Expecting the Doctor's Baby (6 page)

“Mostly I think you need some pointers in how to get along well with others.”

“I see. So—”

“Dr. Mitch.” Rhonda walked up to them and looked Sam over. “Hello, again.”

“Hi.” Sam smiled in her usual friendly way, giving no indication she was aware of the grilling she was about to get.

Mitch had been dreading this encounter because his nurse didn't miss anything. “Did you need me for something, Rhonda?”

“No.” She tucked a strand of bleached blond hair behind her ear and turned her attention to Sam. “I remember you from a couple of weeks ago. Samantha?”

“Right. It's nice to see you again. And call me Sam.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Sam, if you're the one responsible for the positive change in our Mitch.”

He barely managed to keep in the groan. “I'm the same lovable guy.”

“He's made some improvement?” Sam asked, ignoring him.

“Improvement?” Rhonda scoffed. “It's a miracle. He dispenses praise and encouragement like he's being paid per compliment.”

Sam jotted something down on her clipboard, then looked up and smiled. “I'm so glad.”

“And just the other day he was actually whistling.” Rhonda slid him a wicked look just to let him know she suspected that Sam was the woman he'd been unwilling to name. “Mitch is so not a whistler that the event was memorable.”

“I can't tell you how happy it makes me to hear that,” Sam said, smiling brightly.

“Yeah. He's like the bluebird of happiness these days.” Rhonda reached for the pager at her waist and glanced at the display. “Paramedics are on the way. ETA two minutes. I'll page you when we've got the patient ready for you. Gotta go. Good to see you again, Sam.”

“Same here.” As the nurse hurried down the hall, Sam looked up at him and smiled. “See. A little tweaking goes a long way.”

There was tweaking and there was tweaking, he thought. “Look, Sam, my shift is over in about thirty minutes. Have dinner with me.”

“No.” She walked away and he caught up with her in front of the double doors that separated patient trauma rooms from the waiting area.

He put a hand on her shoulder and she slowly turned. “No? Just like that? Not even an explanation?”

“I'm your relationship coach.”

“Exactly. You should know better than to be so abrupt. A polite ‘I'm sorry I can't because I have other plans' would be far less hurtful.”

“It would also be a lie. I don't have plans tonight.”

“Then have dinner with me.” He folded his arms over his chest as he looked down and met her amused gaze. “You have to eat.”

“I definitely do. But not with you.”

“You'd rather eat alone?” he asked.

She started to say something, then shook her head. “That question is like asking someone if they stopped beating their wife. But I'm going to answer honestly. No, I don't especially enjoy eating by myself.” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth to seize the opportunity. “But we have a professional relationship and I won't cross the line into personal with you. So don't go there, Dr. Mitch.”

“Who says it's personal? We'd simply be two people sharing a meal.” He snapped his fingers. “We could even make it a working dinner. You could tweak me while we're at it. Critique my table manners.”

The corners of her mouth twitched, clearly indicating she was having a lot of difficulty holding back a smile. “Has anyone ever mentioned that you're incorrigible?”

“My ex-wife,” he said.

“You were married?”

“Yeah.” Not smart to bring that up when he was trying to plead his case for dinner. He might be a son of a bitch, but Barbara had done something unforgivable. “And before you assume it went south because of me, let me say that I'll take part of the responsibility for the problems, but she made the relationship unsalvageable.”

“Okay.” She met his gaze. “Has anyone else said you're incorrigible?”

The double doors whispered open and someone walked through. “Mitch?”

The familiar female voice got his attention and he turned. “Mom.”

Las Vegas Metro Detective Ellen Tenney was almost as tall as him. She was in her late fifties with short brown hair that she wore in a no-nonsense style, fitting her job and temperament, along with her navy suit and low-heeled black shoes. Blue eyes so like his own looked back at him, filled with disappointment, anger and reproach. At least that's what he saw.

He felt Sam's eyes on him and knew he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of avoiding an introduction. “Detective Ellen Tenney, this is Samantha Ryan. Sam, this is my mother.”

Giving no indication she'd noticed his omission of who she really was, Sam held out her hand. “It's nice to meet you, Detective Tenney.”

“Likewise,” Ellen said.

“I'm working with Mitch,” Sam explained.

