Doctor In The House

Harold stifled a sigh. He knew this was all for show, to frighten off the young woman. He couldn’t very well discipline his chief neurosurgeon in front of a new resident, but neither did he want her madly running for the hills.

So instead, he smiled warmly at Bailey and shook his head like a weary father settling yet another squabble between his children. “I’m afraid that Dr. Munro is a little unorthodox,” he told her, then tried to sound as positive as he could as he added, “But I promise you that you’ll learn a great deal from him.”

It wasn’t hard to see that the man’s eyes were requesting her understanding. She appreciated that. Bailey smiled as she nodded. “Probably a lot of words I never heard before,” she allowed.

She thought she saw amusement flit across Dr. Bennett’s face and it heartened her. She’d gained an ally.

“Now, until I say differently, Dr. Munro is going to take over your education. Dr. Munro—” he fixed Ivan with a steely gaze that had been known to send lesser doctors running for their antacids but, as always, seemed to have no effect on the chief neurosurgeon “—I want you to award her every consideration. From now on, Dr. DelMonico is to be your shadow, your sponge and your assistant.” He emphasized the last word as his eyes locked with Ivan’s. “Do I make myself clear?”

For his part, Ivan seemed completely unfazed. He merely nodded, his eyes and expression unreadable. “Perfectly.”

“And if there’s any problem,” Harold continued, looking from the young woman to his chief sore spot, “I want to be informed of it immediately.” The sentence was no sooner out of his mouth than he saw Ivan raising his hand. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to guess exactly what the man was going to say. “After you give this arrangement at least several weeks to begin to work itself out.” Harold pushed his chair back from his desk and rose, signaling that the meeting was at an end. “Now, if you have the time, Dr. Munro, I would appreciate it if you showed our newest resident around Blair Memorial.”

To his credit, the chief of staff didn’t even flinch when Ivan shot a dagger in his direction.

“It’ll have to be another time,” Ivan replied. “My schedule’s full today.”

“That’s fine,” Bailey cut in quickly, refusing to be the source of a clash of wills between the two men. “I’ve already familiarized myself with the hospital layout, Dr. Bennett.”

“Oh?”

“My two roommates are residents here. I had them take me around during their off hours.”

Ivan smirked. “Enterprising little thing, isn’t she?” The words were only marginally addressed to the chief of staff.

His hand was on the doorknob. Bailey sprang to her feet, her chair making a scraping noise as she moved it back, then quickly joined the neurosurgeon before he could leave the office.

For his part, Ivan waited for her, nodded at the chief of staff and looked for all the world as if he had every intention of going along with the assignment that had been given him.

Optimist though he was, Harold Bennett knew better than to believe his eyes. A leopard did not change its spots and Ivan the Terrible was not about to become Ivan the Good because it was asked of him.

But he had seen something in the young woman’s eyes, something that gave him hope that Ivan had met, if not his match, at least someone who was not about to topple over like a loosely packed sandcastle the moment the first disgruntled words erupted out of Ivan’s mouth.

Ivan held the door open for her, allowing the young woman to leave first. He was male enough to notice that she was even better looking than her tiny photograph indicated and arrogant enough to feel that it had no bearing on anything as far as he was concerned.

Closing the door behind him, Ivan leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Just so you know, I’m going to be your worst nightmare.”

She gave him only the merest of looks as she appeared to consider the statement. “Funny, you don’t look like a burning cross on the front lawn.” And then she glanced up overhead at the ceiling. “I guess it must be the lighting.”

CHAPTER 6

Any hope that the man might possess a sense of humor and strike a truce died quickly. Munro looked angrier than Zeus upon learning of a rebellion spearheaded by the lesser gods. “First thing you’re going to have to do is lose the attitude, DelMonico.”

His eyes seemed to shoot thunderbolts. She refused to look away, although it wasn’t easy meeting his stormy gaze.

“Are you?” she asked innocently.

