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Her Celebrity Surgeon
Kate Hardy
Fiery registrar Sophie Harrison has never been more furious! She is convinced the new director of surgery has been appointed only for his title. Baron Rupert Charles Radley is a man never out of the gossip rags, with a different woman in tow each week. Experience tells her not to trust men of his class.Charlie turns out to be gorgeous. Yet after being stalked by paparazzi and finding pictures of the two of them splashed across Celebrity Life magazine, Sophie is determined to keep a low profile. Except, she's slowly learning that beneath the prestige, title and white coat is a genuine, caring and very sexy man!


He couldn’t stop himself. Charlie bent his head and very gently brushed his mouth against hers. And Sophie was starting to kiss him back.
God, he wanted this so much. Wanted to feel her body close to his. Wanted her to kiss his demons away.
It couldn’t happen. He had to stop.
Except he couldn’t. Not when it felt so good, so right, to hold her and kiss her.
The beep of a car horn shocked them apart.
He dragged in a breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I just…” Just couldn’t help himself. Wanted to be a real person for once, instead of Charlie, Baron Radley. Wanted Sophie’s warmth to enfold him.
“Don’t worry. I won’t be ringing Celebrity Life to give them a kiss-and-tell,” she said dryly.
He shook his head. “That isn’t what I meant. But we have to work together. I think it’s best if we ignore what just happened.”


Honorable, eligible and in demand!
Baron Rupert Charles Radley
The Hon. Sebastian Henry Radley
The Hon. Victoria Radley
Three aristocratic doctors, the very best in their field, who just can’t avoid the limelight!
In this exciting and emotional new trilogy from bestselling author Kate Hardy read how these eligible medics do their best to stay single—but find love where they least expect it.
HER CELEBRITY SURGEON
Baron Rupert Charles Radley
(aka Director of Surgery) meets his match with fiery registrar Dr. Sophie Harrison. The paparazzi have a field day!
Sebastian’s story from Mills & Boon® Medical Romance™!

Her Celebrity Surgeon
Kate Hardy


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Maggie, Sue and Sandy—with love

CONTENTS
Cover (#ua6b142f8-41af-5705-9b76-ad11dad6d1fd)
Excerpt (#u84612474-240a-5680-8f6b-8da689e0a05b)
Title Page (#u6114d5b0-dbc3-594a-80dd-ee3fa48787d8)
Dedication (#u98b5f553-3c8a-5ac6-9efe-06bbf24816b6)
CHAPTER ONE (#ua0462eb7-00d7-5c9e-ac8a-d8d7b64a862c)
CHAPTER TWO (#uffe60f87-a2d4-58af-a1d4-12c6e5cdbf33)
CHAPTER THREE (#uada79ff2-a6e3-544c-98a2-f0591ac3d549)
CHAPTER FOUR (#uc3aec693-8670-5992-a989-10f03a4cfd87)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_2c990a6d-b705-5e32-bdc9-7689b519d959)
HALF past eight. Sophie groaned inwardly. She’d probably missed the party for Guy’s promotion to Director of Surgery, but no way could she have left her patient in the middle of the operating table. And she never, but never, left the ward until her patients had been round from the anaesthetic for at least half an hour. You never knew with surgery: one moment, your patient was fine; the next, all hell could be let loose and you might even need to go back into Theatre.
But when she finally made it into the wine bar opposite the hospital, Guy was on his own. ‘Don’t tell me that rotten lot went off to get food and gave you the short straw of waiting till I got here, when it’s your party?’ she asked.
‘No. The party’s off.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘The job went to an external candidate.’
‘Oh, Guy. I’m so sorry.’ He was a brilliant surgeon and a nice bloke, too. It really wasn’t fair. ‘I was so sure…’
‘It means you’re stuck where you are, too, Soph.’
Because she’d been in line for promotion to Guy’s job. She waved her hand to protest at his bitter tone. ‘Hey. My promotion wasn’t a given, anyway. They couldn’t advertise the job until your promotion had been announced—and I might not even have made it to the interview stage.’ She could see in his face that he was brooding. And he’d had more than his share of hassles this year, with an acrimonious divorce. His wife had blamed her affair on Guy spending too much time on his career. Time that clearly hadn’t paid off.
‘Come on, let’s have a commiseration drink instead. I’ll shout you a curry. We can put the world to rights, and stick two fingers up at the hospital board—who clearly can’t see talent when it’s two millimetres in front of their noses.’
‘You’re good for my ego.’
Not as good as Abby would have been—Guy’s house officer, who’d admitted to Sophie in the changing rooms a few weeks ago that she had the hots for Guy—but Sophie could work on that. A few judiciously dropped hints, and maybe Guy would see what was two millimetres in front of his nose.
When they’d settled themselves comfortably in the local curry house and ordered their meal, Sophie turned the conversation back to Guy’s bad news.
‘I hate to rub salt in your wounds, Guy, but do you know anything about the new director of surgery?’
‘R. C. Radley, you mean?’
The name was familiar, but she couldn’t think why. She nodded.
‘He’s a plastic surgeon.’
‘We’re going to have a nip-and-tuck merchant in charge of surgery? Oh, great. No prizes for guessing where all the new equipment’s going to go, then.’ Damn. And she’d raised half the money for the equipment she had her eye on. It looked as if she’d have to raise the other half, too.
‘And he went to a certain well-known public school.’
Uh-oh. There was a distinct whiff of fish in the air. ‘Eton?’
Guy nodded.
Like some of the members of the board. Sophie rolled her eyes. Now she understood what had been puzzling her—why Guy had been passed over. ‘So the old-boy network strikes again, then?’
‘Yep.’
‘It sucks, Guy, it really does—but don’t let it get to you. There’ll be other chances.’ She raised her glass of beer. ‘Here’s to us. You and me, and a brilliant surgical team.’ Though she wasn’t going to drink to their new director of surgery. Not until after she’d met him and seen if he was worth drinking to.
‘Mr R. C. Radley. Why does his name ring a bell?’ she asked.
‘He’s not a Mr. He’s a lord.’
‘He’s a what?’
‘A baron,’ Guy told her.
Baron Radley? The board had appointed a baron to run the surgical team? Sophie’s mouth tightened. ‘So instead of giving the job to someone who can do it blindfolded, the board’s made a political appointment. Someone who’s got the right name and the right title.’ And the right accent. Sharp, braying, coupled with a mocking, hearty guffaw as he…She shook herself. No. That had been years ago, and she was over it now. Over it.
‘Soph, hang on. You’re being a bit—’
‘No, I’m absolutely right,’ she cut in. ‘They’ve gone for something that will bring some press coverage for the hospital, instead of thinking about what’s right for the patients. And that stinks.’ She frowned again. ‘Baron Radley…Isn’t he the one in all the gossip mags?’ The ones her mum read. Now she remembered where she’d heard the name. Celebrity Life. Baron Radley had been photographed with just about every eligible woman in London—every woman with a title or who looked like a supermodel. There was a different woman on his arm every time he went somewhere. She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, what does the board think they’re doing? We ought to—’
‘Leave it, Soph,’ Guy warned. ‘Like you said, there’ll be other chances. None of us can expect to get every job we go for.’
‘But it’s wrong. It’s morally wrong that they’ve picked someone with a title instead of someone who can do the job.’
‘He might be a good surgeon. And there’s nothing we can do about it anyway.’
She sighed, knowing that he was right. ‘At least, working in general surgery, we won’t have to have much to do with him,’ she said.
‘Let’s just forget about it, yeah?’ Guy asked.
She nodded as their curry arrived, but the knot of tension at the back of her neck was starting to tighten again. How old was their new director of surgery exactly? Had he been one of the gang who…?
She wasn’t going to think about them. It had been years ago. If she let the memories hold her back, they’d win. And she was damned sure they weren’t going to grind her into the dust again. The chances were, R. C. Radley hadn’t been one of them anyway. He was probably Guy’s age, in his mid-to-late thirties—he’d probably finished med school before Sophie had even finished her A-levels. She certainly couldn’t remember being at med school with anybody called Radley. And if he was older than she was, it was unlikely he’d been part of their social set either.
They kept the conversation on more neutral topics for the rest of the meal—avoiding hospital politics—but as they left the restaurant Sophie realised with dismay that Guy must have drunk several glasses of wine while he’d been waiting for her to turn up, as well as several beers during their meal. Not only was he slightly unsteady on his feet but, when Sophie steadied his arm, he put his arms round her and tried to kiss her.
