The Surgeon’s Secrets

by Michelle Love

  It’s smallish and old, probably thirty years, and creased at the edges behind the glass—as if it was carried in a billfold for a long time. In it, a chubby, gentle-faced woman with curly, russet hair stands in a small, shabby living room with a crucifix on the wall. She wears a cheap, blue, flower-print dress and wraps an arm around two small but already burly boys in ill-fitting, gray school uniforms.

  The boys have a similar look to them—one is stockier and thick-featured, with small black eyes and the same mussed, wavy black hair as the other, who has familiar liquid-brown eyes and an easy smile. I look back at Damon as he approaches, smiling at him. “Is this your mom?”

  He looks serious suddenly, and my impulse to tease him about having been a really cute kid dies as he stares wistfully past me at the photo. “Yeah, that’s my mum and my cousin, Copper, from way back when. They’re gone now.”

  “Oh.” Awkward. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your doing, sweetheart. I’ll pop that pizza in the oven. Like a cup of tea?” He’s already headed for the kitchen, which is visible through an archway at the far end of the room.

  “Yes, thank you.” To my surprise, he pulls down a lacquered black tray and a very pretty purple, clay teapot. “That’s nice. Chinese?”

  “Yeah, Yixing ware. I brew it with black, if that’s all right.” He starts digging into the cupboard for a tin, glancing back at me.

  “That’s fine,” I reassure him. I’m not even much of a tea drinker, as I find it bitter and watery compared to a mocha, which is my favorite hot drink. But I don’t mind trying his tea if it gives me something to drink with him.

  He looks a bit distracted as he puts together the tea service and puts the kettle on. I watch him work—precise as always—his giant hands moving as deftly as a butler's as he slices lemons, pours cream into a tiny pot, and sets a little bottle of brandy on the tray. I've never seen a big, masculine man use sugar tongs before, but he does so without hesitation, sleeves half rolled up.

  "Have a seat on the couch. I'll be right there," he instructs, pointing me in the right direction. I wander obediently to the gigantic, deeply-padded thing covered in saddle leather.

  I settle into it with a sigh, glad for some comfort after dealing with the thin hospital mattress for most of the night. The couch is very comfortable, wide enough to sleep on, and deep enough to sleep two.

  Or do all sorts of things together that I haven't actually ever done, but suddenly want very much to do. With him.

  The depth of my thirst for this man frightens me a little. He saved my life, he's helping me get justice, and he's kind and thoughtful—not to mention dead sexy. He would have made a dead-sexy garbage man, but as it is, the fact that he saves and improves lives for a living makes him even more attractive.

  We keep up a steady flow of small talk, getting to know the basics about each other. My work at school. His work at the hospital. Neither of us having family any more—not that I ever had any to begin with.

  The whole time my eyes are tracing over his face, his body beneath his black turtleneck and jeans, and those powerful hands that I want to feel on my skin. My eyes keep settling on his lips of their own volition, and I can’t help but imagine what they’d feel like on mine. But instead of kissing, we’re talking and talking.

  He pours the tea. I drink it with everything, the milk and honey smooth and sweet on my tongue. When the pizza comes out of the oven, dripping with cheese and steaming tomato chunks, it’s the best thing I have ever tasted.

  But I can’t stop watching him and wondering, what is it about you?

  We’re both on our third slice when his phone goes off. He glances down at it as it lies on the coffee table in front of us and sighs. “Humph, hang on. I keep getting calls from people who aren’t on my contact list.”

  “Local?” I dab at my mouth with a paper napkin.

  He checks ...and then for reasons I don’t understand, he goes a little pale. “London.” He picks it up. “Hello?”

  He frowns and sets it down after a moment. “They disconnected. Odd.” But his troubled expression tells me that he finds it a lot more than ‘odd.’

  I don’t ask about it, and after a while we start talking about the lawsuit, which he promises me is about as cut and dried as these things come. “He’ll settle for a large sum. It’s how he’s able to keep the spotlight off of himself—a big, fat check that he tries to use to buy silence. Thing is, he can’t make your approaching the board into a condition of the settlement. That’s a different matter from the lawsuit altogether.” He smiles and pours me another cup of tea. It’s actually good, making me wonder what trick he’s using to keep it from being so bitter.

  Shaking thoughts of the tea from my head, I focus on how I have to tell him of my interest—I have to say something or I’ll always regret it. But I keep hunting around for the right words and coming up with nothing.

  “Is something wrong?” he asks after a while, as if he’s sensing my struggle.

  “I ...was wondering something,” I admit nervously. My fingers twine together between my knees, and I squeeze them hard enough that the knuckles go white. I’ve never done this before, and it feels like the long, ticking climb to the top of a roller coaster drop.

  “You can’t date your patients, can you?” I don’t know how I get the question out. I blush at once, embarrassed at myself and worried that I’m about to be shown the door.

