Dante's Shock Proposal. Amalie Berlin

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      The trauma they’d faced in childhood brought that compulsion out in all of them, maybe most in him, but his care had done the job—they were still together enough for him to feel overly tended.

      In their shoes, Dante would’ve been doing the math—he’d never brought a woman to meet them, or dated one woman for any length of time. He’d never given it much thought until they’d all married off, and now he became aware of how he stuck out as single. But marriage was normal, expected. And keeping up appearances was always important.

      Dropping the phone on the sofa, he laid his head back and closed his eyes, focusing on the between-sets music that got feet on the dance floor. That had gotten him and Lise on the dance floor.

      Someone would knock if he fell asleep before the last set. Or if he lost track of time, fantasizing about stripping Lise of that hot dress.

      He just wished he knew her better, knew whether her self-esteem would’ve let her leave with the man who’d stood her up and insulted her when he’d come groveling.

      Jefferson had been easy. Lise, apparently, wasn’t as easy to figure out.

      Now, what if he wanted to torture her for standing him up, make her regret and come groveling...

      * * *

      Monday morning, Dante stood at the scrub bay, looking over the team getting things ready for the morning’s surgery.

      Lise wasn’t there.

      He tilted his head to catch sight of the clock, his jaw tightening enough that he had to open his mouth to relieve it. Walking out at the club he could forgive. But being late for surgery?

      “Carrasco. Dónde está Bradshaw?” The words flew out before he’d even fully realized his irritation. She was never late. What had changed? Just the kiss? Had she gone on another blind date then overslept in her last hurrah?

      “Spanish today, Dr. Valentino?” She tilted her head, but answered, “I’ve not seen her.”

      Spanish. At work. First time for everything.

      It surprised him, but he couldn’t even pretend to himself that his irritation was all about her being late. He switched to English—control was important. “Has anyone heard from Bradshaw? She wouldn’t no-show.”

      “I can call HR and scheduling, see if she’s called in,” Carrasco said.

      Although she’d already scrubbed in to prep, and picking up a phone would mean she would have to scrub in again, Dante said, “Do it.”

      A moment later, she was in the scrub bay, dialing.

      Again Thursday’s question came: had Lise left with Jefferson?

      That was four days ago. If she’d gotten into trouble that long ago...

      He fumbled the scrub brush and it fell into the sink. Containing a sigh, he grabbed a new one and started over.

      Carrasco spoke with someone, heard her confirm that Lise hadn’t called in.

      “Not with HR,” she confirmed, and dialed another number.

      He didn’t want another surgical nurse for this procedure. Lise was the best. He wanted Lise. Carrasco technically was also a surgical nurse, but he had Lise for today, it was on the schedule.

      “I’m here!”

      The sound of Lise’s voice had him turning from the sink, relief tinging his irritation so that he didn’t quite know how to feel, which of course ticked him off. “Couldn’t get out of bed this morning, Bradshaw?”

      He took in her appearance, and he felt his neck heat. The too-big scrub top she always wore had been replaced by one with a different cut—one that wrapped over her chest like that dress had done.

      She’d made the gray scrubs sexy.

      “Nothing so restful as that.” She rushed around the small bay, getting what she’d need to start scrubbing. “I know I’m a little later than usual, but we’re still a good fifteen minutes from the start of the surgery...”

      Dante didn’t want excuses. He also didn’t want to cause a scene at the hospital, even if she threw him off balance yet again. He wanted Old Lise, not the one who knocked him so hard she had him wondering if maybe he was the mark here.

      She stepped to the open bay beside him and began the process of cleaning her hands.

      Hair covered by scrub cap—how he always saw her. No makeup—but no lower face cover yet. He’d like the chance to look at her clean-faced—or grill her for an excuse. But it would have to wait.

      If she hadn’t wanted to face him after their brief time at The Inferno, he’d put that straight to her. No reason they couldn’t be professional. It had been a little kissing, not as much as he admittedly still wanted, but they’d survive.

      He exited the bay, leaving the nurses to finish scrubbing in. Another tech gowned and gloved him, and he took a moment to make sure everything was as he wanted before the patient arrived.

      “Are you going to report in about your date last week?” another member of the team asked as soon as Lise stepped into the OR proper.

      “No. It’s really not the time for that. If you want a report, I will be happy to make one after surgery.”

      Voice tight. Posture stiff. Happy? Yeah, right. No way could he misread that reaction.

      He just didn’t know whether it was Jefferson or their dancing making her unhappy now.

      If the date had shown up he hadn’t made a better impression on her. Unless it was their dalliance making her unhappy.

      What the devil was wrong with him? He’d never had this much trouble reading someone. At least, not since those early days on the cons that had almost gotten him arrested in his youth. Repetition had improved how well he could read between the lines, except when it came to Lise.

      The door opened and in rolled the trolley with his patient on it, a woman in her thirties who had three children.

      That was what he needed to focus on, doing well by this patient and her family. Never be the one who broke a family.

      He always learned what he could about his patients so he could keep in mind what was riding on successful surgery. He took a moment to check with her, make sure she understood what the neuro-endoscopy entailed, and to reassure her again that he’d do his best. Things he always did for his patients, even those who didn’t have children at home or in the waiting room—or, as had been the case with him, waiting in the chapel, praying it all would go all right.

      His gentle encouraging words delivered, he nodded to the anesthetist. The sooner their patient was unconscious, the sooner she’d stop worrying. And, he hoped, the sooner he’d have out the Rathke cleft cyst growing behind her pituitary СКАЧАТЬ