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The Doctor's Tender Secret
Kate Hardy


On the hectic Pediatrics' ward of London City General, love just isn't running smoothly for Dr. Brad Hutton and Dr. Zoe Kennedy.They may have been instantly smitten with each other, but the secrets they have kept locked away make their future together uncertain.For Brad, the solution lies in putting his past behind him. But Zoe's secret goes a lot deeper, and to reveal it all she needs to find the courage to trust Brad completely. Only then can their powerful feelings win out….Life (and love) in the fast lane at LONDON CITY GENERAL









“I’ll see you tomorrow.”


For a moment Zoe thought that Brad was going to lean down and kiss her, and her senses went into overdrive. She could almost feel his mouth on hers.

No. She was never, ever going to suffer that mixture of pity and revulsion in another man’s eyes. That meant no kissing—because kissing led to touching, touching led to removing clothes, and removing clothes would reveal the scars that nobody in London City General knew about. The scars that meant any man would reject her.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, slipping inside the gateway and closing the wrought-iron gate firmly between them. “Thanks for seeing me home.”




Dear Reader (#ulink_c661a535-841a-5e7a-9efb-7a5f2b6d80b9),


I was planning my next book when three doctors leaped into my head and hijacked me! Zoe, Judith and Holly trained together, are best friends, and work together at London City General in east London.

Zoe’s the clever one, a real high-flyer who’s never found love, until she meets gorgeous Brad, on secondment to Pediatrics from California. Can she heal his broken heart—and can he help her feel less haunted by the secret she hasn’t even told her best friends?

Judith’s the glamorous one who delivers babies by day and sings at hospital fund-raisers by night. She falls in love with Kieran, the new maternity consultant. But after a discovery threatens to tear their love apart, can she teach him to believe in her—and in himself?

Holly’s the “prickly” one with a soft heart—but it’ll take a special man to get close enough to find out! She chose the fast-paced life of the E.R. to help her forget her lost love. But when David walks into her life again, will it be second time lucky?

The best bit about working on a trilogy was that I didn’t have to say goodbye to my characters. They made appearances in each other’s stories! I loved being able to explore a hospital’s community and see how different departments work together, and I hope you enjoy life in the fast lane at London City General as much as I did.

With love,

Kate Hardy


The Doctor’s Tender Secret

Kate Hardy






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


Cover (#u3fa29529-2151-5320-8e1c-6103d9f33968)

Dear Reader (#ulink_01b2b5b8-e41a-56bf-8bed-c9907e621207)

Title Page (#uc32f0880-fd44-5b63-a9ce-9ba2e140b8c7)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_c0141994-32da-55c9-94e8-141bb3b03a52)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c3d58c76-9acb-5449-8ea2-6fffc6b8e703)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_438c3dd0-5673-5239-bbcc-0855525505fd)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_9813de03-c8e8-5737-be63-25f98b166792)

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)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_68befecb-b7c4-5b5f-9287-eb4771c27406)


BRAD HUTTON was beginning to regret his decision to oversee the paediatric assessment unit this morning. They’d had a non-stop string of cases, from suspected poisoning to asthma attacks to viruses where the GP didn’t want to risk missing meningitis. The parents had all been so worried that they’d hardly heard a word he’d said and he’d had to repeat everything three times. He’d barely had time to draw breath.

The only bright spot in PAU was his registrar, Zoe Kennedy. He’d seen her around the ward over the last few days, but this was the first time he’d actually worked with her. She made him want to start humming ‘Poetry in motion’—because that really was what it was like, watching her. The way she reassured the parents, scanned the notes, assessed the child and decided on the best treatment—fast, fluent, yet very thorough. And every decision he’d seen so far today had been spot on. She really knew her stuff.

Don’t get too interested, a voice in his head warned him. You’re in no fit state to get involved with anyone.

I’m not planning to get involved, he defended himself. I don’t know anyone in London. A friend won’t go amiss.

Just make sure that ‘friends’ is all it is.

It will be. Anyway, she’s not my type.

She couldn’t be much more than five feet three inches, whereas the girls he’d dated had always been nearer five-ten. Her hair was mouse brown and cut into a short bob, not blonde and falling almost to her waist. Her eyes were warm and brown, not cool and blue. And beneath the baggy long-sleeved sweater and loose jersey trousers she wore, he had a feeling that Zoe Kennedy was all lush curves rather than the rail-thin type he usually went for. A pocket Venus.

Yeah, definitely Venus. She had a heart-shaped face. Cupid’s-bow lips.

And she’s not Lara, the voice in his head reminded him. If you rush straight in to find Lara’s opposite, you’re not the only one who’s going to get hurt.

‘Mr Hutton?’

Then he realised that the object of his thoughts was talking to him. ‘Sorry, Dr Kennedy—Zoe, isn’t it?’

She nodded.

He held out his hand. ‘Brad. I prefer working on first-name terms.’

She shook his hand and he almost flinched as a large dose of static electricity discharged. At least, he assumed it was static electricity. The alternative was something he didn’t want to consider right now.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like a second opinion on a case.’

‘Sure. Though from what I’ve seen of you this morning, you don’t need it.’

‘Um. Thanks for the compliment. But…’

Those pink spots in her cheeks were cute. She looked young for a registrar, which meant she was clever. But the blush at his compliment proved she’d kept at least a trace of humility, so she’d treat her patients as human beings, not just academic cases. ‘OK. What have you got?’

‘Michael Phillips, aged twelve months. According to the notes, he was a floppy baby. He’s had problems feeding right from the start, with poor sucking and chronic constipation; he smiled late and didn’t roll over until he was eight months old. He’s just starting to crawl now, but it’s commando-crawling—’ in other words, he lay on his stomach and propelled himself along with his arms, like a commando under a net ‘—and if you hold him up to stand, his reflexes aren’t what you’d expect.’

‘And you’re thinking?’ Brad prompted.

‘Cerebral palsy. Probably a mixture of spastic and athetoid.’

That would account for the late development. ‘What do the parents think?’

‘The mum’s worried sick because he’s not hitting the milestones in her parenting books. The dad’s in denial and saying everyone’s making a fuss over nothing, his son is perfectly all right and will catch up by the time he goes to school.’

‘OK. I’ll come over.’

Zoe introduced him to Jenny and Dave Phillips. Brad examined little Michael. ‘Tell me, does he have any problems eating?’ he asked.

‘Of course he does. He’s a baby,’ Dave said. ‘They all dribble their food, don’t they?’

‘Michael doesn’t like finger food,’ Jenny said. ‘He likes yoghurt and he’ll eat purées, but he’s not keen on lumps.’

‘He’ll grow out of it,’ Dave insisted. ‘You’re making a fuss, Jen. He’s perfectly all right.’

She shook her head. ‘There’s something wrong, Dave. I know it.’

‘Tell her, Doc,’ Dave pleaded. ‘Tell her she’s fussing over nothing.’

‘Actually,’ Brad said, ‘I think she’s right.’

Panic flowed in Dave Phillips’s eyes. ‘What’s wrong with him, then?’

‘We’re pretty sure it’s cerebral palsy,’ Brad said.

‘But—Are you telling me my son’s…?’ Dave trailed off, as if not voicing his fears would mean that it wasn’t true. That it was only a bad dream. That everything was going to be all right.

Zoe squeezed his hand. ‘You’re both right, actually. Michael will be fine—but he’ll need some help as he grows older.’

‘But…cerebral palsy? He doesn’t even look like a retard! He’s bright, he points to things,’ Dave burst out. ‘It can’t be that!’

‘Cerebral palsy’s a motor disorder,’ Brad explained. ‘It’s Michael’s movements that are affected, not his intellect.’

‘A lot of children with cerebral palsy have normal or above average intelligence. There’s every chance Michael will be able to go to a mainstream school rather than a special school,’ Zoe added. ‘The condition really varies—it can be very severe, but it can also be so mild that you hardly notice.’

Dave didn’t look convinced. ‘So what is cerebral palsy, then?’

‘There are three types,’ Brad said, ‘and they all jumble the messages from the brain to the muscles. The most common form is called spastic cerebral palsy, and it’s caused by an impairment in the cerebral cortex—that’s the outer layer—of the brain.’

