by Tina Beckett
Fighting the stammer that bubbled up her throat, she settled for answering the woman’s question with a nod.
‘I noticed in the reservation book that you have ‘doctor’ in front of your name. Would you by chance be a medical doctor?’
She found her voice. ‘Yes.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind following us?’
Marty interrupted. ‘What’s this all about? Can’t you see we’re in the middle of a conversation?’
Chelsea’s jaw tensed. A conversation? More like a monologue.
The tall stranger said nothing, but a muscle bounded in his jaw. He was angry. At Marty. Not at her, even though his attention was still fastened on her.
The woman spoke again, her tones still hushed. ‘Again, I do apologize. I’m Sarah Rathborn, the hotel concierge. We have a bit of a medical emergency. It’s quite delicate, actually. Dr. Serrano, if you don’t mind? We could use your help.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She didn’t stop to wonder what kind of emergency it was, only knew it had to be something urgent for the concierge to interrupt their dinner. And the man with the earpiece was someone important. His large frame and proud, erect bearing gave off an I’m-in-charge vibe like nothing she’d ever seen.
As she pushed back her chair and stood, Marty tried to rise as well, only to have a firm hand land squarely on his shoulder, holding him in place.
Afraid he was about to cause a scene, Chelsea leaned over. ‘It’s okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise.’
‘I hope so, this meal is costing me a fortune.’
A wave of mortification rose within her. It wasn’t like she’d asked him to bring her here.
Blind date or not, she was tempted to just walk out the door after she’d seen to whatever the emergency was. But she could worry about how to handle Marty later.
The stranger lifted his hand from her date’s shoulder and swept it in the direction of the door. ‘If you would.’
Chelsea did as he asked, her steps quick but measured. From the ‘quite delicate’ comment made by the concierge, it had to be a VIP or someone important to warrant Earpiece Guy. Especially since the man had put Marty in his place in no uncertain terms.
That made her smile. Oh how she wished she could be that assertive. If she had been, she’d have simply gotten up and walked away once she realized the meal would cost her a fortune. Only not in monetary terms, but in time she could never get back again.
Once she reached the door, she slowed her steps so the pair could catch up, then found it was only the tall stranger. And he was right behind her. The concierge was nowhere to be seen, nor was his dining companion.
‘Where’s your friend? The one you were eating with?’
He glanced down at her. ‘He has other duties.’
She swallowed, not sure she wanted to know what those might be.
The man gestured toward the lobby. ‘We’re on the tenth floor.’
A shiver of foreboding went over her. Was she really going to follow him up to a strange hotel room without knowing who he was?
‘Who’s on the tenth floor?’ She hesitated.
‘Your patient. In the Executive Suite.’ He didn’t attempt to touch her to hurry her along, but impatience fairly oozed from his large frame. ‘Aidah Shabeen, youngest daughter of the president.’
The president!
Saliva pooled in her mouth. Oh Lord. Hadn’t Lila complained about the tightened security in central London this week because of the Kenistanian President’s visit?
Surely not.
When she glanced up at the man, he gave the merest hint of a nod, even though she hadn’t voiced the question aloud.
‘I’m here to ensure her safety.’
‘Why were you in the restaurant, then?’
‘I had a meeting.’
Oh, she got it. ‘With the other...’
‘Yes.’
That still didn’t explain who he was. ‘Your job is to protect this...Aidah?’
Another nod.
As in a bodyguard? Heavens. And he still hadn’t given her his name.
They crossed the reception area, the large columns and curved plaster beams standing at attention as they passed beneath them. The man pressed the call button on the wall beside the gold-plated lifts, and the ornate panel above the doors began counting down floors.
Within seconds they were inside the lift. A hint of some spicy cologne wove itself around her senses, leaving her slightly off balance. Earpiece Guy said nothing. Just stared at the readout, hands clasped behind his back, legs braced as if ready for anything that might happen. Her gaze traveled down his neck, past his shoulders.
When she reached chest level, she spied a slight bulge beneath the right side of his jacket.
A gun?
Yes. Of course it would be. To ensure the safety of the president’s daughter. Isn’t that what he’d said?
‘Can you at least tell me what I might find once we arrive?’
‘I’ll let you determine that.’
His accent was barely discernible. He’d been educated here in England. Or at least in a school that had an English professor.
The number two flashed across the screen as they headed up.
‘Anything you can tell me would help.’
‘She’s unconscious.’
Chelsea’s eyes widened. She’d thought maybe it was something a little less serious. ‘Did you call an ambulance yet?’
‘The president would prefer to have this handled in house.’
Why wouldn’t he want her taken to a hospital? Unless this had happened before. Chelsea’s blood pressure rose with each passing second. Maybe this had been a bad idea.
Like her date?
No, if she could help this girl, then she would. But if it ended up being something more serious than what she could handle in a hotel room, she would have the girl transported to the nearest hospital, no matter what the president’s wishes were.
The fifth floor passed in silence. He was definitely nothing like the talkative Marty.
‘You don’t say very much do you?’
Chelsea could swear the side of his mouth curved. ‘I learn more by observing.’