“A nurse?”

“No.” Hesitating, she slid him a quick look, then said, “It's a program through the hospital that we're teaming up on.”

“I see.” Her expression said she had more questions. That's what a detective did, but she didn't ask.

“What are you doing here, Mom?”

“An assault victim was just brought in. I'm here to interview her. Take the statement.”

“Get in line. I'll have to examine her first.”

“Okay.”

There was an awkward silence. He recalled his first time in Sam's office and deliberately not talking to rattle her. The older woman with the cool, blue-eyed stare had taught him the technique. Since Robbie died, the look had turned icy, and awkward silence was their primary mode of communication. He glanced at Sam and thought this was a hell of a time for her to be here taking notes.

Since he was getting critiqued, he might as well make an effort. “How've you been, Mom?”

“Fine.”

He waited, but there was no reciprocation. Ellen Tenney could benefit from spending a little time with a relationship coach.

“I guess things are busy at the cop shop?”

She nodded. “Here, too, looks like.”

“Some.”

Sam glanced between them. “Mercy Medical is lucky to have your son working here, Detective.”

“Oh?” Even Sam's sunshine couldn't thaw his mother. But that was about him.

“Yes. The first day I met him he saved the life of a little boy.”

“It's good you could help,” Ellen said.

Even though he couldn't save hers, Mitch thought. He knew he was a good doctor, but not good enough to get his twin brother to give up drugs. His mother had begged him time and again to help Robbie. Mitch was the responsible one. He was the smart one. It was his fault that over and over Robbie had slipped up and gone back to using. And that last time he paid the ultimate price.

Before he could comment, the pager at his waist vibrated and he looked at the display. “They need me in the trauma bay.”

“Okay,” Ellen said. “Let me know when I can talk to your patient.”

He nodded. “‘Bye, Mom.”

“Nice to meet you, Detective,” Sam said, hurrying after him.

Not even Sam's sunshine could break through the funk that settled over him. He worked his ass off to cheat death every time he walked through the door of a patient's room. He was successful a lot of the time but losing his brother would haunt him for the rest of his life. Ellen blamed him, but the bitch of it was that Mitch blamed himself more than she ever could. Death beat him. He'd failed.

Glancing down, he looked at Sam and felt himself slipping off the hero pedestal he hadn't even realized he was on. Suddenly it was very important that she never find out how badly he'd failed.

S
am looked at the clock on her office wall between the “Success is the Intelligent Use of Mistakes” and the “Obstacles are Those Frightful Things You See When You Take Your Eyes Off Your Goals” posters. She was so a “do as I say not as I do” person. Her goal was to be successful, but agreeing to work with Mitch had put a major obstacle in her path.

Why in the world was he pursuing her so persistently? He'd already gotten her into bed—so to speak. If he was after Round Two, the man who wouldn't take no for an answer was doomed to disappointment. He'd pushed and she was his counselor. She wouldn't cross the ethical line into his bed, but it wouldn't be easy to resist.

And resist she must because he was her next appointment and due here any minute. Now he spent a good portion of their sessions trying to convince her they should go out. At least he'd done that the other day at the hospital, until his mother had shown up. Then things got really tense and awkward. What was that about? He'd actually looked relieved when the page came to see a patient.

“Hi.” And there he was in the doorway.

Looking at him was the only uncomplicated part of this relationship. He was gorgeous, plain and simple. The wind had blown his dark, wavy hair into sexy disarray and his navy T-shirt outlined the contours of his broad chest and highlighted the impressive muscles in his biceps. His jeans were a combination of light blue and white where the denim was worn in the most interesting places. And whether she saw him in a tux, scrubs, jeans and a T-shirt, or nothing at all, just seeing him made her yearn to be in his arms. The realization hit her deep and hard.
That
was the really complicated part.

He lifted a hand. “I have an appointment to see you.”

“I know.” She pulled her thoughts back from the danger zone and reminded herself to keep her eyes on the goal. Smiling, she said, “Hi.”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.” She held out a hand, indicating the chairs in front of her desk. “Have a seat.”

Without a word, he walked in and chose the chair on the left. She only noticed because nine out of ten people would have gone to the right. Not Mitch.

“How's everything, Sunshine?”