‘Spastic?’ Dave squeezed his eyes tightly shut. ‘Oh, no. At school, we used to say…’ He stopped, his face bright red with what Brad guessed was a mixture of shame and embarrassment.

Zoe must have guessed it, too, because she stepped in fast. ‘The word “spastic” just means “stiff”. It’s referring to his muscles—they get stiff and shorten, so the child finds it hard to control his movements. It means he has to work harder than the average kid to walk or move.’

‘The second sort’s called athetoid cerebral palsy, and it’s caused by an impairment in the basal ganglia area of the brain,’ Brad said. ‘It affects the child’s posture and, because the muscles change from being floppy to being stiff, it causes these jerky movements and the child doesn’t have any control over them. A child with athetoid CP often has speech problems because it’s hard for him to control his tongue, vocal cords and breathing. He might also have problems eating and may drool. And he’ll seem restless, as if he’s constantly moving—as if he’s only really relaxed when he’s asleep.

‘The third type,’ he continued, ‘is really rare and affects less than ten per cent of children with CP—it’s called ataxic cerebral palsy, and it’s caused by an impairment in the cerebellum part of the brain. This affects the child’s co-ordination and balance. He often has shaky hand movements and his speech is irregular, and he’ll find it hard to judge the position of things round him.’

‘Which type has Michael got?’ Jenny asked.

‘It’s very hard for us to say,’ Brad admitted. ‘The condition affects each child individually and he might have more than one type, in varying degrees.’

‘So he’s going to drool and he won’t be able to walk?’ Dave asked.

Zoe shook her head. ‘We really can’t tell at the moment. The main problem is difficulty in controlling his movements and facial expressions. He might have some learning problems—it all depends on which part of his brain has been affected. His speech might be a bit unclear, and he might find it hard to communicate—or he might have what we call a specific learning disability, say, a problem with maths or reading or drawing, if a specific part of his brain has been affected.’

Dave took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘And that’s it? Or can it get worse?’

‘Worst-case scenario,’ Brad said, ‘is that he might also have a squint or hearing loss. And around a quarter to a third of children with CP have epilepsy.’

‘But there’s a lot we can do to help, and we can put you in touch with the local support group,’ Zoe added, ‘so you can talk to other parents who’ve been through what you’re feeling right now, and they can help you.’

‘Is it curable?’ Jenny asked.

‘There’s no cure,’ Brad said gently, ‘but the good news is that it won’t get any worse. Treatment can help to improve Michael’s condition, and his disability really doesn’t mean that he can’t lead a full and independent life when he gets older.’

‘Doesn’t it?’ Dave rubbed a hand across his face.

‘The earlier we start treatment, the more we can help him,’ Zoe said.

‘So what causes it? Is it anything I did while I was pregnant?’ Jenny asked.

‘No, it wasn’t your fault at all. The risk factors include if either of you were under twenty, he was your fifth or later child, he was a twin and the other twin died, he was very light when he was born—that’s under one and a quarter kilos—or he was born more than three weeks early. Around one in four hundred babies are affected,’ Brad reassured her. ‘What happens is that part of the brain—the bit that controls muscles and body movements—fails to develop either before birth or in early childhood. It can be caused by a blocked blood vessel or a bleed in the brain, or a difficult labour, if he was very premature or ill after the birth, or he had an infection during early childhood, such as meningitis.’

‘I can’t take this in,’ Jenny said. ‘I knew there was something wrong. I knew it. But nobody would listen to me.’

‘Your health visitor did,’ Zoe said softly. ‘She referred you to us. And sometimes it’s hard to pick up—it might not show until the baby’s twelve to eighteen months old. She said that he was hypotonic when he was born—that his muscles were floppy.’

‘And sometimes you might find his muscles are spastic, or tight.’ Brad looked at Dave. ‘You might prefer the word “hypertonic”. It’s the same thing.’

Dave shook his head. ‘I thought he was all right, that Jen was blowing everything up out of proportion and Michael was just a bit of a fussy eater. You know, not liking lumps and…well, having constipation so much.’

‘They’re common in children with Michael’s condition,’ Zoe explained. ‘It might be that he’s having problems chewing and swallowing. How’s his sleeping?’

‘Average,’ Dave said.

‘He only wakes up three or four times a night,’ Jenny said.

Brad exchanged a glance with Zoe. By twelve months, Michael should have been sleeping through the night.

‘What kind of treatment will he need?’ Jenny asked.

‘A physiotherapist can help you with his coordination—teach you exercises he can do at home,’ Brad explained. ‘As he gets older, a speech therapist will be able to help with speech and using language. And he’ll need regular eye checks. He might not have a physical problem with his eyes, but he might find it hard to distinguish shapes.’

‘That’s something an occupational therapist can help with,’ Zoe said. ‘The important thing is that you don’t have to cope on your own—there are a lot of people who can help Michael reach his full potential.’

By the time they’d finished answering questions, made a referral to the physiotherapist and orthoptist and left the Phillipses, Zoe looked drained.

‘Come on. I think we’re both overdue a break. I’ll shout you a coffee,’ Brad said.

Zoe could feel herself blushing and was furious with herself. She really, really didn’t want Brad Hutton to think she was bowled over by him. He might be tall, blond and utterly gorgeous—with those white teeth and his tan, he’d immediately been nicknamed ‘surf-boy’ by some of the more jealous males in the department, particularly when they found out he hailed from California—but he wasn’t for her. She didn’t have room in her life for a relationship. Not now, not ever. For ten years she’d kept to her decision of offering friendship, and nothing more, when it came to the opposite sex.

But this hadn’t sounded like a trying-for-a-date sort of offer. It was more like a boss-rewarding-good-work sort of offer. Which meant it was perfectly safe to smile at him and say yes. ‘Cheers. I think I need some caffeine,’ she admitted.

Though she was still thoughtful when they were sitting in the canteen, nursing a large coffee and a muffin each.

‘Penny for them?’ Brad asked.

‘I just hope the Phillipses will work things out,’ she said. ‘You know, there’s a high divorce rate for parents of children with cerebral palsy, and I think Dave Phillips is going to have a lot of trouble adjusting to the idea that his son is less than perfect.’

‘But they’re not on their own. There are good support groups—and you handled the situation very well. You gave him the facts, you weren’t judgmental, and you gave him some hope, too.’

Pleased by the praise, Zoe met his eyes. And wished she hadn’t. They were the blue of an ocean on a summer’s day. The kind of eyes you could drown in.

He smiled at her. ‘PAU isn’t the easiest of areas. I’m glad I’ve got someone like you on my team—someone I can work with.’

‘Thanks for the compliment, but I think you’ll find the rest of the ward’s the same.’

‘No dragon matron?’

‘No. The senior sister—Val—is more like a mother hen.’ She smiled back at him. ‘It’s so frantic on the ward these days that you don’t get time to meet people properly. Are you doing anything tonight?’

He blinked. ‘Are you asking me out?’

‘Um, no. Yes. Well, not me personally.’

‘Thanks for the offer,’ he said drily, ‘but I don’t need a date.’

‘You’re married?’ She glanced automatically at his left hand. No wedding ring, no pale band of flesh hinting at the recent removal of a wedding ring either. ‘But I thought you were in London on your own?’

‘I am on my own,’ he said quietly.

But there was a slight prickliness to his voice that hadn’t been there before. She backtracked fast. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to pick you up or anything. It’s just that you’re on secondment and you don’t know many people around here, so I thought you might be a bit lonely.’

Lonely? She could say that again. He’d been bone-deep lonely since losing Lara. ‘I’m OK.’

‘Well, I’m going out with Jude and Holls tonight—they’re my best friends—and I wondered if you’d like to join us. Nothing fancy, just pasta and the house red at our local Italian.’

‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’

‘If you change your mind, we’ll be at Giovanni’s from about seven tonight until they chuck us out.’

She was planning to drink until closing time? ‘I hope you’re on a late tomorrow.’

She didn’t seem at all offended by his rudeness. Her eyes were lit with amusement and she grinned at him. ‘No, I’m on an early. So after the second glass of wine I’ll be on mineral water. Until we start on the ice-cream—and then it’s coffee all the way. Giovanni’s does the best latte in London.’

He should have guessed that, from what he’d already seen of her. Zoe was a professional. She wouldn’t come on duty with a hangover. ‘Right.’

‘So are you busy next Wednesday night?’

