Читать книгу Uncovering Her Secrets - Amalie Berlin - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCHAPTER ONE
HOW COULD A woman be so afraid of a situation of her own making?
Dr. Dasha Hardin stood before the bank of windows in her temporary office, waiting, eyes fixed on the parking lot where she expected Dr. Preston Monroe would park. She did her best to ignore the lump of lead in her belly that had been oatmeal an hour ago. Being the instigator of this meeting didn’t mean she had any control over what was to come, and if he put even half the effort into sabotaging her career as he had done his own, she might as well clean out her locker now. The man couldn’t control his mouth, and if he told what he knew about her past...
When the lead shifted and wobbled around her insides, she gave up her vigil for the physical embodiment of her biggest regret. Waiting for him, watching out windows for someone to come was too gut-wrenchingly familiar. She’d spent too much of her life waiting on someone to come, lost too many hours. This one would come. Probably.
She prowled away from the window and set about tidying the already immaculate space. If he had found out his morning meeting was with her—that she was the acting head of surgery for St. Vincent’s—he might not show up. That was a nice thought.
Fleetingly.
If he came now, that was the better option, otherwise she’d just have to chase him down. She had to try and fix this. She’d promised Marjorie.
She uncrossed her arms and shook her hands out. When had she gone back to the window? Jeez. Calm down, exercise a little self-control. If he came she had to keep the situation civil and professional, and that couldn’t happen if her emotions ran amok.
This was her hospital. Everyone loved and respected her. They wouldn’t stop her just because Preston hated her.
Even if he told them what she’d done.
Probably.
A light knock came at the door, more of a warning that it was opening than a request. She caught his reflection in the window. The oatmeal-lead flipped over, but it took her a couple seconds to make her body turn around.
No matter how she tried to will herself to be calm, her heart continued to square dance against her sternum.
Her eyes directly on him hit harder than the reflection. Five years hadn’t aged him so much as refined him. Not a trace of boyishness remained in his face. Preston had his man face and, heaven help her, it was glorious. Broad. Cut jaw. Cheeks darkened with stubble despite being freshly shaved.
He didn’t even blink when he saw her, but the pale blue eyes that had always mesmerized her looked tired. And cold. And every inch as devastating as they had always been. Having no apparent reaction made it seem like he wasn’t angry at least, even though he focused on her with a strength that left her feeling skewered.
“Hardin.” His mouth firmed and black brows drew together, more a look of resolve than the scowl she’d expected. “I was hoping to put off running into you, but we might as well get it over with.” He stepped through the door.
Did he show anger before detonating these days? A brilliant surgeon he may be, but mercurial. His moods had always been a crapshoot, even before she’d painted a blood-red target on her back.
She should speak. The speech. She’d had a speech prepared, back before fear had eaten it. “You’re meeting me,” Dasha blurted out. “Our head is on hiatus. I’m Acting Head.”
“The lady in HR managed to bypass that bit of information.” Preston took his time closing the door and finding somewhere to stand and fill up the whole room.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come if you knew. Don’t blame her. My fault.” Dasha licked her lips, mouth dry as a winter wind.
“Am I here on your recommendation?” One of his eyes twitched. Should she read something into that? Like the arms folding over his chest weren’t enough body language to clue her into his mindset. He might not be angry, but he certainly wasn’t happy either. Not forgiven, not that she expected to be. She had done nothing to deserve it. Yet.
“Dr. Saunders recommended you to the board.” At her request. She left that part out. “But he did it from home. His wife is ill.”
“When will he return?” He uncrossed his arms.
Good sign? Bad sign? She had to stop trying to read him. This was business. Business spawned by personal mistakes and regrets but still business. Messy business, and she much preferred tidy. “I expect it will be a couple of months.” She had to take another breath to force the remaining words out. “Marjorie’s in hospice care and he doesn’t want to leave her side. But he’s expecting your call, if you want to put off coming to St. Vincent’s until his return.”
“You’re who I’ll be working with if I stick around now?”
