He jammed the clothes he’d taken off into a suitcase, stuffing the unwanted emotions to the dark recesses of his mind, as well. He didn’t have time to let his personal feelings get in the way. There was a patient waiting, counting on him. He exited the bathroom, pulling his luggage behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he knew instinctively all eyes were glued to him. Turning, he smiled and waved awkwardly. No one returned his greeting.
Good Lord.
He approached Charlotte’s nurse, the one who had given him the scrubs. Lavender scrubs, no less. Quinn made a mental note to see if there were any blue or green in stock. He wasn’t partial to any shade of purple. Perhaps he was a bit of a pig for thinking this, but he felt a bit emasculated in such a feminine color.
“Sorry, I don’t remember your name,” he apologized.
“No worries. I’m Rosie, and I can take your luggage for you, Dr. Devlyn.”
“Thanks. And the patient?”
“In exam room one.”
“Thanks again.”
The eyes, he was pretty sure, followed him all the way to the exam-room door. The tension was so thick you could slice it with a knife. Perhaps they were shocked to see a man in lavender.
Quinn knocked on the door and Charlotte answered. A smug smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she looked him up and down.
“I think that’s your color,” she teased.
“Think again,” he snarled.
Charlotte stifled a giggle and stepped to one side. “Come in.”
Quinn entered the large exam room, his gaze resting on the Inuk couple in the corner. The woman was exceptionally pretty, with black hair and eyes to match. There was a dimple in her cheek as she grinned up at her husband.
“Mentlana, Genen, this is Dr. Devlyn. He’s the specialist I told you both about.”
Genen stood and came over to grasp Quinn’s bad hand, shaking it firmly. Quinn didn’t wince, even though the man had a strong grip.
Quinn approached Mentlana and was surprised by her measured gaze. This woman was picking him apart with her eyes and he felt like a slab of meat.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Tikivik.”
“And you, Dr. Devlyn. Charley wasn’t wrong. You are cute.”
He arched his brows and held back the grin threatening to erupt.
“Ahem.” Charlotte cleared her throat from behind him and now it was his turn to stifle a laugh. Craning his neck, he looked back at her. She was conveniently staring at the ceiling, but her blush was evidence of her embarrassment. He liked the way the pink bloomed in her creamy white cheeks.
Focus.
“Well, thank you for the compliment. I’d like to do an ultrasound, now, if that’s okay?” he asked, steering the subject back to the examination. But he planned to use Mentlana’s little disclosure of information to get him a manlier color of scrubs. Right now he had a job to do. Now was not the time for frivolity or personal feelings. “Do you have a full bladder?”
“When don’t I?” Mentlana replied. “Please, before I burst.”
“I’ll get the ultrasound machine,” Charlotte said.
Charlotte wheeled the machine over and then dimmed the lights, refusing to meet his gaze.
So, I still make her uncomfortable.
That thought secretly pleased him.
Getting to work, he uncovered Mentlana’s belly. “Sorry. This is a bit cold.”
“That’s not cold, Dr. Devlyn. Outside is cold.”
He grinned, but didn’t engage in any further pleasantries. He had a consult to complete. Quinn placed the probe against her abdomen and began to adjust the dials to get a clearer picture. Genen leaned forward, his eyes transfixed on the image on the monitor.
“Well, from what I can see, your placenta, though previa, is fully attached and not bleeding.”
“That’s a relief.” Genen kissed his wife’s hand. “And the baby?”
“The bleeding is not being caused by the baby. I have to run some more tests to determine the severity of the CCAM, but other than that, his heart is beating and he’s moving well. His other organs are forming satisfactorily for a gestational age of twenty-one weeks.”
“Thank you, Dr. Devlyn. I appreciate it,” Mentlana said.
“I want you on bed rest, though.” He turned to look at Charlotte. “I’m sure Dr. James will agree with my assessment.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “I think we’ve had this discussion before.”
“For how long?” Mentlana’s gaze traveled nervously between him and Charlotte.
“For the remainder of your pregnancy. With your pulmonary embolism and placenta previa alone, it’s for the best,” Charlotte said, brushing back Mentlana’s hair.
Mentlana nodded. “Okay.”
“We’ll call you when I’m through analyzing your labs and diagnostic images.” Quinn wiped the sonogram gel from her abdomen and then turned back to the machine. “Until then, take it easy.”
“Sounds good, Doctors.”
Quinn saved various shots of the baby’s heart and other organs to determine whether or not he would have to do the surgery in utero. It would be better if he could wait until the baby was full term to deliver it via Caesarean and do the operation on the newborn.
He’d done that surgery several times since his hand had been damaged.
If the baby could wait until its birth, by then he might be able to figure out a way to get Mentlana to Mount Hope, where his surgical team could assist him. Even Iqaluit would be better than here.
Charlotte may be a competent physician, but she was no surgeon.
She could’ve been great if she’d only come to New York with me.
Quinn stood up and left. He knew Charlotte followed him, and so did the collective gaze of the mob huddled in the waiting room as they passed to get to Charlotte’s office.
Once they were behind the closed doors he wandered over to the window and wrinkled his nose in dissatisfaction at the swirling snowstorm, which had caught up with them.
Then again, it would make a nice photograph and he was glad he’d brought his camera. Since his father’s death, he had been indulging in his secret passion for photography. Something his father had always stated was a waste of time.
He was on sabbatical, as his father had just died when Charlotte had called, and he’d planned on taking a trip to India to photograph scenery. Instead, he was up in the High Arctic and not getting paid much to be there.
The money didn’t matter to him.
His father would roll over in his grave if he knew, and he already knew how his mother felt about this excursion.
“You don’t have time for a charity case, Quinn. You have to prepare to take your father’s place!”
God. He hated winter. It probably stemmed from the fact he’d been forced into endless hours of hockey practice by his father, when all Quinn had wanted to do was take photography lessons. Photography hadn’t been manly enough for his father, whereas hockey was the sport of champions.
“Don’t they have winters in Toronto?” Charlotte asked, breaking the silence.
Quinn glanced back at her. “Pardon?”
“The