Читать книгу Medical Romance August 2016 Books 1-6 - Sue MacKay, Amalie Berlin - Страница 36

CHAPTER FIVE

NIRA STOOD AT the wide bank of windows in the penthouse flat, waiting for Dakan in her favorite fashion: while looking out over the city.

Her building wasn’t the tallest, though it was close, but the top-floor views let her see almost everything in the city. Without even turning her head, she could see glass towers, squat, ancient brick buildings, and two gorgeous mosques—one built within the last fifty years and another centuries old with a massive white dome.

My father is a dome.

Why had she said that to him? She’d never felt a genuine need to say anything like that to anyone else.

The best architects straddled a line between practicality and imagination, and in the tradition of accepting artists, people usually forgave their eccentricities. Her fascination with everything Persian, Ottoman, and Byzantine had been considered a quirk by nearly everyone she’d met, and she had never expounded further.

But Dakan she’d told the truth, or something like the truth. She’d have told a more accurate truth if she could’ve defined it better.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she just wanted to tell someone, wanted someone to really understand how it affected her. She had a feeling she couldn’t quite name. Not lust. Not some deviant kind of animism—she knew mosaics and arches weren’t alive—though she might argue some old buildings seemed to have a soul.

But the emotion was real. Something more than being moved by beauty. A connection she couldn’t adequately describe but which comforted her even as it awed her.

Yes, still sounded weird. Even to her.

It was probably good her first official authorized outing would be to a hospital. That couldn’t do anything for her nameless woo-woo emotion, surely. But it would get her out of the flat, and on the drive there she’d get to see the city closer but in a way that passed by too quickly for her to become overwhelmed by it. She hoped.

The hospital was a safe outing. Safe. Safe. Safe.

“I said wear something that wouldn’t easily stain.”

And Dakan had once again snuck in while she stood looking out the window.

“I don’t have anything dark colored. When you go to a hot, desert country you wear light colors. So I just went with the most...” she turned back to look at him, and after a glance down her dress found an adjective “...plain. If it stains, at least it’s not the prettiest.” And she wasn’t going out in one of the dresses with graphite elbows and forearms, even if they couldn’t be further ruined.

He was dressed in a sharp suit—precisely as he had been every other time she’d seen him.

But there was one strange accessory now.

“Why are you wearing a sword? You said it was icky there, not dangerous.”

Dakan made a low disgruntled sound in his throat, “Father’s advisors have been demanding I wear the traditional attire—robes and the sword. Zahir always wears it, so why won’t I wear it? I got tired of listening to the same comments on repeat daily, so I’m wearing the sword as a compromise.”

“Are the robes white or black?”

“White.”

“They might be more comfortable.”

“Trust me, they’re annoying to move about in, though I’ll concede they probably have better airflow. It’s not that I don’t like them for other people, but I feel ridiculous in them. Like some pretender, walking around in Zahir’s outgrown clothes and big clown shoes.”

She fetched her bag, checked her passport’s security, and tried not to look at him. The word pretender stuck in her mind, a little clue that everything wasn’t right between Dakan and his brother. But pointing it out right now seemed wrong, like taking advantage or poking at a wound. So instead she opted to go the lighter route. “Like you ever wore hand-me-downs in your life. And, just so you know, you stand out regardless of who’s around or what you wear.”

He escorted her to the door with a light touch to her back, the touch making her all too aware of the size of his hand and the placement of the tip of each finger through the simple cream-colored dress.

Of course she was hyper-aware of him. He stood out—tall, broad, and impossibly handsome, with his nearly black hair a little too long so it looked artfully messy, like he’d been caught in the wind, or more likely some woman had just been running her fingers through it...

It was probably silky and soft too. And she already knew he smelled too good to be real.

He was probably an alien. A beautiful alien with just enough hidden vulnerability to make her question the vow of chastity she’d taken when she’d started down this path to learn about her heritage. Six feet two inches of temptation to repeat Mum’s mistakes.

The idea of coming to live in a Middle Eastern country as a woman alone was scarier if she tried to do it with an eye toward dating or romance, another good reason for the vow. But Dakan tempted her to chuck that vow out the window she now stared through to the wall of blurring landscape.

Those sexy smiles... He was probably an amazing kisser. Soft lips, the light scrape of his perpetual three-day beard. Those shoulders.