Just like that she was a conflict counselor in conflict. She wanted to ask him not to call her that because it started off the session on a personal note. On the other hand she didn't want to make it an issue. Mitch was sharp and not much got by him. If he sensed any weakness, he'd use it against her and take control. Eyes on the goal.

“Everything is great,” she said. “How about you? Things going well at work?”

“That's what I'm here to find out.” He linked his fingers and rested them on his flat abdomen. “Did you read any of those notes you took?”

“Of course.” She put her glasses on. “Would you like to hear them?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Yes. But before you say no, just remember that recognizing the existing negative behavior is the first step toward changing it.”

“Okay. Take your best shot.” He slouched a little lower in the chair.

“I have only good things to say about how you handled the situation with the asthmatic child and the overexcited mother. You assessed the health concerns of the little girl and at the same time kept your cool and calmed the parent. It would have been understandable if you'd been sharp with her since she was clearly aggravating the situation and making the child more anxious, thereby worsening her difficulty breathing.”

“That's in your notes?” he asked, looking surprised.

“It is. In essence you kept your eyes on the goal, which was taking care of your patient's needs, and refused to let the caregiver become an obstacle.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

She glanced at the notes. “Yes. The construction worker who was knocked off a roof and broke his arm. You were diplomatic, sympathetic and somehow managed to bond with him over hammers and screwdrivers.”

“Guys, tools.” He shrugged. “No big deal.”

“It is a big deal because you were able to rein in your runaway sarcasm and not compare him to Larry, Moe, or Curly.”

He grinned. “How did you know I was thinking about the Three Stooges?”

“Just a guess.” She wanted badly to return that smile, but held back with an effort. “The point is you didn't act on the impulse.”

“I'm glad you noticed. Believe me, it wasn't easy.”

“I'm sure it wasn't. And the man with the hives who was confrontational with you about the length of time he spent in the E.R.…”

Sam remembered the overweight, balding, condescending man getting in Mitch's face after he'd been evaluated and received medication. He'd been kept there for observation and complained about how long it had been since anyone looked in on him. He'd been rude and mean and even she'd wanted to tell him to suck it up.

“That could have gone very badly if you hadn't validated his complaint. After that you calmly explained that in a busy emergency room patients are triaged and everyone's needs are met, with the most serious, life-threatening cases handled first. It was textbook customer service and defused the situation.”

“Well, I don't know what to say.”

“That's a first,” she said wryly. “Frankly, I have mostly good comments.”

One dark eyebrow rose. “I thought this was all about rubbing my nose in whatever I did wrong.”

“Critiquing is as much about pointing out the positive as the need to improve in certain areas.” She met his gaze. “You were successful in not being dictatorial, defiant or silently superior. Your manner was all about quiet strength and compassionate support.”

“You said
mostly
good comments, which means some are not so good. How did I screw up?”

“It's not so much a how as a when. At a certain point there was a change in your attitude.”

He sat up straighter. “You want to explain that?”

“You were different after you spoke with your mother.”

“Is that in the notes?”

“Yes, although it's not something I'm likely to forget.” She slid her glasses off and met his gaze. “Clearly you followed in her footsteps in a service-oriented career.”

“I suppose. But I'm not sure what that has to do with anything.”

“Our lives are like a puzzle and all the pieces fit together to form a whole picture.”

“That sounds very Zen-like.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “Is this where you tell me not to test the depth of the water with both feet?”

“This is where I ask what's going on between the two of you.”

“And it's where I answer that it's off-limits.” His mouth pulled into a rebellious, stubborn, straight line.

“I have to point out that the subject is fair game because every aspect of your life affects work performance.”

“What affects your performance, Sam?”

She suspected he was thinking about the night her father had made her lose it. The night they'd made love. He was trying to take the heat off himself by distracting her, rattling her in a personal way. It did shake her up, but she wouldn't let him win.

“We're talking about you,” she said calmly. “My job isn't in jeopardy.”

Yet, she thought. And she intended to keep it that way.

He looked at her and let the silence drag out between them. She was getting used to the tactic and didn't feel the need to chatter away to fill the void. Waiting him out was getting easier.

He took her measure and must have sensed her resolve because he blew out a long breath. “How about a quid pro quo?”

“Meaning?”

“You share something, then I will.”

