rarely hear from a good-looking woman,’ a deep voice said, and Phoebe shivered, though their patient chuckled at Nick’s cheeky remark.
‘Go on with you,’ the older woman said, then she smiled at Phoebe. ‘Dr David and I are old friends. Ever since he found a melanoma on my leg five years ago, he’s been taking these nude pictures of me.’
‘A superficial spreading melanoma,’ Nick explained for Phoebe’s benefit.
‘You caught it before it became nodular, then?’ she asked, knowing from her study that the flat, slow-spreading plaque only became dangerous once it bulged into a raised lump.
‘We did,’ Nick confirmed, his back to both women now as he checked the video camera and the cable linking it to the computer.
While Mrs Dixon slipped behind the screen to change into a loose cotton gown, Phoebe studied that back.
Clad like her in a short white coat, it could be the back of any doctor in the hospital, she told herself, but she knew it was a lie. Charles was a well-built man, but not even he had shoulders as broad as Nick’s, or a definite taper from them towards his hips—lean hips, she knew, although today their definition was hidden by the coat.
She was immune to men like Nick, she reminded herself, and dragged her attention back to work-related matters.
‘Is Mrs Dixon part of the research group?’ she asked.
‘From the beginning,’ Nick replied, turning from the computer to smile at her, before pressing the button to start filming. Phoebe saw her own image appear on the screen, but it wasn’t enough to distract her from her surreptitious examination of Nick.
When he’d smiled, tiny lines had fanned out at the corners of his eyes. How come she’d never noticed them before?
‘Ready for me?’ Mrs Dixon asked, shuffling forward in the paper slippers the hospital supplied, then stopping on the mark on the floor where she obviously knew she’d be in focus for the camera.
Phoebe stepped towards the camera. It was her job to operate it, allowing it to sweep across Mrs Dixon’s body, while the woman, her coat removed, rotated very slowly, holding her hands above her head when asked.
‘No. I’ll work the camera,’ Nick said. ‘You study the images on the screen. See if you can bring up the most recent test in a different colour so we get a colour mix where there’s been no change, and a rim of new colour if any marks or imperfections have increased in size. Alert me to anything different.’
This was a step up from operating the camera, Phoebe knew, and her pleasure in being trusted to do it was only slightly outweighed by a new uneasiness she was feeling in Nick’s presence.
She reminded herself again of her immunity and sat down at the computer, using a split screen to show the last of the series of pictures on Mrs Dixon’s file alongside the ones Nick was taking now.
‘Got the full-frontal shot up on screen?’ he asked, and she nodded.
‘Now focus in on the upper chest and neck area.’
Phoebe pressed the zoom command which magnified the picture Nick wanted, then tapped the sequence of buttons which allowed the program to merge the old and new images.
‘No rims of clear colour,’ she confirmed, but he must have turned from the camera and stepped closer because his hand rested lightly on her shoulder and the heat of his body warmed her back as he leant over to study the screen.
He fiddled with the colour definition, then he was gone, telling her which angle to bring up next. It was work as usual, she told herself, and as he obviously wasn’t suffering body tremors from that fleeting contact, she’d better get over this new nervousness and on with the job.
‘This is the last. Back view and merge,’ Nick said.
‘What’s this merge you’re talking about?’ Mrs Dixon asked.
‘We’re trying to develop a new computer program,’ Nick explained, ‘which I hope will be able to show even the smallest of changes in shape or texture of a mole or other skin discoloration.’
‘Can’t you do that by just looking at it?’ his patient demanded. ‘What about the pictures my GP takes?’
‘You’re a nosy woman, aren’t you?’ Nick teased, and Phoebe heard the woman chuckle.
‘I like to know things,’ Mrs Dixon explained.
‘And so you should,’ Nick told her. ‘But right now I have to go and beg some money from a possible benefactor so we can keep playing with the camera and computer program. Phoebe will tell you all about it as she does the physical examination.’
He leant over Phoebe once again to study the screen, reminded her to save everything, then touched her lightly on the shoulder before walking swiftly out of the room.
‘He’s a lovely man!’ Mrs Dixon remarked as the door shut behind Nick.
Not wanting to say the jury was still out as far as she was concerned, Phoebe nodded and changed the subject.
‘You were asking about the video images,’ she reminded the patient. ‘The photos your GP takes are scanned into a computer and compared, using a specially designed computer program to detect any changes. This is an aid to the general
practitioner who doesn’t have a lot of technical equipment in his office. All he needs is a scanner and a computer.’
