Sheikh Surgeon Read online

  ‘Fully occupied, Nell?’ he murmured, sending a frisson of reaction through her body.

  ‘Fully occupied!’ she lied, glaring at him. ‘Are you so vain as to believe that with these patients to tend and my father just out of Theatre, I’d be thinking of you?’

  Kal smiled, a knowing smile that said he knew she’d lied, and that simple shifting of his lips and the glimpse of strong white teeth turned the frisson into a tremor.

  ‘Your mother will let you know if anything goes wrong, and one of my family’s jets is on standby should you need to fly home.’

  Nell turned to him, the words not really making sense. Common sense while she was still frissoning and tremoring? And one of the jets? How many could one family have?

  ‘A jet’s on standby?’

  Kal frowned at her.

  ‘You’re a guest in our country and doing a great service for us—greater than was originally intended. Of course we will see you get home as swiftly as possible, should it be necessary. I arranged for the crew to be on standby as soon as your mother phoned last night.’

  I should thank him, Nell thought, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. Being near Kal was confusing enough, battling the physical stuff even more debilitating, but kindness? No, she really couldn’t handle kindness.

  She forced her mind firmly back to the task in hand—first, deciding which patients were well enough for surgery, then working out treatment and procedures for the others.

  They listed four patients for Theatre, then Kal headed off, as he’d be operating. Nell demonstrated to the nurses and junior medical staff how to gently slough off burned skin in the special bath. She then, with Yasmeen translating, reiterated all the information already given about barrier nursing, clean gowns and gloves, careful hand-washing—all the extreme measures staff had to take to prevent the spread of infection in the newly revealed wounds—and demonstrated how the spray-on dressing could be used to close them.

  Her last patient was the man who’d been left for dead, and to her dismay he was no better. She’d been present when a specialist had checked his lungs, so she knew there was no damage, yet with only second-degree burns and with those only on about twelve per cent of his body, he should be picking up.

  Was it because he had no family—he hadn’t, as yet, been identified—that he was making so little progress? Not even certain of his nationality, Nell still talked to him all the time she examined him, seeking the smallest sign of infection beneath the charred skin, checking his obs and test results again and again in search of some underlying problem that might explain his continuing decline.

  In the end she knew no more and had to leave him with his nurse and make her way to the doctors’ office. She was already late for her meeting with the dietitian to discuss the IV feeding of individual patients. The secretary someone had found for her translated the medical information on the computer from Arabic to English and, working with the dietitian and the computerised observations, patient weight and the urine and blood test results of each patient, they worked out the necessary nutritional needs for each individual.

  ‘Should we change this daily?’ the dietitian asked, and Nell shook her head.

  ‘Maybe every second day, though if the obs show any deterioration in a patient’s status I’ll call you straight away.’

  Two patients, they decided, could try oral feeding. Both had family support, and with encouragement should be able to manage the high calorie intake required to rebalance their bodies.

  ‘No tea or coffee,’ the dietitian reminded Nell. ‘Just high-protein supplements for drinks. I’ll write it up and make sure both the nurses and the kitchens understand.’

  ‘And speak to the family members too, perhaps,’ Nell suggested. ‘They’re the ones likely to bring in things that their relative might enjoy, without realising that everything he or she eats should be going towards their “good calorie” tally.’

  The dietitian smiled as Nell put the two important words into inverted commas with her fingers.

  ‘We do that, too,’ she said, and Nell laughed, always pleased and surprised to find how little difference there was between her and the women with whom she now worked.

  She felt the same bond with the physiotherapist and occupational therapist who followed the dietitian into the office. Both were aware the needs of burns patients differed from other hospitalised patients, but neither had had experience of dealing with them or of organising the special programmes they needed.

  ‘It’s important for us—the doctors—to watch for any change in the patient’s sensory perception. Facial swelling can distort vision, or wounds might prevent patients wearing glasses or hearing aids, but we can miss things that the nurses or you therapists might pick up on, so be extra-vigilant.’

  The young male physiotherapist assured Nell they would be, then asked questions about the advisability of patients exercising when they were in so much pain.

  ‘The pain does make them reluctant to move any part of their bodies,’ Nell agreed, conscious as she spoke that Kal had entered the room. ‘But the wounds cause contractures so they need to exercise. Part of the problem with burns patients, more so than with, say, post-op patients, is irritability and agitation. This makes it harder to persuade them to try even gentle movement. Sometimes family members will help by encouraging the patient, but of course you then get the family member who tells you not to bother their son or brother, so you’re battling on two fronts.’