He kept eye contact, and it was all Dasha could do not to look away.
“Yes.” After work, she was so going to need to spend some time with Ben & Jerry. And maybe Jack Daniels too. She could make some kind of boozy ice-cream cocktail. Get one of those beer helmets to hold her booze-a-thon and wear out her treadmill. She needed to move. She used up her daily capacity for refined immobility while in surgery; outside the OR sleep was the only other thing that kept her fairly still.
He didn’t say anything.
She drummed her fingers against her thigh and waited, holding his gaze. Silence wasn’t her favorite, but the longer he went without erupting into a full verbal assault, the easier it got to be around him.
He was still Preston. He was still inherently good at heart, even if he tended toward selfishness. Not that she could say anything about that. Old Dasha was like that too. Much more than New-and-Improved Dasha.
New-and-Improved Dasha had spent time on her people skills and increased her frustration tolerance. She waited until it seemed like he was also waiting on her to say something else. “If you’d prefer to wait until Dr. Saunders returns, you can work directly with him on his cases, but the board wants you working with a surgeon on staff for a probationary period before they decide to finalize the privileges.”
“Probation?” he repeated, his voice rising ever so slightly. Okay, yeah, the meeting was wearing on him too. Maybe she should have worked up to that bit.
Preston had never responded well to limits. He plowed his way through obstacles, something that had attracted her to him back in school. That had been the start. Sometimes she wondered if she’d have made it through medical school and residency without that rivalry—even after it had grown into a relationship, the rivalry had still been there.
Preston’s idea of support had usually involved him taunting and teasing her until she felt driven to do just as well as she knew he would do. Sometimes Dasha had been certain she’d only pulled it off out of spite. And that crippling need to prove she was as good as everyone else. Worthy of his challenges. Worthy of his friendship...
She sucked in a deep breath. Getting through this meeting meant avoiding those sorts of detours into their past, or at least the emotions that had driven her. She had to stay on point.
As she’d stormed ahead when she should have trod lightly, she did her best now, under the weight of his stare to at least soften the blow. “This is not about your surgical ability. You’re brilliant with a scalpel and I don’t think anyone would ever deny that, but your people skills are the worst.”
“I’ve never betrayed a friend,” he drawled, no longer dancing around the past. “So, between the two of us, I’d say my people skills were superior.”
Keeping this completely businesslike and gentle just wasn’t going to work—he’d just demoted her from ex-girlfriend to ex-friend. Too much tension hung between them to avoid all the unpleasantness that had come before—all the unpleasantness she’d caused—but she still wanted to try. “Be that as it may, you have a reputation for being difficult. Which I’m certain you know.”
“No, I don’t know. Explain it, Hardin. I’m difficult?” There it was. Anger. Dampened, kept from burning hot right now, but still present.
God, those eyes. Ice-blue they may be but she could swear there were tiny flames dancing in his pupils. Never mind what that tone... “I’m trying to be tactful, Preston.”
“Yes, I can see that. One thing I always appreciated about you was your directness. Spit it out.”
“Fine. Everyone expects you to be an ass.” Dasha stuffed her hands into her pockets. New-and-Improved Dasha didn’t do that because cultured people didn’t do that. It was an old habit. Old Dasha did this. She yanked her hands back out and forced them to relax at her sides. “St. Vincent’s has a close-knit community. The board likes it that way, the department heads make certain everyone works and plays well together. Staff, administration and physicians, we’re all people and, no matter what, conflict needs to be handled civilly.” God help her if he brought up how badly she’d worked and played with him. Dasha plowed forward like the thought never occurred to her.
“The board wants good reports about good behavior—that means you can’t just speak your mind. Other people can, but other people aren’t as sharp-tongued as you are. You cannot pick fights with people. And if you have it in you after all those long exhausting hours of not fighting with anyone, maybe you could work a few of the miracle procedures that makes the board willing to take the risk.”
“Why are you willing?” Those eyes followed her every movement.
