Claimed: One Wife

by Meredith Webber

  So far! he reminded himself grimly. Although it was only a matter of time...

  He shut away the memories that had briefly flashed into his head and considered Sally Cochrane once again.

  To do as well as she had done, she must be far tougher than her delicately put-together frame and pretty face suggested.

  And as he studied the pretty face in question, or what he could see of it without making his scrutiny obvious, he found some of the tension of the last few days—a combination of a new job and a lost brother, to say nothing of a persistent headache and the onset of arthritis in his left ankle—easing out of his nerves. .

  Though where the hell was Tom? How could he just disappear on the road between Sydney and Brisbane?

  'How soon will we know?'

  Dark brown eyes, lit by tiny flashes of gold, looked up at him as she asked a question. It took him a moment to realise the conversation had swung back to their patient's progress. No personal byplay for Sally Cochrane! No, sir, this was one member of his team who had no intention of sweet-talking the boss!

  'Maybe days, maybe months,' he told her, reminding himself it was how he liked to work. Professionally close to his colleagues, but personally keeping them at arm's length. His own experience with Erica had left him hurting, then the disaster with the two young residents a few years later had reinforced his determination to keep personal and professional life separate. Less distracting, and better for all concerned.

  'If it stretches to months I'll get the heebie-jeebies,' she said, and again the gold-lit eyes scanned his face. 'Doesn't your worry factor balloon out of all control when it takes longer than it reasonably or logically should for improvement to reveal itself?'

  'Heebie-jeebies,' He found himself smiling in spite of his -determination to remain aloof. 'My turn to be surprised by an expression. I haven't heard it since I was a kid. But it perfectly describes the uncertainty.'

  He stopped smiling so she didn't get any ideas, and added, 'When that happens I remind myself we haven't made anything worse. I mean, he'd have been paralysed for life if we'd left the clot. At least, by operating, we've given him a chance.'

  'A chance!' she repeated quietly. 'It's not like other surgery, is it? We open up bits of people that should never be disturbed, and it's only ever giving them a chance. No certain outcome, in the way removing an appendix will stop the pain.'

  'But could cause peritonitis,' he countered. 'While joint replacements can leave patients far worse off if infection sets in. There are no guarantees in any of our specialties so don't get maudlin on me, Dr Cochrane. I'm into positive thinking as far as all the patients under my care are concerned.'

  'Even the pain patients?' she asked, and he realised that, far from being maudlin, she was now teasing him. 'Positive relief?'

  He sighed.

  'Eighty-five per cent of all neuro patients are seeking relief from pain,' he reminded her. 'And more than half of them we can help.' He caught the twitch of her very shapely lips as she hid a smile. Then, annoyed with himself for being distracted, he said sternly, 'Mrs Franklin is an exception, I'll admit, but her pain is genuine to her.'

  'Hot horses' hooves thundering down her spine? Gnomes pressing flaming needles into her flesh?' Sally Cochrane murmured, the smile no longer hidden and the gold in her eyes gleaming with delight.

  'Patients with psychosomatic pain do tend towards more colourful descriptions,' he agreed, then he shrugged, determined to distance himself again. 'But we can't just turn them away. We have to try to alleviate it.'

  They walked out of the ICU together, towards the lifts which would take them up to the neurosurgery ward where previously treated patients would be awaiting their morning visit.

  'Are you going to try an implanted stimulator on her?' Sally asked as they crowded into the lift.

  'It's about all that's left,' he admitted. 'If she can get some relief from it, she can then go to detox and be taken slowly off the morphine.'

  He sighed, rejecting a spurt of anger with the patient's previous doctor who'd continued the pain relief without considering other options. After all, the implanting of an electrode in the spine was relatively new and the physician who'd been treating Mrs Franklin had been a family friend and unwilling to risk her ire by cutting back on her drugs.

  Daniel joined them when they reached the ward, with young Paul Adams, an intern on a short rotation to Neurosurgery which was offered as an adjunct to the surgical rotation. The charge nurse and a group of eight students made up the crew who'd be doing the formal round.

  Grant nodded his head towards the tearoom and they all crowded in. Daniel produced the patient cards and, as he read out a name, Sally outlined the patient's problem or problems then deferred to the boss for his input.

  He spoke well, she decided. Putting facts to the students in clear, succinct terms which would make them easy to absorb. That was if they weren't thinking about the little smile lines fanning out from his eyes when he half smiled.

  Unlikely, as they were all young men! She really had to get her act together here. Apart from the fact Grant Hudson wasn't interested in her—and wasn't likely to be, given his stand on intra-team relationships—romance and study didn't mix, remember.

  '"Millie Franklin",' Daniel read. '"Fifty-seven, married. Ten year history of extreme back pain."'

  Sally forgot smile lines and took over, professionally describing the laminectomies Mrs Franklin had undergone under other specialists.

  'In many cases, the removal of ruptured discs and the fusing of the spine provides relief for back pain-sufferers.' Grant Hudson expanded on the subject. 'However, this hasn't worked for Mrs Franklin and this time she's in to have an electrode implanted in her spine. The operation is done under anaesthetic.'

