by Dianne Drake
24/7
The cutting edge of Harlequin® Medical Romance™
The emotion is deep
The drama is real
The intensity is fierce
24/7
Feel the heat—every hour…every minute…every heartbeat
Dear Reader,
I’m so thrilled to be back for my fourth medical romance, and I’d like to thank Harlequin®, and my editor, Kate Ahl, for allowing me to write these stories for you.
Years ago I knew a marvelous doctor. He had a successful cardiology practice, a beautiful home and a nice car. Then one day he gave it up. I was just a child then, and I remember people saying things like “He must have gone crazy!”
Years later I picked up a magazine and read an article about him. He’d gone to Appalachia—a region in the United States that was notoriously poor and without health care. He was a circuit doctor, hiking around the mountains to various towns and villages, performing medical care out of a backpack. At that time he’d been doing it for fifteen years, and he was quoted as saying that was his life’s dream, and all he ever wanted to do.
Where I live, a multimillion-dollar monorail was built to transport doctors from one hospital to another so they wouldn’t have to walk or drive those few blocks. Every time I see it I think about my friend, who hiked through the mountains year after year with his backpack. He achieved a dream few people can even imagine, and lived a life few would want. My friend, like Solange, the heroine of this book, had a true servant’s heart. To him, and to others like him, I dedicate this book.
Wishing you health and happiness!
Dianne Drake
Recent titles by the same author:
206—NURSE IN RECOVERY*
218—THE MEDICINE MAN*
245—THE SURGEON’S RESCUE MISSION*
The Doctor’s Courageous Bride
Dianne Drake
CONTENTS
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 ONE
“YOUR HÔPITAL is all you have on your mind, mon ami. You should take the night off. Enjoy with me. Drink the champagne, look at the pretty women. All work and no play makes Dr Paul Killian a very old man very fast. And once you wither up and blow away, what will become of your hôpital then?” Bertrand Léandre threw back his head and laughed heartily, then took a puff of his big fat Cuban cigar. A mountain of a man in his tuxedo, he was big, broad and obviously the domineering factor in the room, domineering in every physical aspect. And the people at the party responded positively to him, hovering around him, listening and laughing.
All except Paul Killian, who was already tired. For them, it was a party. For him, it was work. He couldn’t even remember when he’d taken the time to enjoy, and it was a pity because as parties went, Bertrand Léandre always threw the best. But raising funds for his hospital was a vital part of Paul’s job now, and Bertrand had the funds Paul needed. More than that, he attracted the funds, so there was no turning his back on generosity, especially when he wanted to add a new children’s wing and buy another whirlpool therapy tub.
Paul laughed. “All work and no play adds a whirlpool to physical therapy.” He tugged at the tight collar of his starched, white shirt. Tuxedos weren’t his style. Neither were the silk bow-ties nor the stiff, shiny black shoes that protocol demanded with the formal ensemble. Horrible dress for a man who had gotten use to the garb of Kijé and found it not only fetching but comfortable. Gauzy pants, loose cotton shirts, sandals. If anybody had told him two years ago when he arrived on Kijé that the tops of his toes would soon be tanned, he would have laughed.
But they were now, as were the toes of every other fair-skinned person who spent their time in a tropical paradise. And that’s what Kijé was. A tropical Caribbean paradise. Blue skies, blue waters and those legendary balmy breezes, none of which required formal garment.
But an evening in a tuxedo was part of the job, and shedding comfort for formality was worth all the bother because people, overall, were generous at these affairs. And he counted on that generosity to improve the condition of his hospital. Bottom line. That’s what he was about. Finding the funds that made Killian Hospital run.