She put on the tiny magnifying glasses she used for physical examination of the skin and slowly circled the still naked woman.
‘I don’t know much technical stuff,’ her patient said. ‘What’s a scanner?’
Phoebe explained how the machine transferred the image to the computer hard drive.
‘Once it’s in the computer, the old and new photos can be brought up on the screen and compared.’
‘The doctor could have done that by putting the two photos on the desk and looking at them there,’ Mrs Dixon told her, scurrying back behind the screen now Phoebe had indicated she was finished.
‘Yes, and measured them and noted any changes. The computer program will cut down on time, and presumably will be more accurate in its assessment. I mean, you can look at a photo of a brown mole for a long time, wondering if it’s got darker or not, whereas the computer can measure the depth of colour and tell you straight away.’
‘So why the video? Why do I have to come all the way into town to see you people if my local doctor can do all this?’
Phoebe chuckled at the older woman’s persistence.
‘You’re coming into town to help the team develop a new program that will make things even easier for your local doctor. As you know from your own experience, the earlier we can detect skin cancers, the better chance the patient has of a full recovery. If the video idea works, a local GP with this technology will be able to detect changes much more easily.’
‘But the patient has to go to him first,’ Mrs Dixon reminded her.
‘Exactly!’ Phoebe agreed. ‘That’s one of the reasons Nick’s trying to get sponsorship for the clinic from big business firms. The next stage would be using the images for early detection without a comparison with an earlier photo, but even now the video and computer could be set up in a small caravan—in a number of small caravans—and tour the state at regular intervals, in much the same way mammograms and blood collection are done in suburban and country areas.’
‘The van could go to the beaches in summer,’ Mrs Dixon suggested. ‘You can tell young people about protecting their skin until you’re blue in the face, but does it get through?’
She collected her handbag, thanked Phoebe politely and walked away, leaving Phoebe to return to the screen where the images were still displayed.
She filed them carefully, then quit the file, bringing up the next patient on the day’s list. Ryan Abrams, thirty, in remission after treatment for a malignant melanoma. Maybe Mrs Dixon was right about young people not listening. The danger of too much exposure to the sun had been known for thirty years, yet Mr Abrams was only one of many patients in the ‘young’ bracket.
‘Young, male and stupid!’ Charles said, much later, when the three of them had gathered in Nick’s office in response to Phoebe’s request that they discuss Mr Abrams’s case. ‘They’re in the highest risk bracket these days.’
‘You can’t blame young men for thinking a shady hat, a long-sleeved shirt and a slathering of sunscreen isn’t quite the macho image they’re trying to project,’ Nick reminded him.
‘We need a covered-up cult hero to impress them,’ Phoebe suggested.
‘I can’t quite picture a rock guitarist in long sleeves, sunglasses and a hat.’ Nick raised a lazy eyebrow as he turned towards her, and she saw the glint of amusement in his eyes.
You’re immune, she reminded herself as that teasing glance from blue-green depths sent erratic impulses along her nerves.
‘I’ll show you the images,’ she said, diverting the conversation back to work while mentally reminding herself of Nick’s similarity to her father.
Her much-married father!
She shifted to the chair in front of the computer and brought up the section of skin she wanted to show the specialists, then enlarged the discoloured lesion.
‘I took Polaroid shots as well,’ she added, spinning in the chair so she faced the two men and fanning the photos out across the desk.
‘But that’s—’ Charles began
‘What do you think it is, Phoebe?’ Nick asked, silencing Charles with a wave of his hand.
‘It’s described on his file as a blue nevi—’
‘A mole which has no malignant potential. Many young adults develop them,’ Charles reminded her, projecting such profound disdain into his voice that she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
‘I know, but as far as I’ve been able to discover, they don’t change colour, and this one is definitely darker than it was on Mr Abrams’s visit a month ago.’
Nick stood up and crossed to where she sat, bending over her to study the computer screen.
‘Have you printed out a colour density comparison?’ he asked, his head so close she could see every movement of the lips which had caused such chaos the previous afternoon.
‘That’s what’s bothering me,’ she told him—although it wasn’t all that was bothering her. Nick’s closeness was affecting her skin, making it prickle with an awareness he’d never before generated.
She took a deep breath and explained. ‘The program doesn’t seem to recognise a difference in the density, although to the naked eye, as well as on the screen and on the prints, there’s a distinct difference. I did a merge, and the size and shape haven’t altered.’