Sophie turned her face away so his lips landed wetly on her cheek. ‘Come on, Guy. I’ll call a cab to get you home.’
‘Come home with me, Soph.’
‘Not a good idea. You’d regret it in the morning.’
He smiled. ‘Waking up to a gorgeous girl like you? No.’
She shook her head. ‘Guy, it’s the drink talking. I’m your mate, not your girlfriend. You used to be my boss, remember?’
‘Not since you got promoted and moved over to Andy’s team.’
Mmm, and she couldn’t use the ‘we can’t mix work and a relationship’ argument if she wanted to get him together with Abby—not when he was Abby’s boss! ‘I’m focusing on my career, Guy,’ she said gently yet firmly.
‘And because I didn’t get the job, you’re not interested?’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘If I didn’t think you’re drunk and don’t really know what you’re saying, I’d slap your face for that. I don’t sleep my way up the ladder, Guy. In fact, I don’t do relationships at all, and you know that—my career comes first, last and always. We’re friends, and I’d like to keep it that way.’
‘Maybe I’d like more.’
The voices grated in her head again. And I’m going to take it.
She forced the memory back where it belonged. ‘Not with me, you wouldn’t. Guy, you’re a nice bloke, but I’m not interested in anything more than friendship from you. From anyone.’ She sighed. ‘I’m beginning to think you’re as shortsighted as the board.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that there are other women in our department. Women who might like you and be interested in having a relationship with you.’
‘Like who?’
‘I’m not telling you when you’re drunk! Ask me when you’re sober, and I might give you a clue.’
‘Soph, you’re a tease.’
And teases get what they ask for.
Again, she pushed the words away. ‘Guy, just shut up and get in the taxi.’ She bundled him into the back of the black cab she’d managed to hail, closed the door, gave Guy’s address to the cabbie and paid him to take Guy home. Then she walked back to her own flat, made herself a strong cup of coffee and sifted through her post. Junk mail, more junk mail, a bank statement and a postcard from Sandy in Tokyo.
Sometimes she wished she’d had the nerve to do what her friend Sandy had done and taken a year out to travel. She could have rented her flat out for a year and gone round the world with Sandy. Had adventures. But, no, she’d been too staid and sensible. Surgical jobs weren’t as easy to come by as emergency department jobs, so she’d declined Sandy’s offer.
Did that make her boring? Maybe. But she’d worked hard to get as far as she had. Taking a year out would have set her back too much. She’d done the right thing.
Her mum had also popped round, found Sophie was out and had scribbled a note on the front cover of her favourite gossip magazine. Missed you. Call me. Sophie grinned. Typical. She’d even written her duty on her mother’s kitchen calendar, so her mum would know know exactly when Sophie was likely to be at home—and Fran completely ignored it. Scatty didn’t even begin to describe her. And Sophie adored her for it.
Idly, she sipped her coffee and flicked through the magazine. She really didn’t understand what her mum saw in this kind of stuff. Who cared where celebs went or what their houses looked like?
Then a name leapt out at her.
Charlie, Baron Radley.
She stared at the photograph. He was dressed up to the nines—expensive dinner jacket, dress shirt, bow-tie. Tall, dark and handsome—and he looked as if he knew it, too. A woman in a little black dress—a dress she must have been poured into, and she was dripping in diamonds as well—was hanging off his arm. Her blonde hair was cut fashionably, her make-up was flawless and they really looked like the ultimate ‘golden couple’.
The caption beneath, gushing about his fabulous wealth and his partner’s equally fabulous modelling successes, didn’t make Sophie feel any better about it. If anything, it convinced her even more that the board had made a terrible mistake. This man—one of the jet set, who went to all the best parties, probably only ever drank champagne and, for all she knew, might join the rest of his crowd in snorting the odd line of coke—was going to be the new director of surgery at the Hampstead General.
‘This,’ she predicted grimly, ‘is going to end in tears.’

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_f78e52bd-8c6c-568d-ba98-99b5e99eb232)
‘SAMMY and I can’t wait any longer,’ Sophie said. ‘We’ve got a patient prepped for Theatre and a huge list to get through.’ It was all very well R.C. Baron Radley wanting to meet the team—but, if he couldn’t even be bothered to turn up on time, why should their patients have to suffer?
‘Sophie, don’t you think you ought to give him another five minutes?’ Abby said. ‘I mean, Andy’s off duty so you’re the most senior one here from your firm. He’s probably with one of the big cheeses—you know what they’re like when they start talking. Give him five more minutes.’
Sophie shook her head. ‘My patients come first. And if that gives me a black mark in Baron Radley’s book, tough.’ She curled her lip. ‘I’m a doctor, not a serf who needs to bow down to the nobility.’
Guy whistled. ‘Wow, Soph, I never knew you were so against titles.’
‘I just don’t see why an accident of birth makes one person “better”…’ she emphasised the speech marks with two curled fingers on each hand ‘…than another. I’ll just have to catch up with His Lordship later.’
‘We’ll give your apologies to him, Soph,’ Abby said.
‘I think,’ Sophie said crisply, ‘he should be the one apologising to us—and to our patients—for wasting time. See you later. Sammy, let’s go scrub up.’ Together with her house officer, she left the staffroom and headed for Theatre.
Something didn’t look right, Charlie thought. The kid posting something through the neighbour’s letterbox didn’t have a bike with him or a bag full of newspapers. So just what was he stuffing through it?
Then there was a loud bang, and Charlie realised exactly what the boy had posted. A firework. It looked as if he had just taken another from his pocket. Hadn’t anybody told him why it was stupid to play with fireworks? It was an explosive; it could go off in his face. And the one he’d shoved through the door could have done a lot of damage, too, if someone had been close to it when it had gone off. And you never, but never, lit fireworks with an ordinary match.
‘Oi! What do you think you’re doing?’ he yelled.
The boy looked up, curled his lip, flicked a V-sign at Charlie and lit another match.
‘Put that match out, you idiot! You’ll get h—’
But before Charlie could finish, there was a loud bang and the firework in the boy’s hand exploded.
Charlie forgot the fact that he was on his way to work—his first day in his new role as Director of Surgery, when he really shouldn’t be late—and years of training took over. He grabbed his mobile phone and punched in the number for the emergency services as he ran towards the boy. ‘Ambulance, please.’ He gave them the location. ‘We have a firework injury involving a child. Major burns.’ Burns to the hand or feet were always classified as major. ‘Better call the fire brigade, too—he was stuffing fireworks through a letterbox.’
The boy was screaming, and he’d dropped the match. Luckily the ground was still wet, so the flame would have been extinguished—if any loose powder from the fireworks was lit, the boy could end up with flash burns to his legs as well as the damage to his hand.
Charlie pushed through the open gate just as the door to the neighbouring house opened.
‘What’s going on?’ the elderly man demanded.
‘Firework went off in his hand,’ Charlie said swiftly. ‘I’ve called the emergency services. I’m a doctor. Will you let me take a look?’ he asked the boy.
Shaking, the boy held out his hands. ‘It hurts!’ he wailed.
‘What’s your name?’ Charlie asked.
‘L-Liam,’ he choked.
‘Bloody little hooligan! He’s always causing trouble round here,’ the neighbour said in disgust. ‘We should just hand him over to the police.’
‘Right now, my priority’s to stop him losing blood. Have you got a first-aid kit?’ Charlie asked.
‘Only plasters and headache tablets.’ The neighbour shrugged. ‘The wife might have a bandage in there.’
Probably one that wasn’t sterile, Charlie guessed. ‘Do you have a clean, dry cloth—a teatowel or something? Please?’
The man nodded and went back inside his house. Meanwhile Charlie quickly assessed Liam’s hand. Normally, in cases of thermal burns, you needed to cool the burn down fast with lukewarm water. But this wasn’t a normal thermal burn—it had been caused by a firework. Fireworks often contained phosphorus, a chemical that reacted with water and caused more burning, so running water over the child’s skin could do more damage.
From what he could see under the blood, the burn appeared to be full thickness, across the whole surface area of Liam’s hand, and two of his fingertips were missing. Gunpowder residue was tattooed into the skin. They’d need to debride the wound—cut away the damaged parts—and do a skin graft. Probably more than one.
‘OK, Liam. I know it’s scary, but I’m going to look after you until the ambulance gets here.’ He needed to keep the boy calm and stem the blood flow. ‘Can you tell me your favourite football team?’
