Claimed: One Wife Read online

  CLAIMED: ONE WIFE

  Meredith Webber

  Australian Doctors – Book 2

  A woman worth waiting for...

  Neurosurgeon Grant Hudson is stressed. He has a new job, his brother is missing and the new coed changing room is causing his blood pressure to rise--or rather, the sight of his seminaked senior resident Dr. Sally Cochrane is.

  He's got to get this rule changed. He knows how fraternization between colleagues can break hearts, ruin careers and even lives. Yet, for this wonderful woman he's prepared to break his own rule. If she'll ever let him. Because Sally Cochrane has her own reasons for keeping her boss out of her personal life....

  THE AUSTRALIAN DOCTORS: The Hudson twins are about to learn there's more to life than medicine.

  CHAPTER ONE

  This mixed-sex changing room was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever encountered, Grant Hudson decided, grabbing surgical pyjamas out of the box labelled Large and heading for the furthest corner of the room. Not that he had anything against small, neat female bodies clad in sensible white cotton underwear. It was just that he found them distracting in a work environment.

  He put the pyjamas down on the bench and took off his tie, which reminded him of the dinner date he was missing, peeled off his shirt and hung it on a hanger. Tried focussing on work rather than Jocelyn.

  Or Tom.

  Or the small, neat female body clad in sensible white cotton underwear!

  It was the theory behind the mixed dressing room experiment that rankled. The idea that there'd be a cross-fertilisation of ideas as surgeons chatted with other surgeons while they changed. This room was designated for use by teams operating in Theatres Five and Six, which meant that most mornings, prior to the start of regular surgical shifts, there could be a dozen men and women—orthopods, neurologists, general surgeons and medical students—all stripping down to their underwear.

  In practice, the staff he'd encountered in here since his arrival at the hospital a little over a week ago changed in almost total silence. After all, it was hard to conduct a conversation with an underwear-clad female colleague, trying all the time to ensure your eyes were on her face, while wondering if your own boxer shorts might be gaping open at an inappropriate place.

  Tonight the room seemed cavernous as well as quiet. A couple of surgeons he didn't know were dressing, and Sally Cochrane, his fourth-year neurosurgery resident—she of the neat body—was doing her own thing down near the door.

  Grant took off his shoes, and eased his trousers down over his hips. Then, sitting on the bench so any inadvertent gaping would go unnoticed, he whipped them off and drew on the bottom half of his surgical suit, leaving the waist tie loose while he got into the top.

  The top felt tight and the recurrent regret that surgical clothing was rarely made in a size large enough to accommodate his height and bulk had barely flashed through his head when he heard his resident's complaint.

  'OK. Who swapped the labels on the boxes? I suppose you think this is funny!'

  She stomped up the narrow room, her arms spread wide, a suit three sizes too big engulfing her compact body, making her look like a half-deflated balloon.

  Then she caught sight of him and began to laugh. To point and laugh. Rich, earthy laughter which seemed inappropriate coming from such a small, dainty woman.

  'Oh, dear, I'm sorry,' she gasped. 'But you look so funny. I know I must, too. It's ridiculous, but—oh...'

  She gave way to the laughter again, while Grant stood up very slowly because he feared what he would see, then held his own arms wide and looked down at his legs.

  Yep! The trousers ended mid-calf, the sleeves mid-forearm.

  He scowled at the laughing female, then at the staff who were hurriedly exiting the room, their shoulders shaking as if they, too, found the situation hilarious.

  'We've a patient waiting, Dr Cochrane,' he said, stripping off the too-small top then realising he'd have to ask her where the 'large' box was.

  She controlled herself long enough to pull off her top as well, again revealing the neat white cotton bra. Very white against her tanned skin. When did she have time to sunbathe? And would she tan so deeply if she used UV protection?

  Better to feel righteous about her likely neglect of health considerations than wonder if the tan went all over her neatly packaged torso.

  'Here, have this one,' she said, casually handing him the garment she'd shed.

