Beth Andrews – Small-Town Redemption (страница 11)

“You want to know something about this joker?” Forrest asked her, wrapping his arm around Leo’s neck. Forrest, as homely as Leo was handsome, was a favorite among the E.R. staff due to his laid-back disposition and sense of humor. “You just ask me.” He grinned and squeezed Leo’s neck, causing Leo’s head to bob. “I know all his secrets.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she told him as Jocelyn came out of the room. Leo untangled himself from Forrest’s grip and they left with a wave. Char turned to her coworker.

“He’s all yours,” Jocelyn said. “Though I wish I didn’t have to pick up Michael from the sitter’s.” She nodded toward the room. “That is one seriously yummy man.”

As if to make her words more believable, Jocelyn gave an exaggerated shiver of delight that had everything, breasts and ample hips especially, shimmying. Four inches shorter than Char, her friend was curvy with dark hair, red lips and nails, and a penchant for bad boys and one-night stands.

She also had a three-year-old son she adored who wasn’t feeling well, forcing Jocelyn to leave work early.

“You said that about the appendectomy two weeks ago, remember? The one with the porno mustache?”

“I’m telling you, under that furry thing was a handsome man. And did you see his six-pack?”

It would have been unprofessional to point out she’d seen pretty much every inch of him. “I think I’ll stick with clean-shaven men just the same.”

“He—” Jocelyn jerked her thumb at the door behind Char “—has that stubbly thing going on. Plus I saw ink. You know how much I love tattoos on a man. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll get to see his body art up close and personal.”

“There’s not much personal about helping a patient get undressed or examining them.”

“Please,” Jocelyn said, handing Char the patient’s chart, “it’s the only reason I busted my very cute butt at nursing school.”

Smiling, Char shook her head and knocked on the door as Jocelyn flipped her hair and sauntered off, the very cute butt she was so proud of wiggling.

Char was still smiling as she opened the door, scanning the patient’s chart. Her smile slid away when she read the name at the top of the form, written in Jocelyn’s neat handwriting.

No. It couldn’t be.

“If it isn’t Little Red,” a husky, male voice said. Her head snapped up as Kane’s gaze drifted lazily over her, from the top of her hair to her sensible shoes. She had a feeling if he could have, he would have raised one eyebrow in scorn. As it was, both brows were lowered, probably due to pain. “Cute PJs.”

She strangled the doorknob. Pretended it was his neck. Kept her lips pressed tightly together. It was better than informing him of the difference between sleepwear and her favorite scrubs—purple pants, lighter purple long-sleeved tee under a floral top.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but when she opened them, Kane remained. No figment of her imagination, no hallucination brought on by a strong resemblance and bad lighting. He was here.

He was also her patient. Hers to take care of.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Damn it. She should have known it was him from the way she’d reacted to the sight of his legs. It was as if every time she was around him, her body went haywire. Hot. Then cold. Then hot again.

And that was just from getting a glance at his legs and feet. His feet, for God’s sake.

He shifted. Winced and blew out a breath from between his teeth. “Speechless?”

Maybe it was the pain she saw in his eyes, the way he went white with it. Or maybe it was the decidedly missing mocking tone from his voice. Or, she thought as she took in his appearance, it could be his torn clothes and the many bloody gashes on his person. Whatever it was, she snapped out of her reverie. She had a job to do and she’d lick the bottom of his stupid, scarred boots before she’d let him get to her. Even for a moment.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she could load him off onto another nurse. Well, she could, but she never shirked her duty. And if she asked someone else to take him on, they’d want to know why. She wasn’t prepared to give that answer. Ever.

She crossed to stand next to his bed. “Actually, I was just lamenting about how, of all the ERs in all this great land of ours, you had to walk into mine.” She pursed her lips, somehow knowing he’d hate it if she showed him too much compassion. That he’d mistake any sympathy for pity. “Then again, you didn’t technically walk in.” Because she figured it would annoy him, she added air quotes to the last two words.