Willing might be overstating that. “Dr. Saunders and I are both willing to—”
“That’s not what I asked,” Preston cut in. “I get why he’s willing. Why are you willing? What does it get you?”
A clean conscience? Cleaner...
The peace of knowing she’d righted a terrible mistake? Or tried to...
There was no gently working up to subjects with this man. He stormed ahead, setting the pace and expecting everyone else to keep up. And he really didn’t seem inclined to back off the subject now. She might as well do it quickly and cleanly. Maybe it would even salve his pride to know that she didn’t view this situation as doing him a favor. “I owe you.”
His gaze narrowed slightly.
Dasha waited for him to say something, but when that failed to happen she added, “And you’re an amazing surgeon, Dr. Monroe. You would be an asset to St. Vincent’s.”
He shifted, still quiet but mulling things over, if she had even the tiniest ability to read him anymore.
The fact that there was no immediate refusal didn’t really help her endure the silence. She looked down, away from his eyes—like that would give him some privacy to think—and got distracted by the shape of his body. Lean and broad. He filled out the blue scrubs like he was meant to sell them. Dasha had never found scrubs flattering, but there was something equalizing about everyone having to wear shapeless, wretched clothes that did nothing good for most figures.
Until it came to Preston.
He looked good. Narrow hips. Long legs. Broad shoulders. Lean. A swimmer’s build. But he was a runner. Like her—and yet another way they’d been rivals. In the class. At the track. During residency. Her libido had been shut down for years, and five minutes with this man and she was undressing him in her mind.
Before he had a chance to answer, the phone in her pocket buzzed and she fished it out to look.
“Big accident on I-40.” She looked him in the eye then. The man had worn scrubs to an interview, he’d come ready to work—or he had before he’d realized with whom he’d be working. As nice and easy as she’d wanted to play this, there was a chance he’d say no if she just asked him to come along. The only way Dasha knew how to make Preston do what she wanted? Make it a competition...dare him. “I’ve been summoned to Trauma One. I see that you came prepared to work, but I know that having to work with me might be too much for you to handle. I don’t want to make you do anything you just aren’t able to do, but do you think you could give us a hand? Maybe it will help you decide whether you want to stick around.”
The way his eyes narrowed made her worry that she’d played the wrong card.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said, his voice level enough to raise warning bells. “Do it again and I’m gone. I don’t really care what you think. If it didn’t sound like you needed help, I wouldn’t help. Maybe you can learn something from me.”
Before she could say anything, he was out the door and heading in the direction of Emergency. A quick lock of the door and Dasha ran to keep up with his easy jog.
Of course he knew where he was going. He probably memorized the layout of all the buildings before coming. And she was already lagging behind. But that was okay. No, it was better than okay. He would help. They’d need his help today.
And she knew one more thing now: he still looked on her as a rival, otherwise he wouldn’t have had to have the last word. And he really wouldn’t have thrown down the proverbial gauntlet.
Maybe he wasn’t so different after all. She could work with this Preston.
Probably.
* * *
A tractor trailer had turned over, crushing some cars and causing others to pile up, bringing to the ER the kind of injuries Preston expected. Until he saw two people pinned together by a length of steel rod. “What was the semi hauling?” He dragged on gloves and followed Dasha to the unlucky couple.
She called orders as a nurse helped her into a gown and gloves.
The grim looks he saw on the staff’s faces couldn’t be because he was there... Something was wrong. Something besides the carnage.
“You’re looking at it,” a nurse said, nodding to the skewer. “They were in the car together and had to be cut out.”
X-rays hung on the light board, side by side. The woman had a pierced lung, but she was conscious, with fluid currently draining. The man had abdominal trauma. Possibly pierced through his liver. Unconscious.
“Who’s on call for Cardiac?” Dasha asked.
“Stevens,” someone answered, then added, “But he was in the accident.”
The cardiac surgeon had been involved in the tractor trailer wreck?