  He went on to explain exactly how the tiny wire would be inserted into her spine and over the spinal cord. Sally, relieved from speaking duties, relaxed as she listened to the rise and fall of his voice. The dark notes in it were soft and mellow, almost seductive...

  'Are you still with us, Dr Cochrane?'

  She shook herself awake.

  'I was asking you to explain what happens next.'

  Next?

  She caught sight of Daniel's smirk, then fortunately saw the slight movement of Paul's fingers.

  'We attach the electrode to a control box and the patient is given the controls so he or she can experiment with different levels of stimulation.'

  'Thank you, Dr Cochrane, and Dr Adams for the prompt,' Grant said smoothly. 'And then?' he looked at Sally again.

  'Once we know what stimulation helps we take the patient back to Theatre and insert a radio receiver to the electrode and pack the lot under the skin to keep it sterile. The patient wears a transmitter on his or her waist, or carries it in some other way, and can send the messages to the electrode which produces a buzzing sensation.'

  Grant nodded. 'The theory is it gates fee pain—provides a distraction that stops the pain messages getting through to the brain.'

  He turned to ask the students if they had any questions.

  Naturally they did, and Sally had to hide a sigh. Both Daniel and Ted, the previous head of the neurology department, hated student rounds and got through them with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of disdain for the underlings.

  She disapproved of this approach and tried to make it up to the students at other times, but surely there was a happy medium somewhere between their way and Grant Hudson's.

  She must have sighed again, for the man in question fixed her with a steely glare.

  'Are we keeping you from something, Dr Cochrane?'

  Not that he could have expected a reply, for he was on his feet, heading for the door, the students trailing in his wake.

  'You'll have to do more than flash a pretty smile to impress this fellow,' Daniel said, falling in behind and walking, too close, beside her.

  'If you're implying what I think you're implying, I could sue you!' she snapped, stepping sideways to avoid the
proximity.

  Daniel laughed.

  'You're telling me you didn't go running to Ted when I made a pass at you?'

  The question was so surprising, that Sally stopped dead.

  'Running to Ted? To tell him you'd a made a pass? You've got to be joking!'

  But a hardness in Daniel's eyes suggested he wasn't, and Sally wondered if the aggravation she put up with from him didn't stem entirely from her refusal to join his 'hospital harem'.

  'Since Ted had trouble seeing the nose on the front of his face, I doubt he noticed anything himself, Sal,' Daniel murmured.

  Sally felt her spine stiffen, and tiredness overcame the restraint she usually employed in his presence.

  'Don't call me Sal!' she growled at him. 'You know damn well how much I hate it!'

  'When you're ready, Dr Cochrane.'

  Grant's voice froze her blood.

  She nodded, and followed the crew into the ward, battling mortification now, as well as anger. But soon the joy of what she did, the endless fascination of this particular strand of the medical profession, absorbed her and she found herself enjoying the round, explaining things for the students, answering questions directed at her by the boss.

  When the round finished, Sally hurried off. Being on call at night didn't mean you could skip scheduled operations next morning, although this morning's roster was such that the third-year resident could do most of the work. And the first-year could assist while she had a small snooze standing up, a technique she'd perfected early in her career.

  'Dr Cochrane?'

  The department head, who appeared to be haunting her this week, once again materialised by her side in the corridor.

  'I like my team to work in harmony,' he said bluntly. 'While I don't think it's necessary to socialise on a regular basis—in fact, as you know from my introductory statement, I believe teams work better if they don't fraternise all the time—perhaps if we all get together some time soon, we can thrash out a few things.'

  He paused, and Sally looked up to see he was looking at her with a puzzled expression on his face.

  'Thrash out a few things?' she repeated, equally puzzled.

  He shook his head as if to clear it, then rubbed his temple as if he had a headache, but didn't elaborate.

  'Organise it, will you? Miss Flintock has my diary. She'll tell you when I'm free,' he added, then he turned and walked, silently, away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  One year to go, Sally told herself. Less than that, in fact, to finish out her required time on the specialist programme, but there were still the final exams.

  And she was on contract for the year.

  Just one more year.

  The words repeated themselves in her head as she hurried towards the theatres.

  'Aha! Finally a body worth watching! I was just telling Fred here that this mixed-sex dressing room was a dead loss as far as us orthopods are concerned. Not a single woman on the programme at the moment.'

  The men in the room, a mix of neuro and orthopedic residents and interns, all turned to see who'd entered.

  Sally, whose three brothers had inured her to the sight of half-naked men, snorted at Warren Clarke's remark but didn't bite, remembering instead the clothing mix-up.

  'You wouldn't know anything about the labels on the boxes being switched, I suppose?' she demanded.

  He grinned at her.

  'Catch you, did I?'

  'Only once!' Sally told him. 'I'll check the tags in future. And if you think I looked stupid in a double large, imagine my lord and master in extra small.'

  'Lord and master, Dr Cochrane?'

  Uh-oh!

  The soft question spun Sally around, to come face to face with the man himself.

  Again.

  'Y-you should wear a b-bell,' she stuttered, while the others chuckled at her discomfort. 'On a collar around your neck like cats do to stop them bothering birds. What are you doing here, anyway?'

