His Private Nurse
Autore
Arlene James
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Chapter One
Pain swirled through his body, dull here, deep there, throbbing, pulsing, ambiguous. He floated on it, drifting blindly from one ache to another, trying to form thoughts, losing them. Then suddenly, hot pincers clamped his inner thigh and began slowly tearing the muscle from the bone. He heard a hoarse, agonized cry. A fellow sufferer or him? Him, he decided, dimly aware of trying to reach the source of his agony. His right arm felt as if it were nailed down, and when he tried to move it, a new pain flooded him.
Someone whom he couldn’t see said, “I’ve got it. I’ve got it.” It was an angel’s voice, melodic and female.
Small, cool hands kneaded away the anguish. The white-hot pinching faded. Ahhhhh. The relief felt magical. He was floating again, his whole being focused on the sensations aroused by those hands slowly working their way up his thigh, electrifying his flesh. A new sensation rose—literally. A roiling sea of contrasts tossed him from one extreme to another: shadows and light, heat and cold, pain and indulgence. The relief of unconsciousness and the greed of arousal beckoned with equal appeal.
Lyrical, that voice whispered in his ear again. “There. How’s that? Better? Cramp gone now?”
He tried to answer, but his tongue felt thick and unwieldly in his dry mouth. “Ungh.”
The wondrous hands vanished. He tried to bring them back, becoming aware of incapacitating weakness and muscles tight with soreness, of a dizzy head and confusion. Where was he? The unusual heaviness on his right side and in his groin weighed him down. Then he felt something brush against his lips. Ah, his erotic angel had not abandoned him. The heaviness in his groin grew more pronounced. He puckered his mouth around a small round something.
“Sip. Just a sip.”
Like honey, that voice. Cool, sweet water flowed into his mouth, and he gulped it greedily. Panting with relief, he squinted his eyes, trying to focus.
“Are you in pain? Use this.”
Something hard was pressed into his hand. He lifted his head, tried to look at the thing in his palm and got distracted by a new realization. A bed. He was in bed. But with whom? He tried to put a name, a face, a body to that voice.
“Like this.”
Slender fingers wrapped around and manipulated his own. The haze parted, and he looked up into a pretty, delicate face, one he had surely never seen before. Dark hair, a long, thick plait of it coiled beneath her ear. Soft, green eyes. The nose was almost too small, the chin almost too pointed, but the mouth… Oh, the mouth. A perfect, pink, beestung bow. A mouth waiting to be kissed. By him.
Heat pulsed in his groin, and instinctively he lifted his arm, the left one, since the right had turned to stone. The hard thing fell away, but he paid it no mind as he clasped his hand behind her head, his erotic angel with the dulcet voice and gentle touch. Straining upward and pulling down, he brought his mouth to hers. Her lips were soft and supple. They parted against his, and he used all his strength to press harder, to taste her. Sweet. So very sweet. He held on to that as long as he could, his only reality in a nightmare of torture and chaos.
Hums and squeaks swirled around him, fire and pain, need and delight. Where had he met her? What was her name, and why couldn’t he remember? Despite his best efforts, gloom eddied in the center of his mind, denying him answers and growing in rings of numbing shadow, darker, darker, until the world went black with a noisy clang.
An electronically generated bell donged in measured cadence. Merrily glanced away from the notation desk where she sat catching up on paperwork to check the alarm board. Room 18. At the thought of the patient there, color instantly bloomed in her cheeks. Royce Lawler was badly injured, movie-star handsome and dangerously seductive even when drugged out of his mind. Apparently, he had finally obtained full consciousness, poor guy.
Normally, with a patient in this much pain, Merrily would have jumped up and rushed to his aid, but this time, despite her sympathy for the man’s injuries, she hesitated long enough to look around for someone else to answer this particular call. In just the time it took to turn her head, however, she knew the search was pointless. Short-staffed as they were, every nurse was busy to the point of insanity. She was on her feet and moving before she could even tell herself that he wouldn’t remember a thing that had gone on earlier.
