Читать книгу Dr. Dangerous - Кристи Голд - Страница 9

Administering physical therapy had always been a challenge Brooke Lewis readily embraced, but the anger in her new patient’s you-want-me blue eyes and the defiance in his here-I-am stance, made her want to run for the nearest fast-food joint for employment. Or to her boss, Macy Carpenter, armed with a noose.

Dr. Jared Granger, “King of Cardiology”—the man she had shamelessly fantasized about from afar—had graced her with his presence. And not one solitary soul in the department had bothered to warn her.

Many times she’d admired him as he strode through San Antonio Memorial’s corridors in his impeccably starched lab coat, wearing his gorgeous golden hair, cut in the latest style, and a guarded expression that discouraged any kind of communication. It came with the territory, she supposed. Anyone who held life in his hands on a daily basis wasn’t necessarily approachable.

But since the recent injury that had suspended his career, he had obviously changed. Now his sandy hair was askew, and his normally clean-shaven face sported a near-full beard. His ragged jeans with one leg cut away revealed a cast on his left leg. Overall, his attire looked as though it had seen better days. But then, so did he. From all appearances he could be a drifter, not a doctor.

And for the past few weeks his uncooperative behavior had grown to legendary proportions in the physical therapy department. Brooke had managed to avoid his wrath. Until now.

Not to mention she would have to touch him, and although that certainly wasn’t an unpleasant prospect under normal circumstances, she had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to be too receptive.

She opened her mouth, but words didn’t form. Nothing seemed quite adequate at the moment.

Smiling, she gestured toward the chair facing hers. “Nice you could join us today, Dr. Granger. Please be seated.”

Without speaking, he hobbled over with his lone crutch and sank into the chair, sprawling his broken leg awkwardly to one side as he propped his splinted hand on the small table’s surface in arm-wrestling position. She pulled the curtain around the area to give them some privacy, away from the prying eyes of both patients and therapists throughout the large treatment room.

When Brooke faced him, he flashed her a sardonic grin. “So you’re my next victim.”

The impact of that smile, no matter how cynical, did things to her heart rate that made her wonder if she needed a round of digitalis. Thank heavens she was close to the chair before her knees gave way. After taking her seat across from him, she said, “Victim? That should be my line.”

Brooke opened the chart to review the assessment and treatment plan along with the notes of his limited progress. Victim proved to be an appropriate description. He’d already been through three therapists in three weeks, and it looked as if she was his last resort.

Glancing up, Brooke found him staring at her, watching, waiting. Waiting for her to screw up, she decided. But his visual assessment made her wonder if that was all he was waiting for. Considering his reputation with women, he probably expected her to pass out from a charisma overdose. Well, he had another thing coming. She’d keep her covert admiration to herself and a tight rein on her hormones.

With a polite smile she closed the chart and set it on the end of the table. “I’m Brooke Lewis, and it looks like we’ll be working together for some time, Dr. Gran—”

“Don’t count on it.” He displayed more insolence through the hard set of his eyes and the tight ridge of his jaw.

Good Lord, she wanted to scream all of two minutes into the appointment. “I don’t understand. Dr. Kempner wants extensive therapy treatments for your hand.”

“Yeah, that’s what he wants.”

“And you don’t want that?”

“I hate this whole process.”

Brooke got the distinct feeling she would, too, before it was all over. “Well, let’s see if we can make this as pleasant as possible for both of us. If you’re going to return to surgery, then—”

“I don’t want that mentioned again. Ever.”

He sat forward, skewering her with his unwavering gaze, giving her a good dose of his pain. Not physical pain. She could handle that. It was her job to make it all better, and sometimes that meant making a patient physically hurt from the effort. But emotional pain… That was another thing altogether. She was a sucker for sympathy, and right now she didn’t want to be sympathetic to a God complex in action. But she was. It went beyond his looks. His aura of power. He couldn’t mask the frustration in his eyes, those windows to the soul that Brooke had learned to look through to find the person beneath the facade. And this particular person was totally torn up inside.

