CHAPTER EIGHT
Amy Andrews
To Karen, midwife extraordinaire, for helping my
daughter and recently my nephew into the world.
You are a truly special person with a truly special gift.
And to the RBWH Birth Centre for a magnificent job.
CLAIRE took a deep breath and pushed open the solid oak door. Here we go again, she thought. Six men sat around the matching oak table in the boardroom. Their conversation stopped. It appeared they’d started their departmental meeting without her.
‘Ah, Sister West, do join us.’ Dr Martin Shaw, St Jude’s Obstetric Director, pushed back his cuff and looked at his watch.
Claire felt the scrutiny of six pairs of eyes as she prayed that her legs, which suddenly felt as wooden as the furniture in the opulent room, would move her to the indicated seat.
Anger sparked them to life as she reminded herself she had a job to do. This posse of six thought they could ruin one year of her hard work? Determination flushed her cheeks and glittered in her rich, cinnamon-colored eyes. They really ought to know her better than that by now.
She noted her placement at the head of the table and wondered nervously if they’d reserved it to honour her or interrogate her.
‘I don’t believe you’ve met our new consultant,’ said Martin. ‘Sister West, meet Dr Deane.’
Claire bristled at Martin’s formality. They had known each other for years, surely he could use her first name? Claire wouldn’t have minded so much if she hadn’t been absolutely certain that it was Martin’s way of keeping her in her place. You nurse, me doctor.
Unfortunately, only a few years off retirement, he was, like so many doctors of his generation, clinging to the formalities of a bygone era when doctors had been gods and nurses merely their handmaidens.
Well, this is a new millennium, she wanted to yell. Move on or move out of the way. Normally she ignored his irritating habit of using her full nursing title, but Claire was already annoyed that she had to be here at all. Unfortunately the hospital board, in its wisdom, thought she might be able to make a difference.
‘Campbell. Please, call me Campbell.’
His rich voice invaded Claire’s thoughts, dragging her gaze to him. So, this was the man that had driven the hospital grapevine into overdrive! His reputation with the ladies had preceded him. Apparently he was quite the man!
Claire had been so nervous she hadn’t even noticed Campbell Deane. Staring at the newcomer, she couldn’t think why. Even seated, she could tell he was tall. Tall and broad-shouldered, his impressive bulk dominating the chair. In fact, dominating the whole table.
And young, too—relatively speaking. She judged him to be in his mid-thirties. At least two decades younger than the other men in the room.
But it wasn’t her impression of his size that drew her interest, it was his hair. Thick and longish on top with a tendency to flop in his eyes, and very definitely red. Not carrot red, more subtle and peppered with golden highlights that hinted at a fondness for the beach.
It reminded her of a long forgotten ex-fiancé. OK, so Shane’s hair had been
