Where she'd find Tom and, no doubt, be told, too bluntly, truths she didn't want to hear.
He stopped mid-stride, backtracked to a phone and dialled his home number.
'Have you been there all along?' he demanded, when his brother answered.
'No, I've just got in,' Tom told him cheerfully. 'Sean, one of Sam's brothers, took me shopping. You haven't improved as far as stocking your cupboards are concerned.'
'You shopped?' Concern fought with disbelief, and the latter won. 'What with? You've got no money, no cards.'
He heard his brother's familiar chuckle echo down the line.
'Worried I'm living off borrowed funds? I phoned my bank this morning, explained the situation and was able to withdraw some cash from the local branch by this afternoon.'
'I should have left you some money,' Grant muttered, concerned he could have forgotten something so basic.
'Hey, relax! How many times do I have to tell you you're not your brother's keeper?'
'No?' Grant said, but he smiled as he spoke. He knew his arrival in the world twenty minutes before Tom shouldn't have resulted in such an over-developed sense of responsibility, but he was unable to curb it. 'Well, in that case, I'll leave you to deal with Jocelyn. She's been looking for me here, but as we missed each other, I guess she'll head over there. I know you told her before you went away that there was no future for the two of you together but, as we both know, she's not a woman who listens to what she's told. She should be ringing the bell any minute.'
Tom's groan made him chuckle.
'Good thing I'm not your keeper, eh?' Grant said, and hung up.
Then, although he'd had the last laugh, he felt a sense of disloyalty. After all, Tom would never have drifted into his relationship with Jocelyn if she hadn't been so upset when he, Grant, had begun seeing Erica all those years ago.
So where did that leave him? Was it his turn to take on the role of comforter?
Clearly, that's how Jocelyn saw it. But, unfortunately, as she had when he'd defected and she'd turned to Tom, she wanted more than comforting. She wanted permanence. Stability.
Marriage?
He shuddered, then groaned aloud, startling a young nurse waiting for the same lift.
'Bad day?' she said, smiling sympathetically.
'You don't know the half of it!' he told her.
CHAPTER FIVE
By Friday, Sally was resigned to the fact that her hormones were in a tangle over Grant Hudson—and was becoming adept at avoidance tactics so her overly responsive nerve endings didn't get too much chance to react.
Not that avoiding him was difficult. In fact, if she'd had a suspicious nature, she'd have suspected he was doing the same thing.
But the stress of keeping out of his way was beginning to tell, and by late afternoon she'd completed the 'can't wait' reports and was hurrying up to the ward to do a final round, eager to get away. Looking forward to two days entirely free from all thoughts of work.
'I was wondering if you'd be free any time over the weekend to discuss a few matters.'
He'd not only crept up behind her but he'd stolen some of her words! She spun to face him.
'What kind of matters?' she demanded, then felt her cheeks heat as she heard the echo of her aggression in the words.
One raised eyebrow told her he'd also heard it, but his tone, when he answered, was mild.
'The splitting of the team for one thing,' he said, and the hint of a smile played around his lips. 'I think it was your suggestion, wasn't it?'
Think work, not smiles, she told herself. Splitting the team could mean two registrars would be appointed. A possible job opportunity for next year, right here in the hospital she knew and loved.
But she was still suspicious.
'Why talk to me, not Daniel?'
The smile was swallowed by a sigh. Which was a good thing, really.
'Daniel has been in this hospital for exactly three months longer than I have. I shall, of course, consult him, and have, in fact, spoken to him about it, but it is you who have the experience of how things work here.'
He paused then added, 'It's the benefit of that experience, I want, Dr Cochrane, nothing else.'
Sally guessed at what the 'nothing else' implied and hoped the embarrassment she was feeling wasn't obvious.
'I suppose I can make time,' she said, grouching out the words so he didn't think she was eager. Or too excited about the idea—which went a step further than she'd suggested. 'In your office?'
Grant shrugged.
'Actually, I was looking forward to getting away from the place for a couple of days. My unit has a great view, and I've a coffee-maker and plenty of beans.'
He hesitated, and if she hadn't seen his decisiveness in action she'd have thought he was uncertain.
'I'll do a quick ward round early Saturday morning,' he continued, 'but, barring emergencies, I should be home by nine-thirty. Would ten suit you? Is Saturday OK? I should have asked that first.'
Definitely uncertain.
But rather than ponder the question of why, she decided to take the initiative—and the decisiveness.
'Ten on Saturday. Your unit. No worries.'
She swung away from him, then realised, as he fell in beside her, .that he was also heading for the ward.
'You're far more conscientious than Ted ever was,' she told him, more to break the silence than to compliment him. 'He did teaching rounds and visited pet patients, but rarely just popped in like you're doing now.'
He grinned at her.
'And like you're doing now!' he reminded her. 'For me, it' s an excuse. I dislike the "business" of running a unit and, much as I tell myself it's necessary to have data to show the cost efficiency and staff ratios and all the other info the number-crunchers want, I tend to use a visit to the wards to escape it all.'