Straightening her spine, Brooke tried to affect her usual cheerful disposition. “Okay, so we’ll work on stretching those tendons, and then we’ll see what’s what.” She reached for his hand to remove the splint, but he pulled away.

“I’ll do it.” With slow, stilted movements, he took off the splint while Brooke waited patiently. At least this was a positive sign, wanting to do it himself. Some of his pride was still intact. And that could mean more grief for her.

While Brooke allowed him this act of independence, she considered his predicament. A doctor who had lost the function of his dominant hand—his instrument of healing. A skilled surgeon who could very well find himself without a career if he didn’t mend.

He had the right to be a little ticked off. Anger was sometimes a good thing. A great motivator. Considering the fact that during the accident he’d damaged the flexor tendons in three of his fingers, he needed some motivation for the long haul to recovery. The question was, would Brooke be up to it? If he didn’t fire her first.

Gently she took his hand into hers. His fingers were large, well-defined, yet rigid because of the accident. “Have you been doing your passive motion protocol at home?”

He shrugged and looked away. “When I find the time.”

Oh, boy. He was going to test her to the max.

Brooke conducted a visual search and homed in on his wrist. The dense scar, to say the least, was ugly. She touched it, and he flinched. “Still ultrasensitive there, I take it.”

“No kidding.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she examined his thumb.

“Do you feel that?”

“No.”

She moved on to his pointer finger. “Here?”

He pulled his hand away quickly, startling Brooke. “Look, I’ve already been through this,” he said, fire and frustration in his tone. “I’ve got no sensitivity on the volar surface of my thumb, no feeling on the second finger and diminished sensitivity on the third. My tendons are a bloody mess, and a whole army of therapists can’t do a damn thing about it.”

Brooke put on her calm face and waited to see if he was finished with his outburst. When he seemed to relax somewhat, she forced another smile and spoke through it. “Dr. Granger, I realize that you probably know as much if not more than me about your condition. I know this is a horribly painful thing to go through. I also know that if you don’t opt to continue therapy, you might never be able to pick up anything smaller than an orange, much less a scalpel.”

She stared at him straight on, surprised he had yet to protest since she’d mentioned another S word. When he didn’t respond, she continued. “So if you’re willing to cooperate, then I’ll do my best to assist you. But I can’t do this alone.”

“And I can’t do this at all.”

Brooke expected him to vault out of the chair and head out the door, but he didn’t. What was holding him here, if he was so bent on nixing therapy? Why was he wasting her time? Anyone’s time, for that matter?

That wasn’t relevant. It was her job to put him through the motions. Her job to see to it that he at least attempted to accomplish something. Her job to hang on to her cool.

While Brooke applied moist heat to his wrist as well as electronic stimulation to try and alleviate some of the scar tissue, he didn’t say a word. She administered myofacial massage and stretching exercises to relax his tendons, and still he didn’t speak. In fact, he didn’t react at all except to flinch now and then. Even when she tried to engage him in mundane conversation about the unseasonable weather, he replied in one-word responses. She might as well talk to the wall.

“Okay, time for something new,” she said, trying to spark his enthusiasm. His posture wasn’t the greatest, but she thought it best not to scold him too much. “Just sit up a little straighter and we’ll try this for a minute.”

He moved maybe a microinch. She put the small red foam ball in his palm. “Can you try to grip this?” she asked.

After staring at the ball like it was some alien entity, he let it slip from his grasp without even trying. It rolled onto the floor beside the table. Brooke quietly retrieved it, barely avoiding knocking her toe on his cast. Again she placed the ball in his palm. Again it rolled away, this time under the table before Brooke could thwart its escape.

Drawing in a cleansing breath, she leaned down and felt around for the offending object. Not finding it, she bent farther underneath the table, grabbed up the ball, and promptly bumped her head on the edge when she straightened.

She rose and found the not-so-good doctor staring off into space. Obviously her near concussion meant nothing to him. Not even worth a “Is your head okay?” or “Hope you didn’t break the table.” Just absolute detachment, as if he wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. At the moment so did she.

