one wrist with a restraint cuff while Liz secured the other, and Cort got to work putting ankle belts in place, assisted by a nurse who’d come in behind him.
“I know you’re frightened.” Patient secured, Liz leaned over him, spoke to him with what Cort recognized from their time together in Mexico as habitual directness. There wasn’t a hint of stress in her voice, and Cort, whose system still hummed with adrenaline, mentally shook his head at her cool. “But we’re going to help you.”
Cort backed out of the room as Liz started giving orders to the nurses. He wasn’t even supposed to be there, and he wondered if he’d already earned a strike with her, given her strictness on protocol.
Dr. Hammond was down the hall, speaking into his phone again, so Cort waited outside the patient’s cubicle for Liz to come out. Might as well take whatever she had to say on the chin and apologize if necessary, rather than let it fester or have her formally complain.
When she stepped out of the room she paused, allowing the nurses to pass them before she spoke.
“It wasn’t necessary for you to jump in like that. We have exceptionally well-trained staff here, and rushing to the rescue every time there’s a hint of excitement isn’t within your purview.”
He shrugged, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his lab coat, annoyed once more at how unconcerned she was about seeing him again. He felt as though there was an eggbeater running amok in his stomach. “It was instinct. The sound of a fight and a kidney dish hitting the floor will always bring me running.” She’d warned him off clearly: the patient inside that room had nothing to do with him. So, just to needle her, he asked, “Do you have a diagnosis?”
The look she gave him was level, but he was sure there was a flash of annoyance behind her veiled glance. Which was why he was surprised when, after a moment, she actually replied.
“Just got the labs back. There are trace amounts of clozapine in his system. I think he stopped taking his medication and is having a schizophrenic episode. The psych team is on its way down.” Her gaze dared him to express an opinion, and he figured it was time to change the subject, even before she added, with a touch of ice in her tone, “Nothing more either of us can do right now.”
If he hadn’t figured it out before, now he knew for sure. Dr. Liz Prudhomme was as tough as rebar and cooler than a mountain spring. Yet under that realization was the still clear image of her in Mexico, vulnerable to his every touch. It took every ounce of willpower to lock the memory away again. He had to deal with her simply as a new colleague, a potentially difficult one at that, in the place he’d chosen to start over. Whatever had happened between them in the honeymoon suite in Mexico had no bearing on the here and now. Yet he felt he owed it to himself, and to her, to clear the air.
“Listen.” Cort lowered his voice. “I wasn’t sure you’d want anyone to know we’d met before. I was trying to be discreet.”
“That’s fine.” The steady gaze didn’t waver, but the ice in her voice was solid now. “I keep my private life private, so I... I actually appreciate it.”
That little hesitation tugged at his chest, although he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it had something to do with its incongruity, given her air of total confidence. Without thought, he said, “Well, I’d rather the staff here didn’t know I’d been dumped right before my wedding too, so being discreet is pretty easy for me.”
She didn’t reply, except with a lift of her eyebrows and a sideways tilt of her head, which he interpreted as a dismissive gesture, before she turned to walk away. He should leave it at that, yet the urge to keep hearing that Cherries Jubilee voice was hard to ignore, no matter how aggravating she was.
She was already a few strides down the hall when he called after her, “What was that wrist lock you used? Aikido?”
That brought her up short, and those telling eyebrows rose again as she paused and looked back at him. “Hapkido. You’re a martial artist?”
“Used to be, full on, until I got accepted into med school. Kept involved while I was in the army too.” He held out his hands and flexed his fingers. “But I’ve stopped sparring, since I don’t want to break anything, although that didn’t end my fascination.”
For a moment she didn’t reply, seemed to be staring at his hands, then she looked back up at him. “Huh. Wimp.”
Wow, she didn’t pull any punches, did she? But he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Want to test that hypothesis sometime?”
Liz just shook her head, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “I’d kick your butt.”
“No doubt,” he replied, making no attempt to stop her this time when she moved away. “I’ve no doubt at all.”
And it occurred to him, as he watched that delectable body disappear around the corner, she could do a great deal more than just kick his butt physically.
If he was stupid enough to let her.
“I SHOT HIM,” the patient moaned, her voice distorted not just by the oxygen mask but also her severe facial injuries. “I shot him.”
It was all she’d said since she’d been brought in, over and over again, no matter what Liz asked her. She’d barely reacted to any of the procedures they’d done to try to stabilize her condition, despite the additional pain they must have caused her.
“Kaitlin, where hurts the most?”
“I shot him. I shot him.”
“Any word from Trauma?” Liz asked the room at large.
“I’m here.”
Cort Smith dumped a bloody surgical gown into the bin by the door, and paused to drag on a fresh one. “What do we have?”
Even as focused as she was on her patient, Liz’s heart did a little dip when she heard his voice.
I’ll get used to having him around.
That was what Liz had been telling herself repeatedly since the day Cort strode back into her life but, a month on, she still had a visceral reaction every time she saw him. Having to work with him presented another layer to her problem, since she found herself sometimes having to fight to concentrate.
The movements of his hands, the calm, soothing quality of his deep voice when he spoke to patients, did things to her insides. They brought to mind the way he’d touched her so masterfully as he’d murmured in her ear that night so long ago, telling her to come.
It was extremely annoying and she once more resolved to ignore it. The badly beaten and stabbed woman in front of her deserved all her concentration.
“Twenty-four-year-old Kaitlin Hayle, facial trauma and multiple penetrating wounds to thorax and abdomen, both anterior and posterior. Limited lung sounds on the right when brought in; chest tube inserted.”
As she continued to bring him up to speed, she chafed at the delay having to do so caused. It was information she’d already transmitted to Dr. Yuen, and
