AFTERGLOW (10 page)

She gritted out, "The jerk was stoned! I was plotting, David, but it wasn't my fault. I was out of the way!"

"I know. Don't worry now." David saw the pool of blood on her belly and motioned quickly to Elsa. Gently he swabbed away the blood. He saw the puncture mark immediately. There had been something sharp on the moped and it had gone into her just as if she'd been stabbed. But how deep? That was the important question.

"Chelsea," he asked, "does this hurt?"

"Yes," she whispered, flinching away from his fingers.

She heard a woman's voice saying crisply, "Blood pressure 110/80, pulse 145."

She saw David's head very close to her stomach. "Relax, Chelsea," he said, not looking at her. As gently as he could he probed the wound, trying to find the base. He hoped nothing vital had been penetrated. He didn't think so, but he wasn't certain. He said to the nurse, "Get an IV going now."

His mind was sorting through options as he straightened and took out his stethoscope. He listened to her heart and lungs. Suddenly he heard her moan, and he flinched.

"Chelsea," he said, taking her face between his hands again, "something on the moped stabbed you. What we've got to do, now, is an exploratory laparotomy. I can't take the risk that something vital wasn't penetrated. In a moment I'll have you sign some papers. Then I'll give you a shot and there won't be any more pain. All right?"

"It hurts," Chelsea said. "So does my wretched head."

"I imagine it does. But you're going to be just fine, I promise. Now hold still, just another quick prick." He got the IV going and ordered antibiotics.

"I don't like this at all," Chelsea said, trying very hard not to sob. "I don't want you looking at me!"

"Now I'm just going to look at your head." She felt a sheet being pulled over her. It had taken them long enough, she thought angrily. "How many fingers, Chelsea?"

"Four."

"Good, now follow my finger."

She did. He started probing, and she tried to jerk away when he found the small lump behind her left ear. "Hold still," he said sharply. She felt him strike her lightly with something, and one elbow jumped, then the other. "Tell me if you feel this," he said.

"Ouch!"

David took the needle he'd been lightly pricking against her legs and gently scratched it up the bottom of her bare foot. "Feel that?"

"Yes."

He looked closely into her eyes with a silly-looking instrument. He said while he looked, "I don't think there's any doubt that you know who you are and who I am. Your brain is intact. Everything looks good here."

"I don't like lying here like a piece of meat," she said.

"I wouldn't, either. Now I've got to examine the rest of you. Just relax."

He gently turned her onto her stomach, and the pain in her stomach intensified. She stuffed her fist into her mouth.

David checked every inch of her back, bottom and legs. No other puncture wounds, no bruises. He stroked his hands over her ribs. "Any pain?"

She shook her head, not speaking.

He shifted her onto her back again and pulled the sheet over her. Her face was white with pain. He knew he was going to operate, and he also knew he should wait for the anesthesiologist, but he didn't wait. He told Elsa in a low voice to bring morphine.

Chelsea's eyes were closed, and her lashes only flickered slightly when he asked, "There's no pain anywhere but your belly?"

She managed to gasp out, "It's just my rotten stomach!"

"Okay, now I'm going to raise you a bit. Here's a pen. Sign right here."

"What is it? My will? I'm leaving you all my money?"

"No, you're giving me permission to do a laparotomy. That's all."

She wanted to ask what a laparotomy was, but she felt a sharp bolt of pain in her stomach and couldn't think straight. She signed the paper.

"Good," David said. He injected the morphine into her IV line and checked again to see that the tape holding the needle in her arm was secure.

"You're a damned lecher," she gritted out. "Don't you dare pull that sheet down again."

She thought she heard some laughter, but wasn't certain. David was leaning over her again. "Now just breathe normally. You're not going out yet, but the pain is going to all but go away. Then I'm going to take some very pretty pictures of your insides. Then the OR."

What the devil was the OR? she wondered vaguely. Operating room. "No!" she yelled, trying desperately to sit up. Everything was spinning. David's face flickered in and out.

"You look ridiculous in that dumb white coat," she said; then she felt incapable of doing or saying anything else.

She felt insensible, her brain like mush, but at least the pain was only a dull throbbing.

David was saying, "Get me Dr. Madson. I want him to do the surgery."

He took Chelsea's hand in his, and for the first time since he'd seen her sprawled on the gurney he smiled. "You're going to be all right, Chels. And when you wake up you won't be able to yell at me for operating on you." Dr. Madson was the finest abdominal surgeon on staff. He shook his head. She'd actually called him a lecher!

He held her hand while Dr. Corning, the anesthesiologist, asked her questions.

"What do you mean, do I take any drugs?" she asked, her voice slurred and slow. "Ask that idiot on the moped."

"Chelsea, are you on any antibiotics, prescribed stuff like that?"

"No," she said, "not even birth control pills."

Thorpe Corning smiled at David and said suavely, "Something for you to take care of, David. Now, Miss Lattimer, any allergies? Like to penicillin?"

"No, and please stop. I don't do anything except drink white wine."

"All right," Thorpe said, "now here's what's going to happen." Neither doctor was certain that she heard or understood.

"Take good care of her, Thorpe," David said.