When Brooke awakened that morning to the first cold front of the season mixed with bone-biting rain, the second flat tire in a week and a dead coffeemaker, she’d been primed for a typical Monday. But she didn’t deserve this, even from the man who had once been the doctor of her dreams.

Anger began to seep into Brooke’s pores. No matter how hard she tried to plug up the hole in her resolve so the frustration wouldn’t escape, another fissure took its place. She was known for tolerating difficult patients. Known to never lose her composure. But today had been the mother of all bad days, and right now she was feeling anything but composed. What else would explain the sudden need to respond to his apathy with a curtness totally foreign to her?

Brooke choked the ball in her fist and leveled her gaze on him. “Dr. Granger, since you seem to be having a problem with cooperation, it just occurred to me that maybe you’re having a temporary bout of self-pity. At least, I hope it’s only temporary, because if you want to see something to feel sorry for, then hang around for my next patient. A twenty-five-year-old father of two with a fractured C-6 vertebrae.”

She paused only long enough to take a deep draw of air. “He comes here in a wheelchair with his kids on his lap and a smile on his face even though he’ll never take another step. Never make another baby. Never even make love to his wife in the same way again. But he’s not moaning over his situation. He’s going about the business of living, even though he has little opportunity to get better. You do.”

For a moment he looked as though she had struck him. He opened his mouth, then let it drop shut. Awkwardly he stood, looming over her like a sturdy oak able to survive the greatest of storms, his face flashing anger. But his eyes looked vulnerable. So very, very vulnerable.

“I don’t need your lecture, Ms. Lewis. I’ve spent the last eight years of my life operating on sick people, many of them kids, and with every one that I lost, part of me died right with them. But I kept going because I couldn’t do anything but be a doctor. I didn’t want to be anything but a doctor. I still don’t.”

He held up his stiff right hand. It trembled like a fragile leaf. “If you take away this, you might as well take away my legs, too.”

With that, he pivoted around and tore back the curtain. And Brooke immediately experienced the biting pang of remorse. She’d forced him to bare his soul. Forced him to uncover a wound that was forty times the size of his scar.

Brooke rose on shaky legs, afraid that she had totally turned him off to therapy—totally blown his world apart with her callous behavior. And in the process, she could have jeopardized her job, the most worthwhile thing in her life. But more important, she had kicked a man at his lowest point—a talented doctor whose potential was limitless and, because of one life-altering accident, was now nothing more than the shell of the man he used to be. Regardless of his bitter attitude, that was unforgivable.

“Dr. Granger, wait,” she called out before he reached the door. Several therapists stopped their own activities and briefly gave their attention to Brooke.

Dr. Granger halted and turned. This time his eyes looked lifeless. Dead. And something deep inside Brooke died, too.

She joined him at the doorway and signaled him to follow her into the hall. Once there, she lowered her eyes because it was simply too painful to look at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come down on you so hard. It’s just that if you give up, it would be such a waste.”

“Would it?”

She looked up to find him studying her, this time with a penetrating sadness that cut to the heart. “A terrible waste. I propose you come back on Thursday, and we’ll start over again.”

“I hate coming here.”

“I know, but once you settle into the routine, it will get easier.”

“Not here, with you. Here, in the hospital.”

His hospital, Brooke thought. A place that had been a huge part of his life. A place full of reminders of what he’d once had—a brilliant career.

Brooke certainly couldn’t blame him for being less than thrilled to return on a regular basis. She also couldn’t allow him to fall into complacency. Yet she wasn’t sure how to convince him that he needed to continue the therapy if he was frustrated by the hospital surroundings.

A sudden thought crossed her mind. A crazy thought, but just crazy enough to work.

“Dr. Granger, have you considered home therapy?”

His eyes narrowed. “You mean someone coming to my house instead of me coming here?”

“Yeah. It’s been done before.” Brooke had done it before, mostly with shut-ins. Never with a struggling, handsome doctor.

“You’d be willing to come to my home?” he asked, surprise in his tone.