Fifteen breathless minutes later they got out of the car at the hospital and Nira immediately refocused on the enormity of their problem. The building was small, even though it had been situated on a vast empty lot in the middle of a city where land would not be cheap.

Even from the outside, she could tell she didn’t want to be treated there.

“Wow. You know, you look at plans and you think, ‘It’s probably bigger than I’m imagining it.’ But it’s actually smaller.”

Dakan offered an elbow, and she shifted her notebook to the other hand to take it, and climbed the few steps to the main entrance, only to be left there.

A few moments with the harried receptionist and Dakan returned to fetch her.

“Maintenance is in right now, but no other surgeries today. Feel up to going in while they’re working?”

“Sure. Construction doesn’t bother me.”

“Good.”

She followed him across the lobby and down a short hall to the theater.

Dakan warned as he held the door, “They did a procedure in here earlier, so it might be a little less clean than normal.”

That stopped her. Nira stood in the doorway, looking about for red. “Why wouldn’t they clean it before Maintenance came in?”

“I’m sure they cleaned it up some, but since they’ll have to clean it again as soon as he’s done, it’s possible it didn’t get the attention it deserves. If you see anything wet, don’t touch it. That’s the first thing you learn in medical school: if it’s wet, and it’s not yours, don’t touch it.”

“That’s descriptive. And...it’s not going to be a problem. I’d rather get plaster in my hair and coughing fits from the dust than touch something wet that’s not mine.”

The inside of the theater was also worse than she’d imagined, but she didn’t immediately see anything that screamed viscera to her.

“It’s a decent size,” she murmured, half to herself, carefully navigating around the table. Once on the other side, she could see a tall ladder set up and a maintenance man up to his waist in an open grid space for dropped ceiling tiles, replacing them. Some fifteen feet up, she’d wager. Very high. Though the dropped aspect of the ceiling would’ve given them about twelve to thirteen feet at the finished height rather than the ten research specified.

Hearing them speaking, he leaned back on the ladder, far enough to bend double and peer out of the tiles. He said something, but she only made out a couple of words and irritation in his voice. He wanted them gone. But when Dakan answered—giving his identity and telling the man to carry on—he struggled to right himself back up within the ceiling. The ladder wobbled back and forth a few times, and without a word or another thought Nira darted the few feet over to grab the ladder and steady it.

When it ceased moving he managed to get straightened and back up in there. It was probably not every day a prince came around while he was working, so she could sympathize.

She tried to redirect Dakan’s attention, but he’d already focused on her. “Fast thinking. Thank you, I didn’t even notice until you were in motion.”

“I’ve seen my share of construction accidents,” Nira said, but since everything seemed steady now, she checked the bottom of the ladder for slip guards, and, finding none, let go of the ladder to begin circling the surgery for something to do the job and still carry on the conversation with Dakan. “Thought it’d be smaller given the size of the building, but it’s actually okay. I’m going to want to take it down to the wires, and actually I want to take out the wires too. Run new electrical, update the grid and plumbing. Rebuild from the joists up, including a plain painted ceiling. Normally it would be a bit lower than it is—the only ones with this kind of height I’ve seen in my research have observation galleries, like in teaching hospitals. But here it’s just dead space. You might consider adding something.”

Not that that was the most important thing she should be telling him right now.

“We’ll talk about that later. Right now, I have to say I can’t believe they put a drop ceiling in here. Those things give off dust all the time, no matter how new they are. I can’t imagine they allow for a sterile environment. They’re porous, dusty, and vermin like to nest in them. Replacing them with the same thing is—”

“A very bad idea,” he finished, following her gaze up again. “I didn’t realize they did that. I’ve been told that sometimes the surgeons set up an awning over the table, but I thought it was just since the tiles began crumbling—which was why I’d ordered them replaced.”

“They’re never going to be safe, really, even when they’re not crumbling. Bare wires and open joists would be better than those. Also, he really should be working with a partner, for safety’s sake. You saw the ladder.”

“You’re right,” Dakan muttered, swearing quietly. “I’m going to leave you to speak to the administrator and start sending surgical patients to our neighbors now rather than during the reconstruction. This isn’t going to be a quick repair.”

