Читать книгу Out of His League - Cathryn Parry - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCHAPTER ONE
WHEN DR. ELIZABETH LAVALLEY approached the elevator bank on the third floor of her Boston hospital, a crowd milled in front of the nurse’s station. Her department was uncharacteristically buzzing.
“Somebody famous,” she heard an aide say. Instead of joining the mix, Elizabeth skirted the chaos and quickly stepped inside the elevator, heading in the other direction.
Privacy and peace, that’s what Elizabeth craved. Outside, the city was waking.
She cut across the hospital complex until she came to a red-painted stripe that ran along the sidewalk. Boston’s famous Freedom Trail. Appropriate, because this was what Elizabeth’s job meant to her: freedom. An escape from the turmoil she’d grown up in.
But that was behind her. She’d worked hard for the life she led now, and she would do anything to keep it.
Her surgical scrubs fluttered in the slight breeze. A half hour before the first surgery in her morning shift, it was a sunny, blue-sky, early October day. She strode, focused, down the red-painted line, more crowded with people than usual. A cruise ship was docked in the harbor—likely one of the fall “foliage” itineraries that went from New York up to Canada, though it was early for the peak of the autumn leaves’ spectacular color. Still, it seemed passengers and crew members from around the world were crowded into town today.
Maybe someday she would take one of those cruises, albeit to Rome, Greece or Turkey, where she could focus on her love of archaeology and antiquity. Surely there would be a way to find a single berth and keep herself sequestered.
Maybe, if she were bold and asked him, Albert would go with her.... But on second thought, Albert didn’t like vacations. And he certainly didn’t share her curiosity for ancient civilizations. A seminar on the latest techniques for inserting prosthetic heart valves, perhaps.
But that was the kind of man she preferred. A safe man, one who didn’t push her from her comfort zone, question her or make demands on her time. Really, she only wanted to be left alone. She was independent, and she was...not understandable to the world at large. Only a man who lived in her world—this world, not the world of her past—could possibly understand.
She stepped aside as she saw a man, a cruise ship passenger—judging by his tote bag that said SS Holland—eye her, and then his camera. Even though he smiled at her, obviously intending to ask her to take a photo of him, she tightened her grip on the bag in her hand and drilled her gaze into the pavement as she walked away, faster now.
She did feel a twinge of guilt, because she wasn’t a rude person at heart. But people didn’t always understand that. She was awkward at small talk. Someone else would be a much better photo-taker for the man than she would ever be.
She hastened around the corner, out of the tourist area and back to her hospital. Just a small escape, a short bit of exercise before her workday in the operating room, where she’d be sitting hunched over her equipment for hours straight. She had a full morning and afternoon of procedures—typically three to four scheduled surgeries, as well as whatever emergency situations came their way. She would be busy, focused and absorbed in her job—just the way she liked it.
Checking her watch, she headed into the underground tunnel that led to Wellness Hospital, then felt a flash of cold that made her skin prickle. Jogging ahead, she rubbed her arms and went inside to the main lobby.
She was still breathing heavily when the receptionist stopped her. “Dr. LaValley! Your department called down looking for you.”
Elizabeth felt at her waist, but she’d forgotten her beeper. “What’s wrong?”
“Your sister is upstairs.”
“My sister? Are you sure?”
“That’s what they said.”
Elizabeth’s heart sank. All the goodwill and euphoria slipped away. The panicky, unsafe, confusing world she’d escaped was colliding with the orderly, private, secure world she’d created for herself as an adult.
She hurried for the elevator, wondering if something was wrong with their mother again.
A fall, a blackout, an arrest. Which one would it be this time?
That was the only reason she could think of for Ashley to contact her. Either way, Elizabeth had no choice but to see her sister.
* * *
JON FARELL SAT beside his agent’s daughter in the waiting room. The hospital had cleared out a private room for him, thankfully.
Not that he didn’t love signing autographs. Under regular circumstances, he could interact with people all day. As a pitcher with the New England Captains, he made it a point to hang out by the bullpen before home games, making himself available for any kid with a pen and a slip of paper. And why shouldn’t he? He was living the dream life—pro athlete for a big-market team, a local guy made good.
