Deliver Me (3 page)

“Number one reason I chose it.” He grinned.

“Are you coming to dinner?” Alex asked. He stooped and picked up his
daughter. Jasmine wrapped her arms around her daddy’s thick neck and held on as
he swung her from side to side.

Eli shook his head. He knew the dinner invitation would be
extended—the Holmeses never missed a chance to indulge in good
food—but he’d already concocted a stellar excuse. He just hoped his
brother didn’t see straight through it.

“No can do. I’m giving a lecture tomorrow for the incoming medical
students and it needs a little tweaking.”

Of course, his contribution was only five minutes long and he’d written
his short spiel last week, but did Alex and Mama really need to know that? Nah.

His mother crossed her arms over her chest. “You will be there on Sunday.”
It was not a question. Unless there was bloodshed involved, Sunday dinner was
not to be missed.

“Of course.” Eli bent slightly to plant another kiss, this one on her
forehead. “You need me to bring anything?”

“Just you will be fine. But be on time. And it wouldn’t hurt to see you
in church, either.”

He was getting out of here before this lecture even started. The
When was the last time you went to church?
 
speech could give Slessinger’s
Hello
talk a run for its money.

“I’ll try,” he answered. Two lies in a row. He hoped they didn’t show on
his face.

“Bye, Uncle Eli,” Jasmine called out.

“See ya later, Chrysanthemum.” He winked and headed for his car.

When Eli pulled into the driveway of the two-story Tudor he’d bought in
the posh Old Metairie neighbor a few years ago, he found a sleek white BMW
idling in his normal parking spot. Thankfully, his home had sustained minimal
damage from the storm and he’d been able to move back in months ago. Eli parked
his Range Rover behind the BMW and the doors to the two vehicles opened
simultaneously.

A long, toned, honey-colored leg stepped out onto the brick-laid
driveway. An equally luscious body followed.

Alicia Taylor could stop traffic.

Slim, statuesque and drop-dead gorgeous, a dozen men would be all too
eager to give her all she desired. Eli wasn’t to that point yet, but he was
close—especially if it meant a repeat of what she’d surprised him with
last Saturday night.

Whoever invented the phrase “Men are Dogs” knew what they were talking
about. Alicia had had him howling like a bloodhound. He had been sure he’d hear
from the neighbors the next morning.

Too bad her tenure was coming to an end. He’d miss her creativity in the
bedroom, but when she started leaving messages on his work phone, cell phone,
and home voice mail, Eli knew it was time to cut her loose.

Alicia leaned against the driver’s side door, her back to him. She put
one hand on her hip and the other on top of the car.

Elijah pressed the button on his key ring, activating the Rover’s alarm
system. He walked up to her Beamer, stopping a scant foot behind her. He leaned
over and placed his mouth next to her ear.

“Have you been waiting long?” Eli asked, his voice low.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” she answered, not turning around. “You
know I hate to be kept waiting.”

The makings of a grin tipped the corners of Eli’s mouth. “I guess you’ll
just have to punish me.”

She relinquished her pose and reached inside the car, retrieving a tiny
clutch. Eli heard her unsnap the closure on the small beaded purse. She pulled
out a pair of chrome handcuffs and held them up.

“I guess I will.”

Still facing away from him, Alicia reached back with her free hand and tugged
the hem of Eli’s shirt. She used it to pull him toward the front door, then
turned and penned him against it, plunging her tongue down his throat. Eli
fumbled with the key and after three tries finally unlocked the door.

They never made it past the foyer.

The blaring police sirens were giving her a headache.

Monica slumped her head against the steering wheel and tried not to
scream.

In true fashion of her unbelievably bad luck, she
would
get in a fender bender this morning, making her late her
first day on the job. It didn’t help that the granny she rear-ended appeared to
be a pro at traffic accidents. The woman had the police on speed dial. Of
course, the call to her lawyer had taken precedence over the authorities.

Great. Her insurance would go through the roof.

Monica really,
really
wanted to
scream.

The officer, who apparently graduated from the police academy ten minutes
before responding to the accident, strolled up to her window.

“Are we done here?” Monica asked, not giving him a chance to speak.

“You’re free to go, Miss Gardner, but you’ll need to make yourself
available. I have a feeling you’ll be hearing from Mrs. Gauthier’s lawyer
sometime today.”

Wonderful.

“You people do realize this is a
minor
accident, right? Her car doesn’t have a scratch on it.”

“She says she’s having chest pains from the sudden jolt she received when
you rear-ended her.”

“Chest pains, my ass,” Monica muttered under her breath. She didn’t have
time for this. “Look, I need to get to work. Tell her lawyer to call away.”

She put her car in drive and took off down Jefferson-Davis Parkway.
 
A flutter of excitement lifted Monica’s
stomach as the deep brown bricks of Methodist Memorial Hospital came into view.

Moving to New Orleans was the smartest thing she’d done in a long time.
She’d already fallen in love with this place. Despite the trauma the city had
sustained from last year’s storm, evidence of its rich, colorful history poured
out of every crevice, from the antebellum mansion she’d visited over the
weekend when she’d gone exploring up the Mississippi River, to Jackson Square,
only a few blocks from her new French Quarter apartment.

Monica had learned that The Quarter, as the locals referred to it, was
one of the city’s highest points, so the flooding that had devastated most of
New Orleans didn’t reach it. Monica was grateful it had been spared. She adored
the neighborhood’s quaintness; she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else in the
city.
 

For the past two nights, the sweet music wafting from the funky little
jazz club across the street had lulled her to sleep, leaving her with dreams of
a tall, dark trumpet player ready to light her world on fire.

That’s about the only place men showed up these days—in her dreams.