She was persistent, he’d give her that. ‘Why?’

‘If you’re not, how would you like to make some money?’

He frowned. ‘You’re going to a casino? Or…’ Hadn’t he heard someone on the ward talk about greyhound racing? ‘The dogs?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing like that. It’s a fund-raiser for medical equipment. Jude, Holls and I do it once a month, and split the proceeds between our wards—Jude’s in maternity and Holls is in Emergency. So we all benefit.’

‘What’s involved?’

‘You can buy a ticket, for a start. Or go and flash your smile around, flutter your eyelashes and talk people into buying tickets. Unless…’ She looked thoughtful. ‘You’re not musical, by any chance, are you?’

‘I play the piano a bit,’ he admitted.

Big mistake.

‘Yes!’ She punched the air. ‘I think I’ve just found our guest star.’

‘Hang on.’ This was all going way too fast. ‘I’m out of practise. I’m rusty.’

‘You’ve got a week. You can practise on Jude’s piano.’

‘But…’ His protest died as he realised that he had no chance of winning. Zoe would come up with an answer for any excuse he made.

She gave him that grin again. The one that put amber glints into her brown eyes. ‘That’s settled, then. Thanks. We’ll add your name to the posters. Guest star, Brad Hutton—is that vocals as well as piano?’

‘Has anyone ever told you you’re a…?’ He shook his head. Words failed him.

Zoe chuckled. ‘My nickname on the ward’s Hurricane Zoe.’

‘It suits you,’ he said feelingly.

‘So, is it piano only, or vocals?’

He sighed. ‘Both. I don’t have any choice, do I?’

‘You can say no.’

But that would mean letting her down. With shock, Brad realised that he didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to see disappointment spill over her face. Which meant that Zoe Kennedy was the first person he’d actually responded to in nearly a year. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel relieved—that he hadn’t become a complete automaton, that he could still feel something—or scared. ‘How many people are there?’

‘It’s not a huge thing, it’s in the hospital social club. We sell quite a few tickets—Holly can be very, um, persuasive—but only about thirty people tend to turn up. I do the food, Holls does the tickets and Jude wows everyone with her singing.’ She gave him a sidelong look. ‘Perhaps you should change your mind about coming to Giovanni’s tonight. You need to talk set lists with Jude and posters with Holls. Unless you want to leave the decisions with me?’

With Hurricane Zoe? He’d never heard a nickname that fitted someone so well. Heaven only knew what she’d agree to on his behalf! ‘I’ll be there tonight,’ he said.

‘Good.’ She sketched a map hurriedly on the back of a paper napkin. ‘This is London City General,’ she said, marking a big block on the paper. ‘You go out of the main entrance, turn right down this little street here, take a left, then the second right, and Giovanni’s is on the corner.’ She circled a smaller block. ‘It’s pretty easy to find. Look for the green, red and white stripy shutters.’

‘Won’t your boyfriends mind me joining you?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s just the three of us tonight. Besides, Holls and Jude are happily married to their careers.’

What about Zoe? She hadn’t said she was single. She hadn’t said she was attached either. Though why was he even wondering about it? He wasn’t in the market for a relationship. Not now, probably not ever—it had been nearly a year now and he still felt as lost. It was one of the reasons why he’d leapt at the London secondment, to go somewhere where there were no memories to haunt him.

Zoe Kennedy wasn’t for him. And the chances were she was already attached anyway.

‘Good. Seven o’clock at Giovanni’s, then.’ She smiled at him. ‘We’d better get back, or there’ll be a list of patients as long as my arm!’




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_11bc677c-bcde-5e48-b337-b8351caf2538)


BRAD was late. When he arrived at Giovanni’s, the three women were already seated at a table, drinking red wine, with a spare place laid for him.

One of Zoe’s friends was tall and beautiful with creamy skin and long red hair twisted back in a knot; the other was dark and intense-looking. And then there was Zoe, shorter than both, mid-brown hair that had copper lights when the sun caught it, and a Cupid’s-bow mouth with creases at the sides to show how often she smiled.

He wasn’t going to let his thoughts drift in that direction. He had nothing to offer her anyway. He was about to walk out of the door, planning to make some excuse in the morning when he had to face Zoe and she asked him why he’d stood them up, when she spotted him and waved.

No way could he back out now.

Fixing a smile on his face, he went over to join them. Zoe performed quick introductions. The redhead was Judith, an obstetrician, and the brunette was Holly, an emergency specialist. They’d been best friends since their first day of med school, over ten years before.

‘Zo tells us you’re at London City General on secondment from California. How are you enjoying it?’ Judith asked.

‘It’s…different.’ And, more importantly, London was somewhere that didn’t remind him of Lara. Even though they’d planned years before to snatch some time in London together, it had never quite worked out that way. It was free of memories.

‘Do you miss it? California, I mean?’ Holly asked.

Only the bit that he could never have again. Not that he was going to burden them with his problems. ‘I miss the weather,’ he said, trying to keep things light. ‘I didn’t realise it was quite this cold over here.’

‘It’s not that cold. Don’t be such a wimp,’ Zoe said.

Judith chuckled. ‘Here, have a glass of wine.’ She poured a glass for him. ‘Ignore our Zo. She’s mad enough to go paddling in November.’

‘A walk on the beach in winter is good for you. It blows the cobwebs out,’ Zoe defended herself, laughing.

‘Her aunt’s got a cottage on the Norfolk coast, and Zo’s dragged us out there before now in the middle of winter for a picnic on the beach,’ Holly said, shivering.

‘When it was sunny?’ Brad guessed.

‘Er…no. It wasn’t actually raining, but it wasn’t far off.’ Judith raised an eyebrow. ‘I suppose we were just lucky it was a flask of her home-made soup in the picnic basket and not a Thermos of ice-cream.’

So Zoe had a kooky streak. She went paddling in the North Sea in November. Had beach picnics in the middle of winter. Loved ice-cream. And could cook.

‘Anyway, we’re treating you to dinner tonight,’ Zoe announced. ‘Seeing as I practically bullied you into singing with Jude next week, it’s the least we can do.’

She had that determined look on her face again. Brad decided it was easier not to argue. ‘Thank you. So how long have you been doing these fund-raisers?’

‘The Wednesday night music club? Nearly a year,’ Judith said. ‘It was Zo’s idea. Paeds needed some equipment and the finance lot wouldn’t cough up.’

‘So she did a promise auction to raise the funds,’ Holly said.

‘She talked me into promising to sing for one night at London City General Social Club,’ Judith explained, ‘and somehow it’s grown into this monthly thing.’

‘I think I mentioned that we split the proceeds between Paeds, the maternity unit and the emergency department,’ Zoe said. ‘I’ll go and sort some more wine while you three talk set lists and promotional stuff. Red OK with everyone?’

By the end of the evening, Brad was surprised to find that he was enjoying himself. A lot. It was the first evening in nearly a year when he hadn’t spent every single second thinking of Lara. Zoe might be a whirlwind, but she had a good heart, and she’d even given him another chance to back out of the Wednesday night fund-raiser without losing face—not that he’d taken her up on it. He still didn’t want to disappoint her.

Between the three of them, they’d brought him completely out of his shell—to the point where he was even sharing scurrilous anecdotes with them and swapping med school jokes. He’d thought he’d never be able to smile again, let alone laugh. But there was something about Zoe, something warm and friendly and kind and—

Stop right there, he told himself. You’re not getting involved.

‘Right. I’m on an early tomorrow, so I’m going to leave you party animals to it,’ Zoe announced after her third latte.

Judith glanced at her watch. ‘I didn’t realise it was that late! I’d better be making tracks, too.’

‘And me,’ Holly said. ‘I’ve got a paper I’m supposed to be finishing.’

‘I’ll see you home,’ Brad said, and they all started laughing. ‘What?’ he asked, mystified.

‘It’s very gentlemanly of you, and we appreciate the offer. But, apart from the fact that we’ve all lived around here since we were students and know the area like the backs of our hands, Holl’s my next-door neighbour. So we’re fine walking each other home,’ Judith told him, tucking her hand into the crook of Holly’s elbow.

‘I’m fine, too,’ Zoe put in swiftly.

‘You live in the same road?’ Brad asked.

‘Er, no. In the opposite direction,’ she admitted.