Everybody in the region knew the Captains, and most rooted for them, as well. Even this morning, strolling through the hospital before elective surgery, he’d noticed half the people waiting wore blue Captains caps with the distinctive “C” logo. Jon had been mobbed when he and Brooke had first shown up in the admitting area. Despite being on a food-and-drink fast since midnight, with nothing in his stomach and worry on his mind, Jon had signed a few autographs before a nurse took pity on him and hustled him into the empty examination room.
Jon scratched his right hand. He’d gotten used to the throbbing. Thankfully, it was his nonpitching hand.
But still...
It might be malignant.
That one, offhand comment from the doctor had shaken him to his core and thrown him off stride. Still did.
What would Jon do if it was cancer?
Do. Not. Go. There.
Mom was twenty-eight when she died of cancer. Your age now.
Jon swallowed, tried to keep his face a mask.
Next to him, Brooke tapped away on her smartphone. He hadn’t told her about the cancer part of the consultation. Hadn’t told anybody, except for Max, Brooke’s father and Jon’s agent since he’d been a high school kid drafted in the fourth round.
Where the hell was Max, anyway? Why had he sent his daughter in his place?
Brooke glanced up and smiled at him. She’d been flirty and full of attention toward him, and that had set Jon on edge. The only thing he wanted to talk to her about was her father, and that was the one topic she’d been closemouthed about since picking Jon up at his apartment. “Dad’s busy” had been all he could get out of her on the subject, though she’d chatted nonstop about baseball and Jon’s chance at a contract, which unnerved him. She wasn’t his agent; her father was.
“You can head out now,” he told Brooke. “Grab some breakfast. I’ll have the nurses call you when I’m out of surgery.”
She stood and stretched. “I shouldn’t. My father will kill me if I don’t stay here and report back everything to him.”
“I won’t tell him,” he said.
She patted his shoulder as she brushed by him, and he caught a whiff of perfume, sharp to his nose. Her pants were tight, showing off her behind, which jutted out with the high heels she wore. She strolled across the room, “working it.” She was too much like the groupies who were always around guys like him, doing their best to tempt him away from his game, and it made him uncomfortable.
“I’ll call the team doctors once you’re in surgery,” Brooke said.
Don’t do that. “Max can handle it,” he said mildly.
“Enough with the ‘Max.’” She pouted. “I don’t know why you don’t trust me, Jon.”
He clenched his right hand. Malignant. It might be malignant.
“I’m just caffeine-deprived,” he said. “Have a coffee for me, will you?”
She frowned at him. “I think you should give me your valuables to hold. Wallet, keys, jewelry.” She eyed the chain around his neck—the medallion was tucked under his shirt and she couldn’t see it. His mother had given him that, the last Christmas she was alive. He didn’t take it off for anybody.
But damn it, Brooke had a point. The doctors would want him to strip to nothing, and anything personal belonging to a celebrity, even a local celebrity, tended to grow legs and walk off. He took out his wallet, handed it to her, then pulled his keys from his pocket and unclasped the chain from his neck. She was Max’s daughter. If she lost any of it, Max would disown her.
A smug smile on her lips, she deposited his life inside her big, gold satchel of a purse. “How about a phone?” she asked.
“Nope, didn’t bring it,” he answered, doing his best not to show his irritation.
Thankfully, she left the room then. Sashayed right on out. Her perfume lingered, so he closed his eyes and transported himself someplace safe. He’d had so much practice as a kid. Man, he was thinking about those days too often lately. His chest throbbed right along with his hand.
Another nurse came in and set him up with a hospital gown and plastic bag to hold his clothing and shoes. He smiled at her, was polite and personable, even though he wanted to lie down and grit his teeth. But if he did, it might get caught on camera, might change the public’s opinion of him and jeopardize his job.
He was up for a contract. The season was over. He’d done okay—he was a back-of-the-rotation starting pitcher and had won his last two games—but the team had gone down in flames, anyway. The radio guys and the sportswriters were on the warpath; you’d think he and his teammates had all mugged little girls and stolen their lunch money.
