Never Let Go (2 page)

As soon as the
thought crossed her mind, she brought herself up short. No way, she insisted stoutly. She wasn’t going to be the one to try. Davey was her only concern, and as she waited out a seemingly interminable silence, Justin apparently came to some sort of decision. He uttered a resigned sigh.

“Do what you can,” he said at last, the words so quietly spoken that she almost had to strain to hear him. “I’ll write the order to make it official.”

Then his gaze met hers and for one split, heart-stopping second, he and Mallory connected, electricity arcing between them. Mallory’s breath caught in her throat, and the thanks she’d planned to give died on lips gone suddenly dry. She longed to moisten them with her tongue, but didn’t dare for fear it would seem a blatant invitation for the kiss she suddenly yearned for. She swallowed nervously.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, the sensual tension vanished, and Justin’s expression hardened again. “Just stay out of my way.”

Inexplicably hurt by the abrupt return of his animosity, Mallory felt her own anger resurface. It sputtered to life, then died just as quickly when she looked in his eyes and saw those traces of pain again.

“Gladly, doctor,” she retorted, but he was already gone, leaving her relieved, yet oddly puzzled and disturbingly intrigued. Outright, aim-for-the-shins fury would have been a more appropriate response.

“I’ll work
on it,” she muttered to herself as she walked away in the opposite direction.

S
taying out of Justin
Whitmore’s way was easier said than done. Once Mallory had met the infuriating man, she saw him everywhere—in the halls, in the cafeteria, even in the parking lot, getting into a surprisingly battered old sports car. She would have expected a shiny new Jaguar at the very least. Residents might not make much money, but there was an aura surrounding Justin that suggested a wealthy background.

She was less puzzled by his choice of a car, though, than she was by his continued hostility toward her. His responses to her polite greetings were never more than a curt hello or nod of acknowledgment. Not once did he meet her gaze directly.

Nor did he stop her to ask about her progress with Davey, and though she wanted to, not once did she insist on discussing the case with him as she would have with any other physician. The ground rules had been firmly established, and the barriers were in place. She found herself suspended in a sort of professional limbo where Davey was concerned. It was a thoroughly frustrating position.

As the newest
member of the psychology staff, she also felt she couldn’t go running to her boss for advice. Dr. Joshua Marshall was a crusty old man who’d been reluctant to hire a woman in the first place. The fact that she was only thirty hadn’t helped either. He seemed to think white hair and wrinkles were among the appropriate qualifications for a staff psychologist. He’d probably automatically chalk up her problems with Dr. Whitmore to her inexperience and gender and simply cluck disapprovingly. She didn’t need someone just to tell her to try harder to get along with the man.

Mallory was left to work out a solution on her own. She spent an exorbitant amount of time doing it. Even after meeting him, Mallory didn’t understand Dr. Whitmore’s antipathy toward psychologists in general any more than she understood his attitude toward her specifically. It was clear he was only tolerating her for Davey’s sake, even though he obviously maintained his private doubts that she would have any luck. She knew he didn’t actually want her to fail, but she was equally certain he wouldn’t be surprised if she did.

To her chagrin, his continuing coldness bothered her, especially after that spark of excitement that had flared between them. Admittedly, it might have been better for their professional rapport if it had never happened. An all-too-attractive element of danger had been added to an already volatile situation. Justin clearly had withdrawn from such danger, while Mallory found herself reluctantly and inevitably lured toward it. She felt like one of those moths that couldn’t resist a fatal flame.

Late at night, as
she lay alone in a bed that seemed suddenly too big and too empty, the image of Justin’s piercing gaze would tease her senses. She could practically feel the strong caress of his long, tapered fingers and the sensation left her restless with a long-suppressed yearning. Then she determinedly swept away the disturbingly sensual thoughts by reminding herself of his demeaning, belittling attitude.

She wondered if he would have been quite so arrogant or distant had she been a male colleague. Maybe he was one of those chauvinists who, like Dr. Marshall, felt that women had no place in medicine. She’d been told that, although news that he was a bachelor had been circulated widely and optimistically upon his arrival at Fairview General several years earlier, no one had ever heard of Dr. Whitmore dating anyone around the hospital. Then again, perhaps he just kept his personal and professional lives separate. She certainly couldn’t fault him for that, though once she’d found that working closely with someone she loved had given a special dimension to their relationship.

Whatever his problem, Mallory wasn’t interested in having her friendly overtures rebuffed or her professional courtesy thrown back in her face. He’d told her she could work with his patient and for now she would try to be satisfied with that.