‘Then how do I put it? Let me see you home safely, or I might pick up a virus from one of our patients next Wednesday afternoon which stops me singing or playing the piano,’ Brad said.

‘Do as the man says, Zo,’ Holly directed. ‘Or you’ll have to take his place next week and sing with Jude.’

‘They’d probably pay us even more for me not to sing,’ Zoe teased, but it was obvious she realised she was beaten and she gave in with good grace. She hugged the others goodbye and then she was walking down the narrow side streets with Brad.

‘They’re nice, your friends,’ Brad said.

‘The best,’ Zoe said feelingly. ‘Look, I bulldozed you a bit about the fund-raiser.’

‘A bit?’

‘A lot. What I’m saying is, if you’d rather not, I do understand.’

‘No, I’ll do it. It sounds like fun.’

‘It is,’ Zoe said.

They lapsed into silence, but it was companionable rather than awkward. When they reached Zoe’s terrace, they stopped outside the gate.

‘I’d ask you in for coffee,’ Zoe said, ‘but…’

‘The boyfriend wouldn’t like it?’ Brad guessed.

‘Something like that.’ If she had a boyfriend. Not that she wanted one. She was perfectly happy with her career as a paediatrician.

‘Then I’ll see you tomorrow.’

For a moment, she thought that he was going to lean down and kiss her, and her senses went into overdrive. She could almost feel his mouth on hers. Soft, a little unsure at first, and then coaxing as she responded. And then—

What’s this? You’re…Oh, God. I’m sorry, Zoe. I can’t do this…

The words echoed in her mind, the words that had haunted her for ten years. The words that brought her back to the real world every time she thought that maybe it was time to drop her self-imposed ban on a relationship.

Damaged goods.

No. She was never, ever going to suffer that mixture of pity and revulsion in another man’s eyes. That meant no kissing—because kissing led to touching, touching led to removing clothes, and removing clothes would reveal the scars that nobody in London City General knew about, not even Holly and Judith. The scars Zoe kept well out of sight beneath long-sleeved, high-necked tops, or shirts that didn’t even have a hint of sheerness in their fabric. The scars that meant any man would reject her.

‘See you tomorrow,’ she said, slipping inside the gateway and closing the wrought-iron gate firmly between them. ‘Thanks for seeing me home.’

If Brad had noticed Zoe clamming up on him, he didn’t make an issue of it, to her relief. He was completely normal with her at work over the next couple of days, treating her as a valued colleague. A doctor, rather than a woman: which was just the way she wanted it. That was who she was. Dr Zoe Kennedy, paediatrician. Everyone’s friend. And nobody’s lover.

‘Can I borrow you for a minute, Zoe?’

‘Sure.’

‘I’ve got a case of suspected osteomyelitis,’ he said. ‘Little boy name of Andy Solomon. Aged six, soccer fanatic. Anyway, a couple of days ago he turned down a game of soccer in the park with his pals. His mum thought it was a bit strange—thought maybe he’d bruised himself as he’d been limping and his knee looked a bit swollen. That night, he developed a really high temperature. He’s flushed, restless—and she said the pain’s been getting worse. The GP referred him to us for an X-ray, bone scan and blood tests.’

‘Have you examined him?’ Zoe asked.

Brad nodded. ‘He’s still got a fever—even though his mum’s been giving him infant paracetamol—the swelling and redness is obvious, it feels warm around the area and it’s clearly tender because he shielded his leg when I tried to palpate it.’

‘So you want blood tests—white blood cell count, erythrocyte sedimentation rate and C-reactive proteins. If it’s been going on for a few days…X-rays and an MRI scan? And a culture so we can see what’s causing it? Though in eighty per cent of cases it’ll be Staph aureus.’

‘You know your stuff.’ He gave her a quick smile that had her knees turning to jelly, despite her resolution not to let herself go all weak at the knees over him. ‘Can you start him on IV antibiotics?’

‘Broad spectrum until we’ve got a definite fix on the bacterium, then penicillinase-resistant synthetic penicillin and aminoglycoside if it’s Staph aureus?’ she suggested.

‘Perfect.’

‘OK. I’ll sort him out and let you know when the results are back. Have you and Jude sorted out your set list for next week yet?’

‘Nearly. Any requests?’

No way. Having a man singing to her—especially one as gorgeous as Brad—would be way too dangerous for her peace of mind. He’d probably thought she’d been fishing, so she’d better make it clear. ‘Not really. I like all sorts of music,’ she said. ‘Sing whatever you like, as long as you make us a pile of money.’

‘Sure. Have you sorted out the menu yet?’

‘Nearly. Any requests?’ The words were out before she could stop them. Rats. She was definitely letting him get to her. She should have told him yes and stopped there.

‘Now you come to mention it…Yes. Proper American brownies. I haven’t tasted one since I’ve been in England,’ he said.

That brought up all kinds of suggestive thoughts. Like sitting on the edge of his desk while he reclined in his chair, his mouth open, while she fed him tiny bites of brownie. In between kisses.

Absolutely not. They were colleagues, they might become friends, but they could never be anything else. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Right now, she needed to escape. And he’d given her the perfect excuse. ‘I’d better go and see Andy Solomon.’

She found little Andy and settled him into his bed.

‘I don’t know where this has all come from,’ his mother said. ‘He was fine. Then suddenly, bang, he doesn’t want to get up for school, doesn’t want to take his football in with him, he’s off his food…’

‘Has he had any illness recently—a cold, a runny nose, a sore throat?’ Zoe asked. Osteomyelitis was a bacterial bone infection and the bacteria could come from a nose or throat infection as well as through a puncture wound.

‘Nothing.’ Mrs Solomon shook her head. ‘He’s never ill. Yeah, he gets all the usual bumps and scrapes any other six-year-old boy has. Climbing trees, falling over in the playground, that sort of thing.’

‘Any scrapes recently?’

‘A month or so back. But, well, all his vaccinations are up to date. I made sure he had his tetanus and that. And grazed knees don’t make you this unwell, do they?’

‘They can do, if bacteria get in the wound,’ Zoe said. ‘Sometimes the bacteria can lie dormant for weeks and something just sets it off.’

‘I’ve always cleaned him up properly,’ Mrs Solomon said, lifting her chin. ‘He has a bath every night, too.’

‘It’s nothing to do with hygiene,’ Zoe reassured her.

‘So you think it’s this osteo-whatever, too?’

‘Osteomyelitis. It’s a bone infection. What we’re going to do is some tests to find out what’s causing it and how much Andy’s bone has been infected. Once we know that, we’ll know how to treat it properly. I’ve got him booked in for an X-ray, and I’ll need to take some blood and a little sample of the tissue round the bone.’ She smiled at her small patient. ‘Do you like planes?’

‘Yeah,’ the little boy replied, sounding completely unenthusiastic.

‘Come on, Andy. You know you love going down the airport with your dad,’ Mrs Solomon prompted.

‘Well, I’ve got some special plane stickers. Holographic ones,’ Zoe said. ‘And I only give them to my bravest patients. So if you can stay really, really still for me while I do this sample and start the antibiotics—look at your mum or me, not at my hands—you’ll get a sticker. Deal?’

‘Deal,’ the little boy replied seriously.

‘OK. Here we go, then. Now, tell me, who’s going to be top of the Premier League this year?’

‘Manchester United!’ the little boy said. ‘They’re my team. Dad’s going to take me to see them.’ His voice wobbled. ‘Ow, that hurts.’

‘I know, sweetheart, but it’s only for a little while and I’m doing it so I can make you better,’ Zoe soothed. ‘So who’s your favourite player?’

She managed to keep him talking about football until she’d finished capping her sample and put the line in for the antibiotics. Then she smiled at the little boy and took her sheet of stickers out of her pocket. ‘You were so brave, I think I’ll let you choose your own,’ she said.

‘That one. It’s not like the one my dad flies, but it’s cool,’ Andy said. Then remembered his manners. ‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure. I’m going to get this off to the lab now, so they can test it for me.’ She looked at Mrs Solomon. ‘I’ll be back to see you later on. In the meantime, if you need anything, buzz one of the nurses. June’s going to be looking after you—she’s really nice and very experienced, so she’ll be able to answer a lot of your questions. I’ll make sure she brings you a card for the coffee-machine and tells you where everything is.’ She ruffled Andy’s hair. ‘And then you can choose what you’re having for lunch.’

