‘Dervla, is there a problem?’
Dervla, who hadn’t been aware of the charge nurse’s approach, started as he spoke. She took a deep breath and willed her pulse rate to slow. ‘No, no problem.’
John gave a nod, but did not look entirely convinced as his glance slid from Dervla to the tall Italian. ‘Mr Bruni, I’ve arranged for a porter with a wheelchair to take you to Casualty. One of the plastic surgeons is standing by.’
Gianfranco Bruni looked at him blankly.
‘Porter?’
‘With a chair.’
‘You think I am an invalid?’
‘It’s hospital policy, Mr Bruni, and the sooner that head wound is sutured, the better.’
‘My head?’
Dervla was not surprised to see John’s expression sharpen into suspicious concern as he looked at Gianfranco Bruni. The Italian looked so baffled by the reference that she suspected he had forgotten he was injured, or maybe he hadn’t even noticed.
‘You’ve got a deep gash six inches long on your forehead,’ the charge nurse explained. ‘You didn’t lose consciousness at any point, did you?’
Gianfranco Bruni gave a dismissive wave and turned away. ‘It’s a scratch,’ he retorted irritably.
Dervla’s exasperation got the better of her. ‘Your scratch is bleeding all over the floor.’
The Italian’s head slewed back. ‘Who, Nurse, do you think you are talking to?’
‘I think I’m talking to a man who would prefer deference to the truth, an extremely stubborn man who wouldn’t relinquish control if his life depended on it.’
It was hard to tell which of the two men was looking more astonished by her outburst.
‘Dervla,’ John began, ‘it might be better if you—’
‘It’s bleeding.’ They both turned in unison to see Gianfranco Bruni looking at the blood on his fingers, his expression oddly blank.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ she cautioned, regarding him warily. He wasn’t the most obvious candidate, but she had seen big, tough-looking chaps faint away at the sight of blood—especially their own.
His head came up with a snap. ‘I am not alarmed. Just give me some tape—a dressing or something to cover it.’
‘This is not a do-it-yourself hospital, Mr. Bruni,’ John intervened quietly.
‘She can do it,’ the Italian said suddenly, stabbing a finger towards Dervla.
Dervla’s jaw dropped. ‘Me!’ She really hoped he didn’t mean what she thought he did.
‘Nurse Smith is—’
‘Is she not able?’
‘Of course she’s able, but after the plastic surgeon has sewn you up there will hardly be a scar.’
The Italian looked at the other man, his upper lip curling as he snarled contemptuously, ‘You think I give a damn about my face?’
His hand lifted in an angry gesture that invited them to look at the object under discussion. It was an invitation that Dervla found hard to refuse.
He might dismiss his looks, but in her opinion a man who looked like him could be forgiven a little of the vanity he appeared to despise.
‘Surely your surgeons have better things to do today than sew up my scratch? My son is not the only one fighting for his life,’ he bit through clenched teeth as he stared with dark pain-filled eyes at the unconscious figure in the bed. ‘I want her,’ he said without looking at Dervla. ‘Nurse Smith.’
They said it was always good to be wanted—but they were wrong, Dervla decided grimly as her stomach churned with unprofessional trepidation.
John shrugged, shot Dervla a questioning look and to her dismay asked, ‘Are you all right with that, Dervla?’
Dervla, who was about as all right with it as putting her hand in a live electric socket, struggled to conceal her irrational horror.
‘Don’t worry. I am not litigious,’ the Italian remarked as she hesitated.
Her head turned and her eyes brushed the cynical deepset eyes of the injured billionaire. ‘I’m not worried about you suing me.’ And she had no doubt about her ability to perform the relatively minor procedure; she had sutured hundreds of wounds. No, her reluctance had more to do with an irrational and strong disinclination to touch the man.
‘The plastic surgeon would make a much better job. I don’t usually—’
His broad shoulders lifted fractionally in a fluid shrug. ‘So be flexible.’
‘Because you won’t be?’
The suggestion brought his narrowed scrutiny zeroing in on her face. Beside her Dervla was dimly aware of John looking astonished and not very happy.
‘You worked that out faster than most people.’
Was that a compliment? she wondered. The lift of one corner of his wide, sensually sculpted mouth might have been his version of a smile …? But then again, she thought, maybe not.
It was five minutes later when Dervla led the way to the small curtained-off section very conscious of the tall man who followed her. She motioned him to the seat and angled the light on his face before washing her hands and sliding them into sterile gloves.
As she leaned closer to clean the wound her nostrils quivered in response to the male scent of his body. The harsh artificial light, not normally flattering, served to emphasise the hollows and planes of his strong-boned face.
‘I’m sorry.’ Under the accumulated grime and blood there was a grey tinge to his skin that she was guessing was not normal.
‘For what?’
‘Hurting you.’
‘I think it’s hurting you more than me.’ The realisation brought a flicker of amusement to his deepset eyes. ‘Are you sure you have the right temperament to be a nurse?’
‘Not everyone,’ she retorted tartly, ‘thinks empathy is a bad thing.’ She paused, a swab in her hand, and asked hopefully, ‘Are you sure that you wouldn’t prefer one of the doctors to do this? It really is a deep wound.’
‘Just get on with it.’
‘Fine, if that’s what you want. I’ll just put in some local anaesthetic to—’
He shook his dark head irritably. ‘Forget that. Just sew the damned thing up.’
‘You really don’t have to prove how macho you are. There’s nobody here but me.’
He looked at her with a contemptuous smile. ‘I thought you’d enjoy having me at your mercy,’ he taunted.
Like most nurses Dervla had ducked more than one blow from drunks in Casualty, and on one memorable occasion had had her shoulder dislocated by a confused patient who had wanted to jump out a second-floor window, but none had made her feel quite as vulnerable or as angry as this man did.
Dervla, who had always prided herself on her professionalism, was deeply dismayed. In her job you simply couldn’t mix professional with personal—it was a line you simply did not cross.
Of course she was only human and inevitably she felt a personal connection with some patients that she did not with others.
With this man she wouldn’t want a connection of any variety!
‘Fine.’
She worked as swiftly as she could, her tongue caught between her teeth as she concentrated on knitting the torn flesh neatly