The Surgeon's Baby Surprise

‘Evie, is there something else going on here?’

‘Leave it, Max. Please.’ She stepped back so abruptly that she almost fell, but it was the pleading in her eyes that stayed his arms from catching her.

Max watched some inner battle war across her features, then, apparently unable to trust herself to say another word, she straightened up and forced her legs to move. He knew it wasn’t the moment to stop her. He had some investigating to do before he charged in there.

He forced himself to stay still as she stumbled out of the room, the slamming door reverberating with raw finality.

CHAPTER TWO (#uf77c2fea-514c-5448-8b9f-aec01c03beb3)

IT WAS TIME for answers.

Max pulled up outside the unfamiliar house and turned the purring engine off with satisfaction. His sleek, expensive supercar—one of his very few real indulgences to himself—was incongruous against the older family cars and the backdrop of the suburban street. He checked the address he’d hastily scribbled down on the back of a hospital memo.

It was definitely the right place. But the nondescript, nineteen-fifties semi-detached house on a prepossessing street, almost ninety minutes from Silvertrees, was the last place he would have expected to find Evie—it all seemed so far removed from the contemporary flat that he was aware had come as part of her package working at the Youth Care Residential Centre.

But then, what did he know about the real Evie Parker?

And for that matter, what was he even doing here?

Instinct.

Because decades as a surgeon had taught him to follow his gut. And right now, as far as Evie was concerned, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something fundamental he was missing. Sliding out of the car, he crossed the street, his long stride easily covering the ranging pathway from the pavement to the porch. He knocked loudly on the timber door, hearing the bustle on the other side almost immediately, before it was hauled open.

‘Max.’

‘Evangeline.’ He gave a curt nod in the face of her utter shock, wishing he didn’t immediately notice how beautiful she was.

And how exhausted she looked. He’d seen the dark rings circling her eyes yesterday, along with the slightly sallow skin, so unlike the fresh-faced Evie he’d known a year ago. Just like how thin she’d become, all clear indicators of the toll her illness was taking on her body. He could scarcely believe his surgeon’s mind had allowed her to fob it off on being concerned for the health of her sister-in-law. But as soon as she’d gone and his gut had kicked back in, it hadn’t taken much digging to discover that it was Evie who was unwell, not Annie. That it was Evie who needed the transplant, not Annie.

He felt a kick of empathy. And something else he didn’t care to identify. He shoved it aside; he was here to satisfy himself there really wasn’t something he was missing, and to be a medical shoulder to cry on. Nothing more than that.

Evie stepped onto the porch, pulling the door to behind her, clearly not about to invite him in.

‘What are you even doing here?’

Ironic that he had asked her the same question less than twenty-four hours earlier.

‘Why did you tell me Annie was the one who needed the transplant?’ He was surprised at how difficult it was to keep his tone even and level with her, when at work his professional voice was second nature.

Evie’s face fell. He didn’t miss the way her knuckles went white as she gripped the solid-wood door tighter.

‘I didn’t.’ She tilted her chin defiantly.

‘You implied it, then. It’s semantics, Evie.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘I was concerned. Things didn’t seem to add up.’

To her credit, she straightened her shoulders and met his glare with a defiant one of her own. That was the Evie he knew.

‘You’ve been checking up on me? Reading my file?’

‘You left me with little choice.’ He shrugged, not about to apologise. ‘And don’t talk to me about ethics—for the first time in my career I don’t care. You should have been the one to tell me, Evie.’

‘Well, you should be sorry,’ she challenged, although he didn’t miss the way her eyes darted nervously about. ‘You were the one who always used to be such a stickler about doctor-patient confidentiality.’

‘Is this really the conversation you want to have?’ Max asked quietly.

She stared at him, blinking hard but unspeaking. One beat. Another.

‘You’re right, I’m sorry,’ she capitulated unexpectedly. ‘Yesterday...it’s been playing in my head and now I’m glad you know. I...just didn’t know how to tell you.’

His entire body prickled uneasily.

‘Are you going to invite me in?’

She fidgeted, her eyes cast somewhere over his shoulder, unable to meet his eye.

‘First tell me exactly what you gleaned from my file?’

Max hesitated. There was something behind that question that was both unexpected and disconcerting. The Evie he’d known was feisty, passionate, strong, so unlike the nervous woman standing in front of him, acting as though she had something to hide, as much as she tried to disguise it.

‘As it happens, I didn’t read your file. You can relax. I just spoke to Arabella.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Arabella Goodwin, your nephrologist,’ Max clarified patiently. ‘I told her you’d approached me about the kidney transplant yesterday whilst your sister-in-law was having her tests done. Which, technically, you had done. Imagine my shock when she assumed I knew that Annie was a living donor and that you were the recipient.’

He’d just about managed to cover up his misstep with his fellow surgeon in time.

‘Oh,’ Evie managed weakly. ‘What else did she say?’

‘That your sister-in-law was in for the final repeat tests to ensure nothing had changed before the operation could proceed. I understand you’re due for your transplant next week but you’ll be taken in for the pre-op stage in a matter of days.’

‘And?’ she prompted nervously.

He frowned at her increasing agitation.

‘Do you mean your PRA results and your plasmapheresis?’

He heard her intake of breath before she offered a stiff nod. His frown deepened. Her tenseness made no sense—surely she had to know that the Panel Reactive Antibody blood tests were undertaken by every potential renal transplant patient in order to establish how easy—or difficult—it would be to find a compatible donor?

What was he missing here?

‘Evie, it isn’t uncommon,’ he tried to reassure her. ‘You must know that around twenty-five per cent of patients who need renal transplants go through plasmapheresis to remove dangerous antibodies from their blood and increase their compatibility. You’ve nothing to worry about.’

‘Did she tell you anything else about it?’