That didn’t mean her curiosity wasn’t piqued, though.

“What’s the story on Dr. Whitmore?” she asked Rachel Jackson, a good friend who also happened to be the social worker on Davey’s case. They’d run into each other in Davey’s room and gone to the cafeteria for lunch.

Rachel couldn’t
contain her grin, but her tone held a note of warning. “Forget him, girl. He’s a loner, a real type-A personality. Find yourself another man. The place is crawling with them.”

“I’m not interested in him as a man,” she retorted.

Rachel’s hoot of disbelief rang through the cafeteria. “Then you’re the only red-blooded female around here who’s not. He’s so cool to everybody, and that seems to present an irresistible challenge. I hear they’re even taking bets on when the mighty will fall.”

“Count me out. I’m not into masochism,” Mallory swore, though she couldn’t quite meet her friend’s speculative gaze. “What kind of a doctor is he?”

“The best, according to the other docs on neurosurgery, and they’re a tough bunch to impress. I hear he was the unanimous choice for chief resident, the best and brightest of the current crop. He’s pulled some people through when even the trauma team was convinced they couldn’t make it. Those hands of his ought to be insured for millions, like a pianist’s or something. I hear it’s worth buying tickets just to see him operate.”

“Does he ever warm up?”

“Around here?” Rachel shrugged expressively. “Not that I’ve seen, though word is he was plenty hot under the collar when he called our department about Davey.”

“He was the one who called?” Mallory was intrigued, but not particularly surprised. From the moment Justin had entered Davey’s room and found her there, she’d sensed that his protectiveness toward the boy went beyond the concern of a doctor for his patient.

“He sure as hell did,” Rachel said. “He blasted the boss for not following through after the earlier incidents and didn’t even pause long enough to listen to her explanations. He just said if that kid made it and he ever heard that Davey had been sent back to his mother, heads were going to roll. He didn’t mention whose, but I doubt he planned to limit the bloodletting to the social work department. More than likely, a few state officials would be in line for that temper of his, too. In fact, that’s how I ended up on the case. The boss was afraid Dr. Whitmore might go after Georgina if he saw her near Davey. He blames her for not getting the kid away from his parents and into protective custody before something like this happened. The boss figured maybe I could smooth his ruffled feathers, though why she thought that, I can’t imagine. He’s not one of my biggest fans.”

“Odd, isn’t
it?” Mallory mused.

“What?”

“That he’d get so worked up over this particular case. I know everyone seems to feel very strongly about battered children but it was more than that. I thought I saw something in his eyes that day we met in Davey’s room. He really cares about that kid.”

“If he does, it’s a first. One of the advantages of being a neurosurgeon is that your patients are asleep most of the time. When they come to, they’re so grateful to be alive, you can get away with lousy bedside manners.”

Mallory felt her indignation rise again. “But there’s more to treating a patient than doing the surgery.”

“Maybe so, but except in Davey’s case Justin Whitmore isn’t known for doing it. He considers saving a life his only objective. All the rest is frills.”

“I gather
you’ve had some rough encounters with him, too.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “No more. We declared a truce. I stay out of his way, and he stays out of mine.”

“That’s exactly what he suggested I do.”

“Then, for once, I agree with his advice. Steer clear of him, honey. You’ll get burned.”

It was good advice, and Mallory knew it. Of course, despite her best intentions, she didn’t take it. Puzzles of any kind fascinated her and this one was especially complex.

The next time she saw Justin in the cafeteria, it was barely 7:00 a.m., and he had three empty coffee cups lined up across the table in front of him. He was holding a fourth and still his eyelids were drooping. Thick brown lashes fluttered down, then blinked upward, only to go down again.

“Having trouble staying awake, doctor?” she asked. His hazel eyes snapped open and stared at her blankly for an instant, then seemed to register her identity with no particular pleasure. He blinked as if that action alone would clear away his exhaustion, but it didn’t work. The shadows in his eyes were nearly as dark as those beneath. “Mind listening to a suggestion?”

“Can I help it?” he asked with a hint of the familiar asperity, but a contradictory and unexpected curve of amusement played about his lips.

Those lips, she thought dreamily. Those lips were just made for…She snapped herself back to the moment, appearing to ponder his question. Then she grinned. “Nope. I don’t think so.”

“Then get it over with.”

“So you can go back to sleep?”

“I wasn’t
asleep,” he said defensively.

“Then maybe you should have been. Wouldn’t you be better off in the on-call room than in here pouring caffeine down your throat?”