“A professional isn't supposed to use examples from their own life,” she explained.

She studied the dark intensity on his face and wavered. Whatever was causing the friction between him and his mother was at the heart of his relationship issues. She wished she could claim brilliance for the insight, but she'd been a witness to the change in him. One minute he was sweetness and light, the next he was a jerk with a capital
J
. If sharing something with him could facilitate a breakthrough…

“Okay,” she said. “I'll throw you a bone.”

“I'm all ears.”

“School was very difficult for me and my grades were pretty much in the dumper. I thought I was stupid and slow. All the other kids could get whatever material was presented, but I couldn't.”

“I think you're one of the quickest, brightest women I've ever met.”

His words started a glow that warmed her from the inside out. “I'm not fishing for compliments. It's just the way it was.”

“Don't tell me. Let me guess. Your stepfather reinforced the perception?”

“You're pretty quick yourself.” She leaned back in her chair. “He compared me to his smart, gifted, high-achieving biological children and couldn't understand why I had so much trouble learning unless my IQ was in the slow range.”

The muscle in his jaw jerked. “Yet, here you are—a relationship counselor with impeccable credentials. That isn't the performance of a woman with IQ challenges. What gives?”

“I'm dyslexic.”

“That doesn't make you stupid,” he pointed out.

“You're right. In high school a caring teacher recognized what was going on with me and that changed everything. I learned coping mechanisms and techniques to facilitate reading. It didn't take long after that to perform at my grade level and I was able to get into college. Studies have shown that many highly visible, incredibly successful people are dyslexic. They tap into skills other than visual and use them to thrive. Recognizing the problem was the key to success.”

“And your stepfather? What did he say about it?”

Identifying the problem convinced him she would never flourish on her own. She intended to prove him wrong.

No way she was sharing that with Mitch. “Now it's your turn to talk about family. What's up with you?”

“I suppose you're not going to let me sidetrack you on this?”

“Not even for money,” she agreed.

“Okay. I'll throw
you
a bone.” He rested his elbows on his knees and linked his fingers. “I had a twin brother.”

He was a twin? There were two Mitchs? Then she realized he said
had
. “What happened?”

“He died.”

The darkness she'd seen in him before was nothing compared to what was there now. His haunted expression tugged at her heart.

“How?” she asked softly.

“It doesn't matter.” He met her gaze. “You have dyslexia. My brother Robbie is dead. Quid pro quo.”

And the free-exchange-of-information door slammed shut, which was not what she'd hoped for. It wasn't her job to find out his secrets and make him feel better. Her responsibility was to teach him coping skills so that when the past intruded he wouldn't take out his attitude on everyone around him.

Somehow that just wasn't good enough. Somehow she was going to find out what he was holding inside. That goal was important to her, so much more than it should be, which put the association on a personal level.

It was only a matter of time until this happened. It was why taking him on as a client had been a mistake.

 

Mitch's mood at work had been a lot better when Sam shadowed him. This morning had been busy and difficult. He'd seen patients with the flu who'd waited too long to seek medical intervention, and a car accident fatality with street racing involved. The most frustrating case was the toddler with suspicious injuries. He could hear Sam's voice in his head telling him not to be dictatorial, defiant, or silently superior. She'd left out tactful, but he'd reached down deep to pull out all the prudence and caution he could. Seeing that little boy's bruises had nearly pushed him over the edge but he'd channeled his rage into personally calling LV Metro and child services in that order.

He rounded the corner from the E.R. on his way to the doctor's dining room and saw Sam, and his spirits did a one-eighty. Her smile lifted the cone of darkness around him to let in the light. Then he noticed the tall, good-looking guy beside her, who had made her laugh. The one in the expensive charcoal suit and red power tie. The one with dark hair, blue eyes and a confident, cocky walk. That put a crimp in his mood. In fact when the guy put his hand at the small of her back to guide her into the cafeteria, Mitch felt a punch of jealousy that rocked him hard.

Who was this guy? The ex-fiancé? Was she going to apologize like Daddy wanted and patch things up with the serial cheater?

He should keep on walking and avoid her like bubonic plague, but suddenly he turned left instead of right and followed them. When Sam did a double take and recognized him, her smile faltered and her shoulders tensed.