In her short career as an after-trauma nurse, Merrily had been groped, pinched, patted, hugged, leered at and propositioned, but she’d never been kissed like that. By anyone. Her heartbeat sped at the memory of it, the strength, the possession, the expertise. Had he sensed her awareness of him as a man rather than merely a patient? Somehow her usual cool detachment had deserted her when she’d bared his body and massaged the cramp from the thigh of his injured leg.
Cramps were a real problem with immobilized patients. The docs prescribed potassium and calcium to try to prevent them, as even an unconscious patient would try to move to alleviate the vicious pain. Lawler, however, had experienced more cramps than the average patient. He’d kept the ICU nurses hopping after his surgery until the attending physician had figured out the correct supplement levels for him. This morning’s cramp had undoubtedly been a result of the move from ICU to the floor.
Given the trauma and the drugs, Merrily told herself as she pushed through the door into his room, he could not possibly remember kissing her—or how she’d knocked over the trash can next to his bed afterward. Nevertheless, her pulse quickened and spots of color burned high on her cheeks even as she put on her most professional demeanor and prepared to assess and assist her patient. She turned toward the bed in the small, quiet, private room, then rushed forward, praying he hadn’t torn loose the stitches, dislodged the broken ends of bones or worse.
Royce gritted his teeth and mentally cursed himself. His arm shook with the effort required to brace his twisted body on his left palm, head dangling toward the floor. He was trapped by the traction device that kept his screaming right leg immobile several uncomfortable inches above the bed. The cast on his right arm and shoulder, though unwieldy, was at least maneuverable to an extent, though at the moment it weighed down on him like an anvil. Somehow the IV line tethering his left arm to the bags hanging over his head and the contraption clipped to the end of his left index finger remained intact, though his right hip felt as if it was being pulled from its socket. The nurse’s call button dangled from its cord next to the bed. He’d banged his head against it on his way down but had no way of knowing whether or not he’d managed to trigger the thing.
He’d really gotten himself into a fine mess this time, and he wasn’t thinking just about the fall he’d taken trying to reach the telephone, which some fool had placed out of his reach on the bedside table. Oh no, it was much more than that. Black memory spun through his head.
Shoving hands pitched him forward, and he fell, arms milling in cold fear. At the first impact on the sharp edges of the wooden stairs, a white hot snap in his right forearm blinded him and his right foot slipped between the open steps. Twisting, he fell forward in slow motion. Stars winked and whirled overhead. His leg wrenched, bones snapping. His shoulder and head impacted the steps in twin explosions of pain. Above him, the deck stairs loomed steep and dark, a pale figure hovering at the top. Deep, deep regret rushed through him in the instant before he died.
He’d really thought that he had fallen to his death. The same feelings he’d experienced then, pain, fear, regret, and now worry and sheer embarrassment moderated his relief at discovering that he’d been wrong. At the moment, worry surpassed all the others.
“Mr. Lawler!”
Rescue had arrived, but embarrassment beat out relief, at least temporarily, and as feet rushed toward him, rubber soles squeaking on clean floors, he closed his eyes. Arms locked around his dangling torso, small, short arms. He knew a moment of grave doubt as he felt a body crouch next to him. A woman, small and slight. He half recognized the smell, sensed the size and shape of her. Then her legs pushed upward and he found himself being lifted. He wrapped his arm about her back and tried to give her as much help as he could, contracting already strained and bruised muscles.
“What happened?” she grunted.
His stupidity and impatience had happened, but he was puffing too hard to gasp anything more than, “Telephone,” as he flopped back on the pillow. She tsked, and lifted the bed rail back into place, but the expected lecture did not materialize as she went about settling him and making sure he hadn’t done additional damage.
His rescuer didn’t know how much additional damage could be done, however, and how much his fault it was. Why hadn’t he seen how close his ex-wife, Pamela, was to the breaking point? Why hadn’t he known this could happen? Idiot. He had to do something before anyone else got hurt. The list of those with whom he needed to immediately speak was long: his kids, especially Tammy, his parents, Dale, his secretary, his foreman, doctors. Mentally, he moved Dale Boyd, his best buddy and personal attorney, to the top of the list. He had to get that phone. Head swimming, he opened his eyes and looked up into a surprisingly familiar face.