“Not when I’ve been up all night and I have surgery in less than an hour.”

Mallory knew that residents worked awful, mind-numbing schedules during their training, but she’d never before come face-to-face with one who was at the end of one of those thirty-six-hour shifts.

“You can’t operate like that,” she said, unable to keep the shock from her voice.

“Is that your medical opinion?” he asked sarcastically.

“I don’t need an M.D. to recognize your symptoms. You’re exhausted straight through to your arrogant bones. I’ve read enough studies of the effects of going without sleep to know that you’re beyond your limits. You’ll not only be risking your patient’s life, but in case that doesn’t mean anything to you, you’ll be risking your career as well. Is it worth it?”

Her voice had risen with indignation, and Justin’s hand suddenly snaked out and clamped around her wrist, pulling her down in the booth beside him. Though the seat was more than big enough for two, it seemed oppressively crowded with their thighs pressed together and his hand still tight around her wrist. It didn’t take a degree in psychology to recognize the man’s fury.

Nor did it take a lot of intuition to recognize the heat that swirled through her for what it was—plain, simple and totally irrational lust. On some traitorous level her body was responding with unerring accuracy to Justin Whitmore’s blatant masculinity, to the feel of his heated flesh against hers. Mallory was still trying to puzzle out the reason for that particular phenomenon, when Justin put his anger into words.

“Do you realize
if anyone overheard your touching little display of concern it could set me up for a malpractice suit, if something goes wrong in there this morning?”

Mallory’s blue-green eyes widened. “Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m not the one who’s being absurd. You don’t even know me, lady, so where do you get off telling me my limits? If anyone’s put my career at risk this morning, it’s you.”

At the sound of his raised voice, several heads turned to stare at them, and Mallory blanched under the impact of his outrage. Unfortunately, though she was tempted to argue the point, she knew he was right. She didn’t know him. She only knew the statistics, the case studies on mistakes occurring because of extreme stress. If Justin Whitmore thought he was superhuman, who was she to dispute him? Obviously, this wasn’t the first time he’d operated under such conditions, and she doubted it would be the last. With malpractice claims soaring, he was probably right about the odds of being sued as well.

“I apologize, doctor. I hope the operation goes well,” she said tersely as she jerked free of his grasp, slipped from the booth and walked away feeling thoroughly chastised and publicly embarrassed. It was all the more humiliating because of the heat that had swirled through her at his touch.

Her mental recovery from the unexpected onslaught of sensations was not nearly as rapid as her physical escape. The memory lingered with her all day, sapping her strength just as any nagging worry would. The whole encounter had shaken her and not just because a colleague had lashed out at her in anger. It had been a very long time since she’d responded in such a violently physical way to a man. That it had happened with a man who so clearly disliked her seemed perverse.

Hours later she
was sitting beside Davey’s bed reading him a bedtime story, trying to concentrate on the words that swam before her own tired eyes. She’d been ending her days this way for nearly a week now, ever since Justin had approved the visits. There had been no further evidence of a breakthrough, but she wasn’t giving up. Sooner or later Davey would come to realize that he could trust her.

“Now you’re the one who looks beat,” a voice said quietly, interrupting the soft cadence of her reading. She turned and found Justin standing in the doorway. For a change he was dressed in something other than scrubs—tan slacks the exact same shade as his hair and a blue oxford-cloth shirt. The shirt sleeves were rolled up to reveal muscular forearms finely misted with dark hairs. Her heart lurched in a purely feminine response, sending blood roaring through her veins. Her range of emotions around the great Dr. Whitmore was becoming entirely too predictable, from lust to fury and back again.

“If you came looking for another fight, doctor, I’m not up for it,” she whispered with an edge to her tone, rising and walking away from the bed so they wouldn’t disturb Davey.

“No.” He hesitated. “Actually, I…” His eyes, darkening in confusion, met hers. He sighed. “I came to apologize. You were right this morning. I was too tired to operate, but unfortunately the schedule makes no allowances for such human frailties.”

Mallory had
never been the type to hold grudges, particularly when part of the blame for an argument just possibly might have been her own. “Apology accepted,” she said easily. “I was out of line, too. Did it go okay?”

“Yes. We were lucky. It wasn’t very complicated, and I had a good assistant scrubbing with me.”

“I’m glad.”

“Relieved is more like it, I suspect,” he said with a smile that came and went so quickly Mallory was sure she must have imagined it. While it softened the curve of his lips, though, it had been a wonderful sight. She wondered what it would take to get it back.