Taming the Playboy. Marie Ferrarella

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      “And this is a stranger, you say?” Murphy glanced from him to the young woman beside him. And then nodded knowingly. “Angiogram it is.” Murphy turned toward the nurse and orderly who had taken the two paramedics’ places. “You heard Dr. Armand.” They began to wheel the old man away, but Murphy stopped them. “I want a full set of films done, as well.” He fired the names of the specific scans at them. Finished, he backed away.

      The nurse and orderly resumed pushing the gurney down the hall, passing through another set of double doors. The blonde began to follow behind them. Hurrying to catch up, Georges placed a restraining hand on her arm.

      Startled, she looked at him, a puzzled expression on her face.

      “You can’t go there,” he told her, then added with a reassuring smile, “Don’t worry, they’ll bring him back as soon as they’re finished.”

      Murphy stripped off the plastic gloves and crossed his arms before him. “Anything else?” he asked, mildly amused.

      Georges nodded. He knew how territorial some doctors could be. It was always best to ask permission rather than assume. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hang around.”

      Murphy glanced at the woman, who in turn was looking down the hall. Georges Armand’s reputation had made the rounds and he, like everyone else, was well aware that the young surgical resident attracted women like a high-powered magnet attracted iron. “Hang all you want, Georges.” He smiled wistfully. Married five years, his own romancing days were well in his past. “I’ll keep you apprised,” he promised.

      Murphy addressed the words toward the young woman, as well, but for the moment, she seemed oblivious. With a shrug, the physician left to attend to the next patient on his list.

      “Thanks. I appreciate that,” Georges called after him. Turning toward the blonde, he caught himself thinking that she seemed a little shaky on her feet. Small wonder, considering that she’d been in the accident, too.

      “You know,” he began, moving her over to one side as another gurney, this time from one of the E.R. stalls, was pushed past them by two orderlies, “you really should get checked out, as well.”

      If she stopped moving, Vienna thought, she was going to collapse. Like one of those cartoon characters that only plummeted down the ravine if they acknowledged that there was no ground beneath their feet.

      She shook her head. “I’m fine. Just shaken. And worried,” she added with a suppressed sigh, looking over toward the double doors where her grandfather had disappeared.

      “In that case, maybe we should get your mind on other things.” He saw her eyebrows draw together in silent query. “There’s an anxious administrative assistant over at Registration eager to take down a lot of information about your grandfather. Here.” He offered her his arm. “I can take you over to the Registration desk so you can talk to her.”

      Vienna nodded, feeling as if she was slipping into a surreal dreamlike state. She threaded her arm through his in what seemed like slow motion, and allowed herself to be directed through yet another set of swinging double doors.

      She tried desperately to clear the fog that was descending over her head. “You know,” she said, turning to look at the doctor, “I don’t even know your name.” The other doctor had called him by something, but she hadn’t heard the man clearly. “What do I call you?” She smiled softly. “Besides an angel?”

      He laughed then, thinking of what several women might have to say about that. He also caught himself thinking that he’d been right. When she smiled, it was a beautiful sight to behold. “I don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of being one of those.”

      “Well, you are,” she told him. “I don’t…I don’t know what…I would have done if…you hadn’t stopped to help.” Tears stole her breath, blocking her words.

      “Don’t go there,” he told her. “There’s no point in thinking about the worst if you don’t have to.” He stopped walking and gave her a small, formal bow, the way he used to at his mother’s behest when he was a small boy. “My name is Georges—with an S—Armand.”

      She shook his hand. “Well, Georges with an S, I won’t think about the worst but only because I know you saved me from it. Saved my grandfather from it.” She paused to take a deep breath. She wasn’t going to cry, she wasn’t. Tears were for the weak and she was strong. She had to be strong. “My name is Vienna,” she told him, putting out her hand, “Vienna Hollenbeck.”

      Her skin felt colder than the last time, Georges thought. “Vienna? Like the city?”

      “Like the city.” The smile on her lips was just too much of an effort to retain. It melted as she felt herself turning a ghostly shade of pale. Perspiration suddenly rimmed her forehead and scalp. “Would you—would you mind if we postponed seeing the administrative assistant for a minute?”

      “Sure. Are you all right?”

      His voice was coming to her from an increasing distance. Vienna felt her knees softening to the consistency of custard. The deep baritone voice had nothing to do with it.

      “I’m not… I don’t think…”

      She didn’t get a chance to finish. Rather than sit down the way she’d wanted to, Vienna felt herself dissolving into nothingness as the world around her became smaller and smaller until it had shrunk down to the size of a pinhole.

      And then disappeared altogether.

      Just before it did, she thought she heard the doctor calling to her, but she couldn’t be sure. And she definitely couldn’t answer because her lips no longer had the strength to move.

      The darkness that found her was far too oppressive to allow her to say a word. With a last rally of strength, she tried to struggle against it, to keep it at bay.

      But in the end, all she could do was surrender.

      Chapter Three

      Georges managed to catch her just before her body hit the floor.

      Scooping Vienna up in his arms, he looked around the immediate area for an open bed. He saw the nurse and the bed at the same time.

      “Jill,” he called out to a heavyset woman he’d met during his first day at the E.R., “I’m putting this woman into bed number seven.”

      Mother of four boys, grandmother of seven more, Jill Foster liked to think of herself as the earth mother of the E.R. night shift. Pulling her eyebrows together, she looked at the unconscious woman he was holding and gave him a penetrating, no-nonsense look.

      “Getting a little brazen with our conquests, aren’t we, Dr. Armand?”

      They had an easy, good rapport, although he knew the thirty-two-year hospital veteran wouldn’t hesitate to tell him when she thought he was wrong.

      “She fainted,” he told her, crossing over to the empty stall.

      “Probably not the first time that’s happened to you, I’d wager,” Jill commented dryly.

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