Moonlight Over Manhattan. Sarah Morgan

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СКАЧАТЬ oh why had she used her real name? Fliss would have made something up. Probably something outrageous.

      Nat looked fascinated. “What did his dating profile say?”

      “That he was in his thirties.” She thought of the thick shock of white hair and the wrinkled brow. The yellowed teeth and the graying fuzz on his jaw. But the worst thing had been the way he’d leered at her.

      “Thirty? He must be at least twice that. Or maybe he’s like a dog where each year is seven years. That would make him—” she wrinkled her nose “—two hundred and ten in human years. Jeez, that’s old.”

      “He was sixty-eight,” Harriet said. “He told me he feels thirty inside. And his profile said that he works in investment, but when I questioned that he confessed that he’s investing his pension.”

      Nat doubled over laughing and Harriet shook her head.

      She felt weary. And stupid.

      “After three dates, I’ve lost my sense of humor. That’s it. I’m done.”

      All she wanted was fun and a little human company. Was that too much to ask?

      “You decided to give love a chance. Nothing wrong with that. But someone like you shouldn’t struggle to meet people. What’s your job? Don’t you meet anyone through work?”

      “I’m a dog walker. I spend my day with handsome, four-legged animals. They are always who you think they are. Although having said that I do walk a terrier who thinks he’s a Rottweiler. That does create some issues.”

      Maybe she should stick with dogs.

      She’d proved to herself that she could do the whole online dating thing if she had to. She’d ticked it off her list. It was victory of a sort.

      Nat opened the window wider. “Report him to the dating site so he doesn’t put any more unsuspecting women in the position of having to jump out the window. And look on the bright side. At least he didn’t scam you out of your life savings.” She checked the street. “You’re clear.”

      “Nice meeting you, Nat. And thank you for everything.”

      “If a woman can’t help another woman in trouble, where would we be? Come back soon.”

      Harriet felt a tug deep inside.

      Friendship. That was perhaps the only F word she liked.

      Feeling a flash of regret that she would never be going anywhere near this restaurant ever again, because she genuinely liked Natalie, Harriet held her breath and dropped onto the sidewalk.

      She felt her ankle twist and a sharp, agonizing pain shot up her leg.

      “You okay?” Nat dropped her shoes and her purse and Harriet winced as they thudded into her lap. It seemed that the only thing she was taking away from this date was bruises.

      “Never better.”

      Victory, she thought, was both painful and undignified.

      The window above her closed and Harriet was immediately aware of two things. First, that putting weight on her ankle was agony. Second, that unless she wanted to hobble home in bare feet, she was going to have to put on the stilettos she’d borrowed from the pile of shoes Fliss had left behind.

      Gingerly, she slid the shoe onto her foot and sucked in a breath as pain shot through her ankle.

      For the first time in her life she used the F word to express something other than fear.

      Another box ticked in project Challenge Harriet.

CHAPTER TWO

      ACROSS TOWN IN the trauma suite of one of New York’s most prestigious hospitals, Dr. Ethan Black and the rest of the trauma team smoothly and efficiently cut away the ripped, bloodied clothing of the unconscious man to expose the damage beneath. And the damage was plenty. Enough to test the skills of the team and ensure that their patient would remember this night for the rest of his life.

      As far as Ethan was concerned, motorcycles were one of the world’s worst inventions. Certainly the worst mode of transport. Many of the patients brought in following motorcycle injuries were male, and a high proportion had multiple injuries. This man was no exception. He’d been wearing a helmet, but that hadn’t prevented him from sustaining what looked like a severe head injury.

      “Intubate him and get a line in—” He assessed the damage as he worked, issuing instructions.

      The team was gathered around, finding coherence in something that to an outsider would have seemed like chaos. Each person had a role, and each person was clear about what that role was. Of all the places in the hospital it was here, in the emergency room, that the teamwork was the strongest.

      “He lost control and hit an oncoming car.”

      Screaming came from the corridor outside, followed by a torrent of abuse delivered at a high enough pitch to shatter windows.

      One of the residents winced. Ethan didn’t react. There were days when he wondered if he’d actually become desensitized to other people’s responses to crisis. Working in the emergency room brought you into contact with the most extreme of human emotions and distorted your view of both humanity and reality. His normal would be someone else’s horror movie. He’d learned early in his career not to talk about his day in a social situation unless the people present were all medical. These days he was too busy to find himself in too many social situations. Between his clinical responsibilities as attending physician in the emergency room and his research interests, his day was full. The price he’d paid for that was an apartment he rarely saw and an ex-wife.

      “Is someone caring for the woman on the end of that scream?”

      “She’s not the patient. She just saw her boyfriend knifed. He’s in Trauma 2 with multiple facial lacerations.”

      “Someone show her to the waiting room. Calm her down.” Ethan took a closer look at the man’s leg, assessing the damage. “Whatever it takes to stop the screaming.”

      “We don’t know how serious the injuries are.”

      “All the more reason to project calm. Reassure her that her boyfriend is in good hands and getting the best treatment.”

      It was a typical Saturday night. Maybe he should have trained as an ob-gyn, Ethan thought as he continued to assess the patient. Then he would have been there for the high point of people’s lives instead of the low. He would have facilitated birth, instead of fighting to prevent death. He could have celebrated with patients. Instead his Saturday night was invariably spent surrounded by people at crisis point. The victims of traffic accidents, gunshot victims, stabbings, drug addicts looking for a fix—the list was endless and varied.

      And the truth was he loved it.

      He loved variety and challenge. As a Level 1 Trauma Unit, they had both in copious amounts.

      They stabilized the patient sufficiently to send him for a CT scan. Ethan knew that until they had the results СКАЧАТЬ