‘M-Manchester United,’ the boy stammered.
The knot at the back of Charlie’s neck started to unravel. Great. If he could get Liam talking, it would take the child’s mind off the injury. If Liam started panicking, there was more chance he’d go into shock. Plus Charlie needed to know who or what was behind that front door. The small pane of glass in the centre of the door was opaque, so trying to look through it wouldn’t help. Had the firework set light to the carpet? Was someone lying inside, hurt?
‘Tell me about the players,’ Charlie said.
The neighbour returned with a pile of dry teatowels. ‘Will these do? More than he deserves, mind. He’s been persecuting Mrs Ward for months.’
‘She’s an old cow. She—’ Liam began, his face screwed up in a mixture of scowling and pain.
‘Later,’ Charlie cut in. ‘I need to clean any chemicals from your hands, Liam. This might hurt, but I’ll try to be quick.’ He looked at the neighbour. ‘Do you know if Mrs Ward is in?’
‘Doesn’t go out much. Dicky ticker.’
So the fright of a firework coming through her letterbox could upset her enough to bring on her heart condition. ‘Can you try and get her to answer the door while I clean Liam’s hand?’
The neighbour nodded. He banged on the door and called through the letterbox, ‘Mary, it’s Bill—can you open the door?’ Charlie quickly cleaned Liam’s hand with one of the teatowels, then covered the wound with the other cloth. He pressed on it to stem the bleeding.
‘No answer,’ Bill said.
‘OK.’ It could be another ten minutes before the ambulance arrived. If Mary Ward had had a heart attack, Charlie needed to act now. ‘I’ll break in. Liam, can you press on that, hard?’ he asked.
‘It hurts,’ Liam whimpered.
‘I know, but we need to stop you losing blood. It’s important—and I need to break this door down in case Mrs Ward’s very ill.’
Liam hung his head. ‘Is she going to die?’
‘I hope not, for your sake. I’ll tell the pol—’ Bill began.
Charlie shook his head very slightly. They didn’t have time to discuss that now. ‘I really need to see if she’s all right. Now, Liam, you keep pressing on that cloth. And keep telling me about Manchester United—it’s really interesting.’
‘Really?’ Liam looked stunned, as if he wasn’t used to anyone paying him proper attention.
Been there, done that, kid, Charlie thought. Though he’d never resorted to playing with fireworks to get the attention he’d needed. He’d just learned to become self-reliant.
‘Keep talking,’ he said, giving the boy an encouraging smile. If Liam kept talking, his voice would give Charlie warning signals if the boy was going into shock: the first signs would be if Liam started to sound ‘spaced out’ or his breathing became shallow.
‘There are a couple of fingertips missing,’ he said, sotto voce, to Bill. ‘Could you try and find them for me and put them in a bag?’ He could tell by the look on Bill’s face that the elderly man thought it served the kid right. ‘He’s only a child,’ Charlie said softly.
‘He’s a wrong ’un.’
‘And he needs help. Please.’
Bill’s mouth thinned, but he started to look through the weeds on the path.
Charlie crouched down to the letterbox. ‘Mrs Ward? My name’s Charlie and I’m a doctor. I’m coming to help you, but if you can’t open the door for me I’ll need to force it open.’
No reply. But at least he couldn’t smell smoke either, so it seemed that the firework hadn’t started a blaze. And he hadn’t seen any orange flickers through the opaque glass or with the limited vision he’d had through the letterbox.
‘I’m going to break the pane of glass and reach through to open the door,’ Charlie said. ‘Don’t be frightened. Bill’s with me.’
He took off one shoe, shattered the pane with it, then wrapped his hand in one of the teatowels to protect him from the broken glass and reached through to open the lock from the inside.
‘Found them,’ Bill said, at the precise moment Charlie pushed the door open to reveal a couple of burned-out bangers and scorch marks on the carpet.
‘Let’s go in and see to your neighbour.’ Charlie shepherded Liam in before him. ‘She’ll probably have a plastic bag of some sort in her kitchen.’ He hoped. And from the colour of the teatowel Liam was losing blood, which meant there was a good chance he’d go into shock. Charlie needed to get the boy lying flat, with his legs raised, as soon as possible: it would help to prevent shock from blood loss.
He found Mrs Ward slumped in the kitchen, her face white and her hand clutched to her chest.
‘Mrs Ward, can you hear me?’ he asked.
To his relief, Mrs Ward nodded.
‘Mary! Oh, God, is she all right?’ Bill asked.
‘Bill, the best thing you can do to help is find a plastic bag and some ice for those fingertips. And can you get Liam to lie flat on his back with his legs raised? Try and keep pressure on that pad on his hand for me. I don’t want him to lose consciousness.’
‘But…’ Bill gestured helplessly towards Mary.
‘I’ll look after her,’ Charlie said quietly. ‘I can’t see to them both at the time same. I need you to help Liam. Please.’
Bill nodded and followed Charlie’s directions. Meanwhile, Charlie checked Mary’s pulse.
‘Can you talk?’ he asked Mary.
‘Can’t…breathe…’ the old lady wheezed.
Breathless, pale and with obvious chest pain. Bill had mentioned his neighbour’s ‘dicky ticker’. Angina? ‘Have you had pain like this before?’ Charlie asked.
‘Spray. Drawer,’ the old lady whispered.
Which meant that, yes, she had and, yes, she had medication to deal with it. Good.
But there were several drawers to choose from. Which one? Charlie stood in the middle. ‘Can you point me left or right, then put your hand up when I’m in front of the right drawer?’ he asked.
She managed to direct him left and down to the drawer where she kept her medication. As he’d suspected, she had a GTN spray. Glyceryl trinitrate, known as GTN for short, increased the flow of blood through the heart muscle and controlled the symptoms of angina.
‘Can you open your mouth and lift up your tongue for me, Mrs Ward?’ he asked gently.
She did so, and he sprayed the medication under her tongue—the quickest way to get the drug into her system. Hopefully the pain would ease very quickly. And where the hell was the ambulance?
‘Little bugger. Right hooligan. Clip round the ear, if he was mine,’ Mary muttered.
‘Try not to talk,’ Charlie soothed.
‘Put fireworks through my door. Needs a good hiding,’ she wheezed.
‘He’s learned his lesson the hard way,’ Charlie said gently. ‘One blew up in his hand. He’s lost the tips of a couple of fingers.’
‘Told him not to chuck rubbish in my garden. Kept on. Kicked my fence down. Now this.’
‘The police’ll sort it out, Mary,’ Bill said. ‘Oi, you, the doctor said to stay still!’
Charlie glanced over to see Liam struggling and Bill trying to pin him down.
‘Can’t stay. Mum’ll kill me if I’m in trouble,’ Liam said, clearly panicking.
‘Should’ve thought of that earlier, shouldn’t you?’ Bill sneered. ‘Tell that to them when they take you down the nick.’
‘Liam, you’ll be going to hospital,’ Charlie interjected. ‘We need to sort your hand out before anything else happens. And you need to stay calm right now. If you start moving about and lose much more blood, you’ll start feeling very, very rough. Or you could struggle, and Bill will have to give you mouth to mouth.’
As he’d hoped, both Bill and Liam looked horrified at the thought. They both lapsed into silence, and Liam stayed absolutely still.
To Charlie’s relief, he heard a shout at the front door. ‘Paramedics—is anyone in there?’
‘In the kitchen,’ Charlie said.
‘What have we got?’ the older paramedic asked.
Charlie gave the two paramedics a brief run-down of what had happened. ‘Mrs Ward’s had GTN but it isn’t having much effect. We’ve found Liam’s missing fingertips and put them in a plastic bag with ice—I cleaned the wound with a dry cloth in case of phosphorus contamination.’
‘Trained first-aider?’ the younger paramedic asked.
Charlie smiled. ‘Something like that.’
‘We’ll take them both in,’ the older paramedic said.
‘My house. Open,’ Mary said.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay and help the police secure it,’ Bill said. ‘I’ll tell them what happened.’
Charlie took the notebook from his inside pocket and scribbled his mobile number. ‘I need to get going, but they can get me on this number or call me at the hospital—the Hampstead General.’
‘You work at our place?’ the younger paramedic asked.
‘Yep.’ Charlie glanced at his watch. ‘And I’d better get my skates on or I’ll be late for work.’ He was already late, but that couldn’t be helped.