Interesting. So did she. And from what she could see, Earpiece Guy was a very capable man. He wasn’t conceited, but he was self-assured. She envied him that.
‘What kinds of things?’
This time his dark gaze swung to her, lingering for a few heart-stopping seconds before turning back to the front. ‘I’ll let you know.’
His attention went back to the readout, just as calm as ever.
Chelsea, however, was a mess. Already she could feel moisture beading across her upper lip, and if she held her hands out in front of her, she was positive they would be trembling. Just like her legs.
From the situation? Or the man? Maybe it was a combination of both.
They finally reached their destination, and Earpiece Guy waited for Chelsea to exit the lift and then followed her out, leading the way down a long hallway. From the amount of time it took to pass from one door to the next, she could tell these were not your run-of-the-mill hotel rooms. They had to be huge. Maybe different floors had different sizes. It made sense that the Kenistanian president’s rooms would be among the most luxurious the hotel had to offer.
‘We’re here,’ Earpiece Guy said as they stopped in front of a door with the words ‘Executive Suite’ embossed on the front. He made no effort to open the handle. ‘Are you carrying any type of weapon?’
Was he serious?
‘No.’ The thought that he might ask to frisk her scurried through her head. Her mouth went dry.
But he didn’t ask, just slid a keycard into the door and waited for the green light to flash.
Inside the room, there was complete silence.
Chelsea swallowed. She followed him in, where three women—their dark hair partially obscured by brightly-colored veils—stood around a huge bed. When he motioned her forward, she found her p
atient. A silky cerulean bedspread had been pulled back, revealing a young woman who was almost as pale as the white sheets. She lay still, her head sunk deep into a pillow. Unlike the other women, she had no head covering, but there was a red scarf draped across the pillow next to her. There was no sign of life other than the quick rise and fall of her chest.
At least she was breathing.
Chelsea’s concern overcame her nerves as her training kicked in. ‘Do any of you speak English?’
None of the women answered, but the bodyguard came forward. ‘They don’t. But I can translate.’
She nodded. ‘Ask them what happened.’ Sitting beside the patient, she took her wrist and felt for a pulse, while the man spoke to the group in what sounded like an Arabic language. The girl’s heart rate was rapid. Too rapid for someone who was simply resting.
A wheeled cart, draped in a crisp white linen cloth, held an array of small cakes and what looked like Arab sweets. Empty paper holders littered its surface. One of the cakes was on the floor, a napkin still wrapped around it. A small chunk was missing from one frosted side. The girl had started to eat that, then something happened.
Poison? An assassination attempt by one of protestors she’d seen outside the hotel? Or an enemy of the girl’s family?
The bodyguard moved closer. ‘She isn’t supposed to have desserts. Her maid claims Aidah had ordered her to take a rest in her own room, so she had no idea all this had been ordered...or eaten.’ He nodded toward the cake-laden cart.
‘Is Aidah diabetic?’ At the moment, she didn’t care if she butchered the girl’s name or not.
Even as the man translated, Chelsea spotted a used syringe on the table next to her.
Damn. She knew the problem even before the bodyguard came back with an affirmative answer. The young woman had tried to compensate for her massive sugar intake by injecting herself with insulin. But she’d miscalculated the dosage and given herself too much. She was in insulin shock. A death sentence if not addressed quickly.
She’d prefer to do this in a hospital, but didn’t want to risk having a fight on her hands, since Earpiece Guy had said the president wanted to handle this here in the hotel, if possible.
‘If she checks her own glucose levels, I need her tester right now.’ She hadn’t brought her doctor’s bag with her. But if the girl managed her own sugar levels, she had to have one.
A bunch of shuffling went on and then a woman’s voice raised in anger, but within seconds an automatic tester appeared in her hand. In broken English the older woman said, ‘Doctor help Aidah.’
‘I’ll try.’
Chelsea got down to business, pricking the girl’s finger and waiting as the machine gauged the amount of glucose in her blood. The readout came back with the number thirty-eight within seconds. She had her answer. Her already shaky nerves trembled in earnest.
‘Do you have a glucagon rescue kit here in the room?’
Earpiece Guy frowned at her, the first time he’d shown any real emotion since putting Marty in his place. ‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘There should be a kit of injectable glucose—sugar.’
He glanced at the table. ‘She’s already had too much sugar.’
There was no time to explain. ‘Where do they keep her medicines?’
A quick question and answer session came up with the bedside table and a nearby refrigerator. What she was looking for wouldn’t need to be kept cold. She opened the drawers and found a wealth of syringes in the top one along with a pink compact-looking dispenser.
Birth control.
The next drawer down had a familiar orange case. There!
She grabbed the container and popped it open, praying it hadn’t already been used. Inside, she found a syringe containing a small amount of clear liquid and a vial of powder. She glanced back at the bodyguard. ‘Put her on her side.’
He didn’t question her, just motioned the three ladies closer, instructing them to turn her toward the wall. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to touch a woman. Some of the Arab countries had a strict set of rules regarding male/female interactions. In fact, there were no other men in the room and from the frowns the bodyguard had received from the older lady when they’d come in, Chelsea wondered if he was even supposed to be here. If he wasn’t, though, there’d be no one to translate and the girl could die. Maybe he knew that and had decided to flout convention in order to help save her. Whatever the reason, she was grateful.
