Italian Doctor, Full-time Father

“And I think we should maintain a professional appearance here and take me off his case. I’m not comfortable…”

“Not comfortable giving the patient what he wants? Or needs?” Max shook his head and clucked his tongue. “This isn’t sounding at all like you, Catherine. Not at all. And don’t give me the excuse that you’re tired, because that’s not what this is about.”

She liked Max. Actually, in the short time she’d known him, she’d come to love the man like a father. In fact, years ago, when she had still been a medical intern, she’d moved heaven and earth to get to one of his symposiums. Dr Maximilian Aeberhard had been the best rehabilitation specialist in the world, and the instant she’d learned he was coming to Boston she’d finagled a spot in to hear him lecture. doctors from all over North America had been there, and she, a lowly intern, hadn’t been granted admittance. So she’d volunteered to be an usher that day, to escort other doctors to their seats. In exchange, she’d tucked herself into a nook at the back of the lecture hall and listened to the most brilliant doctor she’d ever heard.

Amazingly, she’d bumped into him in the elevator later on that day and, for whatever reason the gods had ordained, had been fortunate enough to take tea with him. Then they’d shared an evening meal at his invitation. The gods smiling on her again. After that she’d read everything he’d ever published, practically memorized every text he’d written, and eventually settled into a medical practice chocked full of Max Aeberhard teachings. Life had been good, she’d been advancing. All of a sudden, out of the blue, she’d received an invitation to come to Bern to be interviewed for a post at the Aeberhard Clinic.

Naturally, chances like that didn’t come up every day. Didn’t happen in most lifetimes. In fact, she’d firmly convinced herself it was some kind of a mistake until the day Max’s secretary had called to confirm her appointment. Then she’d had to pinch herself over and over to make sure it wasn’t a dream.

She’d come for that interview, of course, not even knowing or caring what kind of post it was. To be honest, she’d have been happy ironing his surgical scrubs, if that had been the position being offered, because it would have put her closer to the man she idolized. But as it had turned out, the post had been Max replacing himself as medical director in order to cut back on a few of his duties—a position for which she’d had absolutely no qualifications whatsoever. She’d walked away dejected and somewhat mystified that she’d received the invitation. By the time she’d returned to her room at the hotel, she’d convinced herself the invitation had been a mistake and Max’s interview merely a polite formality on the way to rejecting her. But then the phone call had come. He’d invited her to supper, and that’s when he’d made the offer.

Since then she’d asked him at least a dozen times, why her? Why not someone with more experience, more administrative qualifications, someone already working at the clinic who was familiar with its procedures? Dr Rilke would have been brilliant! All she’d ever got out of him, though, had been that he preferred to keep his reasons to himself. So she’d never pursued it any further.

Yet here she was. Medical Director of the Aeberhard Clinic. Living a dream. And the best part was that while Max had turned into a good-hearted mentor, he really did let her supervise the medical practice with almost no interference. It was still his clinic, though. No mistaking that. Otherwise she’d have written herself off the roster for a few days, made arrangements to be replaced, and gone away. Or, more like, run away.

“Did you know that Dante is a surgeon?” Five years out of practice maybe, but that didn’t take away his license. He still had claim to the title and, somehow, she still had a hard time seeing Dante as anything but a surgeon. And a very good one at that.

Max shook his head.

“We were medical colleagues. Had some…differences. I’m not sure I can be objective in his care.”

“And you’re not going to tell me about these differences?”

She shook her head. “Nothing important.” To Dante, anyway.

“Well, something suggests they weren’t professional. But I’m not going to pry into your affairs, Catherine.”

She shot him a caustic glance, but didn’t reply. Didn’t have to. The grin concealed under that beard told the story. Wily old Max Aeberhard knew everything. Or had a keen suspicion. Damn it! She hated being so transparent. “So no holiday? And I don’t get to get off his case?”

“That about sums it up.”

Catherine thought about it for a moment, then frowned. “I’ll accept that. But if I come to you, Max, and tell you that for the good of my patient, or the clinic, or my own personal sanity, you absolutely need to pull me off Dante’s case and let someone else take over, I expect you to do that.”

Max stood, adjusted the suspenders holding up his brown tweed trousers and headed for the door. “I’ll accept that, Catherine.” Then he gave her a wink. “But I think you need to do some soul-searching over someone who has you so bothered.” As he passed her he gave her an affectionate squeeze to the shoulder, then he was gone.

And she was definitely bothered.

It was late morning before Catherine returned to Dante’s room. Hans called and reported that Dante was doing fine, transferring himself into his wheelchair, so now it was time to have a look at what was going on with Dante’s ankle. He’d had surgery too many times. Had pins put in. Muscle repaired. Tendons sewn back together. A real mess, and the man wanted to get out of there and drive again. He’d be lucky to walk out without drastic assistance.

“I’m going to X-ray, then I’ll be taking Dant—Mr Baldassare on the grand tour,” she reported to Marianne on her way out. “Screen my calls, will you? If they’re medical, forward them to my cellphone. If they’re anything else, take a message.”