‘Cool,’ Andy said.

Later that day, Zoe rapped on Brad’s office door.

‘Come in,’ he said.

‘Andy’s bloods are back. His white blood cell count is completely normal.’

‘Well, it doesn’t always alter in osteomyelitis.’

She nodded. ‘But his ESR—’ the erythrocyte sedimentation rate ‘—is elevated, and so is his C-reactive protein. That’s pretty suggestive. I’ve had a look at his X-ray, too.’

‘You got the films back already?’

She grinned at his surprise. ‘I’m good at nagging. Anyway, there’s haziness and a rounded shadow pretty much where you’d expect it. I’d say it’s osteomyelitis in the upper tibia.’

He took the proffered films and checked them on the light-box. ‘Spot on, Dr Kennedy. Looks like there’s some loss of bone density there, too, so we need to keep a close eye on it. What about the biopsy?’

‘It’ll be another couple of days before the culture’s ready, but it’s bound to be Staph aureus. It usually is.’

He sighed. ‘Right. Now to explain it all to Andy’s mum.’

‘Want me to come with you?’

Why on earth had she said that? He was the consultant—he didn’t need anyone with him to hold his hand and help him with a patient’s parents. ‘Um, just that I got talking to her earlier. A friendly face, and all that. And…’ No, she was only digging a deeper hole for herself.

But instead of the sarcastic comment she was expecting—and which she knew she deserved—he merely said, ‘Thanks.’

And then she made another mistake. She looked into his eyes. They were mesmerising: that was the only word to describe them. Why else would she feel her lips parting slightly? Why else would they be so dry that she needed to lick them? Why else would she suddenly start imagining his face closer and closer to hers, his mouth growing nearer and nearer until it finally touched hers, first with gentle kisses, and then coaxing a response from her until…?

But it wasn’t going to happen. No matter how attractive she found Brad, she wasn’t making any exceptions to her rule.

Damaged goods. Remember that, she told herself.

Somehow she managed to get her thoughts together and followed him through to the bay to Andy Solomon’s bed. Andy was asleep and his mother was sitting there, holding his hand and looking desperately worried.

‘We’ve had the results of the tests back, Mrs Solomon. It’s osteomyelitis, as we suspected. What that means is that the bone’s infected and inflamed.’ Brad drew a quick diagram to show her what he meant. ‘The bones are covered with a membrane which contains the nerve endings, plus lots of small blood vessels that deliver the nutrients to the bone. Pus collects beneath it and forms an abscess which makes it stretch—that’s why Andy says it hurts. It also squashes the blood vessels—and because the bone isn’t getting the nutrients it needs, it starts to die off.’

‘So is he going to lose his leg?’ Mrs Solomon asked, aghast.

‘Not at all. In the days before antibiotics, it killed a quarter of people who got it, and crippled another quarter. Nowadays, the antibiotics do the hard work for us and he’ll recover perfectly—especially as you brought him in so quickly.’

‘Jim always says I make a fuss,’ Mrs Solomon said wryly. ‘But it’s hard, with him being a pilot and away so much—half the time it feels like I’m a single mum. There’s only me to make the decisions.’

‘You made the right one here,’ Brad reassured her.

‘But how did it happen?’ she asked.

‘Acute haematogenous osteomyelitis is caused by a bacterium which entered Andy’s body—maybe through a throat infection, maybe through a graze—and lay dormant for a while before it seeded in the bone. The most common site is in the long growing bones, in the arms or legs—it affects the growing area, at the ends. It’s twice as common in boys than in girls,’ Brad explained. ‘The infection can spread to the soft tissues and joints, and if the bone tissues die you need surgery to get rid of the dead tissue so the bone can regrow itself.’

‘So he’s not going to be lame or anything?’ Mrs Solomon asked.

‘No. What we’re doing now is giving him antibiotics which will penetrate the bone. It’s a broad spectrum at the moment because it takes a couple of days to grow the bacterium from the sample I took,’ Zoe explained. ‘Once we know what it is, we might need to change the antibiotics, and he’ll need to stay in for a couple of weeks so we can keep an eye on him. If he needs surgery, we’ll be able to pack the hole in his bones to help him grow new bone tissue. In the meantime, we’re giving him a splint to hold his leg still.’

‘He’ll be on antibiotics for the next couple of months,’ Brad continued. ‘He can probably go home in a couple of weeks and take them in a tablet form, but he has to keep taking them until we’re happy with his blood count and his X-rays. Once the bone’s healed, it should continue to grow properly, but we’ll have him in for regular checkups to keep an eye on it.’

‘He might need building up for a few months afterwards, too,’ Zoe added. She grinned. ‘Which he’ll take as an excuse for scoffing all the chocolate he can get his hands on!’

‘Who needs an excuse?’ Brad teased.

‘Don’t listen to him. He’s addicted to chocolate brownies,’ Zoe said.

‘You two must have worked together for a long time,’ Mrs Solomon commented. ‘You’re so in tune.’

Not that long. A handful of days, Brad thought. And the worst thing was, he couldn’t remember being this in tune with anyone else, ever. Even Lara. Which made him feel even more guilty. He really shouldn’t be thinking about another woman so soon after Lara. Particularly one who was committed elsewhere—Zoe had made that clear when he’d walked her home. The lack of a ring on her left hand meant nothing: she didn’t need a wedding ring or even an engagement ring to be deeply in love.

Though he couldn’t help wondering what sort of man Zoe would choose. The tall, dark, Celtic type, he guessed, with clear skin and blue eyes. Someone laid-back. Or would he be more like her, always on the go, always coming up with new schemes? Somehow he couldn’t imagine Zoe putting up with someone wishy-washy, a man who never made decisions. She was too much of a whirlwind, she’d lose patience.

He shook himself. It wasn’t any of his business anyway. He wasn’t a relationship-breaker. Zoe was off limits and she was staying that way. She had to. For his sanity’s sake.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a937333f-7e6c-568c-9619-07285f3e0f5a)


THE following Wednesday, Brad spotted his name on the staff notice-board. On a poster for Judith’s Wednesday Night Music Club, billing him as the ‘star guest’. And in bright pink highlighter pen, the words ‘Sold Out’ were printed neatly across the poster.

He went to find Zoe. ‘How many people are going to be there tonight?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘I’m not sure. People often give Holly the money for a ticket or the raffle, but don’t actually come to the show.’

‘How many tickets have you sold?’

At least she had the grace to blush. ‘A hundred and fifty. That’s the maximum we can have in the social club because of the fire regulations.’ She looked at him in dismay. ‘Please, don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts. Not now.’

Second? He was having third—and fourth! ‘It’s been a while since I played in public.’ He coughed. ‘And you said there were usually only about thirty people there.’ There was a big difference between thirty and a hundred and fifty. Like five times as many.

‘They probably won’t all come.’

‘But you’ve sold more tickets than usual?’

‘Yes. Probably because of you—the curiosity factor,’ Zoe admitted. ‘But it’s for a good cause. It nets us tons of money for the wards. The social club does the bar and gives us half the profits for the night. And…’ She waved a paper bag at him. ‘Sample. As promised.’

‘I hope,’ Brad said through gritted teeth, ‘that bag contains chocolate brownies. In the plural.’

‘It does. Look, you’ll be fine. Just pretend you’re playing to an audience of one.’

He wished she hadn’t said that. Because right now he could imagine playing the piano to Zoe. By candlelight, or maybe moonlight. Just the two of them. Something soft and romantic and seductive.

No. Cool, calm and sensible, he reminded himself. ‘An audience of one.’ Damn. His voice was cracking. He hoped she hadn’t noticed. Or, if she had, that she’d put it down to nerves—he didn’t want her knowing how much of an effect she had on him. It would make her run a mile, and he wouldn’t blame her.

‘It’s a psychological technique. Jude uses it, too,’ Zoe said helpfully. ‘It usually works well. Or imagine all the people in the front row are naked or something.’

Naked. Did she have to use that word? Because if she was in the front row tonight…He dragged his thoughts back and grabbed the mental equivalent of a bucket of cold water. ‘Is your boyfriend helping out tonight?’

‘Mmm,’ Zoe mumbled. ‘Anyway, here are your brownies. I’ll, um, catch you later.’