So it hadn’t been a dream. His angel was real. As her hands moved over him with practiced, efficient purpose, he observed that his angel wore flowered scrubs and an oversize lab coat. He saw, too, that she was young, too young, little more than a teenager, it seemed, albeit a very pretty teenager, too young to have been kissed by the likes of him. Surely that part of it had been a dream; yet the impulse to capture that lush little mouth rose in him even now, and he found that annoying. This was not the time for complications like sexual attraction.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I fell down a flight of stairs,” he retorted, shifting in an effort to ease the insistent throb in his shoulder. His voice sounded rusty and hoarse even to him.
“You have a morphine pump attached to your IV,” she said, checking tubes, bags and monitors.
“No morphine,” he stated flatly. He knew what the small cylinder lying in his lap was. The line snaking up to the blue box of the IV regulator promised instant relief, but he couldn’t afford the clouded mind and lassitude it would bring.
“You can’t overdose,” she informed him briskly, pouring water into a blue plastic tumbler with a straw standing in it. “The machine won’t let you.” She lifted the straw to his mouth, and he gratefully sucked the small vessel dry.
“No morphine,” he repeated with a satisfied sigh. “Not yet. I need to make a telephone call.”
She ignored that. “Do you know where you are?”
He tamped down his impatience. “In a hospital. Not sure which one.”
“Big General,” she informed him, using the universal term for San Antonio’s hub hospital, the largest and most sophisticated in the city. “Room 18. I’m Nurse Gage.”
A nurse. “You don’t look old enough to be a nurse.”
She ignored that, too. “Do you remember how you got here?”
He rolled his head side to side in the negative. “I remember being…falling down the stairs at the back of my house.”
“You were brought in by ambulance,” she told him, reaching for the stethoscope draped about her neck. He noticed that her hands, though tiny, were long-fingered with short, oval nails. She listened to his chest, took his pulse, then asked matter-of-factly, “Do you need to empty your bladder? You dislodged the catheter in recovery, and it was decided to remove it.”
Recovery? He pushed that aside, along with the sudden need to do as she suggested. Everything else could wait. “I need to make a call. Now.”
“Your parents left their telephone number at the desk. If you want, I’ll give them a ring a soon as we’re finished here.”
He closed his eyes, frustration mounting. He didn’t want to feel the resentment that surged through him, but he couldn’t help thinking that most parents would be standing anxiously at the bedside of an injured son. Only his supremely self-absorbed parents would have more important things to do. Shoving that old anger away, he marshaled his reason and reached down deep for his usual easygoing demeanor.
“Listen, I don’t mean to be difficult, but this is important. If you could just hand me the receiver and dial a number for me, I’d be eternally grateful.” He opened his eyes, well aware of the impact those big, baby blues could have. He saw it in her face then, the full memory of that kiss. So it hadn’t been a dream, then. Damn. Suddenly the urge to empty his bladder became secondary to another.
She stepped back, bumped into the table and IV pole and flushed bright red. Busily righting everything, she said over her shoulder, “You should rest.”
“I can’t,” he pleaded, “until I make the call. Please.”
She glanced at him then picked up the telephone receiver, bobbled it and, eyes averted, tucked it into the crook of his neck. Punching two buttons she asked, “What’s the number?”
“Thank you,” he breathed, gratitude easing the physical need somewhat. He gave her the number and angled his head so he could hear the tones as she dialed. She moved out of sight, then appeared again at the foot of the bed, where she looked at his toes, which were all that the stiff cocoon of bandages encasing his right leg left visible.
Dale’s secretary answered on the second ring, exclaiming at the sound of Royce’s voice. He made himself answer her questions of concern before saying urgently that he had to speak to her boss. Nurse Gage moved to examine the fingers that extended beyond the cast on his right arm and shoulder, and a moment later, Dale came on the line.