‘Might as well come along with us, then,’ the younger paramedic said with a smile.
Ten minutes after Sophie had left, Charlie walked into the department. ‘Sorry I’m late. Unavoidable delay,’ he said. Not that he was going to explain what his delay had been. I had to rescue a woman with angina and a boy with major burns. It would have sounded bleating or boastful or, worse, both together. ‘Thanks for waiting. I wouldn’t have blamed you all for getting on with your lists, thinking I wasn’t going to bother turning up.’
Guy coughed. ‘I’m afraid the other firm isn’t here. Andy’s away today and Sophie, his registrar, was called into Theatre.’
Pretty much as he would have expected. ‘No problem. Hopefully I’ll get a chance to catch up with them later.’ Charlie shook his hand. ‘Charlie Radley.’
‘Guy Allsopp, consultant surgeon. This is Mark, my registrar, and Abby, my house officer,’ Guy said. He quickly introduced the rest of the staff.
‘Pleased to meet you all. Well, let’s get the awkward stuff out of the way first,’ Charlie said. ‘First off, I know there were internal candidates for the job, so I imagine a few of you would much rather I wasn’t here. I’m sorry that someone had to be disappointed, but I hope we can learn from each other and work as a team.’
He noticed that Guy and Abby exchanged very meaningful glances. Had Andy been an internal candidate and had he deliberately stayed away today? In that case, Sophie, as Andy’s registrar, was showing solidarity with the head of her firm. They were the ones who really needed to hear this speech.
Ah, well. He’d make his peace with them both later. He had some other rumours to squash first.
‘Secondly, I know what hospital rumour mills are like, so you’re probably expecting a toff who spends more time with a string of blondes in little black dresses than with my patients, and who only does face lifts. I’m not planning to live up to those expectations. I’m here to do a job, I don’t have a string of girlfriends, I answer to “Charlie”, not “Your Lordship”, and I don’t do face lifts or nips and tucks.’ He smiled. ‘So. I hope we’ll get used to each other pretty quickly. My door isn’t always open because I think that’s intimidating—but I’m always happy to talk through any problems between seeing patients.’
A few murmurs, but no outright hostility. Good. He could build on that.
‘And, finally, so I can get to know people who aren’t here today or are on a different shift, I’m planning drinks on Thursday night—my tab. If anyone can recommend a good bar, I’m all ears.’ And, please, please, any minute now the emergency department would bleep him, he’d have to go to Theatre and he could just relax and do the job he loved.
‘He’s gorgeous,’ Abby said.
‘Guy? Yeah, you already told me. Several times,’ Sophie said with a grin.
‘No. I mean Charlie.’
‘Charlie?’
Her puzzlement must have shown on her face, because Abby added, ‘The new director of surgery.’
Ah. The baron. ‘How nice for him,’ Sophie said coolly.
Abby frowned. ‘Don’t be so hard on him. He’s a nice bloke.’
He was upper class—and Sophie knew from experience just how not nice they could be. ‘Yeah. I bet,’ she said sarcastically, before she could stop herself.
‘He is. He’s buying drinks for everyone on Thursday night, and he’s included the auxiliary staff and the cleaners,’ Abby protested.
Sophie shrugged. ‘So? He’s a baron. Rich. He can afford it. It’s an empty gesture, Abby.’
Abby frowned. ‘He’s not a snob, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s genuine.’ She added what she clearly thought was her trump card: ‘Guy likes him.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it?’ Sophie asked.
‘Soph, I don’t understand why you’re so anti.’
‘I’m not anti. I’m just saying I don’t like politics and I don’t think they have any place in hospitals. We should be looking after our patients, not playing games.’
‘Charlie doesn’t seem like a game-player.’ Abby took a swig of her coffee. ‘Let’s agree to disagree, shall we?’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Sophie raised her own cup.
They’d been talking shop for about five minutes when a tray clattered onto the table next to theirs. ‘Hi, Soph.’
‘Hello, Guy.’ She smiled at him. And then looked up at the man standing next to Guy—into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
Baron R. C. Radley.
The photographs in the gossip rags simply didn’t do him justice. In the press he always looked slightly unreal—with a perfect tan, even white teeth and not so much as a faint shadow under his eyes or a blemish on his skin.
In the flesh, he was something else. Tall—about six feet two, she’d guess—with dark hair cut just a little bit too short. Sculpted cheekbones, a haughty nose—very patrician. Except his lower lip was full and gave him a slightly vulnerable air, and there were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that told her that he smiled a lot.
Her pulse started to hammer, and the back of her neck tingled. Gorgeous didn’t even begin to describe him. Neither did mouth-watering. He was both—and more.
Please, don’t let her mouth be hanging open.
‘Let me introduce you,’ Guy said. ‘Soph, this is Charlie. Charlie, this is Sophie Harrison, the senior registrar on Andy’s team.’
Charlie placed his tray carefully on the table and held his hand out. ‘Pleased to meet you. And I’m sorry I missed you this morning.’
He had a posh voice. The sort that usually raised her hackles. So why did she suddenly want to purr? Not good. Not good at all.
Sophie was aware that Abby and Guy were both staring at her. Oh, yes. She was meant to shake the baron’s hand. Though when she did, she wished she hadn’t. Her skin was actually tingling where it had touched him.
No way. She wasn’t going to fall under the spell of someone like him—a womaniser and a toff. Absolutely not. ‘Sorry I couldn’t wait.’ For you to bother to turn up. ‘I had a full list.’
‘Of course. Patients are nervous enough before an operation—the last thing they need are unexpected delays.’
Not quite the reaction she’d been expecting. Wasn’t he supposed to be offended that she hadn’t waited to tug her forelock?
Before she could reply, one of the nurses came over. ‘Hey, Charlie!’
Batted eyelashes—and Sophie would bet that the nurse had just breathed in hard. Certainly, her bust was difficult to ignore. Her name tag said that she was from the emergency department. Don’t say their new director of surgery had already started working his way through the nurses?
‘I thought you might like to know how Mrs Ward’s getting on. She’s stable and we’re sending her home.’
‘That’s good,’ Charlie said.
‘How’s Liam?’ she asked.
‘Out of Theatre. Guy did a good job.’
Sophie frowned. ‘Am I missing something here?’
‘Didn’t he tell you?’ the nurse asked. ‘Our Charlie’s a hero. He was on his way in this morning when he saw this kid stuffing fireworks in this old lady’s letterbox. One went off in the boy’s hand—and the old lady had angina. Charlie rescued them both.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were involved in the rescue as well,’ Guy said. ‘So that’s why you were late this morning?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘I just called the ambulance, as anyone else would have done.’
‘Don’t be modest.’ The nurse batted his protest away. ‘The paramedics reckon you’re a hero. The papers have been ringing up, too—they want a picture of you.’
So this was what it was all about. Baron Radley, Hero of Hampstead. A PR opportunity. The hospital would be delighted to get some positive press instead of pointed comments about superbugs, declining standards and lengthening waiting lists.
‘They’re not getting a picture. And the press office can handle the calls,’ Charlie said. ‘I’m a doctor. I did what any other doctor would have done. That’s all.’
All? Sophie didn’t think so. He might be a doctor—but he was one with a title. And one who’d been linked in the press with too many gorgeous women to count.
He flashed a smile—one she’d bet he’d practised. A lot. ‘But thanks for telling me about Mrs Ward.’
It was a dismissal, and the nurse knew it. ‘See you later, Charlie.’ She actually gave him a coy little wave. What was it about this man that fried women’s brain cells? Sophie wondered in disgust.
Though that smile was definitely a lethal weapon. She’d have to be careful. Very careful.
‘So what happened?’ Abby asked.
‘Full-thickness burns to the palm of the dominant hand and two amputated fingertips. Guy did an excellent job of debridement and repairing the fingertips,’ Charlie said.
‘And Charlie did the skin grafts.’
Usually, skin grafts were delayed for a couple of weeks after the burn, when the dead skin started sloughing off—but in certain cases, such as fingers and eyelids, primary skin grafts had to be made as soon as possible after the injury to reduce the likelihood of infection.
‘I assume he’s staying in Paeds for a few days?’ Sophie asked. Burns to the hand were very difficult to manage at home, and there was a high risk of infection by Streptococcus pyogenes in the first week. The boy would definitely be on a course of antibiotics to reduce the risk of infection.
