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Jealousy seared through him. How stupid was that? How pointless when he wasn’t entitled to it? But stupid or pointless or not, he barely stopped himself from putting his fist into Emilio’s challenging face.
As if he could. His right arm was functioning again, but there’d be no punch-throwing. Never had been and never would be. Not if he wanted to remain a surgeon. But he’d been certain she wasn’t involved. Had he not sensed her involvement with Emilio because he didn’t want to? Or because it didn’t count to her? Just as their encounter didn’t?
Was this how it always was with her? All attachment was on the side of the stupid, addicted males?
And Emilio was certainly attached—not just attracted, but emotionally attached. Yet even in his presence Dante still didn’t pick an answering attachment from Gulnar. That didn’t mean there was no involvement. It could be a purely physical, unemotional interest on Gulnar’s side.
Gulnar and Emilio had fallen into brisk step with him as he hurried out of the small building housing GAO’s modest rented administration office.
He added to his speed. He didn’t want to be in their company, didn’t want to know what went on between them. If they hadn’t come after him now, he would have left tomorrow first thing in the morning before Gulnar came on her daily visit, if she came. He wouldn’t have seen her again, he would have run without saying goodbye…
He flicked Emilio an impatient glance. “So what’s the emergency? I hope it’s something simple for a change. I don’t have time to deal with anything more. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“You are?” Gulnar spoke for the first time, her velvet voice scraping his exposed nerves. “But you’re not fully recovered yet!”
They’d reached his ride, the stately diplomatic limousine the Azernian president had put at his disposal. His uniformed chauffeur was leaning on the hood, smoking. He straightened as soon as he saw him, jumped forward to open his door for him. Dante shook his head at him, his lips going numb. An escape car and no way to escape! Not until he got rid of Gulnar and Emilio. “I’m fine. My luck is holding out. The bullet couldn’t have picked a lesser damage route if it had meant to, and my blood picture is almost back to normal, so I’m almost as good as new.”
“But you should be in hospital for another week,” Gulnar insisted. “Then you should recuperate for another two! All doctors said so!”
“So we’re back to ignoring the fact that I’m one myself, eh?” She opened her mouth. He just couldn’t bear hearing her voice again. He raised his voice, drowning hers. “My professional opinion says I’m well enough to leave tomorrow, and I will. Anyway, if people keep demanding things from me, they must think me well enough. So what am I needed for now?”
He could have sounded less fed-up, should be accessing his professionalism. His despondency wasn’t Gulnar’s or Emilio’s fault. Or anyone’s. Or life’s.
Emilio slowed down, stopped, his hostility even more evident. “We’re so sorry to impose on the time and plans of the madly-in-demand, exalted hero of the Caucasus. But your even more exalted talents as a reconstructive surgeon are being called upon. If you deem it worth your while, of course.”
OK. That was deserved. But it wasn’t in answer to his unintentional arrogance. This was personal. And beyond the instinctive antagonism between two males over a coveted female. Why? Had Gulnar told him what had happened between them?
But what had happened? Nothing much, she’d made it clear. Just the inept fumblings of a half-dead man, grasping for any bits of her life and fire.
The idea that Gulnar could have exposed him, related the incident to her lover—had she laughed as she’d told him? The way she’d struggled not to when he’d been so distressed after she’d taken her first full look at him…
And he’d thought Roxanne’s revulsion had hurt! If his lack of hair had warranted such shock, he didn’t want to think what knowing the full truth would do. Oh, he knew she was too kind, too versed in dealing with affliction to show revulsion. But he hadn’t been about to risk it, had recoiled from her touch when she’d recovered from her shock.
He’d wanted to erase the moments of insanity, to return them to warm spontaneity, to keep her as a friend at least. She’d accepted his overtures, jumped on them more like, relieved. He should have been, too. He hadn’t been.
Hearing her saying it hadn’t mattered, then behaving accordingly, had torn him up! He’d wanted it over, but he wanted it to have mattered! He wanted the memory, the belief. To cherish. To sustain him.
One more thing he’d have to live without.
Dante made another detaining gesture to his fidgeting driver. “No need to get nasty, Fernandez. I may not be dying, but you’re not catching me at my best either. Sorry if I was short but I just spent a very trying hour with Kauffman. If you’ve ever dealt with him, you know what I’m talking about. So, again, what’s the emergency?”
Emilio’s grudging consent to the enforced truce was evident. “It’s not exactly an emergency…”
Gulnar stepped in front of Emilio, took over the situation. “I believe it is. Did you hear about last night’s bombing?”
Dante shook his head, his chest closing. Gulnar’s lips tightened. “Terrorists hit a housing complex in Fajana, the nearest town to Srajna. During initial triage we had one hundred and ninety-five cases, fifty-four of them urgent. I assisted in ten, including Dimitri Ivanov’s. Dimitri is a GAO recruit, too, and he was injured when he went in to save a trapped family and the building collapsed completely. He had massive intra-abdominal bleeding and contamination from a ruptured spleen and large bowel and a split liver.”
Dante’s chest constricted more, at the atrocity, but equally with crushing relief. So this was what had kept her away! Focus. It’s not about you now. “You performed damage control surgery?”
“Yes. All bleeding vessels have been ligated and solid organ sources of hemorrhage packed and the bowels stapled shut. After transfusions and irrigating the peritoneum he’s been left open to guard against abdominal compartment syndrome.”
He nodded, finally accessing his professional control. “Good. Definitive organ repairs should be in no less than 48 hours, after he’s stabilized.”
Gulnar frowned. “That’s what his surgeon is saying. But Dimitri’s face has also sustained massive injuries. Dr. Moya said he wasn’t touching them, that an ocular blow-out fracture isn’t an emergency, and anyway, that with Dimitri’s precarious general condition, facial deformities and future functional problems were the least of our worries now.”
“And you don’t agree?”
Conviction and urgency warred on her exquisite face. “No! But since I’m just a nurse, my opinion carried no weight. So I need you—someone whose opinion they’ll all accept. Only you can determine if my fears are justified before it’s too late, and if they are, to do something about them.”