“Royce? How are you?”
“Still among the living.”
“What the hell happened out there, man? I couldn’t believe it when Tammy called.”
Everything in Royce went on alert. “Tammy called you?”
“Yeah, right after she called 911. She probably saved your life, man.”
Emotion swamped Royce. He closed his eyes, tears welling behind them. Poor Tammy, caught between warring parents, not knowing whom to trust, what was betrayal and what was not. Her mother had undoubtedly wanted him to die, yet, Tammy had saved him. The great love that he felt for his nine-year-old momentarily choked him. He cleared his throat and said as smoothly as he could manage, “She’s a good girl, always has been.”
“Yeah. Must take after you,” which meant that they should all feel grateful that she didn’t take after her mother, Pamela.
What his ex had put those two kids through was enough to break Royce’s heart. He’d been fighting her for full custody since he’d filed for divorce two years ago, and the case was finally coming to court soon, though Pamela had used every trick in the book to block it. If he’d believed for an instant that she really wanted, needed her kids with her, he’d have relented, but to Pamela those kids were nothing more than a weapon to use against him. She’d told them hideous lies in an attempt to make them hate him, even that the only reason he wanted custody was so he wouldn’t have to pay child support. He hadn’t realized just how far she was willing to go, though. Until now.
“I’ve gotta see you, Dale. How quick can you get over here?”
“How’s an hour sound? I’ve got a conference call on hold. Give me thirty minutes to wrap it up, and I’ll head over your way.”
Weary to the bone, Royce figured he’d need that hour to regain his strength. “Thanks. I appreciate it, bud.”
“No problem. Can I bring you anything?”
“Just get over here.”
“Sure thing. And, Royce?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t know how good it is to hear your voice.”
“Ditto.” He knew he didn’t have to say that he’d never expected to hear or speak to anyone ever again.
As Merrily took the telephone receiver from his hand to replace it in its cradle, she noted that he did not wear a wedding ring. The fact that she couldn’t resist looking for one disturbed her. Only the conclusion that he obviously didn’t remember that kiss he’d planted on her earlier enabled her to do her job.
“Your extremities look good. Full color, warm to the touch. Have you tried to move your toes?”
The question seemed to surprise him. “No.” He looked down at the bare toes poking up at the end of the bed. The faint twinge was not what Merrily had hoped for, but she put a good face on it.
“Don’t worry about it. The doctor will undoubtedly want to take a few more X rays, but given your condition they’ll probably bring the portable unit here.”
“What is my condition exactly?”
She looked straight into his eyes, noting the size of his pupils. “Good. The concussion worried them at first, but the CT scan was normal.”
“I’ve had a CT scan?”
“And an MRI, about a dozen X rays and surgery to set bones in your leg. They also put your shoulder back into its socket and set your arm.”
His eyes widened. A surreal blue, they were easily the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen, as beautiful as his face. Handsome seemed a lame term for such male perfection. Four shades of blond, from brass to platinum, streaked the thick, straight hair that flopped over one brow. The face itself was that of an archangel or a superhero straight out of the pages of a comic book, especially with that tortured look hovering just beneath the toasted gold of his skin. Tiny lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes, another testament to the time this man spent out of doors.
“Anything else?”
“Bruises and contusions. The miracle is that you didn’t break a rib and puncture a lung.”
“No internal injuries then?”
“Nothing serious, but don’t be surprised if you pass a little blood.”
He nodded, forehead creasing with a frown. “Guess I can be thankful for that.”
“I know it hurts,” she said. “I can back off the morphine dose if you like. It might give you some relief without putting you to sleep.” That boxy jaw set stubbornly, spurring her to explain. “It’s better to stay on top of the pain if you can. If you let it get too bad, your mind won’t be any clearer and it’ll take more meds to control it.”
Grimly he closed his eyes and nodded. She made the adjustment and depressed the pump herself before switching the pulse monitor on the end of his left index finger to his right hand. “That ought to give you a little more dexterity.”