She reached in her purse for her hand sanitizer and disinfected her hands before touching anything else. ‘I’ll need some rubbing alcohol, if you have it. If not, I need you to find some cotton. She should have something she uses to wipe her skin down before she injects her medicine.’
Letting the man do his job, she pulled the syringe and vial from the case. She uncapped the needle and then pushed it through the top of the tiny bottle, injecting the contents. Once she’d pulled the needle free, she gently shook the vial to mix it before reinserting the needle and drawing the glucose back into the syringe.
‘I’m ready. Did you find that alcohol?’
‘Yes.’ Earpiece Guy’s voice was gruff.
He was worried. And she had a feeling it wasn’t about his job. He genuinely cared about his charge.
Something about that touched her deeply. Later, Chelsea.
Turning back toward the bed, she noted the man had several packets of sterilizing wipes between his fingers. ‘Can you open one of those and swab her upper arm?’
He gave her an uncertain look, and she wondered for a second if he would refuse. The three women were busy holding the president’s daughter in position, and Chelsea didn’t want to hand the needle off to someone whose hands hadn’t been sanitized.
‘Please,’ she murmured. ‘She needs this. She’ll die without it.’
Without another word, he ripped open the packet and moved to the bed, saying something to the older woman who moved slightly to the side to allow him access to the patient.
He swabbed her arm with a few quick passes, then moved back.
‘Thank you.’ She offered up a quick smile, and then hurried forward with the syringe.
No one questioned her right to be there. She had a feeling that was due, in part, to the man beside her.
Lining up the syringe with the area he’d wiped, she quickly pushed the needle home and injected the glucose.
‘Keep her there,’ she said to the women, motioning her meaning. Then she looked at the bodyguard. ‘I need a towel.’
As he went to get it, she recapped the needle and moved around to the front to watch what happened. The girl would either recover and be fine....or if Chelsea had been wrong in her diagnosis, Aidah could very well die right in front of them.
Chapter Three
The wait seemed to take forever.
Finally, the girl groaned and shifted her head with a grimace.
Chelsea tucked the bath towel beneath her patient’s cheek, holding her breath. Right on cue, the young woman vomited. Once. Twice.
‘Another towel.’ She used a clean corner to wipe her patient’s face, then balled up the soiled cloth and replaced it with a fresh one. ‘Don’t let her turn onto her back.’
The last thing Chelsea wanted was for the girl to choke or inhale some of her own stomach contents. Aspiration pneumonia could be as deadly as the thing she was treating her for.
One of the three women started crying, but she didn’t leave her post. The older lady sat sideways on the bed, still holding the girl’s shoulders, leaning forward to murmur something into her ear. She glanced up at Chelsea, her red-rimmed eyes asking a silent question.
‘Give her a few more minutes.’
Earpiece Guy translated her words in that authoritative tone of his, dark eyes holding hers the whole time.
Her patient’s stomach heaved a couple more times, but nothing else came up. Another moan sounded, but this time it was accompanied by a flutter of dark lashes. The young woman opened her eyes for a secon
d, but her gaze was unfocused.
‘I need to test her blood again,’ Chelsea said. ‘Can you sit here with her in case she’s sick again?’
The man moved in front of the girl, not touching her, but he did adjust the towel slightly, smoothing it.
This time the glucose reading came back in the fifties. It was rising. Good. A few more minutes, and she should be fully consciousness.
Taking up her position near her patient’s head, she settled in to wait. ‘Can you have someone come and remove those desserts?’
‘I’ll see to it.’ Earpiece Guy stood, his arm brushing hers in a long stroke that could have been accidental, but felt anything but.
A warning?
Chelsea had no idea if it was okay for her to be issuing orders in their culture or not, but she didn’t care. She had a job to do and this was part of it. So was the lecture she’d soon be giving her young patient.
She could have died. Maybe the girl was used to being coddled and simply got careless. Or maybe her life was so restricted that she’d rebelled with disastrous consequences. Chelsea had no idea why she’d done what she had, but part of her job as a doctor was educating her patients. And since she was an objective party—with no ties to the Kenistanian president or anyone else in the room—the worst they could do was kick her out on her butt.
Within five minutes, one of the hotel staff had arrived to take the cart from the room, her polished shoes making no sound on the plush white carpet. She withdrew again without a word.
Soon after the door closed behind her, the girl’s eyes opened and stayed open. Then she focused and said something in her native tongue. Her puzzled gaze fastened on Chelsea and moved over her hair, then down her green silk dress and ended at her black high heels, which now hurt her feet like the dickens. The three other women in the room had on long sleeves and floor-length tunics.
The young woman spoke again, this time in English. ‘Who are you?’ Her tone was curious rather than condemnatory.
‘I’m a doctor. You gave your...friends a bit of a scare.’
She closed her eyes and nodded. ‘The cakes? I ate too many.’
‘Yes. And then you took too much insulin after eating them.’ She glanced at the other women. ‘I think it’s safe to let her roll over.’