'A very temporary escape,' Sally reminded him, nodding to thank him for opening the door for her. 'The data still has to be collated, the numbers crunched.'
'Which is why I'm staying back tonight,' he said. 'Virtuous, aren't I?'
His eyes invited her to share the joke but her head knew sharing jokes with this man was a dangerous occupation. Akin to entering a lion's den, the way her heart was behaving.
Counter-attack—that's what was needed here.
'And what does the brunette think about you working such long hours?'
She saw the laughter fade from his face and for a moment regretted her impertinent question.
But self-preservation was important, too, she reminded herself.
'I don't think that's any of your business, Dr Cochrane,' Grant said crisply, then he turned away, bestowing his smiles like blessings on two women at the nurses' station—shutting her out in the cold.
Which was where she deserved to be. And should want to be, if she had any common sense at all!
Having parted so badly, it took all Sally's strength of will to press the button which would announce her arrival at Grant's unit block the following morning.
But the ogre within greeted her quite calmly, reminding her of his floor number, then having the door open in welcome when she exited the lift.
'Good morning.'
The formal greeting, pleasantly uttered, should have been easy to acknowledge, but for Sally, the sight of him—a casual version of her new boss—dried her lips and paralysed her tongue.
She made do with a nod, and followed him inside, telling herself it was normal for a man spending the day at home to be attired in faded denim shorts and casual shoes.
The fact that the visible section of the legs between shorts and shoes were long, strong, tanned and lightly dusted with silky dark hair shouldn't be affecting her speech patterns. Any more than an ordinary cotton-knit shirt that clung too lovingly to a well-sculpted chest should be drying her lips.
Hormonal—that's all it was.
But how to damp them down again—those now-rampaging endocrine secretions?
Grant was indicating for h
er to sit, asking how she liked her coffee, and somehow she managed to both reply and move, though she did slump a trifle too gratefully into the soft leather armchair.
By the time he returned, a tray with two steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits balanced in his hands, she'd recovered sufficiently to be able to thank him.
He set her coffee on the table in front of her, put the biscuits between them and took a chair facing towards her.
'Most people comment on the view,' he said, nodding his head towards the wall of floor-to-ceiling glass that offered the city like a three-dimensional photo to anyone walking into the room.
Sally was about to admit she hadn't noticed it when she realised that would be a gross tactical error. After all, what else could she possibly have been noticing?
His legs?
The groan almost escaped but she bit it back and made the appropriate nice-view noises.
'But, of course, you'd seen it before,' Grant said. 'On your mission of mercy.'
'Mission of mercy?'
This time the involuntary sounds did escape. She was behaving as if she were half-witted.
'Coming to see if I lay dead on the bathroom tiles.'
His smile told her he'd put two and two together to make a creditable four, but smiles were to be avoided at all costs.
'That time I didn't get beyond the door,' she told him. 'Now, what are your thoughts on splitting the team?'
If he was disappointed she'd switched so determinedly to work-related matters, he didn't show it, launching smoothly into his preliminary ideas on the subject.
'Of course, I haven't been here long enough for my opinions to carry much weight with the board, so I'll need to tread carefully, but if we can collate patient numbers, the length of the elective waiting list, comparisons with other hospitals, and have something prepared, then in a couple of months I can start planting the seeds of the idea.'
'You'll hit a brick wall with theatre usage,' Sally told him, pleased to have a real problem to distract her. 'That's where the bottleneck occurs in all surgical specialties.'
'What about day surgery? So many of our procedures could be done in that way.'
'It's a trend that's growing,' Sally agreed, 'and becoming more acceptable to the patients. But we're way down the list as far as operating time in the day theatres. The eye people got into the swing of it first. It's not so long since a cataract op meant three days in hospital, now they do dozens an hour.'
'Dozens?' Grant said dryly, and Sally had to smile.
'Plenty,' she amended. 'And the plastic chaps are in on the act, not to mention the orthopods with their minor surgery and arthroscopy. Because they've already established their claims on the facilities, it's hard for us to force the issue of extra time allotment there.'
'Hard, but not impossible?' Grant mused, and Sally, watching his face and reading the strength and determination in it, wondered if he considered anything impossible.
He switched the conversation back to patient numbers, asked about the other public and major private hospitals in the city and how much cross-fertilisation there was between them.
'We work well together,' Sally said. 'Only two of the others have neuro wards, so we get referrals. Don't be surprised if your pain patients increase. They're not everybody's favourite people.'
His wry chuckle rippled in the air, its effect skipping down Sally's spine like playful fingers. She shifted her shoulders to remove the resulting goose bumps, and missed his question.
Something about specialising?
Herself?
'I haven't decided,' she said, praying she'd guessed correctly. 'My main focus has been on this year—getting through the exams, and claiming my qualifications. I've already put in the time required.'
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked into her eyes.
'I was going to ask you about that. I know from your file you spent four months in Chicago, but that was two years ago and the time there counted. So how come you didn't sit your final exams last year?'
Sally was surprised that the question, which usually caused such pain, today provoked nothing more than a wave of sadness.