Opening her laptop, she cleared her throat. Set the computer on the stand and plugged it in.

“Let’s get some information,” she said, bringing up the file Jocelyn had started. “What happened?”

“Didn’t you talk with those EMT guys?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you know what happened.”

Couldn’t he cooperate at all? She pushed aside her irritation and glanced up at him. His face was a sickly color now—the pain must be getting to him. She softened a bit. She hated seeing anyone suffer. She’d get him something as soon as possible.

The EMTs had taped a piece of gauze to a cut on the side of his right eye, the flesh around it already turning interesting shades of yellow and green. His hair was disheveled, his shirt wet and torn, his jeans ripped, his right arm bent at an interesting and far-from-natural angle.

“Motorcycle accident,” she said, typing the words into the computer.

He shut his eyes and gingerly laid his head back. “A deer ran out in front of me. It was either lay the bike down or fly over the handlebars.”

“Guess you made the right decision.”

The police department would do whatever it was they did to ascertain if he’d been speeding or driving recklessly.

“Right before the accident,” she said, “were you light-headed or dizzy?”

“No.”

“Sick to your stomach?”

He snorted and she had no idea whether that was an affirmation or not.

“Were you drinking tonight?”

“Just water.”

“What about recreational drugs?”

Now he opened his eyes, pinned her with an unreadable look. “What about them?”

Something told her to tread carefully here. It was always a sensitive subject, but one she needed to address. Too bad most people were less than forthright about their bad habits, especially the ones that were illegal. She kept her voice matter-of-fact, her expression clear and nonjudgmental. “Were you impaired in any way?”

The fingers of his left hand clenched. “I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs.” His mouth thinned, but she wasn’t sure if it was due to physical discomfort or the topic of conversation. “I went for a ride after work. The roads were wet. A deer ran out into the road and I lost control. End of story.”

She picked up the electronic ear thermometer. “The EMTs’ notes said you weren’t wearing a helmet.” Yes, her tone made it clear she was judging him. Bad enough he drove a powerful vehicle that could reach great speeds. The least he could do was protect his head. “You’re lucky you weren’t more seriously injured.”

Or killed.

“Worried about me, Red?”

Taking his temperature, she rolled her eyes, caught herself mid-roll and pretended to be checking out a very interesting speck on the ceiling. “It’s part of my job to be concerned about any and all of my patients.”

“And here I thought I held a special place in your heart. With what happened between us and all.”

His voice was low. Husky. It seemed to vibrate right into her chest.

Neat trick, that.

Straightening slowly, as if her inner voice wasn’t screaming at her to leap back and run like mad, she gave him her haughtiest look, the one she reserved for unruly, rude or pain-in-the-rear patients.

He definitely qualified for the latter.

“Did you injure your left arm?” she asked, her cool tone daring him to make another comment about the night she’d gone to his apartment.

In answer, he held it out. She gently wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his upper arm, unwound the stethoscope from her neck and inserted the ear tips. After taking his blood pressure, she removed the cuff and checked his pulse. Typed all three figures into his file.

“Any allergies to medications?” she asked. He shook his head. “What about tape? Latex? Iodine?”

“No.”

“Are you currently taking any medications?”

He shook his head then winced.

She opened a drawer and pulled out tubing. “I’m going to get your IV started, get you something for the pain. Could you straighten your left arm for me?” she asked, pulling on sterile gloves.

She tightly tied a thick rubber band around his forearm just under his elbow, found the vein she wanted to use on the back of his hand, then disinfected the area. While it dried, she peeled open the catheter.

“You ever do this before?” Kane asked, his tone wary enough to make her glance at him.

He was staring at the catheter in her hand with what could only be described as trepidation. What was that about? She’d had plenty of people—young, old and in between—who were terrified of needles, more that weren’t thrilled about them, but could handle a shot or IV being inserted as long as they didn’t watch it piercing their skin. But Kane had tattoos. Several intricate, rather large ones, which would have taken hours upon hours to complete.