“Thanks.”
“You don’t happen to be left-handed, do you?”
“No such luck.” He sent her a wry, lazy look that sped up her heart.
“Too bad.” She bent to pick up the plastic urinal, only to knock it under the bed. What was wrong with her? She hadn’t been this clumsy since Donald Popof had asked her to the prom. Disgustedly she got down on her knees and fished the large plastic jar from beneath the bed. Rising, she hooked the handle over the bed rail and asked, “Think you can manage by yourself?” His gaze met hers blandly, and she knew by his demeanor that the drugs were beginning to take effect.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“You can lie on your left hip if you keep your body aligned with the traction bar,” she advised matter-of-factly, “but don’t let the container get too full or we’ll wind up having to change your bed. Okay?”
He looked away. “Okay.”
She went to the sink and dampened a washcloth with antibacterial fluid, then draped it wordlessly over the bed rail within easy reach.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Can I get you anything?”
Those blue eyes settled on her again, and a small, appreciative smile flitted across his face. “Food.”
A good sign. She checked her watch. “Dinner trays will be up in about an hour. Meanwhile, I’ve got crackers, ice cream and popsicles, if you’re interested.”
“Forget the popsicles,” he said wryly, meaning that she should bring everything else.
Chuckling, she headed for the door, allowing him the privacy necessary to relieve himself.
Royce eased onto his back, more comfortable than he had been since he’d awakened nearly an hour earlier, and let his mind wander where it would. Not surprisingly, it went straight to Nurse Gage. She had displayed unusual sensitivity, first by refraining from scolding him for putting down the bed rail and trying to get to the phone on his own and then by allowing him to tend to his personal needs in privacy. He felt better just knowing that he wasn’t completely helpless, and he couldn’t help feeling grateful that she hadn’t mentioned that kiss.
He wondered if he ought to apologize for it, then upon reflection decided that it was best to let her think he didn’t remember kissing her, though in fact it was one of the first things he had remembered. At the time he’d assumed it was all a dream, and that was how he was going to treat it, like a freaky dream that had brought him a moment of pleasure in the midst of physical anguish. He suspected it would be easier for both of them that way, especially her.
What a strange little creature she was, his Nurse Gage, alternately clumsy and efficient, small but strong, brisk and professional but with a gentle sympathy warming the muted green of her eyes. He wondered what she would look like with that long braid unbound. Would it lie sleek and straight across her shoulders or wave and curl?
She either wasn’t married or didn’t wear a wedding ring while working. Somehow he figured it was the former. Youth aside, she just didn’t have the look of a settled, married woman.
He frowned disgustedly at the train of his thoughts. For one thing he had much more important matters to ponder. For another, he was in no position to pursue a woman, even if his health weren’t an issue, which it clearly was.
Deliberately he turned his mind to other things. When could he speak to his daughter?
He wasn’t married. The thought circled through her brain all the while she stuffed her pockets with saltines and plucked ice cream bars from the freezer. It was only at his door, however, that Merrily confronted the rise of enthusiasm inside her with a stern rebuke.
“Don’t be an idiot, Merrily,” she scolded under her breath. “He may not have a ring on his finger, but there’s a woman around somewhere.” No doubt she would ascend at any moment, miniskirt flapping and kohl-darkened eyes sparkling with tears of concern. Shoot, a man like that probably had them lined up to hold his hand and stroke his fevered brow.
That kiss had been nothing more than a drug-induced fluke. He wouldn’t be seriously interested in a woman who looked so much like a kid that, at twenty-six, she still had to buy her clothes in the junior department, which was pretty much why she stuck to uniforms, jeans and simple shirts. Nope, Royce Lawler was not for the likes of her, and to think otherwise would be, in the immortal words of her eldest brother, Jody, cruising for a bruising.
Hiding her own interest behind her nurse’s demeanor, she went in to play her chosen role of angel of mercy armed with crackers and rapidly softening ice cream.
