‘It’s nothing to do with that. We can’t guarantee to hold the media off. Not now you’ve been injured,’ Comandante Molina said. ‘Though I admit that, yes, your mother has views on the subject.’
His mother hated him being a soldier on active duty, worrying constantly that he was in danger and would get hurt. Marco had had enough conversations with her on the subject. And the injury to his hand would make her worries increase exponentially. Giving a little ground now might make it a bit easier on his mother.
‘She wants me out of here, doesn’t she?’
Comandante Molina said nothing but gave him a sympathetic look.
‘OK,’ Marco said, resigned. ‘I’ll go to London. But only for as long as it takes to get me fixed. I intend to be back on duty as soon as possible.’
‘Marco, your dedication has never been in doubt,’ Comandante Molina said softly. ‘And your men know you don’t think of yourself as any different to them. If this was Pedro sitting here, not you, wouldn’t you be demanding that he gets the right medical treatment in the right place?’
‘You have a point,’ Marco acknowledged.
‘So listen to Herrera, here, and do what he tells you.’
Marco said nothing.
‘While you were out cold I flushed your hand with saline to get the grit out and avoid infection setting in. I need to give you a tetanus shot now,’ Dr Herrera said. ‘Antibiotics are controversial but, given that you’re travelling for hours to another country for surgery, I’d rather you had them now to avoid the risk of infection.’
‘Fine. Do whatever you need to,’ Marco said.
‘Thank you.’ Dr Herrera smiled at him. ‘I’ve spoken to the surgeon in London. He doesn’t want me to suture your skin as your palm is a mess. I’m just going to dress your wound so it holds until you get to London.’
He talked Marco through what he was doing: a petroleum-impregnated gauze for the first layer of the dressing, to stop the wound sticking to it. Then another layer of gauze, this time soaked in saline but with the excess fluid wrung out, to let any blood escape and avoid a haematoma forming. The third layer was gauze fluff for padding, topped by a loose wrap, and finally there was cast padding with a fibreglass splint to protect the wound from further injury.
‘There’s a helicopter on standby to take you from the airport to the clinic,’ Comandante Molina said. ‘We’ll talk later.’
‘Right,’ Marco said wryly to his boss’s retreating back.
He was pretty sure his mother would put pressure on his father now to make sure his tour of duty was over, and the injury—even though it wasn’t life-threatening—would probably make his father agree and put pressure on Comandante Molina to give Marco an honourable discharge. And there was only one circumstance in which Marco would accept that.
‘When the tendons are repaired and the wound’s healed,’ he said to Dr Herrera, ‘is the injury going to affect the use of my hand at all? Can I still do my job?’ And he knew the doctor would understand what he wasn’t asking: would he be able to work alongside his men without putting them in danger because his hand would be too weak for the job?
‘I’m not going to lie to you,’ the doctor said. ‘There may be some loss of movement in your hand. It’s your flexor tendon that was severed, which means it’s likely to affect the strength of your grip.’
Loss of movement. Loss of grip. His left hand. The hand Marco needed to steady a rifle or change a magazine in a machine gun.
And it also could affect him playing his guitar again; with a classical guitar, you needed a strong grip to press the strings against the neck. Playing the guitar was what always calmed Marco down and swept away the stress.
If he couldn’t do the job he loved … well, then he could still do his duty to his family and his country. Marco had always known that one day he’d have to leave his military career behind and go back to his royal duties. But he hated the pressure of that world. And if he was going to lose the one thing that could always soothe his soul, what would his life become?
Eight hours later, Marco was in London, sitting in a waiting room at 200 Harley Street. Everything about the place was discreetly luxurious: polished marble floors, white leather sofas, chandeliers, soft lighting. It felt more like a luxury hotel than a clinic. Though, for all Marco cared, the clinic could have been a shack thrown up out of corrugated iron and bits of reused timber.
He just wanted his hand fixed.
And for life to be back as normal.
Preferably yesterday.
OK, so the surgeon who was meant to be sorting him out had been called to see a patient urgently. Marco could understand that. He knew he wasn’t the only patient at the clinic. He probably wasn’t from the richest family or the most titled family there, either; the little time he’d had to glean information from the internet had told him just how exclusive this place was.
But the longer he waited, the more use of his hand he’d lose. And he really wasn’t prepared to accept that.
‘But, Ethan, you’re Leo’s brother. Surely you should be the one to head the Hunter Clinic in Leo’s absence,’ Declan said.
Ethan shrugged. ‘You’re Leo’s second in command.’
‘But you have the Hunter name.’
Yeah. And didn’t he know it. The albatross round his neck. ‘Declan, you’ve worked for it. I don’t have a problem with you being in charge.’
Ethan was aware that the other surgeon was eyeing him curiously. Probably wondering if he and Leo had had yet another row and this was Ethan’s way of getting his own back. It probably had something to do with it. But Ethan knew that Declan would never ask. The Irish doctor was charming, yet he kept people at arm’s length and he knew to keep out of other people’s sore spots.
‘And you’re better at PR than I am,’ he added.
‘That’s the Blarney Stone for you,’ Declan said lightly. ‘Ethan, are you quite sure about this?’
‘It’s the right decision for the clinic. And the clinic’s what matters, right?’
Declan nodded. ‘Then, thanks. I’m happy to do the job.’
‘Good.’ One problem down. At least for a little while. ‘I have a patient to see. Catch you later?’ Ethan asked.
‘Laters,’ Declan said with a smile.
Just as Marco was about to go and find someone and ask—very politely, and through gritted teeth—if they could give him any idea how much longer he’d have to wait, a man walked into the room.
Well, limped.
He was about six foot two—Marco’s own height—with dark brown short hair, dark brown eyes, and stubble that Marco thought privately was just on the wrong side of what women found sexy. If this was the doctor and he didn’t give a damn about his appearance, did it follow that he also didn’t give a damn about his job? Or was this guy some kind of porter?
‘Ethan Hunter,’ the man drawled.
One of the Hunter brothers, then. Surgeon. The one who was going to treat him?
He didn’t try to shake Marco’s hand. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’
Marco had the distinct impression that the other man wasn’t sorry at all. There was an edge to his tone, though right at that second Marco couldn’t work out why.
‘And I’m sorry it’s me you’re seeing rather than my brother—he usually does the royals and celebs, but rather inconveniently he’s gone on honeymoon.’
Royals and celebs, hmm? Suddenly it was clear: Ethan Hunter had