Yeah, he understood fan loyalty. But there was real suffering in life, and, unlike most of these media people, it seemed he understood that while they didn’t.
“It was a shame about the Captains,” the nurse remarked to him. “My son stayed up late and watched all your games this month. He was hoping you’d make it to the playoffs.”
Him and about a million other people.
“Would your boy like an autograph?” Jon asked. His finger was really goddamn killing him. Had to be psychosomatic. It knew a knife was going to be slicing right into it, down to the bone, and cutting off a tumor the size of a pistachio nut.
“He would love that.” The nurse pulled a marker out of her pocket. “Are you sure you’re offering? I don’t want to bother you.”
He hid a smile. “I know I’ve got a job most kids in Boston would do anything for.”
Under normal circumstances, there was nothing he liked better than taking care of people—making them happy.
He glanced at his bum hand. The past couple weeks wearing a baseball glove rubbing against the knuckle hadn’t helped it. Still, unless a person knew what they were looking for, the growth on the bone of his right ring finger wasn’t apparent. He’d kept it from the team doctors, wanting to finish the season and make it into the playoffs.
Playoffs hadn’t happened, but he had finished the season, pretending nothing was wrong with him. Then he’d gone for an appointment earlier in the week and...
Here he was. Scheduled to get the tumor immediately removed and tested.
A chill socked him in the gut. This could not be cancer. Could not.
What would Bobby and Francis do if it was?
His smile stiffening, he turned to the nurse. “What’s your son’s name?”
“Kyle.” She pulled out his baseball card from her bag and handed it to him. “He’s a Little League pitcher, but he missed his spring season because he broke his arm.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jon signed his name on the card. “Do you have a piece of paper? I’ll write him a personal note.”
The nurse produced a memo pad, and on it he scribbled, “To a fellow pitcher. Hope you stay healed and well for next season.”
He handed the card and the note back to the nurse. She was looking at him thoughtfully. “You’re very good at being a public person. You have a way with people.”
Jon shrugged. “I’m the oldest in my family. Two younger brothers.” Bobby and Francis. And if it weren’t for this issue, he would’ve told them he was going to be here today, and Francis probably would’ve come, Bobby, too, seeing as he was a college student in Boston, just back from Italy on a junior semester abroad. “So I know what kids are like.”
The nurse put a blood pressure cuff on him. “We get celebrities and famous people in from time to time. But usually, they have entourages who instruct us not to interact with them.”
Because it sucks thinking you might have cancer. Jon smiled at the nurse as he watched the needle move on the gauge. “No worries.”
But there were worries. Tons of worries. Maybe after today, he’d be unemployed. Or worse, handed a death sentence. Then what would his family do? His father...cripes, he hated to think what Dad would do. He’d barely survived what had happened to their mom. Jon had held them all together emotionally, for years. It gave him a purpose, and with the money from his contract, he was taking care of them still.
The nurse handed him a paper cap for the operating room. “They might ask you to tie back your hair,” she said, winking at him. “I know how the girls love it. Getting long, isn’t it?”
Yeah, it was his thing—his trademark. Shoulder length now, he had promised not to cut it until the Captains made the playoffs, and then he’d lined up somebody to shave it off for charity. The team had been planning to make a big deal of it for their cancer charity.
That word again. Not that he’d ever told anybody on the team about his mom.
He forced himself to smile. “It’s fine.”
He was a good liar, when he needed to take care of others.
Finally, the nurse left him. He was used to people lingering over him, and that was okay. Being famous served a purpose. It was the thought of not having a purpose that threw him into a tailspin. Just get through today.
He changed out of his jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt into the hospital gown.
A male aide entered his room. “Hey, man! I love you guys!” he said. “You were the best pitcher on the team this September—they should put you at the top of the order!” Then the man wheeled Jon into what looked like a holding room for the O.R. His gut twisted into a million knots.
Do or die. Cut the friggin’ thing out and test it. Am I done, or do I get to come back for another season?
But as someone pricked his arm—shit, his pitching arm—with a needle for an IV, he looked away, knowing that it wasn’t the season that counted.