"I always do, my man," Dr. Corning said, grinning as he rose. "And since she's a special interest, I'll sing to her while she's going under. I gather that's why you're not doing the surgery?"

"You got it," David said. "Besides, Dennis does pretty stitching."

Chelsea was aware of white, an endless expanse of white. She frowned, then gasped aloud at the throbbing pain in her stomach.

She heard a voice, a very gentle, firm voice, telling her to hold still.

Then David was saying insistently, "Chelsea. Open your eyes."

She could manage that, just barely. He was blurred at first, but she kept blinking until he was in focus.

David looked down at her, trying to smooth the lines of worry from his forehead. After all, the surgery had gone well. She just looked so small and lost, swathed in the white hospital gown, her face nearly as white as the sheets. Her black hair was tousled, her lips pale, devoid of her usual peach lipstick. She looked vulnerable, helpless, and he wished he could magically change this day into tomorrow. Even with painkiller, she would feel like the pits for a good eight more hours. He saw her bite her lower lip. He gently picked up her hand and held it.

"Chelsea," he said, "I know you hurt, but try not to fight it, all right? Just take shallow breaths. Abdominal surgery isn't pleasant, but the pain won't last all that long. I'll give you something for it in a little while."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, his words going through and over her head. She felt muddled and heavy and stupid. "I'm in bed, but my bedroom isn't white like this. I didn't invite you to spend the night, did I?"

"Not this time, no. You're in the hospital. Do you remember the moped?"

"I'm not stupid or senile." She flinched, remembering that odd sharp pain in her stomach. Now she remembered everything.

She heard him chuckle.

"You told me it wouldn't hurt anymore. What's wrong?"

He heard the fear in her voice and repeated what he'd already said. "You've had surgery. You were very lucky. The wound didn't penetrate anything important. You're going to be up and about in another week."

Surgery! Someone had cut her open! David!

But she couldn't work up the outrage to tell him that he'd had no right—no right at all—to cut her open; she felt too crummy. She swallowed the gasps of pain that threatened to erupt from her throat and turned her face away on the very hard pillow.

David straightened, releasing her hand. Dennis Madson had done a fine job. The incision was small, the stitches set beautifully, and he'd only given David
an
understanding smile when he'd said he didn't want to assist. David had paced the waiting room like an expectant father during the entire surgery, too scared out of his wits and much too worried to assist Dennis. It was only when it was over that Dennis had showed him the results.

He wished he could find something to say, but he couldn't. He knew she was upset, hurting and confused. He smoothed some black curls away from her forehead again, his touch featherlight. He thanked the good Lord that he'd been there in the emergency room to take care of her.

"You silly woman," he said very softly, smiling crookedly as he remembered her shouting at him, "You lecher!" He knew stories were already buzzing around the emergency room about Dr. Winter's lady friend coming in and yelling at him for taking off her clothes. He wondered how long he would have to endure the inevitable razzing.

Seeing that her face was white with pain, he shaved the time by thirty minutes. He said nothing to her, merely injected some more morphine into her IV. Not enough to put her under, just enough to take the edge off the pain.

To his chagrin he was called back to the emergency room. He spoke to her softly, but she didn't respond. He instructed a nurse to stay with her until he returned.

He closed his eyes for a moment when he heard a soft sob come from the narrow hospital bed.

Chapter 6

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"
M
ercy, Chels, you look like a pale little Madonna!"

Chelsea looked up at gorgeous George smiling down at her, Elliot at her side.

"Why aren't you in Boston?" Chelsea asked, frowning.

"I got in last night. It's now today, morning to be exact. Never again will you go jogging without me. Was that head of yours in medieval England?"

"No, in San Francisco, in 1854, but it wasn't my fault."

"We know," Elliot said, gently squeezing Chelsea's hand. "You look good, Chelsea, a lot better than you did after your surgery."

"You saw me then? I don't remember you, Elliot."

"Well, I didn't get to see the pretty stitches on your belly, but David assured me that they were the best he'd ever seen."

Chelsea closed her eyes a moment against Elliot's wicked grin and her own dire embarrassment at her encounter with
Dr.
Winter, not just David Winter.

Elliot felt George's elbow in his ribs and said, "When you're feeling better, remind me to tell you about the time George came out of the anesthetic singing the French national anthem."

"I didn't know you'd had any surgery, George," Chelsea said, momentarily diverted from her thoughts, just as Elliot had hoped she'd be.

"She did, and scared the wits out of me. I remember finding her clutching her stomach, huddled against the refrigerator."

"Wearing your bathrobe," George added.

"At least yours was legitimate, George. There can be nothing more lowering than to be hit by a stoned moped," Chelsea said.

"She's speaking Georgette Heyer," George said. "She must be feeling better."

"You might know that the fellow didn't have a single injury," Elliot said. "Does that make you feel better?"

"I'm going to put a contract out on him."

"On who?" David asked, coming into the room. "Not me, I hope."

Chelsea felt every bone in her body shudder with embarrassment. She couldn't bring herself to look at him.

Chelsea didn't say a word, and David, put out by her ridiculous attitude, said, "You could thank me, Chelsea. I didn't let them shave you."