  He looked down at her, and raised one dirk, neatly formed eyebrow.

  'Do I have to answer that question?'

  Sally felt her muscles cringe, but she was in so deep, she might as well keep going.

  'This morning's session is routine stuff,' she spluttered. 'Jerry can handle most of it. I thought you were listed for this afternoon—for Mrs Franklin's implant and Matt Crane's meningioma—as demonstration operations. We don't have students in Theatre this morning.'

  'I am listed for this afternoon,' he agreed with perfect composure. 'But as yet I haven't had an opportunity to see Dr Finch perform, so, if it's all right with you, I shall join the surgical team.'

  He lifted a set of clothes from the 'large' box, checked the tag, and proceeded to the back of the room where he always changed.

  The cringe became a weakness, a liquefying of her bones, and Sally slumped onto the bench and breathed deeply. Perhaps one year was too long.

  But the end of January was too late to be looking for a new position, so she was stuck with Grant Hudson.

  No, not stuck with, but honoured to work in his team, she reminded herself firmly. Hadn't she welcomed the announcement of his arrival? To be able to say she'd trained under him, even if it was only for a year, would certainly enhance her job prospects when she was finally qualified.

  What could she do in the meantime?

  How was she going to get through the year?

  'For a start, watch your mouth!' she muttered angrily under her breath, then she continued the lecture in her head.

  That way, if he continues to materialise behind your back when you least expect it, you won't get caught out.

  And, secondly, put any idea that it's attraction making you edgy right out of your head! Even if he didn't disapprove of team fraternisation, the last thing you need at the moment is a relationship with any man! Work, study, passing the exams. Those are your priorities this year! No diversions and no exceptions.

  Grant changed swiftly, then, instead of heading for the scrub room, turned left along the clean corridor to where a wall phone was conveniently hung. He stabbed in the numbers of his own extension.

  'Miss Flintock,' he said, hoping the phone would smooth the growl out of his voice, 'set up an appointment for me with whoever's in charge of Administration—Dickson, isn't it? A.s.a.p. Tell him I want to talk about the mixed dressing rooms. Page me when he's available.'

  He dropped the phone back onto its cradle. He'd get rid of this combined changing room idea if it was the last thing he did.

  Though why the sight of Sally Cochrane's slim brown legs should be affecting him so badly, he didn't know. The breasts he could understand. Pert, swelling breasts, their tan accentuated by the sensible white bra, were enough to stir any male's libido. In fact, he'd be worried if he wasn't affected just slightly by them.

  But for the legs to be putting fantasies in his head?

  Not to mention causing inappropriate reactions in his body!

  When he knew how disastrous intra-team relationships could be?

  Stress, that was what was causing it. Stress brought on by Tom's disappearance, Jocelyn's reaction, and exacerbated by the continuing headache and ankle pain he was suffering.

  But the explanation didn't banish his mental image of Dr Cochrane's legs!

  He groaned quietly to himself and pushed through the doors into the scrub room.

  'Did you know males think about sex every eight seconds?' Jerry Finch's question, directed at the scrub nurse, was perfect synergy!

  'Every eight seconds?' the nurse, whom Grant didn't recognise, echoed in horror. 'You'd have no time to think of anything else.'

  She smiled a welcome to Grant and asked, 'Do you believe it, Doctor?'

  'Definitely not,' he said stoutly, blocking from his mind the visual reminder of tanned skip pulled taut over swelling calves. He grinned at the nurse. 'I can go at least ten seconds.'

  'Holding your breath? Standing on one leg?' a soft voice asked. Was Sally Cochrane getting her own back in the 'silent approach
' department?

  'Without thinking about sex,' Jerry said helpfully. 'It's a man thing.'

  'Undoubtedly,' Sally retorted, but the glance she threw Grant's way was puzzled, as if she found it hard to believe he could indulge in a little light banter.

  Serve her right for pre-judging him, he thought, although he couldn't alleviate a little stab of disappointment that she might have classified him as humourless.

  Well, it beat thinking about sex!

  Four hours later Sally was still puzzling over the man. He'd stayed to watch half an hour of Jerry's work then excused himself. No doubt to have a sleep before the afternoon session.

  'You assisting him this afternoon?' Jerry asked her later.

  They were in adjoining shower cubicles, yelling over the partition.

  'No. He's got Andy lined up for it, and no doubt Daniel will make sure he's there.'

  'Good luck to Andy, then,' Jerry said. 'I don't know about you, but I find the man unnerving. Can you imagine trying to do a stereotaxic procedure with him looking over your shoulder?'

  Sally shuddered. Stereotaxic neuro-radiography was performed using an X-ray to guide a fine needle into a particular part of the brain. It required intense concentration and a steady hand.

  'My hand shakes just thinking about it,' she admitted, then remembered she'd made a vow to keep her mouth shut. For all he should have gone home to sleep, the way Grant Hudson was haunting her, he was probably standing outside the door.

  She turned off the shower, wrapped herself in a towel and opened it to check.

  Safe!

  She ducked back in to dry herself and pull on some clean underwear before venturing out to retrieve her clothes from her locker.