It was his family. And for them, he was flooded with the worst fear he had ever felt in his entire life. And that was saying something.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He felt more helpless and alone than he wanted to admit to himself.
More preoperative patients were wheeled into bays; the room became busy. As doctors, nurses and orderlies came inside, they all looked his way, to the farthest corner.
Word was out that he was here. Publicity-wise, Jon had it covered. A tweet was prepared to go out this evening, if necessary—Routine elective surgery on a stiff finger, non-pitching hand. Looks good. Thanks to Wellness Hospital. For now, though, he just needed to calm down, get the knots out of his stomach. He closed his eyes again.
“I’m Dr. Elizabeth LaValley. I’m your anesthesiologist this morning.”
He opened his eyes a slit. Saw a pretty doctor with chin-length, glossy hair. A cute pug nose. Slight but sure hands that gripped an iPad to her chest.
He opened his eyes all the way, because he needed to pay attention. It was his body that they’d be cutting into. But when he looked up at the doctor, it was what he saw in her eyes that made him sit up.
From the dampness in her lashes, and her puffy face, he could tell she’d been crying. And whatever the reason, she was trying to hide it. She kept her gaze drilled on her tablet computer instead of looking at him.
“And you are...” Blinking fast, she touched the screen. “Jon Farell.”
She pronounced it wrong, like “barrel,” which was his first clue.
“It’s Fair-ell,” he said.
Her brow knit. He waited for her to recognize his name.
Nope, nothing.
“You’re here for surgery on your finger...” She swiped another page. Tears were welling in her eyes, and she blinked fast.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Of course.” She seemed to shake herself. Tapped at the screen. “Do you have any concerns I should know about?” she said to the tablet’s screen.
Other than the fact that he might have cancer? And that his pretty anesthesiologist had just been crying?
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he repeated.
“Yes.” She took a breath. “I need to double-check some questions. Are you...” She squinted at whatever his computer files were telling her. “Right-handed?”
A very good question. “I’m left-handed,” he said. “I pitch left-handed. This is my catching hand.” He held it up to her, as if that made a difference.
“I see.” She glanced at the chart. He noted that she wore no rings on her left hand. “And you...play sports?”
The one woman in Boston who appeared not to know who he was. He would have laughed if what he was facing wasn’t so important.
“At a very high level,” he said. “They pay me lots of money to do so.” At least, he hoped they still did after today.
She nodded, still staring at the tablet. “You are worried that the surgeons might cut into your left hand by mistake. Duly noted.”
“You’ve never heard of the New England Captains?” he asked her.
“I...don’t follow sports.”
Even more fascinating. “Do you know anything about baseball?”
“I... No.” She blinked. Again, those eyes were filling up. Eyes that were warm and brown. Like the root beer he’d liked as a kid.
“My nephew likes sports,” she whispered.
His antennae went up. He was absolutely certain she hadn’t meant to divulge this fact, that she was nothing at all like the others—people who knew he was coming into surgery, knew he was good-natured by reputation, and had therefore used the opportunity to provide a gift or a story for their own children.
Not that he blamed them. It was just...refreshing...to meet somebody—especially a single woman his age with a solid career and goals in her own right—who didn’t look at him as public property.
“Please sit down,” he said to her. “I’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s all right.” There was a chair next to his gurney.
She continued to stand. “Certainly. In five minutes, your surgeon will be stopping by, and after that I’ll put a relaxant in your IV drip. Do you have any allergies?”
He’d been through all of this at his last appointment, but he just smiled at her. “No allergies. Tell me what’s upsetting you?”
She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m fine, Mr. Farell.”
“Fair-ell,” he said. “And it’s Jon.”
She licked her lips and stared hard at her tablet. “Have you ever been under general anesthesia? Do you have any concerns about it?”
Dr. Elizabeth LaValley, the name stitched across her white lab jacket said. Her scrubs beneath it were bright turquoise. She was medium height, and she was attractive in a fresh-faced, studious way. Obviously she was smart, or she wouldn’t be a doctor.