“I’ve had five in the past hour, requesting—”

“I know. An interview with Mr Baldassare.”

Marianne nodded eagerly. “He is so handsome, don’t you think?”

To a dreamy-eyed girl in her early twenties, like Marianne, of course Dante was handsome. She’d been that girl not so long ago. A little older perhaps, but still with the same dreamy-eyed feelings. No doubt there’d been a good many of them since her. More than she’d seen in those photos at various times. Apparently, there’d been a good many before her, too.

“He’s a patient.” Catherine struggled not to sound too affected. “I don’t notice handsome on patients. It’s not appropriate.” Such a huge lie where Dante was concerned. She only hoped Marianne didn’t see the look in her eyes. Dauncy, her mother called it. Youlie to me, Catherine, and I can always tell. You get that dauncy look in your eyes. Catherine blinked twice on her way out the door just to make sure anything dauncy that might be there was washed away.

Dante was actually sitting up in his wheelchair when she entered his room. Wearing pajamas. A richly embroidered silk robe covered them. Not at all Dante, she thought. He slept in the nude, put on a T-shirt to be modest. No pants. Never covered his splendid backside with anything. How many mornings had she awakened with a good dose of Dante padding across the carpet, her stare fixed on that backside? That, along with a cup of coffee, had been the perfect way to start the day, especially when he’d come back to bed to take care of the mood he’d always put her in.

There she went again! Just one look and she was off on another fantasy. Which she could ill afford, and didn’t want happening.

“You look like you’ve seen something awfully pleasant,” he commented. “Anything I might want to know about?”

“Don’t mistake my bedside manner for anything personal,” she warned, trying to sound professional when her skipping heart was anything but. “I’m always pleasant with my patients.”

“Except me.”

“You can certainly request another doctor, if you’re not happy with me. The owner of the clinic himself is available. He’s the finest rehabilitation specialist in the world, a very pleasant man, and I’m sure he’d be able to fit you into his schedule.”

“When did you become so uptight, Catherine? You used to have a spark about you. An eager optimism. You always smiled, yet I haven’t seen you smile since I’ve been here, and that’s a pity with your beautiful smile.”

“You haven’t earned the right to comment on my smile, Dante.” Her voice was so chilly it swept out of her on shards of ice. “Or anything else about me except my professional abilities.”

Naturally, he commented on that. “See what I mean? You’re uptight. Stiff. You don’t find any pleasure in your life, and it’s going to make you very old, very fast.”

“You don’t know me well enough any more to say those things.” Catherine stepped in behind the wheelchair, giving it a sharp nudge towards the door. “We had six months together, and in those months we never even…” Got to know each other. Got to be honest. “We were merely satisfying certain biological urges for a short period of time, and that’s all there was to it. We mistook hormones for emotions and thought that was enough to make a marriage.”

Dante laughed. “Hormones aren’t necessarily a bad way to start a marriage.”

“I’m not surprised you’d think that.” Although, with the chemistry they’d had between them, he wasn’t altogether wrong.

“Do you ever think about us, Catherine? Over the years, have you ever wondered what it might have been like if things had worked out differently?”

She had, on so many occasions. But she wouldn’t tell Dante that. “No. When it was over, I moved on.” Like he had, only he’d moved on even before it had been over. “No point in lingering over something that wasn’t meant to be.”

“Was I that despicable a lover?” he asked. “I thought I satisfied you, gave you what you wanted. I thought we were good together.”

“In bed, we were fine. You were fine. I had no complaints that way.” Just as they reached the hallway door, Catherine stopped pushing the wheelchair and spun it part way around to face her. Then she bent down to him. “But sex is all it was. Something convenient in two hectic lives. It happened, it ended. We’ve moved on. So, please, be enough of a gentleman to let it go. That will make your stay here much easier…on both of us.”

“I never meant to hurt you, Catherine,” he said, his voice suddenly dropping to a whisper. “I told you that every time I called. What happened to me wasn’t what I’d expected in my life. It was a difficult time.”

“Was it, Dante? Was it really?”

Briefly, he looked at a loss, but that passed all too quickly. “You don’t know a damned thing about it!”

“Don’t I? Because what I seem to recall is that you left medicine and became a race-car driver. People don’t just do something like that, Dante. You know, go to medical school all those years, become a surgeon, then drop all that to spend your life driving around a race track. And, oh, by the way, forget to mention that to the person they intend marrying.”

“And I did apologize for that. Besides, it’s not like you didn’t know my family was in racing. That I’d had a brief try at it when I was younger.”

“And your brother was better, but that was fine with you because your true passion was medicine. You told me all that, Dante. Silly me, I believed it.”

“My father needed me. My family needed me.”

“They needed you to make a worldwide announcement that you were returning to the sport before you even mentioned it to the woman who thought she was marrying a doctor? Or were you ever really planning on marrying me? Maybe that was just another of those conveniences we had, something to make us feel a little more proper about our relationship?”