She avoided him for the rest of the morning, though he seemed to keep coming across her wake, such as another sticker for Andy Solomon, earned for letting her take a blood sample without fuss, or the ‘bravery certificates’ she drew for a couple of other patients. He couldn’t find her in the afternoon, and discovered that she’d taken a half-day—presumably to finish cooking for the social evening.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the stage behind the piano, running sound checks with Judith. Zoe was somewhere around—he could feel it in his bones—but she seemed to be avoiding him. Or maybe he was just being paranoid. He hadn’t done anything to drive her away. Hadn’t touched her, hadn’t kissed her.

Though he’d wanted to. Lord, how he’d wanted to.

And he really shouldn’t want. It wasn’t fair on either of them.

‘Are you OK?’ Judith asked.

‘Just a bit nervous,’ he admitted.

‘You’ll be fine. Just imagine you’re singing to an audience of one. I usually sing to Holls or Zo, like I did when we shared a flat as students,’ Judith said.

They ran through a couple of songs. And the next thing he knew, the room was filling up with people. He couldn’t see Zoe anywhere. Though the hairs on the back of his neck told him that she was definitely around.

By the third song, Brad had forgotten his nerves. He joined Judith in a version of ‘American Pie’ that had everyone tapping their feet and singing along. From there, they launched into a couple of blues standards. And then someone requested ‘Fever’.

He sang along with Judith, but he couldn’t help scanning the crowd for one person. The one he finally saw right at the back of the room. The one who really did give him a fever, even though she shouldn’t.

He’d said he could sing a bit. Not that he had a voice that could melt your bones, Zoe thought. Deep and warm and soulful, blending perfectly with Judith’s husky jazz-singer tones. Just for a moment, she imagined herself as his audience of one. Imagined him singing just for her. Singing words of love.

She turned away and concentrated on doing the food. In the background, organising things. Just what she did best.

But then she froze as Brad launched into Van Morrison’s ‘Brown-Eyed Girl’. Judith may have been singing along with him, but she could only hear his voice. Singing about a girl with brown eyes. Brown eyes, like her own.

Worse still, someone requested another Van Morrison song, slowing the mood down with ‘Have I Told You Lately?’.

And she was lost.

Somehow—she wasn’t even aware of moving—she worked her way to the front of the crowd. Met Brad’s eyes over the top of the piano as he crooned the words.

Insane. He must be going completely insane. Zoe Kennedy was off limits. And here he was, singing one of the most romantic songs ever written. To her. And he really was singing just to her, not to the appreciative crowd.

She must know it. She had to know it. Why else would she be standing there at the front, smiling back at him?

Unless she was smiling at the boyfriend.

Brad scanned the room. He couldn’t see anyone who looked as though he was with Zoe. Nobody with his arm round her waist, holding her against him and humming those same words to her, a tribute to a woman who could wipe away his sadness and fill his heart with love. Zoe was standing there alone, looking at him. And Brad was looking right back at her.

Was Zoe the one who could wipe away his sadness?

It was stupid to feel jealous, Zoe told herself crossly. Jude was only singing with Brad to raise money. So why was she wishing that she was the one up on stage with him instead of her best friend? Why was she wishing that Brad and Jude didn’t look quite so good together? Why was she panicking that Jude might decide that her career wasn’t enough after all, and Brad was what she wanted? And that Brad would, of course, fall for the most gorgeous woman in the hospital, five feet eleven with legs up to her armpits, long red hair, clear skin and blue eyes, who sang like an angel and had a lot more in common with him than Zoe did?

This really, really wasn’t good. Zoe never panicked about men. Ever. She didn’t have a love life to upset her equilibrium; she didn’t do more than smile with her friends about the latest heart-throb actor or singer or sports star. So why was she feeling like this about Brad Hutton?

Then the music changed tempo again as someone requested something upbeat, fun and frothy. Relieved that she hadn’t quite made a fool of herself, Zoe escaped back to her table duties, topping up the empty platters from the boxes she’d stored in the kitchen cooler.

When the evening was over and the crowds had gone, Zoe started clearing up. A voice said beside her, ‘Anything I can do?’ and she dropped the stainless-steel dishes she was holding.

Lucky they weren’t glass, she thought as they clattered loudly onto the table.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Brad said.

‘No. I was miles away. Just thinking about how well it went tonight.’

‘Did you make a lot?’

‘Dunno. Ask Holly—she’s doing the tally.’

‘Didn’t your boyfriend stick around to help?’

Zoe felt her cheeks grow hot. ‘He couldn’t make it tonight,’ she mumbled. Well, of course her boyfriend hadn’t been able to make it. He didn’t exist!

‘Do you want a hand with the washing-up?’

‘I’m fine. I’ve got a deal with the kitchen staff,’ she said. ‘They let me use the dishwasher in exchange for cake.’

‘You’ve really got a network here, haven’t you?’ he asked admiringly.

She shrugged. ‘I’m just part of the hospital. A small part.’

A big part, he’d say. Hurricane Zoe might be bossy, but her heart was solid gold and he hadn’t met a single person who didn’t adore her. Which was yet another reason why he should stay away from her. If he so much as laid a finger on her, most of London City General would be baying for his blood, as the man who’d wrecked her relationship and broken her heart.

And he’d hate himself just as much, for hurting her. For her sake, he had to stay away.

‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘You’ve done your bit. Look, I saved some food for you and Jude. You must be hungry. Go and eat.’

‘OK, boss,’ he said, and wandered over to join Judith and Holly. ‘How did we do?’ he asked Holly.

‘Brilliantly.’ Holly told him the total and his jaw dropped.

‘We made all that in one night?’

‘Donations, ticket sales and half the bar profits. Thanks to you.’

‘Hey. I’m not the one who set it up.’

‘No, but you were a good enough sport to let Zo persuade you into singing with Jude. And it takes a lot of nerve to stand up on stage and do what you did. I couldn’t do it.’

‘Here. Have one of Zo’s brownies,’ Judith offered. ‘Before I scoff them all. They’re seriously good.’

Brad decided not to admit he’d already had three—and that Zoe had brought them to the ward that morning, especially for him.

That she’d made them on his request.

‘Thanks.’ He took a brownie. ‘Mmm, you’re right, these are really good.’

‘Yet another of Zo’s talents. She’s good at everything,’ Judith said.

‘Except singing,’ Holly corrected with a grin. ‘She’s got a tin ear. Worse than mine!’

Brad didn’t care. He didn’t want Zoe to sing to him anyway. There were other, much more pleasurable things he could imagine her sweet mouth doing.

‘Is Zoe’s boyfriend a doctor?’ he asked, as casually as he could.

‘Zoe’s boyfriend?’ Judith asked, sounding mystified.

‘Mmm. The guy she hangs round with.’ He shouldn’t be asking. It was none of his business. But he couldn’t help wanting to know—wanting to be sure that the man Zoe loved deserved her. Her best friends would know that, wouldn’t they? ‘She said he couldn’t make it tonight—that he usually helps. Did he get called back to his ward or something?’

He saw the glance pass between Judith and Holly, and frowned. ‘What am I missing?’ Oh, no. Please. Don’t let her have fallen for a selfish jerk who resented the time she spent on other people and left her to do everything on her own.

‘Um, nothing,’ Judith said, a little too brightly.

‘You’re interested in our Zoe, aren’t you?’ Holly asked.

Brad swallowed. Was it that obvious? ‘What makes you think that?’ he prevaricated.

‘Because you were singing to her tonight,’ Judith said.

Brad rubbed his hand across his face. Hell. It really was that obvious. Judith and Holly knew, too. ‘I…um…’

As if she’d guessed his worries, Holly added, ‘Don’t worry. No one else noticed. We only did because—Ow.’ She rubbed her ankle.

‘Because what?’ Brad asked. Had Zoe said something to them about him?

‘Because we’re her best friends,’ Judith said.

Maybe he’d got it wrong. He backtracked, fast. ‘Look, I’m not going to hurt her. I promise. I know she’s in love with this boyfriend of hers and I’m not going to interfere.’

‘For a consultant,’ Holly said, ‘you’re not very bright, are you?’

Brad frowned again. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Zoe doesn’t have a boyfriend,’ Judith told him quietly.