'I took some time off,' she said, then, seeing sufficient determination in his eyes to suggest he wasn't going to accept that answer, she added, 'For personal reasons.'
Which were either bad or sad, or perhaps both, Grant decided, as the brown eyes grew cloudy and the golden lights dimmed.
He wasn't insensitive enough to push her further, but he'd have liked to have known more. Would have liked her to have felt she could talk to him about it.
'So will you head overseas, go into private practice or try for a job at another hospital when you finish this year?'
She half smiled.
'If you can wangle a second team, maybe staying on would be an option. If we could get two registrars' positions... Or wouldn't you want me?'
A simple question, but the response it triggered in his body was nothing short of bizarre. After all, he was the one who'd made the 'rule' about not getting too involved socially.
A rule he knew made sense!
And she had all her clothes on today.
'I'm not getting sucked into that conversation,' he said, congratulating himself on sounding so rational. 'Before I know it, you'll be after my job.'
She shook her head.
'Not yet,' she told him, a teasing little smile flirting about her lips and returning the glow to the gold flecks in her eyes. 'Not enough experience. But give me time. You'll move on to greener pastures, and then it will be my turn.'
Her certainty intrigued him.
'No wish for greener pastures yourself?'
She shook her head.
'Been there and done that,' she told him. 'I enjoy travel, and won't say no if opportunities to attend conferences arise, but Brisbane's my home and I'm here to stay.'
More than intriguing, it was downright puzzling that she should be so definite.
'What about family? Getting married? Having kids? There are times when department heads have lives as busy as first-year interns. Hard to fit in family responsibilities.'
She glared at him.
'Men seem to manage it,' she reminded him, and he grinned.
'That's because most of them have a good woman behind them.'
He thought of Erica, and smiled to himself. Lance Binstead had already been well established by the time he'd cast aside one wife and settled for a younger model. But if he'd expected to have a 'good woman behind him' he'd have been in for a shock. Erica's focus had been wholly and solely on her career. On breaking the glass ceiling that stopped many women's careers.
Erica!
He said the word experimentally in his head but felt no pain. No stab of regret, no crushing load of angst.
'Perhaps I'm cured,' he muttered. He only realised he'd spoken aloud when Sally asked, 'Cured of what?'
He grinned at her. 'Would you believe, cured of love?' he challenged. 'Or the fall-out it can leave behind?'
'Not for an instant,' she retorted. 'I imagine you're far too strong a character to let an irrational emotion like love cause you a moment's angst.'
'Speaking from experience, Dr Cochrane?' he countered, surprised that so attractive a woman would speak so slightingly of love.
But her answering chuckle was even more surprising.
'Not of love,' she assured him. 'Lust maybe, but so long ago any angst that might have existed is well and truly forgotten.'
He studied her, suddenly uncertain about how this conversation had started—or where it was leading! Yet he couldn't let it drop.
'You don't class lust as an irrational emotion?'
Her wide smile pressed an almost dimple into her left cheek. A tiny indentation like a shadow of itself.
'I class lust as over-active hormones,' Sally said firmly. 'After all, we've been genetically programmed to seek pleasure in sex to ensure the survival of the species. Certain triggers release the necessary flow of endorphins
which make us feel good. Purely physiological, Doctor. Now, shall we get back to splitting the team? Perhaps list any information it might be useful to have, and where to source it? Consider a partial split within the existing team?'
'Pre-empting a decision?' Grant teased, following her lead back to work-related topics but wanting to keep the camaraderie he felt between them.
'Merely smoothing the way for a possible transition,' she said, but the gold lights danced in her eyes and he couldn't help but smile at her.
Purely physiological, he reminded himself!
However, they did get down to work, discussing the possible or probable consequences of roster variations and trying to foretell the benefits of a split-team approach.
Ideas sparked between them, and they strayed into other work-related areas, Grant enjoying the challenges her quick mind threw his way, revelling in the opportunity to explore different avenues which might lead to more efficient use of resources and therefore better patient outcomes.
So when his visitor glanced at her watch and gave a small gasp of surprise, he was disappointed.
'I've kept you so long—why not stay to lunch? I'd usually be hesitant to offer, but Tom stocked the cupboards and refrigerator before he went back to Sydney, so at least let me feed you.'
But Sally was on her feet, and looking flustered enough for him to suspect she was already running late for something far more important than lunch with her boss.
'I can't, it's after one and it's my turn to shop. I should have found time during the week, but things happened. The boys will be dragging their bodies out of bed and prowling the kitchen in search of sustenance. They'll eat the furniture if I don't get there soon.'
'The boys?' Grant echoed, and she shot him a smile so full of warmth it was like a small personal sun, shining just for him.
'My brothers,' she said simply. 'Three of them. Brad, Phil and Eddie. Not really boys any more. They're grown men. And not known for early rising, but any time after midday their stomachs rouse them. I'll have to grab something at the local shops and throw it through the door, then get on with the serious business of filling a trolley or two.'
He chuckled at the image, although he was certain she was joking.
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