Man of Fortune. Rochelle Alers

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СКАЧАТЬ of the lingering anger of her failed marriage? She’d been divorced for four years, and now, at the age of thirty-two, she should be more than ready to turn the page and get on with her life.

      She walked uptown to Thirty-Fourth and headed east to First Avenue. Tamara found working in the emergency trauma unit of the city’s oldest municipal hospital frenetic yet rewarding. On any given day or night there was a consistent influx of patients. Some were treated and released, while others were taken to a tertiary unit for a higher level of care.

      The Bellevue Hospital Center’s efficient state-of-the-art E.R. and level-one trauma center were designed to deliver complete twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week medical care. With close to one hundred thousand emergency-room visits a year, Tamara and her colleagues were prepared for psychiatric emergencies as well as neurological, toxicological, cardiac and neonatal emergencies.

      She loved everything about medicine from studying to healing. During her interview before being admitted to med school, she’d been asked why she wanted to become a doctor. Her answer was that she had a passion for learning, an intellectual curiosity about medicine and a strong willingness to help others. It must have been the right response because the interview process ended minutes after it’d begun. She knew her MCAT score and undergraduate grades were high enough to get her into most leading medical schools, but Tamara realized it was her unabashed passion for healing that showed through during the interview.

      When she received her acceptance letter it swept away all of the insecurities she’d had growing up. It no longer mattered that she wasn’t as cute and petite as her sisters, or that her mother had referred to her as “my ugly duckling.” None of that mattered because she was going to become a doctor.

      Reaching into her tote bag, she turned off her cell phone and took out her stethoscope and ID badge, clipping it to the pocket of the shirt she’d borrowed from another doctor. She’d been too exhausted to ride the bus to her apartment. She’d stopped at a CVS to pick up toothpaste, a toothbrush and deodorant, and then went to a clothing store to buy undergarments and a pair of jeans.

      She’d managed to get four hours of sleep before she had to get up and start again. Sleep had become a precious commodity for Tamara, as important as breathing. Whenever she put her head on a pillow her intention was to get at least four hours of uninterrupted sleep. And she’d become quite adept at taking power naps. Ten to twenty minutes was all she needed to reenergize herself.

      She walked into the E.R. and down a corridor where hospital personnel stored their personal effects. Tamara placed her tote bag in a locker with a combination lock. She went to a storage closet, selected a pair of scrubs and a white lab coat and then clocked in. Ten minutes later she stood over a gunshot victim handcuffed to the gurney while two uniformed police officers waited for her to remove the bullet lodged in the fleshy part of his thigh. Luckily for her patient, the bullet had missed the femoral artery or he would’ve bled out and died.

      She lost track of time as she treated a patient in cardiac arrest, one with a knife wound, a woman who’d jumped from a third-story window to escape an abusive boyfriend, a college student with a suspected case of meningitis and an adolescent boy bitten by a venomous snake he’d hidden in a fish tank in his bedroom closet.

      She worked nonstop until midnight, then went into the doctor’s lounge to take a break. She flopped down on a saggy sofa and closed her eyes with the intention of taking a quick nap.

      “Tamara, are you asleep?”

      She opened her eyes to find Rodney Fox hovering over her. “I was,” Tamara drawled sarcastically. “What’s up, Dr. Fox?”

      Rodney was perched on the side of the sofa. “I need a place to crash for a while.”

      Tamara rose into a sitting position. She stared at the tall, slender pediatric orthopedist with curly red hair. Most of the staff referred to Dr. Rodney Fox as the brother with the red Afro. His soulful-looking brown eyes reminded her of a bloodhound.

      “What’s the matter?”

      “Isis and I broke up and I need someplace to live until I find an apartment. Someone told me you have an extra bedroom. I’ll pay whatever you want—just please don’t say no, Tamara.”

      She closed her eyes again. Rodney and his operating-room-nurse girlfriend had broken up and gotten back together so many times that their relationship mirrored the antics of a TV sitcom. Tamara couldn’t believe the brilliant young doctor just couldn’t seem to get his love life together.

      “Okay,” she said, not opening her eyes. “You can stay as long as you want.” Tamara held up a hand when Rodney leaned forward. “Don’t you dare kiss me.” He pulled back. “What time are you getting off?”

      “Six.”

      She exhaled. “I’m hoping to get out of here at six. We’ll leave together.”

      “Thank you, Tamara. You’re an angel.”

      “Yeah, I know.”

      Tamara wanted to ask Rodney where her angel had been when she’d needed someplace to live after she’d left her husband. She’d checked into a less-than-desirable hotel until a rental agent had found her the two-bedroom apartment on East Seventh Street between Second and Third avenues. Although she only needed one bedroom, Tamara had decided to take it because living at the hotel was not an option.

      The second and smaller of the two bedrooms remained empty for more than two years. It took her that long to save enough money to furnish and decorate the entire apartment. Tamara realized her monthly rent was twice what someone would pay for a mortgage for a house in the suburbs, but she had the luxury of not having to commute into the city.

      She ran a hand over her hair. Rodney had disturbed her nap. “I’ll see you later.”

      “Love you, Wolcott.”

      Tamara rolled her eyes at him. “Forget it, Fox. You’re not my type.”

      He smiled. “Who is your type?”

      “Not you,” she countered.

      She walked out of the lounge, replaying Rodney’s query. Who was her type? The only name that came to mind was a man she’d met six hours ago.

      Duncan Gilmore was her type. But was she his?

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