that welled up in the cut which was dangerously close to her right eye. “No stitches,” she insisted.
“If you’re worried about my sewing ability…”
“Your abilities aren’t in question. I simply don’t think it’s necessary.”
He perched on the edge of the desk. “I’ll call a plastic surgeon, then. We’ll get his opinion.”
“You will do no such thing,” she stated firmly. “A butterfly bandage will do the job. You’re overreacting. So the cut is a little deep. One stitch isn’t worth the trouble.”
“You’ll have a scar,” he warned.
She eyed the cut before she dabbed the blood away. “Probably, but it won’t be so big that make-up won’t cover it.” She grinned as she handed the mirror back. “It will blend in with the normal wrinkles. No one will ever notice.”
“Your significant other might.”
“If he can’t look past a hairline scar, then he won’t be my significant other, will he?” she asked lightly. “Would it bother you if your significant other had a scar on her face?”
“Of course not.” He appeared affronted.
She smiled. “Then I rest my case.”
He hesitated for a heartbeat. “I can’t talk you into this, can I?”
“Nope. Not a chance. As a patient, I have the right to refuse or accept treatment.”
“OK. Butterfly bandage it is.” He rose to shrug off his jacket, revealing a white shirt that covered deliciously wide shoulders.
“And I’ll take care of it myself.”
He poured alcohol on a gauze pad. “I’m sure you can, but you aren’t. This is going to sting a bit.”
She nearly howled as he pressed the saturated pad to her face and disinfected the wound, but she bit back her yelp. To take her mind off the burning sensation, she concentrated on him.
Whoever he was, he was too handsome, too well built, too everything for words. His short hair was the color of dark molasses and seemed just as thick. His features reflected an aristocratic heritage and his long eyelashes were every woman’s dream.
As he probed and prodded, she noticed his long fingers and light touch. Idly, she wondered how he’d look in a scrub suit, and if they could find any lab coats that would fit.
“The man should be drawn and quartered,” he muttered as he ripped open another package of gauze.
“Who, Bill?”
“Who else?”
“He’s harmless. Incompetent but, overall, harmless.”
“From where I’m standing, I’d disagree.”
Perhaps he was right. The room was a mess, and he had thrown a paperweight at Lucy before he’d pitched his coffee-mug in a fit of pique.
“You shouldn’t have gotten in the way,” he chided.
“Someone had to talk to him, calm him down. I’ve done it before. Given a few more minutes, I would have again.”
“The diplomat.”
She hadn’t ever described herself with that term before, but it fit. “At times.”
He pulled the butterfly bandage tight to hold the cut edges of her skin together. “Don’t get it wet,” he informed her.
“Yes, I know. Thank you.” She straightened in her chair. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like a few answers.”
He perched against the edge of the desk in front of her. “What do you want to know?”
“Your name, for starters.”
His perfect smile was sheepish. “In all the excitement, I left out the formalities, didn’t I?”
“Given the circumstances, it was understandable.”
“I’m Dr Ruark Thomas, at your service.”
She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Dr Thomas. Welcome to Belmont Memorial.”
“Thank you.”
Gina became instantly aware of two things, the touch of his fingers against hers and his deep voice. Both caused her nerve endings to tingle pleasantly and create a surprisingly powerful attraction that tugged at her middle. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt more than a glimmer of interest in someone she’d met, but this was certainly not the time for her hormones to kick in or her subconscious to get caught up in the moment. Yet, in spite of her mental scolding, she reluctantly withdrew her hand and forced herself to concentrate.
“You have a lot of ER experience?” she asked.
“Some. I moved here from California, thinking it would be nice to try life in the Great Midwest,” he said smoothly. “I trained in Great Britain, specialized in emergency medicine in New York, and spent most of my time over the years with a number of relief agencies.”
“Interesting. And now you’ve come to boring little Belmont Memorial.”
He chuckled. “From indications so far, being here will be anything but boring.”
The men who’d carried Bill away suddenly appeared in her mind’s eye. “And the two men with you?”
“Security guards. You’ll probably see Hugh and Joachim a lot in the days ahead. Then again, you may not. They work best behind the scenes, or so I’ve been told.”
The two men certainly outclassed Belmont’s regular department security guards. Oscar Burns, who, with an extra fifty pounds around his mid-section, only moved fast when someone brought homemade goodies to share and Hal Jarvis, who, at twenty-four, looked like he was thirteen, and hadn’t filled out his gangly teenage frame yet.
In contrast, Hugh and Joachim were professionals through and through. Their muscles had muscles and a mere glance from those piercing eyes would coax co-operation from the most difficult of patients and visitors. They’d definitely be handy to have around on a Friday or Saturday night.
“Is Dr Lansing afraid Bill will make trouble?” Lansing was the Chief of Medicine and he was the sort who didn’t act upon anything until the i’s were dotted and t’s were all properly crossed.
“It’s a possibility.”
“Bill is all bluster,” she told him. “He won’t make trouble if he suspects those two are hanging around. He’ll be too embarrassed, especially if he might be hauled outside like a bag of dirty laundry again. Frankly, after what I saw, I’d hate to run into them in a dark alley.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Stay on Hugh and Joachim’s good side and you won’t have any problems.”
“You’re