“Mr. Farell?” She said the name correctly this time.
He smiled. Look at me, he willed her.
She glanced at him, then blinked, startled and went back to staring at her screen. “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice, “you’re obviously someone famous, and I’m making you uncomfortable....” Blood seemed to drain from her face.
Usually, he would interject, reassure her and make her comfortable, but...he was genuinely interested in hearing what she had to say. And he got the feeling she didn’t speak her mind too often to people, preferring to keep things to herself.
“I’ve...had a bad morning,” she continued, still not looking at him. “I just got some...difficult news. If you’d like, I’ll have another anesthesiologist called in to assist with your surgery. But I assure you, I’m very capable at what I do, and once I’m with the rest of the team, I will be fine—”
“I want you,” he blurted.
She blinked at him. Her eyes lingered on his, then traveled the length of him very quickly, up and down. She swallowed. “Why?” she asked.
He liked the sound of her voice—soft and calming. And it was completely inappropriate for the situation, but his body was giving a sexual response....
He crossed his arms over his lap. Smiled nonchalantly at her and gave her an uncharacteristic, honest answer. “Because I’m scared as hell at what’s going to happen to me, and I don’t want anybody else but you to know. Okay?”
“Me?” She put her hand on her heart.
“Uh, I figure you’ve already seen me at my worst. I don’t want to have to explain it to anybody else again.”
She nodded slowly. “That’s logical.”
“It is.”
Their gazes held for just a split second too long. There was...something there. An attraction, and on her part, too. And no, it wasn’t as meaningless to him as overcoming a challenge—getting a woman who wasn’t impressed with his celebrity to come to his side. It was...deeper than that.
And it was crazy to think so based on a two-minute meeting. Maybe he was just so scared witless about the cancer talk, it was making him think crazy things.
Carefully, Elizabeth LaValley put down her computer tablet. He got the impression that this action in itself was significant for her.
“Mr. Farell,” she said slowly, “your surgeon is very good. He’s our best, in fact, and I can vouch for him.”
“Not all cancer can be cured,” he murmured. “People die. I’ve seen...people die.”
Again, that pale face. “I know.” Her voice caught, and her hand went to her mouth.
“Tell me, Lizzy,” he said softly. “Uh, is it okay if I call you that?”
“I... Yes. I’m fine, really. It’s fine.” She waved her hand, looking flustered. “It’s just...we had a cancer scare in our family five years ago. My three-year-old nephew had leukemia. Today is the day he gets tested, to see if he’s really cured.”
“And you’re worried?”
“My sister thinks he’s sick again.” She shook her head. “No—we’re supposed to be talking about you. This is your surgery. Your anesthesia. In a minute, your surgeon—the head of the team—will be coming to see you.”
She picked up the tablet again and very carefully sat to read his case notes. There was fresh concentration in her gaze. Her blinking had stopped. Her hands weren’t shaking.
“Lizzy, I’m sorry about your nephew.”
She shook her head again. “He’ll be fine, Mr. Farell. Today, we’ll be removing a tumor from your right ring finger—a growth on the bone—but from your tests, there are no solid indications it’s cancer. Of course, the tumor will be tested as soon as it’s removed, but that is standard procedure.”
He’d lost her. But she needed to prepare for her job performance in the minutes ahead—of anyone, he could understand and appreciate that. “How long will it take to get back the results?”
“Typically, a few days for the lab work,” she said. “But, once the doctor opens up the finger and sees the tumor, he can usually rule out cancer by sight.”
Jon drew in a breath. She was gazing at him, her forehead creased. He got a feeling she didn’t look at too many of her patients like this. Really look at them, really let herself see them as people instead of as medical problems to be solved.
“Thank you, Lizzy,” he said quietly.
She blushed. “It’s Elizabeth.”
“Call me Jon.”
Her teeth bit down on her lower lip.
And because things were looking so much better now, he pushed his luck. “I have another request that I was wondering if you could help me with.”
* * *
TALKING INAPPROPRIATELY to a patient? This was so unlike her; it was surreal.