Charlie nodded. ‘I want to keep a check on him in case of fibrotic contractions.’ The fibres around the burn often contracted as they healed, and could cause problems with movement. The likelihood was that the boy would need multiple plastic surgery operations. ‘Plus he needs to keep his hand elevated.’ That would reduce the risk of swelling, or oedema, which could cause problems as the burn healed.
‘I think you’ve made a hit in ED,’ Guy said.
Charlie grinned. ‘They’ll get over it. When people get to know me better, they’ll realise I’m just like any other surgeon around here.’
Like any other? Hmm. Sophie didn’t think so.
‘I’m happiest when I’ve got a scalpel in my hand,’ Charlie added. ‘Now, please, let the coffee here be better than at my last place…’
Smooth. Very, very smooth.
But Sophie wasn’t tugging her forelock to anyone.
She gave him a cool little smile, and turned her attention back to her lunch.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a47c3e63-bb40-507a-9efc-32616a00047a)
‘I CAN’T believe Tom didn’t even notice his foot was gangrenous!’ Abby said.
‘Type-one diabetic, male, early thirties, single, lives on his own—no, I can buy it,’ Sophie said.
Abby shook her head. ‘I can’t, even though I know people with diabetes are more at risk of foot infections and ulcers—their circulation doesn’t work properly and it affects the motor, sensory and autonomic nerves.’
‘Which means?’ Sophie asked.
‘The motor nerves supplying the small muscles of the foot and the calf don’t work properly so the weight-bearing bit of the foot is distorted,’ Abby recited. ‘The effect on the autonomic nerves means the foot doesn’t sweat, and the sensory nerves don’t work so the patient doesn’t feel any pain.’
‘Exactly.’ Sophie thought Abby was shaping up to be an excellent doctor—she knew the textbook stuff. Now she just needed to understand her patients a bit more and empathise with them. ‘You don’t feel it, so you don’t do anything about it. Nearly half the time diabetic patients spend in hospital is because of foot problems.’
‘But surely he must have seen it?’ Abby asked.
‘He probably hoped it would just go away on its own. A lot of people do—they’re scared of doctors and hope if they ignore the problem it’ll go away.’
Abby shook her head in disgust. ‘So why didn’t his diabetic nurse pick it up?’
‘Because,’ Sophie said, ‘he didn’t turn up for any of his appointments. He got divorced last year and his mum told me yesterday he cut himself off from the rest of the world. The only reason we know about his foot is because he had a hypoglycaemic attack at work and the foreman insisted on him coming to hospital. Lucky ED was clued up enough to guess if he wasn’t keeping his glucose levels under proper control, he probably wasn’t looking after himself and might have a bit of ulceration on his feet as well.’
‘A bit of ulceration? Soph, the entire dorsum of his foot is necrotic!’ Abby said, aghast.
‘Yup.’ The top of Tom’s foot was red, swollen and puffy, and the tissue beneath was dead. ‘The sad thing is, it could all have been avoided if he’d come for treatment earlier.’ Sophie sighed. ‘The gangrene’s too bad for me to save his foot. I just wish I could have done reconstructive surgery on it—which I would have been able to do if he’d seen us weeks ago. He might have lost a toe or two, but it would still have been workable. Whereas this…It’s going to take him months of physiotherapy to get used to a false leg.’
‘What does Charlie say?’
‘Same as me. It has to come off.’ Sophie had checked with him the previous afternoon, and together they’d explained the options to Tom. She’d been impressed by the way Charlie had handled it and had tried to give Tom some dignity. ‘He’s doing the op with me this afternoon. We’ve been giving Tom an epidural for the last twenty-four hours.’
‘Why?’
‘Studies show he’s less likely to suffer from phantom limb pain after the amputation,’ Sophie explained. ‘We’re going to do a below-knee amputation—I need to go high enough to make sure the tissue I cut through is healthy. Why?’
‘Because otherwise there’s a risk the wound will break down and become ulcerated, so you have to do another amputation. You’re going below the knee—mid-tibia—because it’ll improve his mobility with a prosthesis,’ Abby added.
‘Perfect textbook answer,’ a voice said beside them.
Sophie did her best to ignore the tingling at the back of her neck. Charlie was just another one of the team, and she was going to treat him accordingly. He was just another doctor. So what if he had the sexiest mouth she’d ever seen? So what if his neck just invited you to caress it? The two of them were worlds apart, and it would stay that way.
‘Want to come and watch, if Guy can spare you?’ Charlie asked. ‘The full op takes about an hour and a half, but if he can only spare you for part of it, that’s fine.’
‘Could I?’ Abby beamed at him. ‘I’ll go and ask Guy!’
When she’d gone, that left Charlie and Sophie together. Alone.
Well, they had to work together. Just because she didn’t like what he stood for, it didn’t mean she’d be deliberately obstructive—not where work was concerned. Patients took priority in Sophie’s eyes.
‘How’s Tom?’ Charlie asked.
‘Pretty miserable. And wishing he’d seen a doctor earlier,’ Sophie said wryly.
‘Poor bloke. But there was too much necrosis for us to be able to save the foot.’ He looked at Sophie. ‘You didn’t mind me asking Abby if she wanted to watch, did you?’
‘No. It’s good experience for her.’ And he had at least said it was on condition Guy could spare his house officer. He wasn’t just expecting everyone to drop everything because the director of surgery said so.
‘I noticed you coaching her just then,’ Charlie added.
Sophie shrugged. ‘Just doing my job.’
‘Some surgeons hate dealing with junior doctors.’
‘Abby’s keen, bright and fits in well with the team. I’m more than happy to help,’ she said stiffly.
There had definitely been an undercurrent to her words. What? Was she saying she didn’t think he fitted in with the team? Charlie sighed inwardly. He hadn’t been there long enough to know if he’d fit in or not. But Sophie wasn’t even giving him a chance. He’d been drawn to her when he’d overheard her coaching Abby—the encouragement in her voice, the smile on her face, those beautiful brown eyes lively as she’d talked about the operation. He hadn’t been able to stop himself joining in.
And she’d frozen on him completely.
Until that moment he’d had no idea how cold brown eyes could be.
But he’d never met her before yesterday. He was sure of that: Sophie Harrison was definitely a woman he’d remember. So it couldn’t be anything he’d done personally to upset her.
It had to be the baron thing.
OK. He’d deal with it. After the operation he’d pull rank, take her for a coffee and straighten things out between them.
For professional reasons, of course. He wasn’t stupid enough to get involved with somebody he worked with. Unlike his younger brother, he didn’t mix work and play. Even though Sophie Harrison pressed all his buttons. Long blonde hair she kept caught back from her face with a clip in a way that made him want to remove it and run his fingers through it. Deep brown eyes he could drown in. And a perfect Cupid’s-bow mouth that made him want to cup her face in his hands and kiss her.
And if he did it, he had the feeling she’d break both his legs.
Professionally, they might be able to work together. Socially, no chance. So he wasn’t even going to go there.
‘I’ll see you in Theatre, then,’ he said.
‘Sure.’
Was it his imagination, or was there relief on her face—relief that he hadn’t suggested having lunch together? Suppressing the sting of hurt, he walked away. It wasn’t personal. He needed to find some middle ground, some way for them to work together. It’d take time. He just had to accept that and live with her suppressed hostility in the meantime.
Sophie’s spine tingled as she walked into the changing rooms. It was the adrenalin rush she always had before an operation, the one that kept her on the top of her game. When she’d worked with Guy, he’d always said that the day she stopped being nervous before an operation was the day she should hang up her scrubs—because you should never, ever take anything for granted in surgery. Even apparently routine jobs could suddenly change, develop an unexpected complication.
She changed quickly, tucked her hair into a cap, put her mask on and went to scrub up. Charlie was already there—clearly he’d already done his nails and the initial wash because he was scrubbing his hands and forearms. Nice forearms, she thought absently. Strong. Nice hands, too, strong and capable. For one shocking moment she actually wondered what they’d feel like on her skin.
Then she shook herself. It wasn’t going to happen. She’d sworn that his type would never touch her again.
Once they’d finished scrubbing up and were gowned, gloved and masked, they went into the operating theatre. Tom had had the choice of a spinal block or general anaesthetic—he’d opted for a general. It carried more risks than a spinal, but she could understand that he didn’t want to know what was going on. How could you just lie there as a surgeon removed your foot and half your lower leg? Even though you wouldn’t be able to feel it and the anaesthetic meant you wouldn’t be able to move anyway, you’d know exactly what was happening. You’d hear everything.