  They discussed the disorientation of patients in hospital and the necessity to always explain to the patient exactly what was happening. The OT would work with establishing good self-care routines with those well enough to undertake simple tasks for themselves, while the physio had a number of ideas for exercise that could suit even the most badly burned patients.

  ‘You shouldn’t have to be putting in extra time, teaching other people their jobs. Surely all the information is in their textbooks or on the internet,’ Kal scolded. ‘You’re doing more than enough on the medical side.’

  The secretary had departed with the two therapists, she to get some lunch for Nell and the other two to return to their jobs, so she and Kal were alone in the room. She looked at him as he sat down across the desk from her and tried to read his mood.

  No chance! His face betrayed nothing, and the eyes that had once softened when he’d looked at her stared resolutely at a point somewhere beyond her left shoulder.

  ‘The information is available, but if you haven’t worked with burns patients before, you could be tentative, and the patients need certainty and firm, though caring handling. They’ve suffered a terrible psychological blow as well as the insult to their bodies, and need all the help they can get to make it through these initial stages of hospitalisation.’

  She paused for a minute, thinking back over her early experience in burns.

  ‘Actually, they need even more psychological support later, when they realise just how long term their treatment is going to be. There’s no quick fix with burns, unfortunately. Speaking of which, how did the ops go?’

  This is good, the voice in her head congratulated her. You stood up to Kal and now you’re talking to him professional to professional, and hardly quaking at all inside.

  ‘They went well,’ he said, and Nell was sure he’d added a little prayer under his breath. But he was doing the ‘professional to professional’ business far better than she was. There was absolutely no indication in his face, or voice, or bearing, that last night he’d decreed they would be married, or that he’d then made her breathless with his love-making.

  Love-making?

  Unfortunately, while her head was querying the word he was speaking again, and she missed the first part. Something about the Spanish team.

  ‘The team is made up of two plastic surgeons and two teams of theatre nurses. Naturally, they have more expertise in this field than I have, so although I want to learn whatever I can, I have to return to my own duties and my own surgical patien
ts and will be here less often.’

  Yes? And that means what? Nell was totally confused. Professional to professional was all well and good, but what about the personal issues yet to be resolved?

  Was he being kind? Avoiding upsetting her further while she was concerned about her father’s health?

  Or did he intend to continue with this marriage idea and come to her apartment every night? Coolly professional by day, hot but emotionless lover at night?

  Nell shuddered.

  ‘Are you all right? Did you eat breakfast? Have you had lunch?’

  Another switch in mood, but before Nell could reply, the secretary returned with Nell’s lunch on a tray. The young woman bobbed a kind of bow to Kal, put down the tray and scampered away.

  Nell was about to make a comment about the subservience many members of the staff showed him when he sighed.

  ‘Ever since I started work at the hospital, it’s been like that,’ he said, his voice heavy with what sounded like genuine regret. ‘I try to tell them that I’m just another doctor, but our people—the locals, not the staff who’ve come from other lands—still insist on some form of acknowledgement. It must have been bred into them with their mother’s milk.’

  He sighed again.

  ‘Does it bother you so much that you sigh over it?’ Nell asked, then realised it was hardly a professional-to-professional type question.

  He looked directly at her, his usually alert gaze turned inward.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ he said then his eyes narrowed and he focussed on her. ‘But, then, a lot of things bother me. Isn’t it the case with everyone? You, for instance. Aren’t you bothered by the fact you kept my son’s life a secret from me for so long?’

  The question was so unexpected, coming as it had when Nell had been lulled into a false sense of security by talk of work, that she couldn’t answer it immediately. By the time she was ready to tell him that it wasn’t a question that could be answered with a yes or no, he’d left the room, walking out as quietly as he’d walked in, leaving only his aura, haunting Nell like a wounded ghost.

  A wounded ghost?

  Hadn’t she been just as wounded?

  Don’t start feeling sorry for him—he’s hard as nails, as tough and deadly as the desert he loves so much.

  She reached in her pocket for the card with the phone number of her father’s hospital on it. It would be evening at home, and right now what she needed was to touch base with her family. To ground herself with their voices—maybe even speak to her father if he was well enough. Then she’d phone home and talk to Patrick. Her family were her life—her reality. All this other stuff that was happening was like a story—something out of Tales of the Arabian Nights, only with darker overtones…

  She picked at the pieces of cut fruit on the lunch tray as she waited for her call to go through to the hospital, then nibbled at some salad while she was put through to her mother.

  ‘He’s terrific—here, you can speak to him.’