Not that Monica was complaining. Lord knows the one man she’d allowed
herself to get close to had ripped her heart out and stomped on it like an
Indian rain dance.

If she wanted to be honest, Monica could admit that Patrick’s departure
hadn’t come totally out of left field. Although they were together for six
years, they had never shared the all-consuming, heart-stopping love Monica had
witnessed between other couples in love. But Patrick had been a good social
match. The son of a prominent businessman, he had the breeding and pedigree that
floated her mother’s boat. The fact that he didn’t provide Monica with the
happiness she deserved didn’t really matter.

Despite their unfulfilling relationship, Monica still missed him.

Stop that
, she chided herself.
She did
not
miss him.

Patrick Dangerfield was a thousand miles away, living with his perfect
new wife and perfect new baby in a perfect house in St. Louis. She did not
leave Missouri to bring thoughts of him to Louisiana.

Monica pulled into her parking space. The rectangular sign still read
Reserved for Dr. Millgram
, the ER
attending she had replaced. According to Dr. Slessinger, Charles Millgram had
evacuated with his family to Houston, and like a lot of other people who left
for Katrina, had decided to stay. Dr. Millgram’s choice to remain in Texas had
been Monica’s saving grace. When her best friend, Nia, told her about an
opening she’d found on an Internet job board for an emergency room doctor at a
New Orleans hospital, Monica couldn’t get to the phone fast enough.

Monica set the car alarm and started across the covered parking lot. She
stepped out of the rows of cars and had to jump back when a black Range Rover
turned the curve going at least ten times faster than it should have been in a
place where there was constant foot traffic.

If there was one thing about New Orleans that didn’t impress her, it was
the driving. Everybody on the road should have had their licenses revoked a
long time ago.

The ER’s automatic glass doors opened and Monica headed toward the large
square station in the middle of the emergency room.

“Good Morning, Dr. Gardner.” The nurse Dr. Slessinger had introduced as
Patty on their tour of the hospital greeted her.

“Good Morning, Patty. Sorry I’m late. I had a small fender bender on the
way in.”

“Are you okay?”

Monica waved off the nurse’s alarm. “It was hardly anything. But don’t
tell that to the sweet little grandmother I hit. I wouldn’t be surprised if she
came rolling through those doors claiming I gave her a heart attack.”

Patty grimaced. “One of those, huh?”

Monica nodded. She turned to the large dry erase board hanging above the
nurses’ station. “I’ll take the laceration in room three.”

By midday, Monica had seen half a dozen patients. It was a good thing she’d
been prepared for a full workload. Unfortunately, nothing could have prepared
her for the eight-year-old with stomach flu, thus, the spanking new pair of
peach scrubs the charge nurse had so graciously loaned her. Someone had run
upstairs to get a pair of green scrubs—the color delineated for doctors—but
Monica didn’t have time to wait. She could hear the wailing of the ambulance
signaling the arrival of yet another patient.

Monica left the room she’d ducked into to change clothes and met the EMS
team at the ambulance bay.

“What do we have?” she asked the driver as he came around the side of the
rig. The other paramedic pulled the double doors open and they lifted a gurney
and placed it on the ground. A very pregnant woman lay upon the flat surface.

“Call came through about twelve minutes ago. Thirty-two weeks. Complains
of severe abdominal pain. She has a good bit of swelling in her lower
extremities.”

Monica helped guide the gurney into the first available examination room,
while the EMT listed the woman’s vitals.

“Any meds?”

“Only your normal prenatals.”

“Good job,” Monica said with a nod, releasing the medics of their duty. “Get
a monitor on the heart going and dip her urine,” she called out. Monica quickly
scrubbed at the large basin. A nurse slipped gloves over her hands, then Monica
went around to the panting woman’s side.

“I know it hurts,” she crooned softly. “What’s your name?”

“Sharon. Please, help my baby,” the woman pleaded.

“Don’t worry, Sharon,” she reassured her. “Do you know the sex?” Monica
asked, trying to gear the frightened woman’s mind to more pleasant thoughts.

She nodded. “A boy. We’re naming...him Andrew...Andrew Michael.”

“Oh, I like that,” Monica smiled as she tested the patient’s vitals. She’d
turned to check the fetal monitor when a series of beeps sounded throughout the
room.

“Doctor, her BP just shot up to 220 over 118.”

“Sharon?” Monica positioned the stethoscope earpieces in her ears and
made quick work of pressing the flat end to the woman’s chest and stomach.

“Rapid heartbeat,” Monica said. “Sharon, can you hear me?” She performed
a deep pain test by rubbing her knuckles at a point on the woman’s sternum. She
responded with a jerk. “Sharon, is there ringing in your ears, or do you feel
nauseated at all?”

The woman gave a weak nod.

“Any dizziness?”

Another nod.

“It’s preeclampsia. Get OB down here, we need an emergency section.”
Sharon shook her head, tried to moan a protest. “I’m sorry, but you have a very
serious condition,” Monica explained. “We need to get the baby out as quickly
as possible.”

“He’s...not ready,” she said in a meek whisper. “It’s too early.”

“Thirty-two weeks is more than enough time. Don’t worry, Sharon, he’ll be
fine.”

The woman’s head fell back onto the table.

“Sharon?” Monica tried the pain test again. This time, the patient didn’t
respond. “Okay, this baby needs to come out now. Prepare for a section.”

The three nurses stopped. They all stared at her for a second before one
asked, “Shouldn’t we wait for OB?”

“Not unless you want a dead mother and baby on your hands. OB can take
over when they get here.”

A second nurse pushed over an instrument tray. Monica tore away the
drape, unveiling an array of shiny chrome surgical tools. She had just made the
horizontal five inch slit across the underside of the woman’s protruding belly
when the room’s double doors burst open.