And it would be unbearable.
‘Poor man. He’s got a tough time ahead of him,’ she said.
‘What’s going to happen after the operation?’ Abby asked.
‘We’ll check his bandages aren’t too tight after about eight hours, then remove the drains a bit later without disturbing the dressings. In a couple of days he’ll start gentle physiotherapy to make sure there are no contractures at the hip or knee joints. And we need to get in touch with the limb-fitting and rehab departments as soon as possible,’ Sophie explained.
‘Over to you, Dr Harrison,’ Charlie said quietly.
Sophie checked that the anaesthetists were happy to proceed. ‘OK, Abby, I’ll talk you through what we’re going to do. In the old days they used to just slice off the limb and leave it to heal—it reduced the risk of gas gangrene or tetanus, but it was hopeless trying to fit a prosthesis to the limb.’
Charlie would be the best one to explain about the skin flap. But what did she call him? Mr Radley? She wasn’t up on Debrett’s, so she didn’t know what you were supposed to call a baron, but she was pretty sure it wouldn’t be ‘Mr’. Did she copy his formality or strike a blow for the common people and call him ‘Charlie’?
In the end, she went for a cop-out. ‘Our director of surgery will explain about the skin flaps.’
Then she made the mistake of glancing up. All she could see were his eyes above his surgical mask. Gorgeous slate-blue eyes. Sexy slate-blue eyes. But there was also a glint of amusement there. Was he laughing at her?
Just like his type had laughed at her before. She lifted her chin. ‘Problem, Radley?’
‘No, Harrison.’
He was definitely laughing at her, and Sophie scowled as she made the first incision.
‘Abby, the blood supply to the tissues of the lower leg is better at the front than at the back, so what I’m going to do is something called a “skew flap”. It’s a long posterior flap of muscle, with equal skin flaps. Harrison’s going to cut about twelve centimetres below the tibial tuberosity, so it preserves the patient’s knee joint and makes rehabilitation easier.’
He was following her lead and referring to her by her surname. Fine. She could cope with that. It felt rude—insulting, almost—but, then again, she’d started it.
‘We’ll have the drains out in the first couple of days and the sutures out in ten days to two weeks,’ Sophie added. ‘But he’ll be on the ward for two or three weeks.’
Then it was the bit she hated: cutting the bone. Even after all her years of experience she still hated the sound of bone being sawn through. But she concentrated on what she was doing, talking Abby through it.
When Charlie took over to deal with the skin flap, she noticed how deft and capable his hands were. Whatever her issues were with him as a person, she respected the way he worked. And she liked the way he treated the scrub nurses—with courtesy, rather than shouting at them or giving curt, dismissive orders.
Maybe, just maybe, she’d got him wrong. Maybe he wasn’t like all the other toffs she’d met at med school.
Or maybe he was. Maybe this was just a smokescreen. All charm, to hide what he was really like underneath. How could she trust him? How could she trust anyone from his class?
Guy had given Abby the time to watch the whole operation. To Sophie’s surprise, Charlie let the young house officer do some of the suturing. ‘Guy says your knots are good. Let’s see how you do with this one.’
Abby was clearly delighted at the chance. Although she worked slowly, her knots were good, and as her confidence grew with Charlie’s praise, the speed of her suturing increased.
‘Well done,’ Charlie said. ‘I think she did well—don’t you, Harrison?’
‘I do, Radley.’
Just as she’d finished changing, Charlie walked over to her. ‘Come and have a coffee while we’re waiting for Tom to wake up.’
‘I’ve got paperwork to do.’
‘Paperwork can wait.’
‘I really don’t need a coffee.’
‘You’ve just spent an hour and a half in Theatre. You need a break. Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking.’
He was asking? It sounded more like a demand to her.
‘I think,’ he said quietly, ‘we need to talk. My office or the canteen. Your choice. But I could do with a coffee.’
There was nothing to say. Why did he think they needed to talk?
‘Canteen, then,’ she muttered, knowing that she sounded childish. But Charlie Radley rubbed her up the wrong way.
She really didn’t want to be there with him. That much was obvious. And he could tell that she was going to insist on buying her own coffee. Well, he wasn’t in the mood for politics of any sort. When they got to the cash till, he glared at her—and the glare worked. She shut up and let him pay.
They walked in silence to a quiet corner table.
‘Right. Cards-on-table time,’ he said. ‘I know everyone expected Guy to get the director of surgery post. I know you were in line to get Guy’s job. I’m sorry that your plans didn’t work out, but that’s the way of the world. Sometimes new blood can be good for a department.’
She snorted. ‘Right.’
‘And your point is?’
‘You’re a nip-and-tuck man. It’s obvious where the money’s going to go.’
‘I’m a plastic surgeon, yes. But I don’t do nips or tucks. I don’t do cosmetic surgery, except in cases of trauma or where there’s a medical reason for it. And the budget for this year was set before I arrived.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Next year’s money, then.’
‘Next year’s budget,’ Charlie said calmly, ‘will be allocated in terms of need. And I’ll be discussing it with Guy and Andy before I make final decisions. Clear?’
‘Clear.’
‘Good. So what’s the rest of your problem?’
‘What do you mean?’
Nicely parried. She hadn’t denied there was a problem, but she’d shifted the onus on him to say what he thought. OK. He’d play it straight. ‘You don’t like me, Sophie Harrison. Now, I know we’ve never met before, so I can’t have upset you personally. What’s the problem?’
She lifted her chin, and there was a definite spark of challenge in her eyes. ‘OK. You want to know? I think the board appointed you for political reasons.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, you mean the “lord” bit. Well, if you’d been there when I arrived yesterday, you’d have heard me tell everyone I don’t use it. I answer to Charlie.’
‘If you’d been on time yesterday,’ she pointed out, ‘I wouldn’t have been in Theatre.’
‘Unfortunately, I was delayed.’
‘Your hero rescue work.’
Oh, please. She didn’t think he’d set it up…did she? ‘What would you have done?’ he asked. ‘It’s your first day in a new job—a job where you know most of the staff don’t want you there. A child is stuffing fireworks through a letterbox, but one blows up in his hand. If you stop to help, you’re going to be late and your new team’s going to think you’re too arrogant to care, which means your first day is going to be even worse than you expect. So do you just leave the kid—and whoever’s inside the house, who might also be hurt—or do you call an ambulance and do what you can on the first-aid front? Especially knowing that the general public would pour water or milk on a burn because that’s what all the first-aid stuff says they should do?’
‘Which would be the worst thing they could do to a burn contaminated with phosphorus.’ She sighed. ‘OK. I’d have done what you did.’
‘Thank you.’ Charlie leaned back in his chair. ‘I don’t want to fight with you, Sophie—may I call you Sophie?’
She nodded.
‘As for the “lord” bit—it’s simply an accident of birth.’
Uh-oh. The words were identical to the ones she’d used yesterday morning. Had someone repeated her comment to him?
And why did it make her feel suddenly guilty? She stuck by what she’d said. Why should you be treated differently because you came from a posh background?
‘Don’t hold my background against me,’ Charlie said quietly, almost as if he’d read her mind. ‘It’s not a privilege, it’s a handicap. People think I’ve been promoted because of who I am, not what I can do. I worked hard to get my degree, and I worked hard to get my position. And then I have to work a little bit harder still to prove it to everyone else.’
Pretty much as female surgeons had to—there was still a glass ceiling. To get to the very top as a surgeon, you had to forget about career breaks and children and family. You had to be twice as dedicated as any man.
Prejudice cut two ways. Sophie flushed. And she’d definitely been prejudiced against Charlie. She hadn’t given him a proper chance.
‘I’m a doctor. It’s what I wanted to be—who I am.’
And he meant it. His voice was absolutely sincere.
‘I…I’m sorry.’
‘Apology accepted. Hopefully things will be straight between us now.’
He didn’t sound as if he was gloating. He sounded…relieved.
‘I like the way you work,’ he added. ‘No fuss, no drama, no lording it over junior staff.’
At the word ‘lord’, she met his gaze again. His eyes crinkled at the corners—he was laughing again. But at himself, not at her.
Almost unwillingly, she found herself smiling back. ‘I’m the wrong sex to lord it. Lady it, perhaps?’
The smile in his eyes spread to his mouth, and she wished she hadn’t made him grin like that. Because it made him appeal to her more than any man she’d ever met.