Paul flagged a passing waiter for a flute of ginger ale, because he bypassed the Dom Perignon at these affairs when he was representing the hospital and so much was at stake. “And as for the pretty women, even if I did notice them, when would I have the time, Bertrand? You know my life. Do you think a woman in her right mind would even look twice at me if she knew that I was destined to run off at a moment’s notice?” He’d been married to a beautiful woman who hadn’t been able to abide the lifestyle. She’d wanted to wake up every morning looking at his face on the pillow next to hers, which had turned out to be a rare occurrence in their marriage. Traditional domesticity wasn’t his strong suit, but it’s what Joanna had needed. Too bad they hadn’t known that before they’d married. “Tried it once, mon ami, and you know how that turned out.” And trying it twice wasn’t on his agenda. So he didn’t tempt himself. All work and no play…the substance of Dr Paul Killian.
Bertrand snorted. “You are too hard on yourself. Even the most untraditional of marriages can be the most wonderful, if the two people involved are meant to be together. You and the other Dr Killian were not meant to be together no matter what the circumstances. In marriage, mon ami, that’s what you get: either meant to be or meant not to be. You, unfortunately, fell into the not category, and it had nothing to do with your absences.” He smiled wistfully, then sighed. “I know these things, Paul.”
Bertrand referred to his own marriage to the late Dr Gabriella Léandre. She had been a pioneer in heart surgery, living most of her life in Paris while her husband had lived in Miami and Kijé. It had worked nicely for them, but it hadn’t worked at all for Paul and Joanna, and he was fully aware that many, maybe even most, of the shortfalls in that fiasco of a marriage had been his. “You were the fortunate one in your marriage, but for me, like you said, it wasn’t meant to be. So now I have my work and it makes me happy.” He cast Bertrand a well-rehearsed smile, one he used so often in affairs such as this. “And speaking of work, I need to get back to it.”
Paul took a sip of his ginger ale, glancing around to size up the guests there this evening. Most of them he knew, some he did not. Some would be generous donors, others would refer him to their accountant for that obligatory contribution—the one that would make Bertrand Léandre take notice of them—and still others would simply decline. But that’s the way it was in his world, and he didn’t take it personally. “So tell me, Bertrand, to whom should I be talking instead of you now? Who will be the best use of my time here tonight?”
“My, but you have become proficient, haven’t you?”
“I’ve had a good teacher,” Paul responded, his eyes still scanning the crowd.
“Always the work, Paul.” Bertrand tsk-tsked him, shaking his head. “Always the work, and yet you are so rarely there to see the work. All that education and you reduce yourself to a common beggar.” He shook his head again, this time frowning. “It’s such a waste, my friend. You could be the head of a great hospital somewhere. You have the talents and I have connections. Would you like for me to see what I can do for you?”
Paul smiled patiently. They’d had this discussion before. Many times before. “About picking some pockets for me, yes, please see what you can do. But about finding me
another job, you know the answer. I have my job.” And he loved it. Passionately. Because in the end, people who couldn’t afford treatment from other sources received treatment at his hospital. At no cost. So maybe he didn’t doctor in the traditional sense so much now, but the outcome was the same. People who needed help were helped.
Paul glanced away from Bertrand to the entryway, to the woman standing there, looking around the room. His breath caught in his throat for an instant. Then he blinked. Had she stumbled into the wrong party? Dressed in khaki shorts, a blue T-shirt and hiking boots and standing there so elegantly in her jungle attire amid all the sequins and silks and Ferragamo shoes, that had to be the case.
Whatever the reason, the Fates had sent her here only for him, and the man who never looked was already grateful for the gift, because she was the most stunning woman he’d ever seen in his life. With flawless skin and wild black hair hanging well past her shoulders, she was tall and lithe, and her legs…Dear God, those legs…Covering them in the formal wear all the other women at Bertrand’s affair wore would have been a high crime.
Quite simply, everything about her took his breath away for in that moment as she stood there surveying the room and he surveyed her, it was just the two of them. Dim lights, soft jazz, and no one else. And as her eyes searched all the people and finally came to rest on his, he didn’t hear the next words from Bertrand, neither did he hear any of the stifled gasps coming from the crowd over her audacity to gatecrash the affair dressed as she was.