  Pleased to have a diversion, he took it and pulled it on, then immediately regretted that decision. The faint perfume of her body, a hint of flowery sweetness that sometimes lingered in his office after a team meeting, rose from the warmed material.

  Now he'd have it in his nostrils right through the operation.

  Not that she seemed fazed by any lingering body odour he might have left in his top, for she'd scooped it up off the bench and put it on before bending to take off the too-large trousers and pass them to him.

  'We could both have taken new sets,' he pointed out, stiffly formal as the sight of slim brown legs stretching below the soft aqua of their theatre garb had his body reacting in a most inappropriate manner.

  'I suppose we could, but if the boxes are all mixed up, we might have tried on four pairs before we found the right fit. At least I knew you had my size.'

  She gave another chuckle, then, perhaps realising he wasn't sharing her mirth, smothered it and turned away, giving him a rear view of her neat backside as she bent to put first one foot, then the other, into the loose trousers.

  Sally pulled the drawstring tight and tied it at her waist as she walked away. Her insides were shaking with tension, but there'd been no way she was going to be reduced to mush by one of Grant Hudson's scowls.

  OK, so he didn't see the funny side of her in swamping garments and himself in the too-small set, but he didn't have to go all cold and formal.

  He could at least have smiled.

  If he could produce such an expression.

  An image of his face presented itself in her head. Dark hair, cut crisply short, lightly tanned skin, vivid blue eyes looking sternly down at her from behind the clear-lensed glasses he wore to operate.

  She banished the image, suspicious of eyes with such mesmeric power. Suspicious of her own reaction to a man who obviously held her in disdain.

  Thought about smiles instead.

  Perhaps he lacked the necessary muscles to pull his lips into the smiling position. Perhaps she could knock him out one day and do an exploratory investigation of his cranial nerves to see if something was missing. Limiting his ability to crack a grin.

  But the thought of carving into Grant Hudson's firm skin, and seeing the bones that gave his face such a strong structure, lessened the appeal of the idea.

  'Are you ready, Doctor?'

  The sound of his voice, quietly resonant, brought Sally out of her daydreams. She bit back the 'call me Sally' retort she'd made the first dozen times he'd called her 'Doctor', and nodded, meekly following him out of the changing room towards the scrub room.

  Then trod on his slippers and ran into his back when he stopped suddenly.

  He untangled himself, and bent to adjust the loose slipper. Scowled again. She could read the 'have you always been this clumsy?' question in his eyes.

  She was about to apologise when a new voice chipped in.

  'Tripping over yourself as usual, Sal?'

  Sally found it was her turn to scowl.

  Daniel Denton, the neuro registrar, wasn't her favourite person. But these days, the way he pandered to the new boss not only irritated her but made her feel uncomfortable. His presence here tonight was an example of this behaviour. He wasn't on duty or on call, but wherever the new neurosurgery head was, Daniel wouldn't be fa
r away.

  'I did not trip over!' she informed him, and was about to add that eight years of ballet lessons had actually left her quite light on her feet, but Daniel, having derived whatever satisfaction he enjoyed from needling her, had turned his attention to their department head.

  'I wondered if I could have a moment before you start,' Daniel continued, all charm and false humility as he faced their new master. 'Perhaps while Sal sets up?'

  He moved his head to indicate the changing room she and Grant had just vacated, and, instead of reminding Daniel that patients came first, Grant Hudson simply turned to Sally, said, 'We'll need a laminectomy frame,' then followed Daniel back into the changing room.

  Sally walked through to the theatre and felt her ill humour melt away when she saw Sam Abbot there.

  'I thought you'd left us for the joys of ICU,' she said to the nurse.

  'I'm floating between ICU and Theatre, and circulating here tonight. Jackie Wells is scrubbing,' Sam explained. 'Do you need anything?'

  'Laminectomy frame. You know the contraption? And extra sterile drapes to go over it.'

  She worked with Sam and the anaesthetist, Harry Strutt, to set it up and lift the patient onto it, then headed to the scrub room.

  'You're scrubbing very forcefully this evening,' Jackie remarked, coming in to help Sally gown up. 'Anything upsetting you?'