‘If the computer doesn’t recognise a colour change, it doesn’t exist,’ said Charles, joining Nick behind her chair and speaking with the authority of the man who had fine-tuned the computer program.
He rested his hand on Phoebe’s shoulder in such a proprietorial manner that she had to resist an urge to shrug it off.
‘Mr Abrams—Ryan, isn’t he?’ Nick said, in a voice that suggested he was trying to place him. ‘Young, fair-haired, grey eyes…’
‘Panicky chap,’ Charles added, as Nick tapped the keys to bring the patient’s personal details up on the screen.
‘I’d be panicky if I were diagnosed with a malignant tumour when I was twenty-six,’ he said. ‘Ah, yes. Ryan Abrams! Doesn’t he usually see you, Charles?’
‘It was a routine visit. One that Phoebe can easily handle.’
‘I’m not saying she can’t,’ Nick said, and now Phoebe had two hands on her shoulders. One on each side—one from each man! Only Nick’s was holding her still, stalling a protest. ‘But our Mr Abrams once tried a similar trick with me when you were on leave. He painted a pale tan dye around a mole, creating an irregular edge so it gave the impression of a halo developing around a melanoma. Fortunately for him, I wiped the dye off when I swabbed the skin prior to excising it. I’d say he’s used ink or the tip of a felt pen this time, so the colour has changed.’
‘But why wouldn’t the computer pick it up?’ Phoebe asked as Charles spun away.
His voice revealed a natural aggravation as he muttered, ‘Does he think this is funny?’
‘The computer picks up density which in the natural progression of malignancy comes from a proliferation of cells. It wouldn’t see cell proliferation here, so ignored it.’ Nick answered Phoebe first then straightened up and turned to Charles.
‘I don’t think he does it as a joke, although he may pretend that’s what it is when we put it to him.’ He paused, then added. ‘I think you’re right about him being panicky. He’s terrified that if he does get another suspicious lesion, we won’t notice it. He’s testing us—testing our methods and equipment.’
‘He’s wasting our time,’ Charles said angrily.
‘And his,’ Nick reminded him. ‘You did tell him it would probably require excision, didn’t you Phoebe?’
She nodded.
‘I’d have got Charles to do it then and there, but he was up on the ward, so Mr Abrams is coming back early tomorrow.’
She picked up the photographs and studied them.
‘I hope that’s all it is,’ she said quietly, and once again Nick’s hand rested lightly on her shoulde
r.
‘So do we all,’ he said, though the glare Charles shot them both suggested that he didn’t wish to be included in the ‘all’.
CHAPTER THREE
NICK saw the worried look in Phoebe’s eyes as she watched Charles disappear through the door, and knew her soft heart was prompting a confession. Personally, he was only too anxious to cause Charles some grief. The man had gone on and on at him this morning, making it sound as if Nick had seduced Phoebe in the corridor, rather than just kissing her.
‘I should explain to him—tell him the kiss was just a joke,’ she said, right on cue.
‘Is that all it was?’ Nick asked, while telling himself he’d better believe it. Phoebe wasn’t the kind of woman he sought out for company—she was far too young, too trusting, for someone like him. He preferred women who were looking for a good time rather than a steady relationship. At the moment work took preference over any relationship, and as for commitment—the word brought with it such burdens, such family obligations, he didn’t want to think about it.
As for Phoebe, she might be a fully qualified medical practitioner, but she’d somehow emerged from her years of study and hospital work with an innocence at odds with her twenty-five years.
An innocence which aroused all his protective instincts.
‘Weren’t you intending to make him jealous? Do you think that will work if you cave in after one cool look and a couple of angry glares?’
She looked at him and frowned, giving her face a look of such adorable uncertainty he was almost impelled to kiss her again.
Reassuringly, of course.
Only he hadn’t quite figured out his reaction to the previous kiss, so kissing her again definitely wasn’t on the agenda.
‘I don’t think I can play that kind of game,’ she said, shifting her shoulders as if her skin were suddenly too tight. ‘It’s like Mr Abrams and the false alarms.’
Nick considered the alternative, which was seeing Phoebe unhappy because Charles, once reassured of her continued loyalty, would again neglect her for Anne. Nick reminded himself he’d already been through that with Jess, another soft-hearted woman who’d fallen for Charles’s pathetic ‘poor me’ act.
A Very Precious Gift Page 2