It wasn’t going to happen. Charlie Radley had been photographed with more women than she’d had hot dinners. Women of his kind—the supermodels and debutantes. Sophie knew she wasn’t in the same league; besides, she didn’t want a quick affair. She didn’t want any kind of affair. She just wanted to do her job, and do it well.
‘Given the chance,’ Charlie said, ‘I think I’m going to like you. Working with you, I mean,’ he added.
Given the chance. The rest of the team seemed to like him. And she’d been impressed by the way he worked in Theatre. Cool, calm, very sure of his skill, but equally concerned that his team should know everything that was going on. Including the nurses. ‘So let’s take each other at face value,’ she suggested.
He nodded, and lifted his coffee-cup. ‘Here’s to a working relationship. Straightforward and honest. Mutual respect for each other’s expertise and judgement.’
She could drink to that. She lifted her own coffee-cup. ‘Cheers.’
‘And maybe,’ Charlie said softly, ‘in the end you won’t dislike me so much after all.’

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_d3d9602d-e423-56ad-b971-2c0a80155bcb)
OVER the next few days, Charlie settled in with the rest of the team. Sophie even worked with him a couple of times without her hackles rising, although she still avoided Charlie’s drinks night on the Thursday. Being off duty was a good enough excuse, as far as she was concerned. Although he gave her a quizzical look when they were next on the ward together, at least he didn’t take her to task for it.
Then she got a call from Paul, the registrar in the emergency department. ‘Twelve years old, fell from a horse which then stood on her. Admitted with bruising over her lower ribs and tachychardia. I think she’s ruptured her spleen. Any chance of doing a laparotomy?’
‘I’ll organize Theatre,’ Sophie said. ‘Have you done a CT scan?’
‘Too long a wait. I did a peritoneal lavage,’ Paul said. ‘We had blood staining.’
Blood staining indicated an internal injury to the abdomen, and bruising over the lower ribs was often associated with damage to the spleen, liver or kidney.
‘One other thing,’ Paul added, lowering his voice. ‘The mum’s a Jehovah’s Witness. So is the girl.’
‘Ah.’ That was a possible sticking point. If the girl needed to have her spleen removed, she might need a blood transfusion—which was unacceptable on religious grounds to most Jehovah’s Witnesses, who interpreted blood transfusion as the ‘eating of blood’. Autologous transfusion, where the patient’s own blood was salvaged during an operation and filtered, ready for reuse, was a possible solution, but some patients would find that unacceptable if the blood had left the blood vessels rather than being in continual contact with the patient’s own circulation.
There were alternatives, such as the use of recombinant human erythropoietin, a hormone that helped red blood cells to reproduce. This helped to avoid anaemia around the time of the operation. But it really depended on what happened during the operation.
Sophie bit her lip. She hated cases like this. Ethically, she was bound to defer to the patient’s wishes, but it was a grey area in the case of children. Children under the age of sixteen could consent to blood transfusions but couldn’t refuse one. But if the parents were staunch believers, the surgeon had to either abide by their wishes or apply to the courts. In an emergency Sophie knew she could give a child blood without legal consent—if she let the child bleed to death, apart from being against her personal ethics, it could leave her open to legal prosecution for negligence. But if she did give the transfusion, that would leave an emotional minefield.
It would have to happen on Andy’s day off. Guy was in Theatre. Maybe she could buzz through and get a lead from him. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said grimly, and replaced the receiver.
She pushed through the doors to leave the department, and almost walked straight into Charlie.
‘You OK?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘ED called. There’s a twelve-year-old girl with a possible ruptured spleen and they want me to take a look.’
‘Complications?’
How had he guessed? Or did he respect her skill enough to think she could do a splenectomy without problems? ‘Mum’s religious beliefs. If I have to do a splenectomy, it’ll have to be without a transfusion.’
‘Ah. Just the mum, or the dad as well?’
‘I don’t know right now,’ she said honestly. ‘I’m guessing it’s both of them.’ If the girl’s father was of a different religion—one that didn’t have the same issues with blood transfusion—she might be able to get his consent. Which would be enough. She only needed the consent of one parent.
‘Want some back-up?’
She was tempted to say no, she could cope on her own; her pride said she shouldn’t accept help from him. Her common sense gave her pride a swift upper-cut. She would have asked Andy or Guy for help. Charlie was here, and he was senior to both Andy and Guy. So what was the difference? ‘Yes. Please,’ she added.
‘What are your plans?’ he asked as they headed towards ED.
‘I’m going to examine the girl and explain the situation to her parents—that I’ll do my best to do the operation without any transfusions, respecting their wishes, but if there’s a complication a transfusion might be unavoidable.’ She sighed. ‘It’s not my place to judge, but I just don’t understand how a parent could stand by and watch her child bleed to death.’
‘Most parents find it acceptable if you say you’ll do your best not to use a transfusion, but you won’t allow the child to die for want of a transfusion,’ Charlie said softly. ‘Besides, all treatment is confidential.’
‘I just hope they see it that way,’ Sophie said feelingly. ‘I’d move mountains for my child.’
For her child? Charlie’s heart missed a beat. Sophie was married? But he’d been so sure she wasn’t. He hadn’t heard anyone talk about her partner or children. He glanced surreptitiously at her left hand. A surgeon never wore rings to work, but maybe Sophie wore a wedding ring on a chain around her neck or something. He couldn’t see any band of pale skin on her ring finger, so maybe she was divorced. Single mum?
‘Boy or girl?’ he asked, trying to sound relatively cool.
‘Pardon?’
‘You said you’d move mountains for your child. I just wondered if you had a boy or a girl.’ Now he was beginning to wish he’d never asked. She’d think he was being nosy. And just why was he asking anyway? It was none of his business.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t have any children. I was speaking figuratively. My parents moved mountains for me—we couldn’t really afford for me to go to med school, despite the student grants and hardship funds, but they both took on extra jobs in the evenings to raise the cash. Mum cleaned and Dad did a few shifts behind the bar at the local pub, and I did bar work in the holidays and at weekends.’
Ouch. No wonder she’d been a bit hostile towards him. A lot of the medical students he remembered had come from rich backgrounds. But he couldn’t think of many whose parents would have made the extra sacrifices that Sophie’s parents had made. His mother certainly wouldn’t have. He, Seb and Vicky had had to fight all the way, too, to get to med school.
Not that he was going to share that with Sophie. He didn’t think she’d believe him somehow.
Her parents’ lack of wealth also explained why Sophie Harrison was so ambitious, so focused on her job. Clearly she wanted to show her parents that their sacrifices had been worth it. Again, he wasn’t going to tell her he’d worked that out. It would sound too patronising, even though he wouldn’t mean it that way. ‘I’d imagine they’re very proud of you,’ he said lightly.
‘I’m proud of them,’ Sophie responded crisply.
Family meant a lot to her. And he envied her for it. He was close to Seb and Vicky, though even that was a complicated mixture of sibling rivalry and watching each other’s backs. But his mother…They hadn’t been close for years and years. Since his father’s death. Maybe even before that, if he thought about it.
Not that he was going to. He preferred to keep that shut well away. Where it was safe.
‘Are you an only child?’ he asked.
‘Why?’
‘Just making conversation.’ Trying to find out more about her. Stupid, really. They’d never be anything more than colleagues. Probably not even friends. He’d noticed that she’d avoided his drinks night, when other colleagues who’d been off duty had turned up.
‘Yes. I think my parents wanted more, but they just weren’t lucky. You?’
She actually wanted to know something about him? He suppressed a flare of pleasure. She was probably just being polite. Making conversation. ‘I’m the oldest of three. My brother’s in emergency medicine, and our baby sister’s the clever one. She’s a brain surgeon.’
She looked at him, then, though he couldn’t tell her thoughts from her expression. ‘A brain surgeon.’
‘Yep. We tease her a bit—you know, “our sister, the brain surgeon”—but Seb and I are really proud of her. Vicky’s a brilliant neurologist.’
‘The gossip rags never talk about them.’
Then she looked horrified, as if she’d given too much away.
Charlie’s heartbeat quickened. Had she read them, looking for him?