No, he heard none of that because as her eyes finally met his, he heard only the pounding of his heart.
Then as she started to move across the room, her strides purposeful and not at all in the graceful manner he might have expected from one so exquisite, he found himself still drawn to her every movement—the way she pushed her hair back from her face, the way her shoulders swayed with each step she took, the way she moved through all glitz yet emerged as the most captivating person in the room.
No, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Didn’t even try. Perhaps she was looking for directions to her rightful destination—a place to which he already ached to follow her.
But she didn’t stop, not even when one of waiters approached her to offer champagne. She merely refused him with a gentle smile and continued on, showing to everyone who looked on that in a room full of tuxedos and designer gowns, that she was the standout, the one all eyes followed, and not because of her attire.
The farther into the room she moved, the more hushed it became, and by the time she reached the spot where Paul and Bertrand were standing, it was so quiet throughout, even the clinking of the champagne flutes on the waiters’ trays seemed an intrusion.
Stopping there, she glanced up briefly at Bertrand Léandre, offering him a faint smile. “Papa,” she said, pausing briefly as he bent to kiss her cheek. Then to Paul, “You are Dr Paul Killian, are you not?”
Paul nodded, and before he could utter a word she grabbed hold of his hand and started to pull him away from her father. “Good. My name is Dr Solange Léandre, and I must speak with you, Dr Killian. Privately.”
“You don’t look like your photograph,” Solange commented once they were in the hall. Then she smiled shyly, quickly adding, “I mean that in a good way. You look much better than your photo.” He was much more handsome in person. Larger, too. Well over six feet tall, with light brown, slightly long and unkempt hair, blue eyes, perfect smile—yes, he was handsome, but in a way she’d certainly never considered worth a second look. Until now.
Dr Mauricio Raúl Muñoz had certainly been a handsome one. The type who’d never failed to turn her head and, in retrospect, the type she should have turned her head away from. He was shorter than Paul, with dark, wavy black hair, and those dark, brooding eyes. Solange shivered, and not in a good way, thinking about him. Mauricio had been, oh, so wrong for her. Three years wrong, as it turned out. “I saw your photo in the newspaper. You were posing with my father at one of his charity events, and he was donating some lab equipment to your hospital, I believe.” Actually, she knew. She’d kept the copy and memorized Paul’s face in the expectation of this meeting.
And, admittedly, she’d liked his smile in that photo. The same smile he was flashing at her right now. The one that was causing her to shiver again, but in a good way this time.
“I’m flattered that you remember me and, more than that, recognize me from the photo, because it wasn’t very flattering.” He chuckled. “It’s true what they say about cameras. They put on ten pounds and, in my case, ten years.”
Solange tossed him an impertinent smile. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Doctor?”
“Having you notice me was the best compliment you could have paid me.” He snagged a flute of champagne from the tray of a waiter scurrying into the Salon Rose and handed it to Solange. “In my dreary life, that’s a rare occurrence,” he continued, grimacing. “Sadly, more rare these past two years than I should be admitting to a lady such as yourself. It makes me seem rather pathetic.”
“I think we all get noticed where we want to be noticed, Doctor. Where and how.” She took a sip of her champagne, then set the flute on a replica Queen Anne hall table against the wall behind her. “If you live a dreary life, I suspect that’s by choice.”
“Or necessity.”
“I understand necessity. That’s the reason I’m here. Out of necessity.” She drew in a deep breath. That sounded a bit too sharp-edged, she thought. But she was nervous, and this was so important. “Forgive me for getting straight to the point.” To take the edge off, she retrieved the champagne and drank it all in one effort. She simply tilted the glass back and let the bubbly slide down her throat in the hope that it would brace her for this, as well as make her a little more mellow.
“Basically, what I want is a place to send my patients for various tests. Yours is a private hospital, your money pays for the tests, your equipment performs them, and I thought that proper protocol demanded me asking you before I started sending people your way. A medical courtesy.”