“Is he injured?” Dasha never stopped moving but her dismay showed for a second before the wall came up. Preston checked the wound on the unconscious man and listened to his breathing then moved to repeat the check on the woman.
“He didn’t make it.” The same nurse who had answered him.
“Who’s on call?” Dasha moved past it, asking questions of different people, compiling the information she needed to see this through.
If the whole staff were as close as Dasha claimed, he could understand the grimness.
A faint burning started in his left eye. Not tears. Tears would be better. It was the other thing. A warning his eyes were acting up. The last thing he needed, an attack on his first day. Possible first day. If he stayed. It was starting to feel like some psychosomatic self-sabotage. But the job was the best part of him, even his subconscious had to realize that.
It was stress.
He should’ve been more prepared to see her. He’d known it would happen. He just hadn’t expected it to happen first thing.
He also hadn’t expected her to be so different. Long hair, blonde in that multicolored way he didn’t entirely get... Clean-faced. Put together. But the long hair looked good on her. Thick and straight. Sleek. Polished. Shockingly polished. She was trying so hard to be tactful. It was like speaking to a Dasha twin but wondering the whole time if he’d been Parent Trapped. Was this really the good twin, or was it the tomboy with scraped knees dressed up in her sister’s haircut and clothing?
That probably qualified as stressful. Left him a little off kilter.
On her way back to the female patient, Dasha stopped to press her upper arm against that of a nurse, just long enough to break her stride. A touch to comfort...albeit a strange one to keep her gloves clean, but a kind gesture anyway.
A second later she was with the female patient, said a few soft words to her, then straightened and resumed directing. “Dr. Monroe, you’re with me. Everyone, we need to wheel these two into the OR. We’ll separate them there.” The nurse she’d touched looked misty-eyed but jumped in to help. They all worked seamlessly as a team. Not just people working together.
Not once had he had that. Not since residency. He’d forgotten how she could do that...make people want to be their best. Strange contradiction in her character.
Think about it later. Time to work. Preston would never wish this kind of accident on anyone, but submersing himself in work was exactly what he needed.
A group surrounded the gurneys. Pounding feet and squeaky wheels announced transit of the unlucky couple through the hospital to the freight elevator—the only one big enough to take the gurneys in the position the steel rebar had locked the couple into—then to the large operating room.
“Dr. Monroe, you’ve got Mr. Andrews.” Dasha didn’t look at him as she spoke but kept an eye on her patient.
He’d like Mrs. Andrews. In truth, that was probably a two-surgeon job, but they only had so many hands. Maybe he could help Mr. Andrews and then give Dasha a hand, if Mrs. Andrews survived that long. Lots of blood vessels in the area that could be damaged.
They settled in the large operating suite. Neither patient was conscious now. Blood loss did that.
Dasha handed him the surgical saw. “Would you?”
Deferring to him? Okay, that was surprising. He always loved the saw—had almost gone orthopedics because of it. Did she remember that?
Later. Focus. Figuring out her motivations would drive him insane, and now was not the time. She was just another surgeon in a dicey situation with him.
The sound of metal on metal bounced off every hard flat surface, roaring at near-deafening levels while the steel teeth chewed through the rod.
As soon as it had cut through, Dasha’s team pulled Mrs. Andrews’s table over, locked the wheels and got to work.
Preston handed the saw to his surgical tech, had his gown and gloves changed, and cut in, following the rod through so much shredded flesh.
As he got to work, the burning in his eye subsided. Maybe he was off the hook. Maybe work really would save him. He and Mr. Andrews would save each other.
“Talk to me,” Dasha called, though she needn’t have lifted her voice. Back to back, they weren’t close enough to touch but Preston could swear he felt her. The air vibrated between them. Or maybe they were touching somehow. Her gown? His? Just something else he needed to ignore.
“Liver pierced. Most of it shredded. There’s enough intact to salvage. Working on the bleeding now.” Of which there was a large amount. “Yours?”