“Well, yes. Or someone else, if you prefer.”

“No. I’d want it to be you.”

He seemed so adamant that she continue his therapy, Brooke was almost rendered speechless. “So you’d consider it?”

“Maybe.”

Brooke released the breath she’d been holding. “I’ll have to clear it with my supervisor, and we’ll need to talk with Dr. Kempner about changing the order.”

“He’ll do it.”

“So you’ll think about it?”

“We’ll see.” He limped down the corridor with a slump to his shoulders, all the pride seeming to have seeped from him in a matter of moments.

Somehow, some way, Brooke was determined to set things right, and if he agreed to the home therapy, that was a start.

If he allowed her the opportunity to aid in his recovery, hopefully when the time came, she would walk away from him knowing that she had helped him in some small way. Walk away and never look back. But deep down, Brooke worried that walking away from Jared Granger might be easier planned than done, especially if he didn’t get better.

Yet she had to walk away, and without any second thoughts. Becoming emotionally involved with a patient was not only taboo, but created a danger to Brooke’s emotional well-being. Leaving her heart wide open was not an option.

Yes, Dr. Jared Granger might need her, but she would never need another man again.

Jared Granger waited alone in Nick Kempner’s office, studying his rigid hand, his gnarled fingers. He hated sympathy of any kind, the pitying looks he received from colleagues and friends alike. Hated the fact that he was steeped in self-pity more often than not these days.

Never had he been posed with such a challenge. Even med school and multiple residencies hadn’t gotten him down like this. Might as well admit it, he was washed up as a surgeon. Not much better off as a man. At least not at the present.

Admitting it didn’t take away the pain, the anger. It only served to create more vile-tasting resentment that he couldn’t control.

He also couldn’t recall the last good day he’d had, even before the accident. Three weeks ago, getting away to his farm—a place he could always count on to regroup—hadn’t eased the piercing guilt over losing a special patient, the reason why he hadn’t been paying attention to the thin piece of wire caught in the tractor shredder. The reason he’d carelessly tried to manhandle it out of the blade, causing the backlash that had sent the metal slicing across his wrist, creating the deep laceration that damaged his median nerve, then the fall that had shattered his leg. All in a few short moments of stupidity, he had ruined a career years in the making.

He recalled twelve-year-old Kayla Brown’s death, why he’d gone to his weekend retreat in the first place. She’d been faced with rejection of her new heart and awaiting another when she’d finally given up after fighting the good fight. Jared hadn’t been able to save the young girl who had been a natural room brightener. A kid who always smiled no matter how much pain she endured or how constant the prospect of death.

His problems were minor compared to what she had faced. So what if it took him an hour longer to brush his teeth, dress himself, pour a glass of milk? So what if he could barely manage to clean himself? He’d be damned and desperate before he would admit that to anyone. No one would understand.

Brooke Lewis immediately came to mind—her wild, dark curls, big brown eyes, natural smile and die-hard attitude. As badly as he hated to admit it, he admired her grit as much as he admired her schoolgirl looks. She didn’t view him as anything other than a patient. He found that refreshing, since most people treated him as if he was some infallible being without a heart or feelings. No one knew the real Jared Granger, because he had never revealed much of himself; he feared that he could never live up to others’ expectations.

The door swung open and Nick Kempner strode in, the best orthopedic doc in the business, and Jared’s closest friend. “What’s up, Granger?”

“Not much.”

Nick slipped out of his lab coat and tossed it and several newspapers from his seat onto the nearby sofa before sinking into the office chair. “Sorry I’m late, but I had to take a call at the front desk.”

“No problem.” And it wasn’t. Jared had nowhere to be at the moment. Nowhere to be most days in recent history, except doctor appointments and dreaded therapy sessions.

Nick folded his hands in front of him and brought out his all-business face. “The call was from your latest therapist.”

Jared braced for another lecture. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She told me that although you were, and I quote ‘a bit uncooperative,’ she would work around it. She mentioned maybe home therapy. What do you think about that?”

The woman was as persistent as a moth on a porch light. “Therapy isn’t doing me a helluva lot of good.”