“If he had help it could be done in a day, but there would need to be some intensive cleaning after that, which would probably take longer.”

“No, I’m going to shut surgery down until we have a proper theater.” The disgust in his voice was impossible to miss. He switched languages, calling up to the man working, “Stop what you’re doing and come down.”

The man, who’d already looked nervous before, jerked his hands away from the tiles like they’d begun conducting current. When he twisted back to speak to Dakan, the ladder rocked again, but they were both across the room from him.

Coldness hit her gut as she realized the rocking of the ladder had reached the point where it couldn’t be righted. The man seemed to feel it at exactly the same second—with one hand holding the ladder, he lashed out with the other and grabbed the rickety frame of the drop ceiling to try and settle himself, but gravity had him. The frame snapped and the ceiling opened above him, tiles breaking and falling as he fell in slow motion. All Nira could do was stare, watching the moment stretch out far enough it would seem she could’ve gotten to him, but she never could have this time.

Dust kicked up in the theater, but Dakan had started moving. He reached the tiles and bent to fling them back. “Nira, find someone, get a gurney and an emergency team.”

“Is he okay?”

“Now!”

She’d spent all that time looking at the prints yesterday and pulled the image to mind. If she went back the way they’d come, it would take longer than if she left the theater and went the other direction, which should lead to the emergency department.

When she’d managed to traverse the debris and exit the theater, she turned left down the corridor and ran until she saw someone in a uniform. Words—maybe not the right words but words that got her message across—came so quickly she’d have felt proud of herself in any other situation. Within two minutes of the man falling, the team Dakan had ordered ran back ahead of her, rolling a gurney and carrying oxygen and a cervical collar.

It would already be crowded in the theater, so she stayed outside in the hallway, trying not to panic, though she still felt trapped and helpless in that eternal second where the man had been falling, wondering if he’d hurt anything vital on the way down and cursing herself for ever letting go of the ladder, or not demanding he come down straight away the first time it had rocked off balance.

Another couple terribly long minutes, and they wheeled him out and back the way she’d gone to find help. There was blood on him and the arm he’d grabbed the ceiling with had a terrible gash on it. What could’ve cut him?

Once they were out, she got a better view—broken bone stuck out of the wound. The bone cut it, so he must’ve hit something very hard.

Dakan had his suit jacket off already, but as he walked past her he stopped and pulled off the sword and belt to hand to her. “I need you to hold the sword. It will only get in the way until I’m done. Go back to the lobby and wait for me. I have to see to him.” His dark eyes locked to hers and she could see a spark there she didn’t normally see. Depth. Something...

She nodded, taking the sword and reaching for his jacket.

“It’s bloody,” he said, pulling the jacket back from her reach.

So was Dakan’s well-tailored shirt. So much for not touching stuff that was wet and not yours.

“Go. Hope he’s okay.”

He held her gaze a moment longer, nodded, and jogged to catch up.

Once they’d all rounded the corner, and she had nothing else to do but leave and wait, Nira stepped carefully back into the theater and looked up. Ripping the ceiling down was half-done now...though not the way she’d have seen it happen. Above she could see evidence of some kind of infestation, and some mystery conduit she couldn’t identify along with wiring haphazardly strewn everywhere. Might’ve been better before the ceiling had fallen, but now...

Right. Not the time. She stepped carefully back out and went to the lobby to wait, just as she’d promised. The lobby and waiting rooms had been her initial reason for wanting to come to the hospital, before things had gotten switched up and they’d begun planning for a royal birth.

Reception had a desk with an attendant to sign people in, a triage area, where presumably they spoke to a nurse and went into a queue to be seen, and seating. It was remarkably similar to how hospitals of that era had been designed at home too, outside of those dreadful ceiling tiles that littered the facility.

Thinking about the tiles brought that icy lance of fear back to her middle, and she forced herself to find a seat, then laid the sword protectively across her thighs. Just observe, don’t think about that poor man, and learn all she could while Dakan helped him.

Seeing all this live made it easier to understand why he’d been in such a hurry to tear it down, but there were still good bones here, even if the inside had been poorly done when it had been new. It could be remodeled to the point people would never know it was an older building. New insides. Maybe a new facade outside. Repurposing the old, not exactly blending them together, but other than the bones she couldn’t see anything worth salvaging here either.