“Working on the bleeding,” she echoed, but in her voice there was a sound he could still identify. She didn’t think Mrs. Andrews was going to make it. But if he knew nothing else about Dasha, he knew she didn’t like to lose.
“I need to know if they got hold of Nettle,” Dasha said, her words rushed, agitated.
But she wasn’t talking to him. Let her deal with the rest of department. His focus was in front of him.
How much worse would this morning have been if he and Dasha had had nothing to do but sit around and reminisce? Remember that time when we were dating, and you broke my heart and left me handcuffed to the bed while you stole my fellowship? How much trouble would his mouth have gotten him into then? It certainly would’ve taxed this new leaf he struggled to turn over.
His mouth had caused him years of trouble, and was the reason he had to work with the woman he’d spent the past decade quasi-stalking.
The best way to avoid Dasha? To know where she was. Know where she worked. Know what conferences she attended. Know where she lived, where she likely shopped, dined and visited. Avoidance of that level required intelligence.
It wasn’t really stalking. It was more like anti-stalking. In a stalker sort of way.
And now she stood behind him, no more than a yard away.
Another hour passed.
“How’s it going over there?” She asked for updates regularly but hadn’t made any more attempts to manipulate him by riling him. Something else he should put off thinking about until later when he was deciding whether to come back to St. Vincent’s.
“Closing,” Preston answered. “Transfused two pints of blood.” No doubt this wasn’t exactly what the board had in mind for supervised practice.
“Good. I need you.” To help with the surgery. She needed his assistance with the surgery. The words she’d chosen were bad, but they had no hidden meaning.
“How is she doing on blood?” he asked.
A surgical nurse helped him out of his gown and gloves and into a fresh set.
“Up to three, probably adding another...” She never looked away from her patient.
His first view inside the woman’s chest nearly robbed him of breath. “We could do with a cardiac surgeon.” Could they ever. But in the small cavity his hands joined hers, and they worked in tandem to repair damage that appeared irreversible.
“That’s who I’ve been asking for updates on,” she muttered, but she still worked. She wouldn’t give up. It was one thing he could give her credit for. Well, that and her skill. On a professional level Dasha was good. It was as a human being that she had failed.
His left eye twitched. He squinted. Sometimes taking charge of those muscles helped. Sometimes it didn’t. Working with Dasha might be a deal-breaker. He’d have to think about it.
Later.
When he relaxed the muscles around his eye, his sight sharpened and he saw it. There was a small cut on Mrs. Andrews’s heart, but it had not gone through. “Damn.”
“What is it?” Dasha stopped what she was doing long enough to look where his hands were.
“She needs to go on the pump,” Preston said. “Now.” That the heart wall had held this long was a miracle.
“Get the line in her. Go femoral, we don’t need any more holes north of the belt,” Dasha said, then went back to what she was doing. Already the techs were getting the heart-lung machine in place. They’d started moving the second he said the word pump. Preston could get used to that.
A cannula landed in his hand and he prodded around on the woman’s thigh to find the artery, swabbed with alcohol and threaded it in. By the time he was ready for the return line, the nurse was waiting for him.
He’d no more gotten it settled than a man pushed into the OR.
Nettle. Preston recognized him then. The name hadn’t rung any bells but he’d met this cardiac surgeon before. A golfing buddy of his father’s. Which was all Preston needed to know about him. He could jump to some conclusions on his own. Probably decent at his job, but arrogant, and proud of that arrogance.
“Dr. Hardin, step back, please,” Nettle said, allowing a nurse to help with the gloves.
“She’s got a laceration that isn’t through the muscle.” Preston gestured to the area where the rod had scuffed up Mrs. Andrews’s heart.
“I see it,” Nettle said.
Preston stayed put but lifted his hands free and out of the way, ready to go back in if needed. Yes, he wanted the cardiac surgeon to get there, but now he just felt uneasy and over the years he’d learned to trust that feeling. No way was he leaving without a fight, he just had to try and handle it...tactfully.