No, of course not. Don’t be so arrogant, he told himself sharply. Sophie was much too serious to read gossip rags. Anyway, she’d been talking about his siblings. ‘They don’t. Probably because Vicky would break the fingers of any paparazzi who dared to take a picture of her, and Seb’s got the mouth of a lawyer.’ He sighed. ‘And they’re not the ones stuck with—’ He clammed up. Sophie definitely wouldn’t be interested in what it was really like to be a baron. How everyone wanted to be your friend, just so they could say they were friends with the nobility. How the estate was an albatross around his neck—a place he hardly ever went nowadays, although he’d loved it as a child. It hadn’t been his home for well over a decade, but he wasn’t about to throw his mother out or expect her to deal with the upkeep. It was his responsibility. And also the reason why, on a consultant surgeon’s salary, he had less money to spare than a house officer.
‘Stuck with what?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Just stuff. And we’ve got a patient to see.’
Well, her patient.
In the ED, Paul introduced them to Katrina, who was white with pain.
‘Katrina, may I examine you?’ Sophie asked.
The girl nodded. Sophie examined her as gently as she could, noting that the girl’s ribs were discoloured, there was localised tenderness and guarding in her abdomen and pain in the upper left quadrant.
‘Does it hurt anywhere else?’ Sophie asked.
‘My shoulder. The left one.’
Kehr’s sign, meaning that there was definitely a problem with Sophie’s spleen, In addition to that, Katrina’s abdomen was distended and Sophie already knew there was an internal bleed, thanks to Paul’s lavage.
‘Mr and Mrs Jackson, I think your daughter has a ruptured spleen,’ Sophie explained to Katrina’s parents. ‘She’s going to need an operation.’
‘She can’t have a transfusion,’ Mrs Jackson said immediately. ‘We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses. It’s against our religion.’
‘I’ll do my best to respect your wishes,’ Sophie said. ‘I need to take a closer look—I’ll do a procedure called a laparotomy. It’s a small incision in her stomach, and it will show me how bad the damage is. I may be able to glue it back together if the damage isn’t too bad, but I might need to remove her spleen.’
‘She can’t have a transfusion,’ Mrs Jackson repeated.
‘As I said, I’ll respect your wishes as far as I can,’ Sophie replied.
‘If there are complications during surgery and she needs blood, she could die without a transfusion,’ Charlie warned quietly.
Mrs Jackson’s face was set. ‘I know my rights. You can’t give her a transfusion without my permission, and I won’t give it.’
‘I know. But I have responsibilities to my patient, too. In an emergency, my priority will be to save your daughter’s life,’ Sophie explained.
‘If it’s willed…’ Mrs Jackson shook her head. ‘No.’
‘All right, Mrs Jackson. If you’ll excuse me, I just need a word with my consultant.’ Sophie looked at Charlie and slid her eyes sideways, indicating that she wanted a word away from the Jacksons.
‘What?’ he asked softly.
‘I’ve got a hunch that Katrina’s dad doesn’t feel the same way as his wife. Can you do me a favour and keep Mrs Jackson talking while I have a quick word with Mr Jackson?’
‘Sophie, you’re opening a can of worms here,’ Charlie warned.
‘What’s the choice? A row between the parents or the unnecessary death of a child. I know where my vote goes. We haven’t got time to fight. Please. Just keep her talking.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll explain autologous transfusion and see what her views are on that. But if you get the slightest indication from Katrina’s father that you’re going the wrong way, stop. We’ll get a co-ordinator in to do the talking for us.’
‘But—’
‘No arguments, Sophie.’
His accent was suddenly cut-glass, and it raised her hackles—particularly as she knew he was right. ‘OK. I’ll tread carefully,’ she promised.
While Charlie talked to Mrs Jackson, Sophie drew Katrina’s father to one side. ‘Mr Jackson, you know that the treatment we give people is confidential, don’t you? The only people who will know anything about Sophie’s treatment are you and your wife.’
He nodded. ‘My wife’s a Jehovah’s Witness.’
Meaning that he wasn’t? ‘Do you share your wife’s beliefs?’ Sophie asked carefully.
He closed his eyes. ‘No. She was converted by some friends. She was depressed after Katrina was born, but going to meetings made her happy again, so I went along with it.’ He opened his eyes again and looked at Sophie. ‘Could Katrina die if she doesn’t have a transfusion?’
She had to be honest with him. ‘I won’t know until she’s in Theatre. But it’s a possibility, yes. If she needs a transfusion and I can’t give it to her…’ She spread her hands. ‘That’s the worst-case scenario. Hopefully it won’t come to that.’
He shuddered. ‘I don’t want her to die.’
‘This isn’t about a battle of wills or judging your wife. But I want to give Katrina the best treatment available. We only need one parent to agree,’ Sophie said softly. ‘I know it could make things difficult between you and your wife.’
‘Katrina comes first. I’ll sign the consent form,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘I won’t say anything to your wife. It might not even come to this. But if it does—it’s good to know there’s a safety net there.’
But Mrs Jackson had clearly anticipated Sophie’s move. ‘If you sign that form, Derek, I’ll make sure you never see Katrina again.’
Mr Jackson paled. ‘Alice, be reasonable. Katrina’s life could be at stake.’
‘If it’s a bad rupture, she could bleed to death,’ Sophie said quietly. ‘And I need to take her to Theatre now.’
Charlie stepped in. ‘Maybe we can do the autologous transfusion we talked about.’
Alice Jackson’s face set. ‘Maybe.’
‘Mrs Jackson, I will do my best to abide by your wishes,’ Sophie said, ‘but as a surgeon I cannot allow your daughter to die due to the lack of a transfusion.’
‘BP’s dropping,’ Charlie said quietly. ‘Mrs Jackson, we have to go to Theatre now.’
‘You’re doing the operation? I’ve seen you in the papers. Out with all those women.’ She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t want you touching my daughter.’
‘Katrina is my patient. I’ll be doing the operation,’ Sophie said. ‘But if Charlie did it, she’d be in excellent hands. He’s the director of surgery. He got the post because he’s an excellent surgeon. And the papers whip up all that stuff about him to sell copies, so don’t believe what you read. I’ll come and see you immediately after the operation,’ she said, and started moving the trolley out of the emergency department.
‘Thank you for the vote of confidence,’ Charlie said as they went into Theatre.
‘It’s the official line, isn’t it?’
So she hadn’t meant it. Not personally. ‘Yeah,’ he said, trying to ignore the sinking disappointment in the pit of his stomach. Why should it matter what she thought of him?
Though it did.
‘It stopped the discussion. That’s the main thing. Where’s Sammy?’ she asked the scrub nurse, wanting to know where her senior house officer was.
‘Held up.’
‘I’ll assist,’ Charlie said as Sophie started to scrub up. ‘I was planning to observe all the surgeons anyway, so I may as well kill two birds with one stone.’
‘Observe?’ Sophie asked coolly.
‘I need to know my team’s capabilities. Where your strengths are, how you do things, where we can learn from each other.’
‘So, despite what you said to me, you are planning new-broom stuff.’
‘No.’ He kept his temper under wraps. Just. Hadn’t they agreed on a truce last week? And he’d thought they’d been getting on all right, before they’d seen the Jacksons. Obviously he’d been wrong. ‘But I believe in keeping my team motivated. To do that, I need to know where you are now and where you want to be. And it’s my job to get you the extra experience you need to move your career onwards.’
As soon as Sophie had opened Katrina’s abdomen and suctioned out the blood, she groaned. ‘Her spleen’s split completely in two. Gluing isn’t an option.’ She nodded at the screen where Katrina’s spleen was visible.
‘Agreed. It’s going to have to come out,’ Charlie said.
‘Her BP’s dropping,’ the anaesthetist said.
‘OK. I want four units of O-negative on standby, please. In the meantime, we need to filter and reuse her blood,’ Sophie said. ‘I’m doing an open operation, not laparoscopic,’ she added to Charlie. ‘Do I need to explain my decisions to you?’
‘Later. Just do it,’ Charlie said.
Sophie increased the size of her incision so she could perform the operation. To her relief, there were no further complications and the rest of the operation was textbook—grasping the splenic pedicle between the fingers of one hand, ligating the splenic artery, splenic vein and short gastric arteries, then removing the spleen, while trying not to damage the tail of the pancreas or the splenic flexure of the colon.
‘Would you like to close?’ she asked Charlie.
‘As I’m assisting?’
‘As your suturing is neater than mine,’ she corrected.
Was that the ghost of a smile in her eyes? Or her idea of an olive branch? Whatever. He nodded and stitched the wound.
‘How is she?’ Derek asked, as soon as Sophie came out of Theatre.

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