Expecting The Doctor's Baby. Teresa Southwick

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СКАЧАТЬ to help him breathe. Mostly all she could see was matted brown hair that framed an impossibly small, frighteningly pale face. Then the glass doors closed off the trauma room and the child was surrounded by the platoon of professionals, led by Dr. Tenney, in the battle for his life.

      Everyone was in blue scrubs and she had no idea who was who except Mitch. She couldn’t hear anything, but it was like E. F. Hutton on crack. When he talked, they didn’t just listen, someone jumped into action.

      Sam wasn’t sure how much time passed before he came out. And with staff still surrounding him, she couldn’t see the boy.

      Mitch walked up to the desk. “Is the family here yet, Rhonda?”

      The buxom, blond E.R. nurse/manager looked up. “Mom’s on the way, stuck in traffic on the Fifteen coming across the Strip. The teenage brother’s here. He was babysitting.”

      Mitch’s already grim expression tightened more as he nodded. “Okay.”

      Sam followed him through the double doors that separated the E.R. waiting area from trauma rooms. The brother wasn’t hard to identify. He was the one in wet jeans and a white T-shirt with elbows braced on his knees and head bowed. He had a light blanket draped around his hunched shoulders. When she saw the doctor, the teenage girl beside him put her hand on his arm and he looked up.

      He stood when Mitch stopped in front of him, feet set wide. There was another battle looming. Sam didn’t want to see it, but she had no choice. Part of the reason she was here was to see how the doctor handled confrontation, then her boss could work out strategies to help him change the offending behavior. She moved off to the side where she could observe without being intrusive.

      “How’s my brother?”

      “I stabilized him and he’s on a ventilator to help him breathe.”

      “Is he going to be okay?”

      “Looks like it. The paramedics got to him in time.”

      “I pulled him out of the pool.”

      The teenage girl moved beside him. “He did CPR. I called 9-1-1.”

      “Notify the mayor,” Mitch snapped. “They’ll throw a parade in your honor.”

      “What’s your problem?” she demanded.

      Mitch studied both teens before saying, “What are you on?”

      “Nothing, dude.” The boy looked away and shuffled his feet.

      Sam knew the doctor was right when the kid didn’t even ask what he meant. Drugs were involved in whatever happened.

      “Right. Your pupils always look that big when the sun’s up,” Mitch said sarcastically. “Your brother had no head or body trauma. What happened to him?”

      “Ty was there one minute, then he was gone.”

      “Basic common sense. You never turn your back on a child, especially near a pool.”

      “We didn’t do anything.”

      “You can say that again.”

      “Lighten up.” The boy pushed shaky fingers through hair the same shade as his brother’s, but wouldn’t look up.

      “Reactions sluggish. What were you smoking? Grass? Crack?” When they started to protest Mitch cut them off with a curt, “Sell it somewhere else. It’s my job to know this stuff. And I’m really good at my job. So are the cops. They’re on the way.”

      “Cops? What for? We just went inside for a minute—the phone rang,” she defended.

      “It takes two to answer it?” He shook his head as he fisted his hands on his hips. “Even if I believed you, no phone call is so damn important that you had to take your eyes off a two-year-old by a pool. Ever.”

      “Hold on, dude—”

      “Don’t call me ‘dude.’ It’s ‘doctor’ to you. And you hold on. Think about this. That child should be playing with toys and watching cartoons.” He pointed an accusing finger at both of them. “You were supposed to protect him. You screwed up.”

      “But you said he’ll be okay,” the girl said, looking less defiant.

      “We’ll get an EEG to make sure. And he’s still at risk for the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours. I want to know when his mother gets here.” He glared at them one more time, then shook his head and disappeared back through the doors.

      Sam let out a long breath. So that was the infamous Mitch Tenney in action, she thought. The hospital had a “three strikes and you’re out” policy. Two complaints had already been filed and she may have just witnessed number three. It was a lousy situation and she was on his side, but he’d have been wiser to keep his opinions to himself and let the police handle it.

      It was a relief that Darlyn Marshall, her boss, would be Mitch Tenney’s counselor of record. Sam was a newbie at the up-and-coming company and he was the first client from Mercy Medical. With over two thousand hospital employees, it could be a lucrative contract. She didn’t want to be responsible for blowing the situation because she had a mild case of hero worship.

      He’d cheated death. In less gifted hands that child might not have been saved. Now it was up to Marshall Management Consultants to save him.

      Mitch looked at the name plate on her desk—Samantha Ryan. He remembered her from the E.R., the day he’d worked on the kid, the drowning victim he’d almost lost. The memory tightened and twisted inside him. Stuff happened. He knew that. But some stuff didn’t have to happen and his tolerance for stupidity was at an all-time low.

      He met her gaze. Somehow the name fit her. Samantha—Sam—had sun-streaked brown hair and warm brown eyes that oozed optimism. When his gaze lowered to her mouth, a shot of lust went straight through him. Somewhere he’d heard the term “Cupid’s bow” to describe a woman’s mouth and he’d never quite gotten what that meant. Until now. Until looking at Sam Ryan.

      He had the most absurd desire to see what her Cupid’s bow mouth felt like, tasted like. If it was half as good and sweet as he was imagining, it could be a kiss of biblical proportions. Since biblical and kiss smacked of being an oxymoron, he figured his attention could be better concentrated elsewhere. Like messing with Ms. Ryan.

      Or continuing to mess with her head. He’d just walked into her office and they’d been staring at each other across her desk, and the moment was stretching into awkward territory. He and awkward were old friends so he could keep it up indefinitely. But she looked tense and ill at ease. The question was how long before she folded under the pressure of needing to fill the silence with words. When she cleared her throat and swallowed, then shifted in her chair, he knew the wait was almost over.

      “So, Dr. Tenney—”

      “Call me Mitch.”

      She hesitated, then said, “Would you be more comfortable if I do?”

      “Do you really care whether or not I’m comfortable?”

      “Are you always so challenging?”

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