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Dear Reader
I’m often asked where the ideas for my stories come from and I have to say I haven’t got a clue. They just arrive in my head. Yes, it’s chaos in there sometimes.
So where did Mario and Alexandra come from? In the sunshine by the marina at a restaurant in Nelson, celebrating a friend’s birthday earlier this year, I found my story. Sitting at another table was a very big, gorgeous, Italian-looking guy.
And that’s how it began. What if this man was a doctor? What if he were bringing up a child alone? Why? What kind of woman would take his heart? It was easy to visualise a tiny but strong woman with him. And how perfect it would be to make her his boss.
We had a great lunch that day, and I didn’t spend all my time on the story, preferring to enjoy the celebrations. But during the hour and a half drive home my mind worked overtime. I hope you like the result.
Cheers!
Sue MacKay
www.suemackay.co.nz
Also by Sue MacKay:
EVERY BOY’S DREAM DAD
THE DANGERS OF DATING YOUR BOSS
SURGEON IN A WEDDING DRESS
RETURN OF THE MAVERICK
PLAYBOY DOCTOR TO DOTING DAD
THEIR MARRIAGE MIRACLE
These books are also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk
You, Me and a Family
Sue MacKay
MILLS & BOON
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To Dad and Mum. No matter what, you were always there for us as we grew from little hellions to adults. I miss you.
CHAPTER ONE
‘ALEXANDRA KATHERINE PRENDERGAST, how do you plead? Guilty …?’
The judge paused, drawing out the excruciating moment, forcing her heart to clench with pain.
Just when Alex thought she’d scream with frustration and humiliation, he added in a disbelieving taunt, ‘Or not guilty?’
Her mouth was drier than a hot summer’s day. Her tongue felt twice its normal size. Tears oozed from the corners of her eyes to track down her sallow cheeks. ‘Guilty,’ she tried to whisper. Guilty, guilty, guilty, cried her brain, agreed her knotted belly.
‘Speak up, Alexandra,’ the man standing on the opposite side of the operating theatre table growled. His eyes, staring out at her from under his cap, were cold, hard and demanding. Their hue matched the no-nonsense blue of the scrubs they both wore. ‘Did this child die in your care or not?’
‘I did everything within my power to keep him alive, your honour. The other doctors told me there was nothing I could’ve done, that I did nothing wrong. I wanted to believe them, but how could I? He was totally reliant on me and I failed him.’ The familiar, gut-twisting mantra spilled over her sore, cracked lips. The old pain and despair roiled up her throat. ‘I failed Jordan.’ The words flailed her brain.
‘Jordan died because of you. Have you done everything within your power to prevent the same thing happening again?’
‘Yes,’ she croaked. ‘Every day I try to save other babies.’
‘I sentence you to a lifetime of looking after other people’s ill children.’ Her judge’s eyes were icy, his voice a perfect match.
Alex gasped, shoved up from her pillow and clamped her hand over her mouth. Sweat soaked her nightgown, plastering it to her breasts and shoulders, making it pull tight against her skin as she moved in the bed. Moist strands of hair fell into her eyes, stuck to her wet cheeks. ‘I will not throw up. I will not.’ The words stuck in the back of her throat as she blinked her way back from the nightmare.
The all too familiar nightmare.
Her fingers shook as she reached for the bedside lamp switch and flooded her bedroom with soft yellow light. Tossing the covers aside she put her feet on the floor and pushed up. Despite the heat-pump being on, the winter air was chilly on her feverish skin. But cold was good. It focused her. Brought her completely back from the nightmare and her guilt. Made her concentrate on the here and now, on today and not the past.
Tugging on a thick robe and slipping her feet into fluffy slippers she trudged out to the kitchen and plugged the kettle in to make a drink of herbal tea. Shivering, she stood staring into her pantry, unable to decide what flavour to have. Her eyes welled up as the floodgates opened, and she blindly reached for the nearest packet and plopped a tea bag into a mug.
The oven clock read 3:46. She’d had little more than three hours sleep before the nightmare hit, slamming into her head in full technicolour. Accusing. Debilitating. Painful. Reminding her that her position as head paediatrician at Nelson Hospital was, in her mind, as tenuous as whatever her next patient threw at her. Taunting she was a fraud and that it was only a matter of time before she made a dreadful mistake with someone’s child that would expose her as incompetent.
She had to draw deep to find the belief she was a good doctor, a very good one. The ever expanding numbers of sick children coming to see her, not just from the top of the South Island but all over New Zealand, showed that. Unfortunately the nightmare always undermined her fragile belief in herself.
It also reinforced the truth about her not being mother material, how totally incompetent she’d be in that role. Not that she’d be contemplating that ever again.
Click. The kettle switched off. Boiling water splashed onto the counter as she filled her mug. Strawberry vapour rose to her nostrils. Taking the drink she crossed through the lounge to the wide, floor-to-ceiling window showcasing the
