Dragging air into her lungs, willing the deep breaths to calm her nerves, she entered the small lecture room, crossing to the table on the raised dais, checking there was a jug of water and sufficient glasses for those who would be sitting there—her new acquaintance, Phil; the big boss and the rest of his retinue; Col Bennett, hospital CEO; and herself. Col would introduce the newcomers, then hand over to her to introduce the staff members who would be fixtures in the unit—the unit secretary, two paediatric special care sisters, two sisters from the paediatric surgical ward and two theatre sisters. Other staff would be rostered through the unit once operations were under way.
She was using efficiency to block off any other thoughts. If Phil was right about Alex’s plans for the unit, she’d need to focus completely on what lay ahead workwise.
‘All ready?’
She recognised the voice and turned to see Alex Attwood, frowning grimly, apparently at her. Then, as if he’d suddenly become aware of his fierce expression, he adjusted his features into a smile. The expression shifted the planes of his craggy face so he looked not exactly handsome but very close to it.
Though it wasn’t just the look, but a kind of power she felt emanating from him as he came towards her, that made her realise he was an attractive man. Not conventionally good-looking as Phil was, but attractive nonetheless.
Not that she’d considered attractiveness five years ago when he’d asked her to dance. She’d been too caught up in the music and in an illicit feeling of freedom to take much notice of him as anything more than a dance partner.
Until he’d kissed her…
And by then he’d been too close for her to really see much of him.
‘I think so,’ she said, wishing she could press her hands to her overheated cheeks but knowing that would just draw attention to them.
He was looking at the table on the dais, as if checking off who would sit where. Maybe he hadn’t noticed her scarlet cheeks.
‘I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to get together before today,’ he said. ‘I’d intended getting over on Friday, but a friend asked me to assist at the Children’s Hospital—an emergency admission. Three-month-old brought in from the country with an undiagnosed PDA.’
Mentally, Annie translated the initials into patent ductus arteriosis. The foetal duct between the pulmonary artery and the aorta hadn’t closed, so oxygen-rich blood was still flowing from the aorta back into the pulmonary artery and the lungs. It occurred more often in premmie babies and usually closed spontaneously, but if it didn’t, it could lead to a number of problems for the infant or growing child.
It was a relatively common operation now, with good success rates. The best ever achieved in Australia had been during the time Alex Attwood had been in Melbourne.
‘The baby OK?’ she asked, and saw her new boss smile again—though this time with a warmth that had been absent when he’d used a smile to reassure her earlier.
‘Doing great,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Just great.’
Annie heard genuine satisfaction in his voice and some of her apprehension faded. She had enormous respect for doctors who cared deeply about their patients. So with respect, and with admiration for his ability as a surgeon, she could shut that tiny moment in time when their paths had crossed back where it belonged, in a far corner of her memory, and get on with the job she’d been appointed to do. She was so pleased with this discovery she forgot her promise to Phil.
‘Phil was saying you’re hoping to make this unit a specialised paediatric cardiac surgery unit—a model for small units that could work in other hospitals across the world. Does everyone know this? I mean, the hospital CEO, the board. I’m only asking because no one mentioned it to me…’
Too late, the echo of the words she’d used to Phil reminded her she wasn’t supposed to know, and the return of the frown to Alex’s face suggested he was less than pleased with both her and his offsider.
‘Quite a number of people know.’
The voice she remembered, even with the memory tucked away, hardened.
‘And a high percentage of them are influential in both medical and government circles, but—what are you? Thirty-one? Thirty-two?—you must know how political medicine is. Hospitals have to fight each other for the best funding deals, fight for corporate sponsorship. If news of this unit had leaked out, there’d have been a furore about funds being diverted from other places. We needed it to be a fait accompli before making any announcement.’
He strode across the dais then propped his elbows on the lectern and turned to look back at her, as if prepared to lecture his audience of one.
‘You’ll hear all of this very shortly—and after that the word will spread and the fun and fighting will begin. But believe me, Annie Talbot, this unit will not only come into being, it will eventually be the best in the country. And the model that I want it to be.’
Annie, at first affronted by his quite accurate guess at her age, heard the fire of dedication in his voice. It made her study him more closely—the craggy face, with a straight sharp nose, firm chin, untidy eyebrows over stern grey eyes—and what she saw—and sensed in him—stirred a feeling of true elation. Forget jolts of recognition and kisses in the past! If what he was saying was true, then this was going to be the job of her dreams, not just, as she’d thought when she’d applied for it, a stepping stone to something special. This was going to be the something special she’d always hoped was out there for her. The something special to which she could dedicate her life!
Alex watched a whole array of expressions flash across his companion’s face. Used to reading faces—how else could babies tell you how they felt?—he saw puzzlement, then surprise, then something that looked very like excitement. Whatever it was, it brought a glow to her pale skin, making the brush of freckles—a familiar brush of freckles, he was sure—across her nose and cheeks appear luminous. Then clear hazel eyes lifted to meet his, and her smile lit up the dreary lecture room.
‘This, Dr Alex Attwood, is what I’ve been waiting for for ever, it seems. Yes, I know about hospital fighting and it won’t only be hospital against hospital, there’ll be in-house battles as well as other departments fighting to keep money or claim money they feel is being siphoned off to your unit.’
‘Our unit,’ he corrected, but he doubted she’d heard him, so intent was she on what lay ahead of both of them.
‘But we’ll fight and we’ll win,’ she continued, as if driven by some inner force. ‘Because you’re good—the best, most people say—at what you do, and because I’ll be the best damn unit manager ever put on earth.’
She smiled at him again, triumph already shining in her eyes.
‘You have no idea just how much this means to me,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
Then, almost under her breath, he thought he heard her add, ‘Again.’
Puzzled by the strength of her reaction, he forgot the puzzle of ‘again’ and considered where they stood. He was pleased to hear the commitment in her words and voice, but to be thanking him?
Did she not realise just how hard and dirty the fight ahead of them was likely to be? Didn’t she realise she should be running for her life, not thanking him with such delight?
And why would any woman so obviously welcome the challenge the unit would provide? Most women he knew would back away—say thanks but, no, thanks.
Maybe she saw only the glory at the end—the image of herself as manager of an elite unit. But she looked far too sensible—and if she’d managed the PICU she was far too experienced—not to know how dirty hospital fights could get.
‘To the best of our ability we’ll ignore the politics,’ she said—not ‘we should’ but ‘we will’! ‘We’ll make our name on