  'Just men in general, and a couple in particular,' Sally told her, treating her forearms to the brush attack. 'It's bad enough to have that know-all, smarmy, toad-eating registrar directly over me, but, to make matters worse, the new boss is a cranky, stiff-necked bear of a man who—'

  A rumble of male conversation told her the door had swung open and she swallowed the rest of the sentence, praying the bear wouldn't recognise himself from her description.

  'Shove over, Sal,' Daniel said, coming to stand too close to her at the next basin.

  'Don't call me Sal,' she snapped at him, then she took the paper towels Jackie was offering and, keeping her arms above waist height, carefully dried her fingers.

  She moved away from the basins, letting Jackie help to gown and glove her, tucking the ends of the gown sleeves into the gloves.

  Then, without further comment, she scurried back into the theatre.

  She stood silently awaiting orders as the new boss strode in and introduced himself. Daniel hovered sycophantically behind him and earned a glare from Sally for simply being alive.

  Not a good way to begin an emergency operation.

  And it had only got worse! Sam, usually one of the best theatre nurses, had dropped something which had clanged so loudly in the unnatural silence it had jarred against Sally's nerves. Grant Hudson had received a phone call which had obviously upset him, if the expression in his cool blue eyes had been any guide. Daniel had aggravated her to such an extent she'd been tempted to tattoo him with the electrocautery pen.

  Grant, once he'd informed her she was doing the job, had stayed long enough to make her feel uncomfortable, although he'd been more helpful than intrusive. And, to be honest, she'd appreciated his working with her, treating her as an equal rather than as a student. Daniel had also assisted, and the big boss's consideration and lack of comment had highlighted Daniel's aggravating habit of reminding her of every cut, scoop or chip she had to make.

  In the end it had been Grant Hudson who'd suggested she was managing quite well without Daniel's interference, and she'd shot him a grateful glance.

  Once the clot they'd been seeking had been removed and the damaged vessel that had caused it repaired, Grant Hudson had departed, having taken so little part in the operation she wondered if he'd used it as a test of some kind for her. Would he do the same with the others on the neuro team?

  Haunt their nights on duty with his presence?

  She worked with Daniel now, drawing the layers of the wound together, closing it neatly and efficiently. There was a definite easing of the tension in the room, but all the 'end of operation' questions had come to torment her. Had they got it soon enough? Made sure there wouldn't be a re-bleed? Was there any other damage to his body which might affect the patient's recovery? Something the ER team had missed as they worried about his paralysis?

  'Well, that's the quietest operation I've been part of for a long time,' Jackie said, as Sally stepped back to allow Daniel to finish the closing.

  'Might be a sign of things to come,' Sally replied, rolling her shoulders to ease the pain of too many hours' tense concentration. 'He's hardly the cheeriest soul I've ever met.'

  'That could be something to do with him hearing your comment,' Daniel told her, his voice soft with malice. 'The bit about the stiff-necked, cranky bear.'

  Sally hid a groan, refusing to give Daniel the satisfaction of knowing he'd scored.

  'Or something to do with the woman who phoned. Maybe he stood her up to be in on this op,' Helen, Harry's anaesthetic nurse, said. 'She sounded really cheesed off.'

  'Private phone calls during an operation? Wasn't that one of the list of things he decreed unprofessional?'

  Sally turned to Daniel, who would be the only other person in the room who'd seen the briefing notes Grant Hudson had handed out when he'd taken over as head of the neurosurgery department the previous week.

  Daniel was supervising the intern who was stitching up the wound, and pretended this task was taking all of his attention. He wasn't going to risk some chance remark being overheard, or perhaps repeated in the boss's hearing.

  'But most of the senior surgeons bring in pagers and mobile phones, especially at night when there's no theatre secretary to take messages,' Helen pointed out. 'They just dump them under the anaesthetist's trolley and expect me to answer for them. And I'm sure half the calls aren't relevant to work.'

  'New brooms,' Harry said. 'See it all the time. New department heads like to feel they've got the place structured their way. We had a head of anaesthetics one time who felt we should work different rotations. Didn't bother to enquire why I'd been on call or on duty at night for fifteen years. I had a devil of a job sorting things out.'