  Chapter 7

  Damon

  I can't help but grin at her shy, little question, and that only makes her blush more and cut her eyes away, squeezing her hands between her knees again. God, she's so cute. "Well ...I've got good news and bad news on that score, sweetheart, though I admit you may not think as well of me once I tell you."

  "You're married?" she asks worriedly at once. I laugh and shake my head.

  "No, nothing like that, I promise. The medical ethics board has a problem with doctors dating past patients and a real problem with doctors dating current patients." I hesitate suddenly. There's another reason she might not want to get close to me.

  I've done my best to cut ties and leave my past in London in the past—where it belongs. But I absolutely hate lying to women. It always ends badly, but in this situation, I don't even know where to begin telling the truth or how much is safe to tell.

  Well, sweetheart, my mum isn't dead and neither is Copper. The first one, I will never stop feeling horrible about, and the second is so he doesn't find me and fucking kill me. We were both raised up in the family business, you see, and the family business is larceny.

  You don't abandon the family no matter what happens, even if staying in the business is killing you. But I had to go, and thanks to a total accident, I got the chance to make away clean with a small fortune. And if I tell you about how I hurt my mum and Molly by faking my death, well ...if the fact that I'm a thief and a killer doesn't drive you away, that probably will.

  I don't bring it up yet. I don't want to end up pushing too much upsetting stuff on her all at once. Instead, I let the medical board matter sink in and watch as she frowns slightly.

  "So you could be fired." She sounds worried.

  "Censured, certainly—fired, possibly. With men like Campbell around fucking things up, I imagine they'll give me leeway just for cleaning up his messes. But ..." I lean back in my seat next to her. I have barely touched her yet, but now that she’s brought this up, it's a real trial to keep my hands to myself.

  "But what? I mean, I don't ...I don't want to get you in trouble." Her pale-gray eyes stare into my dark ones, and I smile and reach out, touching the back of her hand gently.

  "You're not getting me in trouble. If I don't handle this properly, I could get me in trouble." I want to caress her right now. I want to spend the night exploring each other until we’re exhausted. But just looking at her, still half-dressed in her hospital clothes, I know I can't.

  "Just believe me, I'd be proposing we do something about this right now if it wasn't for the rules."
I glance down at her leg. "And the fact that, young lady, you still have a good deal of healing to do." I give her a wink and a smile, trying to reassure her, but she's blushing again and looking down at her hands suddenly.

  Her shyness makes her even more adorable. She's beautiful and doesn't seem to know it, and her modest, unassuming manner is refreshing.

  "You're right," she says with a tiny smile. "I ...know I'm going to see you again since we're going to be kicking Campbell's ass in court. But I ...well, I'd date you even if we had to keep it a secret for a while."

  I feel that tentative warmth again. I know I'm not much of a romantic, especially after all the darkness and blood I had to wade through back in London. But I'd love to try it with her anyway.

  Maybe. If things go well ...

  My cock throbs impatiently inside my jeans, as now I have to fight both desire and affection. Finally, unable to stand it anymore, I lean over and kiss her very lightly.

  Her full, sweet lips feel silky against mine, and a touch cooler. I hear her draw a trembling breath, and her fingertips skate down over my shoulder. Then, very reluctantly, I let her go.

  "I'll keep that in mind," I tell her, staring into her eyes. "But right now, you need to go back and get some rest."

  Driving her back to the dorms and dropping her off a block away is more difficult than I thought it would be. I'm actually getting an ache in my balls from the many times that I've gotten turned on today without release. I think briefly about calling on one of the friends-with-benefits I keep on my roster, but ...I know sex with them won't satisfy me.

  I want Samantha. I want to spend time with her. I want to kiss her and hold her in my arms, and when the time comes, I want to spend a whole night satisfying us both. It's such a powerful feeling that it unnerves me a bit. But I can't deny it.

  Instead, I make sure she's all right to walk the short distance in her borrowed Wellies. I watch her make the walk, and I watch her swipe her card and go inside the building. And, then, I force myself to go home, knowing that I'm going to need a very stiff drink.

  Weeks pass and winter really starts to set in. I start to think about inviting Samantha for Christmas. Neither one of us has a family anymore—herself by accident and myself by necessity.

  Samantha and I plot against Dr. Campbell. We work as a team, putting together a timeline of events and collecting paperwork, including her pre-hospitalization medical record, which shows the lack of thorough testing. We get a copy of the prescription for the calcium channel blocker that Campbell had given her, which likely worsened her condition, and we put a plastic bag with the bottle in it in our growing evidence folder.

  We have dinner together. I try to impress her at first, but we both turn out to be steak, pizza, and Chinese takeaway people, so I lay the wines and foie gras aside (always hated them both anyway) and we focus instead on enjoying our time together.

  We always kiss goodnight, and I always have to fight to keep it from going further. She's healing first, and then, after that, she's scrambling to catch up with classes. I try not to distract her and bury myself in my work a bit to keep from being distracted myself.

  I find myself looking for Christmas gifts for her in jewelry catalogs online. I find something perfect and receive the wrapped box in the mail and hide it away in the top of my closet. Then I add a few things—Wellies in her actual size and a good winter coat—and stash their wrapped boxes in the same place.