Abruptly he began walking again. “My attitude is a fixture around here.” He slanted a glance at her as if she were an annoying fly that insisted on buzzing around his head. “A smart mouth is not going to get you anything at Blair except thrown out.”

Bailey bit back the desire to point out that having a “smart mouth” certainly hadn’t hurt him. One retort to show him that she wasn’t afraid of him was all she was allowed. Anything more would not only be overkill, it just might also kill her chance to work at Blair Memorial before she started. Or at least, work at Blair under Munro. And from what she’d heard, Ivan Munro was capable of performing miracles in the operating room. She wanted to witness those miracles firsthand, to learn from them and eventually to become just as good a neurosurgeon as Munro. Because if you couldn’t be the best, why bother?

So, even as hot words burned on her tongue, Bailey forced herself to stay sober and replied, “Yes, Doctor.”

He thought he heard something in her voice, something he took exception to. “And mocking me isn’t going to get you anywhere, either.”

Her head shot up, surprised. “I wasn’t mocking you, Dr. Munro, I was replying.”

He resumed walking, his legs stretching out before him as he snorted his contempt. “I am a student of body language, DelMonico. Yours is telling me to go to hell.”

“I don’t think so, Doctor,” she replied, her voice as innocent as she could manage it. “I don’t allow my body to use that kind of language.”

He snorted again. “Right, no doubt that’s the missionary in you coming out.” The look he slanted her this time was positively wicked. “Ever hear the joke about the anthropologist who lost his way and the missionary’s daughter?”

A little less than a foot shorter than the chief neurosurgeon, Bailey found herself fairly trotting to keep up now. She hadn’t a clue where he was going and she was not about to be left behind. She’d told Dr. Bennett the truth, she had taken a tour of the hospital, but she hadn’t exactly committed the entire layout to memory. Yet.

“The anthropologist and the missionary’s daughter?” she repeated. “A thousand times, Doctor.”

About to turn a corner, Ivan halted. He debated whether she was just about the best stone-faced liar he’d ever encountered or if his new albatross had actually heard the obscure joke he was referring to. In any event, the joke was only intended as a test to see how easily the woman blushed and, more importantly, how quickly he could take her down.

This, he decided, was going to be more of a challenge than he’d first imagined. For all he knew, it might even turn out to be a bit on the entertaining side.

“Then I won’t bore you with it,” he finally replied.

Her eyes met his. She made sure to keep her relief under wraps as she said, “Thank you, Dr. Munro.”

For the first time since he’d been told about the ordeal he was expected to endure, Ivan allowed himself just the slightest hint of a smile. The corners of his mouth moved in a vague upward pattern before returning to their customary downward arc.

“I do believe you mean that, DelMonico.” He glanced at his watch and lengthened his considerable stride. “I’m due in surgery in a few minutes,” he informed her, although part of him bristled at making any sort of an excuse to this resident.

But if he meant his words to be taken as any sort of a dismissal, he was sorely disappointed. Rather than dropping behind and allowing him to continue on alone, she all but ran to keep up pace with him.

He frowned at her. “We don’t allow skipping in the halls, DelMonico.”

“I’m not skipping, Doctor,” she informed him, hurrying. “I’m running.”

Given that she was a lot shorter and in high heels, the woman kept up remarkably well. It occurred to him that she wasn’t wearing traditional scrubs. Was that for his benefit? Did she think she could “get to him” by looking soft, supple and feminine?

He almost laughed out loud at the notion.

But instead he informed her, “We don’t allow that, either.”

She had always been extremely physical. Life as a missionary’s daughter did not allow for hours spent on a sofa, in front of a computer or a television set. She’d learned to amuse herself the way children had before electronic devices had taken over the task. If need be, she could run like a gazelle fleeing a hungry predator. “Then you’re going to have to slow down, sir.”

She didn’t even sound winded, he noticed. “And why is that?”

“Because I can’t keep up using your pace.”

Rather than shorten his stride, he increased it. “That, DelMonico, is a given.”