“That’s because you’re not giving it a chance.”

“She looks too young to know what she’s doing.” And too pretty to ignore, as much as Jared hated to admit that.

“She’s not a kid, Granger. She’s got a master’s degree, and she’s been working here for several years. In fact, she’s at least twenty-five. Probably older.”

“In my book that’s still a kid.”

“To hear you talk, you’re sixty, not thirty-six.”

“I feel like I’m eighty.”

Nick forked a hand through his dark hair. “Look, Brooke Lewis is one of the best therapists around. If you give her the opportunity, she can help you with those tendons. It’s just going to take some time and hard work on your part.”

If Jared could ball his fist, he’d punch the wall. He could do that with his left hand, but considering his recent misfortune, he’d probably ruin it, too. “What you’re saying is that I might never operate again.”

Nick let go a frustrated sigh. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Jared. I’m saying you need to give the therapy a shot, and the best place to start is with Brooke.” He grinned. “And you’ve got to admit, she’s pretty nice to look at. Can’t imagine you’d mind having her touching you twice a week—wherever she wanted.”

Jared refused to admit that the thought had crossed his mind, too. He’d immediately been aware of her finer points. When she’d touched him, his immediate reaction had taken him back, the reason why he’d been so tough on her. He didn’t need an attraction to a woman, especially a therapist. Not that he could easily stop it. At least that part of him wasn’t exactly dead. Not by a long shot. Brooke Lewis had proven that. But at the moment, he had other more pressing problems, like getting his hand to function again.

“If you think she’s so great, then you make an appointment with her for some hands-on therapy,” Jared said.

Nick shook his head. “No way. I’ve sworn off women since the divorce.”

“Sure, Kempner. Tell me another one.”

“I’m dead serious. Not worth the hassle.”

“Speaking of women, how’s it going with your ex?”

Nick grabbed up a pen and drummed it on the desktop. “Not great. I only have to see her when I pick up Kelsey on the weekends that I’m not on call. We barely speak, which is probably a good thing. Fighting in front of a four-year-old isn’t a great idea.”

Jared hated the pain in his friend’s voice. Pain over limited time with his daughter all because of marrying the wrong woman. But how could anyone know if they’d found the right one?

Nick had a point, Jared decided. Sometimes women weren’t worth the hassle. Marriage definitely wasn’t, exactly why Jared had avoided it, especially with the demands of a doctor’s career. Not that he’d had to worry about that lately.

Nick tossed the pen aside and leaned back in his chair. “Jared, I know you’re having a tough time with this whole thing. If you want someone to talk to, I have the name of—”

“I’m not depressed, dammit. I’m just ticked off.” God, he resented this attitude. Resented that people were always trying to second-guess his feelings, when in reality they didn’t know him at all.

Nick put up his hands, palms first. “Okay, bad idea. But I really think you need to concentrate on physical therapy. You could do a lot worse than Brooke Lewis.”

He could do a lot better if he could just crawl in a hole somewhere and lick his wounds. But that wasn’t reality. He had to deal with this somehow. And maybe the hell-on-wheels therapist with the killer smile and dynamite eyes was the answer, at least temporarily. Maybe Brooke Lewis’s offer wasn’t such a bad idea.

Jared stared at the ceiling for a long moment, sensing Nick’s gaze on him while awaiting an answer. “Okay. Set up the home therapy. I’m not making any promises, but I guess I’ll take on Brooke Lewis.”

Nick laughed. “I think that’s the other way around.”

If his instincts were correct, Jared knew in his gut that working with Brooke Lewis could be like facing a pit full of vipers. But before the accident he’d never backed down to a challenge. Not true since the accident, though. Could he handle this one, especially with a woman who had sparked his interest, among other things? Did he really have a choice?

“One more thing,” Nick said. “She told me that next time you can count on her to use putty to work your hand instead of the ball, since it doesn’t bounce. Any idea what that means?”

Jared allowed his first real smile in weeks. “Yeah, it means I’ve probably met my match.”