  Finally, on the afternoon of December fifteenth, we go to see a lawyer I hunted down who has won five cases against Campbell by himself. His name is Michael Chang, and he agrees right away to see what we have.

  He turns out to be a tallish, lean man with tan, wispy hair that is thinning on top and small, black eyes that remind me of Copper's. The resemblance distracts me, and I avoid looking at his eyes unless he is talking directly to me. Instead, I focus on his little, silver holly-sprig tie tack.

  Samantha sits next to me in a plain, navy blue dress that is apparently her best, hiding a fraying section of the sleeve cuff under her wrist. She looks very nervous, and I reach for her hand and hold it as the lawyer looks over our folder.

  "This detrimental prescription, the lack of any response to an emergent situation involving chest pains, and the lack of essential testing all point toward an extremely dangerous level of negligence." He turns the last page and sets the folder aside with a small smile. "It's entirely consistent with the other cases I have taken against Dr. Campbell."

  "So you'll take the case?" Samantha sounds both worried and eager.

  "Oh, absolutely. If I were you, I would high-ball your suit, say to the tune of one million dollars. Chances are that he will offer half that as a settlement."

  Samantha goes pale and her eyes bulge. I chuckle and hug her gently. "Don't sell yourself short, dear," I purr in her ear. "He did greatly endanger you and extend your suffering."

  She nods and sets her jaw, looking up at the lawyer. "I'm going with your advice on this one."

  He sits back with a smile and looks between us. "Good, good. I'll file the paperwork, and we'll see what his lawyer's response is."

  I give her hand another squeeze behind the desk, and she shoots me that small, brave smile. I squash another surge of desire. "All right, then. Let's go home and celebrate."

  Part Three

  Chapter 8

  Samantha

  My stomach flutters as I sit next to Damon in his fancy, black car again. We're driving from my dorm to the highway, cruising under temporary archways of fake greenery and real icicles. Christmas lights and displays shine from every window and lamp post, and the sidewalks are full of bustling shoppers.

  Normally, the Christmas season gets me depressed, because I've never had anyone to spend it with. Before meeting Damon, I’d planned to spend my holiday as one of the few people stuck in the dorms for the season. But, instead, I'll be spending it with him.

  The last two weeks have been a tremendous thrill. Not only am I feeling better than I have in years, not only are we finally filing the lawsuit after a ton of work, but Damon and I are being romantic as hell, holding hands and stealing kisses. It’s all new to me; I’ve never been touched by a man before, and though we’re not doing much yet, it’s still amazing.

  Every time he kisses me—even the slightest touch of his lips—it both thrills and frustrates me. Under awnings as we escape the rain, under sprigs of mistletoe that seem to have sprouted in every shop doorway, and almost every time we touch, our lips find each other. His mouth is always warm and sure against mine, and when he cradles me against his broad chest, it makes me feel safer than I’ve ever felt before.

  But he doesn't go beyond that. I know that he wants to. Each time, I feel him struggling to control himself.

  I wish that he wouldn't. But with the lawsuit and Board complaint likely to shine a spotlight on the pair of us, the best I can expect until we win are some longing looks and a little tenderness. And none of that in public.

  It still makes me sad and frustrated. My feelings aren't rational, but it's sometimes like I'm a shameful secret he is keeping. I also feel sometimes that he isn't telling me the whole truth about himself—he’s just too good to be true. The random calls from nowhere that he won’t answer around me and how tense he gets after them really make me wonder. And, sometimes, he will start telling me a story about his life and then suddenly leave off, as if the story is wandering into parts of his life that he doesn’t want to reveal to me. I start to suspect that he does have a wife or a steady girlfriend stashed somewhere.

  If that is the case, at least he has some ethics to him in not sleeping with me—even if he is still flirting with me and kissing me. Each time he kisses me, my whole body aches with the hunger for more. But, like him, I end up conflicted—mostly because he is, and I don't know why, but my emotions seem to take a cue from him.

  I suspect that I am being paranoid about things. He told me his reason for not getting serious with me yet. And still ...I can sense t
hat there's something he isn't telling me—something that might be even more important.

  "So I'm thinking I'll try some of that sorbet stuff while we're in the hot tub, if you're into it." He has a gleam in his eye and a little curl to his lips.

  Immediately I feel my sex tighten as my nerves come alive from my neck to my knees. Is tonight the night? Is he finally getting so thirsty for me that it’s making him reckless? In spite of the risks, I hope so.

  "I don't have a bathing suit," I point out, and his lopsided smile widens as he takes the on-ramp onto the highway. We both go quiet as he merges with traffic and then starts moving left toward the fast lane.

  He's settled into the drive and is starting to answer when a white van roars up beside us and starts edging aggressively into our lane. Damon curses and pumps the brakes, letting the van in front of him before it can knock us into the guardrail. It ends up scraping along against the furrowed metal itself, striking sparks along one side.