This didn’t make sense. Not at all. ‘But why would she say she did, when she doesn’t?’

‘Because she—’ Holly stopped and glared at Judith.

Whatever she’d been about to say, Brad thought, Judith had guessed and hadn’t wanted Holly to tell him. She’d obviously kicked Holly under the table to stop her talking. ‘What?’ he pressed.

Holly shrugged. ‘Maybe she thinks having a relationship means that no one will take her seriously in her career.’

‘So she’s single.’

‘Yes,’ Judith confirmed.

‘And you think she’d be interested in me? If I…?’ Brad’s thoughts were whirling. Zoe wasn’t seeing anyone else. Zoe wasn’t off limits. They could…

‘Just talk to her,’ Holly said.

Talk to her. Talk to her. Well, that was easier said than done, Brad thought two days later. Zoe refused point-blank to have a personal conversation with him. She’d spend any amount of time with him discussing patients or treatments or clinical protocol, but the minute he tried to switch the conversation onto a more personal level, she switched it right back.

‘Are you busy tonight?’ he asked her.

Zoe picked up a file. ‘I was wondering about PKU,’ she said.

‘PKU?’

‘Phenylketonuria. A genetic enzyme deficiency.’

He smiled. ‘I know what PKU is.’

‘I had a patient today. A little girl, fifteen months old. She was very fair, though both her parents were dark. She has eczema. And she’s not talking much—she’s hardly babbling. She pushes other children away if they go anywhere near her. And I was wondering if the developmental delay could be a side-effect of PKU.’

‘I thought all newborns were screened here for PKU?’

‘They are. Well, they’re supposed to be. You know some always slip through the net,’ Zoe said.

‘Hmm. Did she smell a bit odd—a bit like mice?’

Zoe nodded. ‘And the fairness, given her parents’ colouring—I wondered if it was tyrosine deficiency.’ With PKU, the body didn’t have enough phenylalanine hydroxylase so it could only convert some of the amino acid phenylalanine into tyrosine. Phenylalanine then built up in the blood and brain, and could cause severe damage.

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘I did a blood sample to check her plasma levels of phenylalanine and tyrosine. If they’re low…I’d say it’s PKU. I know you’ve done a lot of work on paediatric endocrinology. I wondered if you’d oversee the tests and treatment.’

‘Sure. If you’re right, the parents are going to have to learn to read labels and cut out anything with aspartame in it—phenylalanine’s one of its main components, and it’s in some medicines as well as sweetened foods and soft drinks. And you’ll need to bring in a dietician—they’ll have to cut out high-protein foods and restrict starches. A slice of bread can contain over half a day’s intake of phenylalanine.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘She’ll need dietary supplements for essential amino acids, vitamins and minerals, and she’ll need specially formulated substitute for protein foods. She’ll probably also have some attention problems, even with treatment.’

‘And if they don’t treat it or let her snack on chips and high-protein foods?’

‘They’ll start seeing behaviour problems, and she’ll have problems coping with school.’

‘When’s it safe to drop the diet?’ Zoe asked.

‘In theory, once the brain has finished growing and developing. But it’s pretty controversial—I’d say right now it’s a long-term thing. For the rest of her life. And especially if she decides to have a family when she’s older—during pregnancy, if she doesn’t keep her levels stable it’ll expose the foetus to high levels of phenylalanine, which could cause birth defects, brain damage, or even a miscarriage.’

Good. It had worked. She’d headed him away from personal subjects and onto something safe.

She was just starting to relax again when he said, ‘So what are you doing tonight?’

Cleaning the house. Tackling the ironing mountain. Anything to stop herself thinking about Brad Hutton. ‘I’m meeting Tom.’

‘Tom?’

‘My boyfriend. The one I was telling you about,’ she gabbled.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t have a boyfriend.’

How did he know? Unless…No. Judith and Holly wouldn’t have told him. Surely they wouldn’t. ‘Yes, I do,’ she lied.

‘Zoe—’

‘And I’d better get going or I’ll be late for our date. It’s Friday night, after all. See you later.’ And she left before he had a chance to say anything else.




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_914de3d4-6515-574b-b40f-6eb681f05490)


ALTHOUGH they were both on duty that weekend, Zoe avoided Brad, except on the ward rounds—and she made sure that he didn’t get a chance to speak to her privately about anything.

It drove him bananas. What was it going to take to make her talk to him, tell him the truth? Because he still couldn’t work out why she was lying to him, why she was pretending to have a boyfriend. Had she been hurt by someone in the past and no longer trusted men? Or was it something about him that worried her? But, if so, what?

Judith and Holly were no help either. He tried asking them. They both shrugged and said, ‘Ask Zoe.’ Either they really didn’t know or they were protecting her. Either way, he was no further forward.

He was still brooding about it on the Monday afternoon—in the guise of doing paperwork in his office—when his phone rang.

‘Brad Hutton,’ he said, a little more brusquely than he’d intended.

‘Hello, Brad. It’s Jude. Sorry to bother you—I know you’re busy—but I need a paediatrician in Theatre. Like now. Can you send Zoe along, please?’

‘No can do.’

There was a second’s pause. ‘Why not?’

‘She’s in Theatre already.’

‘Oh, no.’ The dismay in Judith’s voice was palpable. ‘Is anyone else available?’

‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve got a mum with eclampsia.’

The world tilted sharply on its axis. Eclampsia. Of all the conditions Brad could have faced in the hospital, it would have to be that one.

‘Brad? We’re doing an emergency section because the baby’s in distress. I need someone over here. Fast,’ Judith prompted.

There wasn’t anyone else. He couldn’t drag Zoe out of Theatre without a lot of explanations he didn’t want to give. There was no point in paging his SHO, because she wouldn’t be back from her lunch-break on time to make it to Theatre. And he couldn’t leave something like this to a house officer who probably hadn’t ever seen a case of eclampsia and wouldn’t know what to look for in the baby.

So he had to face it himself.

Face the demon that had haunted him for nearly a year.

He felt as if he were talking through a mouthful of sawdust but he managed to force the words out. ‘OK. I’m on my way.’

‘Thanks. I’m in the delivery suite. Theatre Four,’ Judith told him.

Eclampsia. A bolt from the blue because it was impossible to predict who would get it. Although most cases of eclampsia developed from pre-eclampsia, there were also documented cases where the mother hadn’t had any signs of pre-eclampsia beforehand. Nobody really knew what caused pre-eclampsia either, though one theory was that it was an abnormality in the body’s immune response to pregnancy. It was once called toxaemia of pregnancy but nowadays was known by a longer name reflecting the symptoms, ‘hypertension of pregnancy with proteinuria’—in other words, high blood pressure plus protein in the urine.

It had certainly been a bolt from the blue for Lara. She hadn’t been in any of the high-risk groups and she’d had good antenatal care. There had been no family history of pre-eclampsia, she hadn’t had hypertension, kidney disease or systemic lupus erythematosus before her pregnancy, she had only been having one baby and there had been no problems with the foetus at all during her pregnancy.

Worse still, Lara hadn’t actually had pre-eclampsia. No signs of protein in her urine, no swollen fingers or ankles, no signs of high blood pressure. The first either of them had known about it had been when Lara had complained of a headache one afternoon at the office. And then she’d collapsed, had a seizure. By the time she’d been taken to the emergency department and Brad had been paged from Paediatrics, Lara had had two further seizures. Despite the best efforts of the team, the baby hadn’t had enough oxygen and she’d died in Lara’s womb. His beautiful daughter, the little girl they’d both so looked forward to meeting—dead.

Bile rose in Brad’s throat. As if losing his daughter hadn’t been enough, that day had turned into his worst nightmare. Because, along with just over a third of women with eclampsia, Lara had developed a complication after delivering their baby. The most common one—a brain haemorrhage—and also the most fatal one.

And so he’d had to arrange a double funeral. His wife and his child. Two coffins—one of them impossibly tiny—that together had contained his whole life. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…

He shook himself. He couldn’t go to pieces. Not now. He was a professional, a paediatric consultant, and he had a job to do. He had to look after this baby. Make sure that this one didn’t die like Cassandra had.

He scrubbed up and went into Theatre Four.

‘Thanks for making it so fast, Brad,’ Judith said. ‘This is Susie Thornton. She’s thirty-seven weeks, it’s her first baby and she’s thirty-seven.’

