Stanley stood in the doorway—tall, dark and definitely handsome in his stormy, angst-ridden way.
Delicious shock waves of delight scudded through her, fast followed by dismay. Why couldn’t she get a better handle on this crazy reaction to him?
He was holding a little girl whose black curly hair was identical to his own. His daughter. She snuggled in close to his broad chest, seeking sanctuary, and she clutched a soft toy tightly as if it would ward off the confusion of the combined sights and sounds of a busy A and E.
Luke’s not rostered on.
A thousand questions bombarded her, starting with Why is he here? And followed by Why on earth has he brought his daughter into a place that has the capacity to distress adults, let alone toddlers?
The child didn’t look sick, but then again Chloe’s experience with children was so limited that she didn’t trust her instincts at all.
Luke, his face a tight mask as usual, raised his free hand and motioned her over.
Mystified and somewhat hesitant, she made her way around the nurses’ station and towards him. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Yes.’ Ragged exhaustion threaded through the words. ‘Richard telephoned me half an hour ago. His car’s broken down on the way back from Lamington National Park and the roadside service can’t get him back here for at least three hours.’
Things started to make sense. ‘So you’re covering for him?’
He nodded slowly. ‘Got it in one. He tells me there’s a patient with a laceration close to an eye that needs suturing.’
Chloe glanced at the little girl, who was looking up at her from under half-lidded eyes. For Luke to suture, he was going to have to put the little girl down and someone was going to have to look after her while he did it.
Her mind leapt straight to the logical conclusion and lurched away from it so fast it almost gave her whiplash. ‘I wish you’d called first because Mr Jameson’s not strictly an emergency. He’s on a head-injury chart for the next four hours so Richard should be back in time to suture it. You and your daughter…’
‘Amber,’ he said quietly.
She swallowed. ‘You and Amber are free to get back to enjoying your Saturday afternoon.’
He sighed, the sound weary and resigned. ‘The three hours is only a ball park estimate, and seeing as I’ve woken Amber from her nap to get here, it’s best I stitch it now rather than risk being called back later.’
And how are you going to do that? She refused to ask the obvious question and said instead in her best professional voice, ‘I’ll set up a suture trolley for you.’
‘Thanks, but I can manage that on my own.’ He smiled—only one of a very few true smiles she’d ever seen on his face—and it raced into those amazing, clear, green eyes of his, which were now fixed firmly on her.
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