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‘You left me with little choice.’ He shrugged, not about to apologise. ‘And don’t talk to me about ethics—for the first time in my career I don’t care. You should have been the one to tell me, Evie.’
‘Well, you should be sorry,’ she challenged, although he didn’t miss the way her eyes darted nervously about. ‘You were the one who always used to be such a stickler about doctor-patient confidentiality.’
‘Is this really the conversation you want to have?’ Max asked quietly.
She stared at him, blinking hard but unspeaking. One beat. Another.
‘You’re right, I’m sorry,’ she capitulated unexpectedly. ‘Yesterday...it’s been playing in my head and now I’m glad you know. I...just didn’t know how to tell you.’
His entire body prickled uneasily.
‘Are you going to invite me in?’
She fidgeted, her eyes cast somewhere over his shoulder, unable to meet his eye.
‘First tell me exactly what you gleaned from my file?’
Max hesitated. There was something behind that question that was both unexpected and disconcerting. The Evie he’d known was feisty, passionate, strong, so unlike the nervous woman standing in front of him, acting as though she had something to hide, as much as she tried to disguise it.
‘As it happens, I didn’t read your file. You can relax. I just spoke to Arabella.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Arabella Goodwin, your nephrologist,’ Max clarified patiently. ‘I told her you’d approached me about the kidney transplant yesterday whilst your sister-in-law was having her tests done. Which, technically, you had done. Imagine my shock when she assumed I knew that Annie was a living donor and that you were the recipient.’
He’d just about managed to cover up his misstep with his fellow surgeon in time.
‘Oh,’ Evie managed weakly. ‘What else did she say?’
‘That your sister-in-law was in for the final repeat tests to ensure nothing had changed before the operation could proceed. I understand you’re due for your transplant next week but you’ll be taken in for the pre-op stage in a matter of days.’
‘And?’ she prompted nervously.
He frowned at her increasing agitation.
‘Do you mean your PRA results and your plasmapheresis?’
He heard her intake of breath before she offered a stiff nod. His frown deepened. Her tenseness made no sense—surely she had to know that the Panel Reactive Antibody blood tests were undertaken by every potential renal transplant patient in order to establish how easy—or difficult—it would be to find a compatible donor?
What was he missing here?
‘Evie, it isn’t uncommon,’ he tried to reassure her. ‘You must know that around twenty-five per cent of patients who need renal transplants go through plasmapheresis to remove dangerous antibodies from their blood and increase their compatibility. You’ve nothing to worry about.’
‘Did she tell you anything else about it?’
She asked the question quietly, but he didn’t miss the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
‘Evie, is this about your previous transplant not working? Is that why you’re so frightened?’
‘My previous transplant?’
He bit back his frustration at her resistance to confiding in him.
‘You have high antibody levels, Evie, so either you’ve had a transfusion, a pregnancy, or a previous transplant. I’m guessing it’s the latter, presumably when you were a kid?’
It would certainly explain her ever-increasing agitation, if she was afraid her body would reject another kidney.
‘You’re guessing a previous transplant,’ she repeated, almost to herself before twisting her head up to him again. ‘You really didn’t read my file.’