Worse and worse. Exactly the same as Lara had been when she’d died. Three years older than he was. First baby, thirty-seven weeks gestation.

‘She had moderate pre-eclampsia so we’ve been keeping a close eye on her on the ward for the last couple of weeks. She’s been on bed rest and antihypertensive drugs. She had a bit of a headache, then said it hurt just under her ribs and she thought it might be contractions.’

Brad forced the words through his dry lips. ‘And then she had a seizure?’

Judith nodded. ‘Textbook case, according to the midwife—thank God she was in the room at the time. Susie stopped breathing, her face twitched, her body became rigid and her muscles started contracting. Then phase two. Convulsions started in her jaw, moved through the muscles of her face and eyelids and spread through her body. The whole thing lasted for just over a minute. She was unconscious for a couple of minutes afterwards, and started hyperventilating when she came round—though she couldn’t remember collapsing or having a fit.’

Neither had Lara. When he’d been in the emergency department with her, holding her hand, she’d been distraught. ‘What’s happening to me, Brad? What happened? I—I can’t remember anything. I want our baby to be all right. Promise me our baby will be all right. Don’t let anything happen to her.’

Her words echoed through Brad’s head, over and over. Promise me. And, being a hotshot paediatrician, he’d promised. Of course their baby would be all right. He wouldn’t let anything happen to their precious child.

And when it had come to the crunch, he hadn’t been able to do a damned thing.

He realised that Judith was still talking him through her patient’s history.

‘We cleared her airway, made sure she had enough oxygen and put her on her left side so there was a good blood flow to the baby. She’s had intravenous magnesium sulphate to prevent any further seizures—it’s better than intramuscular, which hurts and leads to abscesses, plus it helps the blood flow to the foetus. I asked for ten-minute obs on her blood pressure and regular checks on proteinuria. I thought she’d stabilised and I was planning to give her oxytocin to induce labour. Susie really wanted a natural birth. But we were monitoring the foetal heart rate, too, and the baby went into distress. Probably because of the antihypertensives. My consultant agreed that we had to deliver. Now.’

‘Sure.’ Brad’s voice was hoarse with effort. ‘You’d better keep an eye on her afterwards. In case there’s a…’ He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say the words that had broken his heart. An intracranial bleed.

‘Complications.’ Judith grimaced. ‘I’m more worried about the baby. Less than five mums a year die of eclampsia in this country—but it kills ten or eleven babies every week.’

Yeah. He knew that. Knew that the hard way.

This wasn’t going to be the same, he told himself fiercely. It wasn’t. Yes, it would be another emergency section of a mum with eclampsia. But this time the baby would live. The baby would be fine. The mother would be fine. Nothing was going to go wrong.

He watched the anaesthetist checking all the vital signs. Watched Judith make the small incision along the bikini line, watched her partner press down on Susie Thornton’s abdomen, watched Judith guide the baby out.

And all the time, he was seeing a different woman. A tall, beautiful blonde who’d held his hand so tightly, so desperately, willing everything to be all right. A woman whose panic had grown in those first seconds after the baby had been delivered—those long, agonising seconds when they’d waited for their little girl to cry. Waited for a sound. Heard the suction as they’d cleared the baby’s airways. Waited again for a sound. Still waited as the paediatric team had started CPR. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

The baby’s cry shocked him into action. Brad forced the bitterness of the past out of his mind and took the baby from Judith’s hands.

A little girl. A beautiful little girl. Covered with vernix, the greasy white substance that protected the baby’s skin from the amniotic fluid, just as Cassandra had been. But the big difference was that this little girl was crying. Her heart rate was fine. Her muscle tone was fine. She was starting to pink up nicely. She was breathing. He went through his mental checklist and smiled. ‘She’s got an Apgar of nine,’ he said.

A more detailed examination of the baby stopped the panic that had started to beat through him, silenced all the ‘what ifs’. ‘She’s absolutely fine,’ he said, handing her to the midwife to be weighed. ‘Though I think mum and baby should be in Special Care for the first twenty-four hours. Just to be on the safe side.’

‘Standard procedure,’ Judith said with a smile. ‘Susie’s blood pressure should be back to normal within a week, and the protein in her urine should have cleared within six weeks. All being well.’

‘Yeah.’ Concentrate on the here and now, he told himself, forcing himself to smile back. ‘I’d better be getting back to my paperwork,’ he said.

‘Thanks for your help, Brad.’

‘Pleasure.’

Though his smile faded when he left Theatre. Even though this case had turned out all right, hadn’t turned into the nightmare he’d lived through last year, it had still unsettled him. Brought back all the memories. Lara’s tortured face when she’d learned that their little girl hadn’t made it. The bleakness in her eyes. The bitterness in his mouth every time he’d had to explain that, no, he didn’t have good news. Their little girl had been stillborn. Phone call after phone call. The more often he’d said it, the more he should have got used to it. But every time the words had cut out another piece of his heart, left him bleeding inside. And when he’d lost Lara as well…

All my pretty chickens and their dam, at one fell swoop?

She’d said it was the most heartbreaking line in Macbeth. And he’d learned that the hard way.

He couldn’t face the ward. Not right now. Maybe a strong, dark coffee would revive him enough to let him carry on as if nothing was wrong. Maybe.

But when he reached the doors of the staff restaurant, he turned away. He couldn’t face that either. Sitting all alone with a cup of coffee while people walked right by him. Here, it would be because they didn’t know him. In California, it had been because they hadn’t known what to say, and walking straight past him without a word had been easier than trying to stumble through some form of condolences. Some people had even crossed the road rather than talk to him.

A muscle flickered in his jaw. He’d known he’d have to face this at some point in his career. Statistically, he knew he’d face at least one case of eclampsia a year in a major hospital. He’d thought he could handle it, because London City General was a different hospital in a different country, not the one where Lara and Cassandra had died. He’d thought he’d been prepared for it.

How wrong he’d been.

Brad returned to his office on autopilot. Started working through the reports, doggedly concentrating on the words and willing the pain to stay away. He didn’t hear the knock on his door. Or the second, louder knock.

Zoe opened the door. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

Of course he wasn’t. But he also wasn’t up to explaining why.

‘What’s happened?’

He shook his head.

Zoe closed the door behind her, pulled his blind down and crossed his office in two paces. ‘It’s better out than in,’ she said softly. ‘And if you’re worried about the office grapevine, I should tell you now that I don’t do gossip.’

Yeah. He knew that without having to ask. She might tell Holly and Judith in confidence, if she thought it would help him, but she’d make very sure they kept her confidence.

Even so… ‘I’m OK,’ he muttered.

‘You don’t look it.’ She took his hand. ‘What is it? Bad news from home?’

Home? He didn’t have a home any more. He’d sold the house he’d shared with Lara, put most of his things into storage and come over here. To a rented, anonymous flat. A place to live—not home.

‘Brad. Talk to me.’

If he didn’t, she’d nag him until he did. If he did…No. He didn’t want to see the pity in her eyes. Didn’t want to see the pity in anyone’s eyes. He’d had enough pity to last him several lifetimes.

She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand, a comforting pressure. ‘Is there anyone I can call for you?’

‘No.’ He didn’t have a family any more. Well. In name, perhaps. His older brother, whose reaction to anything bad was to ignore it, pretend it wasn’t happening and it would eventually go away. Or his mother, who only ever acknowledged the impact things had on her. He hadn’t bothered asking either of them for support after Lara and Cassandra had died, knowing from long experience that he wouldn’t get it. His brother would simply have changed the subject, because it was easier to stick his head in the sand than to deal with something painful, and his mother would have sobbed about how much she missed poor dear Lara, how terrible it was not to be a grandmother after all, and whatever was she going to do without them? And Brad would have had to put his own feelings to one side, comfort her when all the time he’d have been crying inside for someone to hold him, comfort him, tell him there was a light at the end of the tunnel and he just had to keep walking towards it.

No.

‘There’s no one,’ he said softly.

‘Then talk to me,’ she said, equally softly.

‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘I think there is. You look like hell,’ she said honestly. ‘You’re chalk white beneath that tan. What’s happened?’

‘I had a call to Theatre. A case of eclampsia.’

‘That’s pretty rare.’ She paused. ‘I take it you couldn’t save the baby?’




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