  'How is Marion?' Sally asked him, thinking of Harry's wife, who'd developed Parkinson's disease fifteen years earlier. Harry liked to be at home with her during the day, sleeping when she slept or when a paid carer was present. He was freed up at night by his daughter who still lived at home.

  'The new tablets are good. Take about half an hour to work, but once she's taken one she can hold a pencil. She can do a crossword even if she can't write a letter.'

  Sally smiled at the anaesthetist, but her thoughts were on his wife, who, from all accounts, had been a top surgeon until the disease had caused uncontrollable tremors in her hands. Parkinson's was one of many areas of neurosurgery she could opt to pursue. The early operations for it had been too extreme, but some new methods were being trialled...

  'We're all done here if you want to dress it,' Daniel said, and Sally put off thinking about the future to concentrate on the present. She moved back towards the table, supervising the dressing of the wound, wondering again how well the patient would be when he woke up.

  'He's all yours,' she told the anaesthetist, thankfully handing over the responsibility for their patient.

  But the unusual silence in the theatre, the lack of jokes and ribald comments, had added to the tension, so she could feel her bones, tugged and pulled by strung-out tendons, aching for relief.

  However, it would all have been worthwhile if their patient came out of it with movement in his limbs.

  'No response to stimuli in his hands or feet,' the nurse who was specialling the patient in the ICU told Sally when she dragged her still-tired body on duty early next morning. Three hours' sleep was never enough, and her mind felt doughy and drugged.

  She surveyed her slumbering patient.

  'Hello, Craig,' she said, hoping the use of his name might make him more alert.

  To her surprise, he opened his eyes and looked at her.

  'I'm Sally Cochrane, your
surgeon. We've removed a blood clot from your spine. That's what was causing the paralysis. Because of the pressure, it may be a while before you regain all feeling, but Dr Hudson, the head of the department, is confident you'll make a full recovery.'

  'Did I say that?' a quiet voice murmured in her ear, and she spun around to see the doctor in question directly behind her. And although she knew he'd had as little sleep as she'd had—possibly less as the chart showed he'd seen Craig after he was settled in the ICU—he looked as alert, fresh and well groomed as he always did.

  With her usually shiny dark hair still flat and lifeless from the theatre cap, she probably looked as she felt, like something the cat had dragged in.

  Not that it should matter, should it?

  'You implied it,' she told him in a grim undertone, too low for the patient to hear. 'And how do you creep up on people like that? Special rubber-soled shoes?'

  He didn't bother to answer, merely stepping forward and introducing himself to the man, and reiterating Sally's views that recovery, while slow, would be fairly certain.

  'Can you be confident he'll recover movement when we don't know how the spinal cord has been affected by the insult of the clot?' she asked as they left the room. Her irritation had dissolved as she'd watched Grant Hudson in action, reassuring an understandably fearful patient, so it was a natural question to ask as they left the room together.

  Grant nodded, confidently, and the smile she'd doubted he could summon appeared very briefly.

  'Always take into account the other indicators. His general health, for one thing. Craig's a lifesaver. He's on the beach most weekends. Swims, trains. He's fit as a Mallee bull.'

  'Fit as a Mallee bull,' Sally repeated, turning to look into eyes that seemed bluer without the glasses he wore for surgery. 'My father used to say that.'

  For the first time she felt a slight quiver of empathy with the autocratic man fate had decreed should be her boss.

  Well, she hoped it was only empathy!

  Grant heard his senior resident repeat the silly metaphor and imagined a softness in her tone. Not that there would be anything soft about Sally Cochrane. It was hard for anyone to get onto one of the specialist surgical programmes, but for women it was doubly difficult. Although fifty per cent of medical students were females, few made it to the upper echelons of power. The Council of the College of Surgeons was male dominated, as was the executive of the Neurological Surgeons Association. And the Surgical Board and Court of Examiners who set the oral and written neurosurgery examinations and assessed the trainees were all men.