The Surgeon's Favourite Nurse

One dark eyebrow arched upward. “That?”

“You know.”

“Not so much. The receptors in my brain are fried. Put a finer point on it for me.”

He was enjoying this, she realized and started to fume. But she’d be darned if she’d give him the satisfaction of confirming her acute discomfort. Or the fact that he’d majorly turned her on.

“The kiss,” she said, deliberately lifting her chin so their gazes locked. “My mistake. I freely own my part in what just happened.”

“Very generous of you.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his charcoal slacks. The black shirt and tone-on-tone tie fit his trim body perfectly. Dr. GQ wouldn’t have to worry about the fashion police.

“Not generous. Honest.”

“Still … An admission like that could be construed as encouragement. How do you know I won’t stoop to using it to my advantage?”

She refused to give any ground. “That mistake is on me, but the bigger one would be assuming you could use it for your own personal agenda.”

“Agenda? Personal?” A wolfish expression settled on his handsome face making it an uphill battle to get this conversation back on a professional plane.

“Don’t miscalculate, Doctor. My slip-up will not give you currency in the workplace.”

“Oh?”

“You can’t come up with an unrealistic wish list and expect me to smile politely just because I kissed you.”

Jake’s sinful smile was a clear indication that the message missed its mark. “At the risk of shattering your illusions, Hope, nothing about that kiss was polite, which suits me just fine.”

She groaned inwardly, still living in limbo and guarding herself from the guilt. “You’re deliberately misunderstanding my point.”

He shook his head. “On the contrary. I got it. But you don’t have all the facts.”

“Which are?”

“I actually came to see you tonight to tell you I told you so.”

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“Okay, here’s the deal. My wish list just might carry more weight since earlier tonight I was offered the contract to be the chief trauma surgeon. I’m officially your boss.”

And Hope was officially in trouble.

She’d missed sex.

She hadn’t realized how much until Jake kissed her. Now she missed it a whole lot more.

The next day Jake sat in on Hope’s meeting with the department directors to assess their status regarding the target date for the Mercy Medical West opening. He had the chair to her left and knew she was talking because her lips were moving. The thing was, he was so fascinated by her mouth that he couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying.

Only last night he’d tasted her just down the hall from this conference room. If Cal Westen, his medical practice partner, hadn’t called to find out whether or not he’d been appointed to oversee trauma services, Jake would have done a whole lot more than just kiss her.

That had never been part of his plan, and he always had one. You didn’t go from living on the street to chief trauma surgeon without a disciplined and detailed blueprint of how to get there. Kissing a colleague wasn’t so much as a footnote on the blueprint, even if she did have a mouth in desperate need of a kiss.

“I’m sure you all know Dr. Jake Andrews.”

The sound of his name yanked him into the moment and he smiled at the directors of radiology, respiratory therapy, the emergency department and the E.R. doc, all gathered around the mahogany conference table. He was acquainted with them all.

“Dr. Andrews was appointed Mercy Medical West’s chief trauma surgeon last night.” A hint of pink creeping into Hope’s cheeks told him she hadn’t forgotten what else happened last night.

And what almost happened.

Everyone applauded the announcement and seemed genuinely pleased at the news. It was worth the price he’d paid—all work, no play or much pay for more years than he cared to remember. Now that he was at the top, nothing was going to get in the way of his staying there.

“Congratulations, Dr. Andrews,” Hope said. She barely met his gaze, then glanced at the agenda on the table in front of her. “Next I’d like a report from each department, in terms of how we stand in supplying trauma personnel.”

As the directors took turns getting her up to speed, Jake studied Hope and knew she was aware of him, too. The pulse at the base of her throat beat just a little too fast. He didn’t know whether or not to be pleased about that. The timing of this—whatever it was between them—was damn inconvenient.

“All right,” she said nodding. “Now I want to make sure we’re on the same page with identifying the levels of trauma. Mechanical injury—broken bones—is level one. Penetrating wound is level two. Head or traumatic brain injury is level three. Preliminary paramedic evaluation in the field will determine the trauma level of patients transported by ambulance. And walk-ins will have to be assessed by the E.R. doc who will determine the trauma level.”

A murmur of general agreement followed her remarks as the directors took notes.

“Next on the agenda is medical staff. We will apply for a level-three designation since Dr. Gallagher’s group signed on for neurosurgery and agreed to be in-house 24/7. That doesn’t mean on standby or on call. They will be physically on premises. Dr. Andrews can fill us in on whether or not we have adequate trauma surgeons signed on.”

“I’m in the process of interviewing several surgeons right now,” Jake said. “I’ll be ready before the doors open.”

“Good.” She was all business, the polar opposite of the tantalizing temptress of just a few hours ago. “Now for Radiology. Dr. Edwards, about the Nighthawk system …”

Jake knew that radiology used the Nighthawk system to send nonemergency tests to Australia via the Internet for interpretation. But the state of Nevada mandated that an interventional radiologist be in-house for invasive procedures that required diagnostic imaging or guidance for tapping blood buildup in the chest cavity or other emergency situations. Edwards was a hard-ass and not receptive to change, making Hope’s job a challenge.

The heavyset, balding doctor tried to glare her into submission. “It’s cost-effective to use the Nighthawk system.”

“In most cases, yes,” Hope agreed. “But there isn’t a choice about this. We can’t be designated a trauma center without an interventional radiologist in house.”

“And I need to pay the I.R., Miss Carmichael,” he said stubbornly. “They don’t come cheap. I have a budget.”

“Don’t we all.” She glanced at Jake, her hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “But there are other ways to trim.”

“None of them pretty.” He rested his elbows on the table. “What if there are no traumas?”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re a trauma center and have to staff for what could happen.”

“And I still have to pay the staff for doing nothing. My partners will not be happy and neither will I.”

“You agreed to the terms of the contract, Dr. Edwards,” she reminded him.

“Terms can be amended. I think hospital administration should absorb some of the cost.”

Hope stared him down. “I understand that the tendency is for every department to become territorial and insular, but the goal is for all the parts to function as one. Just like the body which can’t sustain life without a brain, heart or liver, a trauma response relies on all the departments for a successful outcome.” She glanced at each department director in turn before saying, “But I’m sure you’re all as aware of that as I am.”

Dr. Edwards shook his head. “When I can’t justify expenditures, it’s my reputation on the line. My ass in a sling.”