“Your patients?” he questioned.
“Rurals, Doctor. I work up in the Massif des Montagnes Noires, traveling to the various villages.”
“And the rurals rarely seek out traditional medicine, Doctor?” Paul asked. “In my two years here on Kijé, I can recall only one or two instances where they came to the hospital. Most of the time they don’t trust us.”
Solange smiled. “It’s a challenge. I understand that. But for me, I like knowing there’s help available if I need it. Someplace to send my patients if the situation warrants it.”
“And how are you going to persuade them to come to me?”
“I have a partner who travels with me who is the persuasive one. I think I’ll leave getting them here up to him.”
“Another doctor?”
Solange shook her head. “A monk. He’s wandered the mountains of Kijé for thirty years, getting to know the rurals, and they trust him.”
“You can only mean Frère Léon, the one-man medical mission. I haven’t seen him for a while and I was wondering where he was.” He chuckled. “He is always a bit of a crusader, isn’t he, trying to set up better medical facilities throughout the island?”
“And I’m the conquest of one of his recent crusades.” Solange laughed. “So now I travel about half my time, and I do have a little infirmary operating at an old mission halfway up the mountain. We offer basic care there, but not X-rays and lab work. And that’s what I want from you, Doctor. The ancillary services. Something that will give me the diagnostic tools I need.”
Paul chuckled. “And here I was hoping that you’d sought me out for something other than my ancillary services.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but yours is the closest facility to my mountain, and I’ve heard you do brilliant work there.”
“Ah, you do know how to crush a man, Doctor.”
“Not crush, Doctor. Persuade.” She laughed. “So is it working? Are you per
suaded yet? Or do I have more work to do here?”
“Tell me who you are, Dr Léandre. You said you’re a doctor, and it’s obvious you’re Bertrand’s daughter. Actually, I’m surprised he’s never mentioned having a family, other than…Gabriella.”
“My mother,” Solange whispered. Gone ten years now, mention of her mother still brought a lump to her throat. “My father doesn’t get past my mother, so I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of me from him. But to answer your question, I’m a doctor, specializing in public health and infectious disease. I’ve was working in a Miami clinic that closed up just over a year ago.” Locked up tight, building on the auction block, and a fiancé who’d thought it had been time to go upscale with their joint medical practice. Except, silly her, the legalities on the contract had made it his medical practice, his building, his decision. “So I came here to Kijé, took to the mountains, and the rest, as they say, is history.” Solange glanced over Paul’s shoulder to the door of Salon Rose, where her father’s party had already resumed with the next round of champagne and caviar, and where her father loomed, scowling in the doorway, a single malt Scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. “Do you have a room here at the hotel, Dr Killian? Someplace where we can talk privately, without my father’s scrutiny? He thinks I make bad career decisions and his position on this would be to install me as a medical director in a large hospital somewhere. His solution is always the biggest and the best.”
Paul chuckled. “I’ve had that offer myself. Just a few minutes ago, actually.”
“Then he must like you. Which is high praise, as my father is an exacting man who keeps most people at arm’s length.” She smiled at her father, who acknowledged it with a half-hearted attempt at a smile. “He really hates being left out of this, you know.”
“Am I detecting a little angst in your family situation?”
“A little. My sister, Solaina, was always better with Papa. I was better with Maman, I think. Her way to love her family was to nurture it. His way was to control it.” She shrugged. “But I didn’t come here to tell you my family history, Doctor.” Here, at L’Hôtel de Brise d’Océan. How ironic, after all these years. As a child, she’d played on the white sandy beaches outside, dined in the world-class dining room, slept in the down-filled beds. And she’d loved that life. But that had been so long ago, in more innocent times when she had been young. Now she wasn’t affected by the trappings. They were nice, as were the memories, but the aspiration to be part of that life again was so far removed from her reality she had a hard time even imagining it.