Dasha talked the surgeon through what had been done, her team continuing with the pump to get the blood cooling so they could stop her heart and repair it. She hit all the pertinent details, which should’ve made him feel better about the hand-off. But a report wasn’t the same as having seen where the rod had been.
“Thank you both. I’ve got it from here,” Nettle said.
“Don’t you need another set of—?” Preston almost got through his question.
“I have another set of hands. I brought them.” Just then the door swung open and a younger version of the man made his way to the table.
“I’d still like to stay and help.” Preston tried to keep his request in a moderate, reasonable tone. Surely the man couldn’t object to that. “I’ll stay out of the way unless you need me.”
“If she needs her appendix removed, you’ll be the first person we call,” Nettle said. His tone light, no aggression there, but it reeked of condescension.
Nettle had obviously not gotten Dasha’s memo on being nice to everyone.
Preston caught Dasha shaking her head almost imperceptibly at him. Not the time to fight. He knew that. Of course it wasn’t the time, but there was no other time to make a stand and stay with the patient. He couldn’t just leave now and ask later over drinks.
“She’s in good hands,” Dasha said diplomatically, and began trying to steer him toward the door.
“You can’t be all right with this,” he hissed in her ear.
“No,” she whispered back, “but it isn’t going to help Mrs. Andrews if we distract him.” She surreptitiously nodded to a camera above the table.
Preston pulled off his gloves and gown and headed for the door. As soon as she was through it, he grabbed her by the elbow. “Where is the monitor?”
“Next door.” Dasha fished her keys out of her pocket again, and before a minute passed they were crowded around a monitor, following the surgery.
“Is this recording?” Preston asked, looking the room over. “Can we zoom in or something?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t know.” Dasha didn’t look away from the screen, but she did get the phone and managed to dial while they watched. “It should be fine. He’s got excellent stats and qualifications. He’s a good surgeon. A little territorial...and it was weird of him to kick us out. Do you two know one another? It seemed like he knew you and didn’t like you.”
“I noticed.” He kept his eyes on the screen. It’d be easier to see if he was there—and easier to pay attention if Dasha was anywhere else—but Mrs. Andrews was her patient too and he wasn’t going to be Nettle-like and kick her out just because her proximity bothered him. He was tough. He could handle it. He’d had five years to get her out of his system. This was just like taking a recovering alcoholic to a bar...the temptation was there, no matter how much he knew it was a bad idea to even think about it. Ignore her scent. Don’t think about the way she tasted. Don’t think about her at all.
If he paid attention to the small screen, to everything the surgeons were doing, he could see if they were in trouble, and—he prayed—have time to get there. Not that it was likely they’d not be able to handle whatever situation they got into, but he just didn’t want to let go. The idea that Mr. Andrews would have to recover from surgery and from losing his wife was too much to stomach on his first day. Especially with all this Dasha business he had to stomach.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Dasha spoke, interfering with his plan to ignore her.
“We’ve met. Nothing happened. But he golfs with my father. I imagine Nettle hears a lot of ranting from Davis P.,” Preston muttered, forcing it to the back of his mind now that he had to try and see clearly from the angle of the camera and the small screen he was viewing on.
“Mr. Andrews is awake.” She passed the phone to him, letting him get an update on his other patient.
“Tell him she’s still in surgery.” He paused and then added, “And with really good surgeons.”
God, he hated lying. The man might be a good surgeon—that was still up for debate—but he was an ass. And all this talking interrupted his monitoring. He hung up and refocused. Someone had to make sure it was done right.
* * *
Dasha kept one eye on the screen and the other on Preston. Alone in a small room together...at least they reeked of surgical soap, nothing sexy about that.
Despite a near hiccup with Nettle, Preston was a professional in surgery. Somewhere in the back of her mind Dasha had known he would be, even if she’d irritated him just moments before. He took his work seriously. He took his patients and his duty to them seriously. Which was what made the situation at Davidson West, his last hospital, so confusing.
Something had to have happened. Something she needed details about. The missing details worried her.
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.