He could die from that wound. Nira knew very little about medicine, but even she knew an open fracture was massively in danger of infection. And Dakan had said they weren’t good at treating infection in this country. Closing the surgery probably meant he’d have to go to another hospital with better facilities, which might just save his life.

Nira retrieved her mobile phone and sent her mother a text while she waited for Dakan.

Still alive.

It was in her to say more, but what could she say that wouldn’t make this fight they were locked in worse?

I’m just sitting here, hoping a man I saw with a horrific injury doesn’t die from infection or blood loss.

I’m doing something good to help these people.

Neither of those would help. There were always other architects who could take her place. She wasn’t integral to the completion of this project, she just happened to be the architect under contract for Dakan to use.

She thought a moment and then simply sent: Love you.

A moment later her phone pinged.

Are you all right? What happened?

The first response. If they could each just give a little, but Nira didn’t know how to in this instance. It meant too much to her to be there. And to Mum it meant unfathomable danger to her to be there. Hard to compromise on those kinds of emotions. Just talking would be a start, if she knew somewhere less flammable to begin.

Nothing. I’m okay. Just needed to say it.

Another couple minutes passed, and Nira had started to think that the conversation was over when her phone pinged again.

Love you too. Come home appeared on her screen.

Fight still not over. Neither of them were willing to budge. She didn’t need to say that, and she didn’t have anything else to say that would offer comfort or clear the air. So she just put her phone back into her pocket and waited for Dakan.

* * *

By the time they got the man settled on the helicopter, Dakan could only pray it was in time to save his life. The best they’d been able to do for him had been to clean the wound, dress it, and arrange a lifesaving flight, hoping it was enough to tide him over. Hope and prayer—he sounded like the healers.

Hope and prayer never worked. Any times he’d heard differently, it had always been anecdotal. He’d never seen someone healed because another man had said words over him, had never read it in a chart.

He’d shed his jacket at some point, and now the previously crisp shirt he wore was stained with blood too. He fished his personal items out of the jacket, stuffed them into his trouser pockets and his jacket into the bin for medical waste.

When he’d sent Nira out to wait for him, she’d been as white as the traditional robes he still didn’t want to wear. White enough he was faintly surprised to see her still upright when he got to her side forty-five minutes after the situation had started. White enough for him to hope it had wiped that earlier confession from her mind. The woman was too easy to talk to, he should take better care of his words.

“Is he okay? Is he alive?” she asked, standing as he approached and offering the sword back to him.

Well, he didn’t want to wear it. Grabbing it by the scabbard, he tucked it under one arm. The car wasn’t far away.

“He was when the helicopter left. And we’re past anything that can be done from our end.”

“Where is he going?”

“Dubai, since we can do nothing for him here. Their best trauma center has agreed to take our overflow, but the other needed surgeries will be shunted to different hospitals in different countries, decided by urgency and diagnosis. But trauma will always go to Dubai. Let’s hope we don’t have too much of it.”

This ugliness was another thing that made him prefer England. Today there had been very little he could do for the injured man, and that helpless feeling made being home worse. There were always the other aspects, the family stuff—him never saying what he felt, doing what he felt, only what was expected of the younger brother—but this was worse because he should’ve been able to avoid it. The other stuff he was used to.

He’d long ago accepted he’d never be important to his country, not really. The only thing that could make him so was something he never wanted to see—something happening to Zahir. Freedom to live his life as he saw fit was the only really acceptable exchange in his mind, something he didn’t have here. He didn’t want to be the eternal follower. Even now, without Zahir or his father in the country, the hospital project was the only place he felt he could make his own decisions, rather than just sticking to the pattern set by others, and that might change at any minute.

“Let’s go. I need to get out of this shirt.”

His hands were clean, and he took her hand to walk to the car. Propriety be damned. She felt good, and he needed something good right now—something that felt real, and good. Maybe it was just how good it felt to be with someone he could relax around, or simple base attraction.

He led her to the car and got into the back, letting go of her hand so he could start unfastening his shirt, something else he could do around her.

“I wish I could’ve done that inside the hospital. It should be burned. Everything is practically medical waste here.”

Stuffing the shirt under the seat, he tilted his head to catch the gaze of the driver in his rearview mirror, and redirected him. “Palace.”