the staff’s kitchenette. There were patients to be seen, lab results to read, decisions to be made, but he was only one man. He needed a break—and coffee. Just three minutes, that was all he’d give himself. Three minutes for a little caffeine and a chance to regain his emotional equilibrium after dealing with Mr. Burns, the scum who’d beaten his wife.
Gut churning, Alex walked past the coffee to the cramped locker room that was attached to the kitchen. The room barely had enough space for a few metal lockers and a single cot, but the door had a small sign which euphemistically declared it to be the physician’s lounge. He pushed a gym bag out of the way with his foot on his way to the sink. The water ran hot almost instantly.
The patient had not fallen down a flight of stairs, that much was obvious from her bruising. Alex had needed to pretend he believed her story, though. Abusers wouldn’t stick around after an accusation, and they often convinced their victims to leave before they could be treated. Alex had started the hospital’s official process, and he hoped the victim was ready to take advantage of the assistance the hospital could provide.
The system worked. He’d seen it work. But to use an American phrase, that first step was a doozy. The first step required Alex to smile and be cordial and shake hands with a man he was certain had beaten his own wife.
Alex scrubbed his hands in the sink. He was no actor, but he deserved an Academy Award for keeping up that facade of friendliness. To test his patience further, a real actor, Sophia Jackson, had decided to waste his time by chewing him out for problems that weren’t even problems.
Alex scrubbed harder. Hot water, soap and vigorous friction could kill almost anything.
The woman on one side of the curtain had been a victim of a crime. Sophia Jackson, on the other side of the curtain, had been a victim of nothing more than her own stupidity and stubbornness. According to the Texas Rescue volunteers who’d brought her in, she’d decided to cut short a tour of the rebuilt clinic by storming off the path, stomping over the orange netting that marked off the rubble left behind by last year’s floods. They’d called after her and warned her to stop, but the paramedic said she’d ignored everyone.
Alex could believe it. It seemed the movie star was nothing more than a miserable person who made everyone around her miserable, too. Her personal assistant looked to be the most unhappy person of them all.
He stopped scrubbing and let the tap water flow over his hands. The personal assistant hadn’t been what he’d expected. Instead of a hard and edgy shark, she looked like an angel. The expression on her heart-shaped face was open and hopeful. Everything about her had seemed inviting. Her hair looked soft and touchable, a shade of gold so dark, it was nearly bronze. The overhead lighting had reflected off that gold, and Alex had been momentarily dazzled by her halo before he’d realized who she was. Only then had he noticed the subtle, anxious way she was twisting her fingers together.
Apparently, even an angel could be stressed out. It would take the patience of a saint to work for Sophia Jackson.
He used a paper towel to shut off the faucet. If the angelic woman was stressed out by the demands of Sophia Jackson, he couldn’t help her. Since she was with the movie star, he could only assume that she enjoyed her job. Fame was alluring to most people, perhaps even more so to personal assistants. After all, they made a living by helping someone famous keep their famous life running smoothly. Princess Picasso’s assistant was no exception.
He grabbed a coffee mug, feeling annoyed with himself for being annoyed at all. It shouldn’t matter to him one bit that an angelic-looking woman who happened to pass through his ER was letting a movie star run her ragged. It was no business of his whether or not she thrived by facilitating someone’s fame. Coffee was all he wanted.
The door opened after the most timid of knocks. “Excuse me, Dr. Gregory. I’m so sorry to bother you.” The assistant stuck her angel face in the crack and smiled at him hopefully.
Speak of the devil.
“This area is employees only.”
She bit her lower lip with perfect white teeth. “I know, I’m sorry.”
He set down the empty mug. So, she was appealing. They had nothing in common and would never see each other again after another sixty minutes, give or take, so he called upon his medical experience to act dispassionately and moved to the door.
“I really need to talk to you,” she said.
“There is nothing you can say that will change how this hospital operates.”
You stay in your world, I’ll stay in mine. He put his hand on the doorknob to shut it.
“Wait.” The angel had more determination than he’d expected. She thrust her whole arm and shoulder in the door. “There are no stairs in her house.”
He knew, instantly, that she was not telling him about Sophia Jackson’s house. Surprise kept him silent.
“I heard her say so. I’m talking about the woman next to us. The man that was with her hurt her.” She was breathless in her anxiety to tell him what she knew.
Alex opened the door and ushered her in with a gentle touch on her arm, a brief brush of her soft gray sweater under his hand. He shut the door in an automatic move to protect patient privacy. Still, it seemed intimate to be alone with this woman in this little bit of an inner sanctum. “I understand. That’s why I arranged to have him removed from her treatment area.”
She didn’t seem reassured. “He’s only filling out paperwork. Spousal consent forms.”
She really had heard every word, then—and remembered them. “Spousal consent forms are a code in this ER. It means the spouse has to leave the treatment area. I’ve seen enough patients who have fallen down stairs to recognize the hallmarks of that type of injury.”
“And she didn’t have them?”
He shook his head silently. He was bound legally and ethically not to describe a patient’s medical condition to a stranger. The assistant obviously knew some details already, but he couldn’t tell her more.
“How long does it take for him to fill out the forms? He’ll be back any minute.”
“Security will explain that he can’t reenter the treatment area. Doctor’s orders. When the next room with walls and a door opens up, the patient will be moved there. I can’t tell you more than that, but I assure you, she will have a chance to talk to me in private.”
“She won’t tell you anything.”
Sadly, the assistant was quite possibly right. Victims of domestic violence were often silent in the hope that the situation would improve if they helped their abuser. “I hope you’re wrong about that, but we’ll give her every chance, every safety net we have available. You and I need to end this conversation now, because—”
Because of patient confidentiality, of course. But he didn’t finish the sentence, because what had popped into his head was because you’re already too appealing. Her compassion toward a stranger only increased his regard for her.
It didn’t matter. He had no interest in pursuing a woman when no relationship was possible. Flirting was something else he’d never quite understood. It was a waste of time to indulge an attraction to a woman who lived in another state, let alone a woman who built her life on the shaky ground of fame.
The
