Uncovering Her Secrets

Fainting during surgery could be disastrous. If he’d simply been ill, the spell had been nothing to dismiss him over. If he’d been drinking, there would’ve been criminal charges filed. It really couldn’t be something bad. Accidental. Not his fault. Had to be.

Or could it have been bad judgment? Something that made him so serious about keeping an eagle eye on Nettle? A bad call didn’t necessarily equate with something criminal...

And then there was the strong possibility that he’d simply made too many enemies among the board members and they’d been looking for a reason to get rid of him. Any reason. A man didn’t go through five hospitals in as many years without there being a problem.

Whatever it was, she had to find out before they went into another OR. Then later she could focus on finding a way to curb his tendency to shout loud angry words at people who irritated him. And probably it would be smart to be easy with him. Well, as easy as she could be while keeping him in line.

“What did—?” Dasha stopped as Preston leaped up and bolted from the room. “Where are you going?”

“He’s closing,” Preston said over his shoulder, stepping into the scrub room and grabbing a mask to put over his face.

Dasha followed. “Good?”

“No. Not good. There’s a nicked vessel I was repairing. I had to stop to start the pump then he ordered us out. I didn’t get it totally finished.” He barreled through the scrub room.

“Are you saying—? Dammit!” She fumbled for a mask and followed him through the swinging doors.

“You’re not done, Dr. Nettle,” Preston said, shaking his head as he entered.

She should be glad he was still using titles. It was a nod toward him trying diplomacy first. A good sign.

“I am,” Nettle stated.

“You missed a small bleeder,” Preston said, his posture aggressive even if he spoke levelly.

“I assure you I didn’t. Leave my OR.”

“If you close right now she...will...die.” Preston enunciated every word, his hackles rising higher every time he was blown off.

“Dr. Hardin.” Nettle addressed her instead. “Get him out of my OR.”

She laid a hand on his arm. Preston shrugged it off and gave her such a withering look he convinced her he was right. The temporary position came with a certain amount of authority she was expected to use to settle disagreements like this. “Dr. Nettle, please take one more look.” Request. Diplomatic. She hoped.

“Is your ego really so big that you can’t even look where I saw it?” Preston added. He could suck all the diplomacy out of any suggestion. “If you let her die because you’re too big an asshole to listen, I will file the malpractice complaint myself.”

Threats. Great. Although his words came nowhere near violence, it still managed to sound like he planned to kick Nettle’s butt if he didn’t listen.

And Dasha would have to say something to him about that later. But right now she had to back him up.

Nettle sighed. “Where do you think you saw it?”

“Switch to the other side of the table.” The side Preston had been on earlier. “You probably can’t see it from where you are.” To his credit, he didn’t approach the table, merely directed from several paces away. Very precise instructions: where to look; when to move tissue aside.

“I’ll be damned.” Nettle frowned. “It appears you were right, Dr. Monroe.” He set about repairing the damage.

“It happens on occasion,” Preston mumbled, still cloaked in anger and clearly with no intention of leaving until Nettle had finished and Mrs. Andrews was safe.

Dasha stayed too. This temporary position interfered with her new paradigm: avoid confrontation. Staying out of fights made it more likely that she could keep Old Dasha at bay. Old Dasha was a little too much like Preston. But if she could change, so could he. In theory.

Preston might lack people skills but he wasn’t wrong. And it was unlikely there would be any complaints filed against Preston. Mrs. Andrews wasn’t out of danger by any stretch, but there was one fewer vulture circling because Preston hadn’t backed down.

She just needed him to figure out some other way besides verbal attack to secure that kind of cooperation. He needed a new paradigm too.

Like yesterday.

CHAPTER TWO

IN PRESTON’S MIND, St. Vincent’s had always represented a strange contradictory utopia. The idealized dream job. The hospital where he should’ve always been, rather than the sentences he’d endured under the thumb of Davis P.

But it was also the thing that had cost him the only woman—no, the only person—he’d ever really felt accepted by. Felt motivated by. Maybe he’d been wrong all this time. Maybe there had been nothing special between them, no chemistry or affection. Maybe she was just that way with everyone.

If he hadn’t been all that special to her, it lessened her betrayal. Sort of.

And that thought didn’t help at all.

He stood in the men’s room, where he’d taken sanctuary after Mrs. Andrews’s chest had been closed, and focused on the eye currently threatening to spasm. He could feel it lurking in the tightening muscle.

Stepping to the side, he grabbed some paper towels and wet them so he could apply them to his infuriating left eye.

He couldn’t have been wrong about their friendship. Impossible. And he really couldn’t have been wrong about the sexual relationship. No one could fake the passion they’d shared.

And thinking about sex and Dasha was also a bad idea.

He wrung out the towel and wet it again.

This morning, the offer from the head of surgery at St. Vincent’s had felt like a reprieve. A stay of execution. He wouldn’t have to call in his father for favors—which was how it had been seeming. He’d never done it before, and the idea of starting now stuck in his throat. The fact that he’d even considered it galled him, let alone the idea of volunteering to suffer one of Davis P. Monroe’s epic lectures.

The only other option was starting over in a new town, far from the man’s shadow.

Now it just seemed like he was swapping one evil for another. And this evil, while undoubtedly better looking, couldn’t be trusted to have his best interests at heart. He wasn’t even sure he believed her claim that she’d arranged this because she owed him.

His eye twitched open beneath the wet towel then refused to close. He dropped the towel in the sink and focused. The eye had opened so wide it looked surprised.

Scratch that. He didn’t look surprised in one eye. He looked like Popeye.

He could definitely add stress to his triggers.

As if sensing a moment of weakness, his phone in his thigh pocket started to vibrate.

Preston fished it out and looked at the screen. Davis P. No way. He sent it to voice mail.

He couldn’t stomach a lecture right now. And, really, he didn’t see that he’d be able to suffer one and hold his tongue for the rest of the day. Not when he was questioning his past, his future...hell, even his value as a surgeon, as a man.

Better text something.

Just like that, the decision was made.

Can’t talk. At work. Took position at St. Vincent’s.