The only thing that explained Elizabeth’s uncharacteristic unprofessionalism with Jon—with this patient—was that, silly as it sounded, her grandmother had called her Lizzy.
And her grandmother had died when Elizabeth was eight, the same age her nephew Brandon was now.
Fresh tears sprang to her eyelids. She bit down on her lip again. Control. Stay in control.
She was just so vulnerable now, ever since Ashley had told her about Brandon. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to stop the trembling.
The surgeon approached Mr. Farell. A professional athlete getting the most experienced doctor on staff...no surprise there. Elizabeth stepped aside, relieved to be able to step into the shadows.
Talking to the patients presurgery was the least favorite part of her job. She would as soon die as admit this to anyone, but she’d chosen anesthesia as a medical specialty because the bulk of her duties involved dealing with patients while they were unable to move or speak and therefore couldn’t interact or cause conflict with her. All that was required, interfacing-wise, was typically a five- or ten-minute consultation before the procedure. Right up Elizabeth’s alley.
But this man...Jon Farell...had just blown all her experience out of the water. Even now, as the surgeon talked on and on, regaling Jon, asking him questions, adding to his “cocktail banter stories” by interacting with a Captains pitcher, Jon kept glancing at her. Meaningfully, as if the two of them shared a secret.
She rarely stared at men. Her life was too private for that, Albert not considered. But this man...
She’d been fighting an urge to lean closer and smell him. Very strange, but she did understand the scientific principal behind it. Sex pheromones, it was called. The theory stated that Nature, in her infinite wisdom, ensured that people with complementary genetic traits were attracted to one another. Someone with a family tendency for diabetes, say, was attracted to someone else with specific immunity against it. A way for survival of the species, so to speak.
Scientifically, then, she wasn’t physically attracted to Jon Farell, but her DNA was.
Intuitively, it made sense. Jon was the physical opposite to her. He was athletic and strong, with ice-blue eyes. His face bore the fine, delicate features of Nordic ancestry, but mixed with something else—a blending of another culture that gave him bronzed, sun-kissed skin and long brown hair, mysteriously streaked on the left side with white. His hair wasn’t dyed white, but was naturally white, as in, the absence of color. Somewhere along the line, probably through blunt trauma, a small section on his scalp, about a quarter inch wide, had been injured such that he no longer had any pigment in the hair follicles.
Overall, it made Jon Farell look...beautiful. And with his warm, musically pitched voice, it gave him the mysterious aura of some past, mystical culture.
He set her workaday French and Scottish genes on fire. Which had probably contributed to her opening her mouth and admitting things to him that she would never in a million years tell anybody else.
It made him uniquely dangerous to her.
The aides prepared to wheel Jon’s gurney into the operating room, and she stepped forward, doing her job. As the rest of the team moved into position, she put relaxants into Jon’s IV line. Waited until those ice-blue eyes flickered closed.
She felt her shoulders relaxing. He was in the customary pose of her customary patients. He was no longer a threat.
“Lizzy,” he murmured suddenly, and she jumped.
“Yes, Jon?” She leaned closer.
“Please tell me afterward what the doctor said about the malignancy. Can you do that?”
“I’ll...”
But he was out. It was just as well.
They wheeled him into surgery, and she set him up to monitor him with her equipment. Waited while the nurse—that lucky woman—tied his beautiful hair up into a cap before placing pads on his chest and a cuff on his arm. Elizabeth eased him into unconsciousness by selecting a syringe and inserting the drugs into his IV.
He was truly out then.
Briefly, Elizabeth wondered how she could possibly communicate to Jon afterward, as he had asked, but she put that out of mind and went back to her customary, safe place. With deft hands—she’d done this hundreds of times, after all—she intubated him.
For the first time, she was touching his body, albeit with gloves on. She gently placed a tube into his airway to take control of his breathing during the operation.
Then she sat back at her cart behind the surgery drape and observed her machines. That was what anesthesiologists did.
He was not the famous Jon Farell now. He was any patient.
But still, when the surgeon isolated and removed the tumor at long last, she couldn’t help searching the doctor’s eyes.
Good news or bad?
And either way, how would she tell Jon?