  Nell couldn’t believe it. She knew people came out of major surgery far better these days, but to be able to speak to her father when he was less than twenty-four hours post-op?

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘I’m fine, honey. Tired but fine. Patrick came by earlier. He’s looking good. He was in great spirits because he’d cut his hair.’

  Her mother took the phone and explained how delighted Patrick had been to have enough hair to cut it back to a number one—the favoured, almost shaved look all his friends wore.

  It was such a normal, innocuous conversation, Nell smiled. Yes, family definitely grounded one! They talked some more about nothing in particular, then said goodbye, Nell assuring her mother she was looking after herself.

  It wasn’t until she’d hung up that Nell realised there’d been no mention of Kal. Was her mother being tactful or had the conversation she’d had with Kal meant little to her?

  Not that it mattered, although Nell felt a little niggle that her mother hadn’t said it had been nice to talk to him or asked how he was—asked anything…

  ‘What do you mean, I’ve no operations scheduled?’

  Kal wasn’t exactly yelling at his secretary, but his voice was probably a little louder than it needed to be.

  ‘You were busy with the accident victims and I assumed you would be for some time, so when Dr Armstrong offered to do your list, I checked with all the patients to see if any of them minded, and they didn’t, so he’s operating here today and again tomorrow.’

  She looked doubtfully at him.

  ‘I could tell him you’re free to do tomorrow’s list, but then he might think—’

  ‘That I think he’s not competent,’ Kal grumbled. ‘Which isn’t the case at all! He’s a top surgeon—we’ve worked together often.’

  Telling his secretary something she already knew! Of course she wouldn’t have thought twice when Bob Armstrong had made the offer. The pair of them worked as a team on complex cases a couple of times a month.

  None of this made him feel any better.

  ‘So what am I supposed to do?’ he demanded.

  ‘Go back to the burns unit?’ The tentative suggestion made him scowl. Working close to Nell was having an exceedingly detrimental effect on him, turning him into a person he didn’t like at all, while at the same time it was giving him thoughts he shouldn’t have—thoughts about how soon he could get her back into bed.

  Never!

  He was so certain he’d blown his chances with Nell that he felt depressed.

  But thinking of Nell gave him an idea.

  ‘I’ll take a day off,’ he announced, and his secretary looked so startled you’d have thought he’d suggested he was taking up needlework.

  ‘But you had a day off last week,’ she protested, her voice faint with shock.

  ‘And two days off in how long—six months? Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She was scrabbling to recover her composure. ‘Of course it isn’t. I’m always telling you you should take more days off. It’s just…’

  ‘Unusual?’ Kal offered helpfully, then he decided this conversation had gone on long enough. ‘I’ll see the Spanish team before I leave, and make sure they’re settled into their accommodations and have everything they need. After that, I’ll be contactable on my mobile.’

  He walked out of the room, wanting privacy. Then he’d see his hospital administrator and give him the task of looking after the Spaniards. God or Fate or some kindly juxtaposition of the planets had given him this free time and he wasn’t going to waste it. He was going to Australia to get his son…

  The pretty, suntanned blonde at the car-hire counter in the main airport terminal building laughed when he said he hadn’t been in Brisbane for fourteen years.

  ‘You’ll find it very different—especially the volume of traffic—but there’s a street directory in the car so you should be able to find your way.’

  She handed him the keys, explained where the car was parked and wished him luck.

  Not that he needed it. The roads were still familiar and he drove to the Roberts’ house with only one wrong turn. It was late afternoon and no one was at home, but he was content to sit on the front steps of the neat brick house with its wide, tree-shaded verandas and think about the past—about waiting here for Nell—until someone returned.

  Mrs Roberts? Or the aunt called Mary? Kal couldn’t recall her but, then, Nell had had a multitude of relations. Perhaps that had been part of what had attracted him to her—because her sense of family was as strong as his.

  Family!

  He really hoped it would be Patrick who came first, but when he thought of Patrick—of this stranger who was his son—his heart crunched into a tight hard lump.

  Instead he had thought of Mrs Roberts again. She’d always been kind and welcoming—both of Nell’s parents had been. The fact he was of a different race and culture had meant nothing to them, content that Nell was happy with him, pleased to think he could give her happ
iness.

  ‘For one whole year!’

  He spat the words out bitterly, wondering at the arrogance of his young self who’d outlined the ‘rules’ of the relationship to Nell, telling her from the beginning it would only be an affair.

  Later, loving her, he’d explained why. Explained the pact he’d made with his parents. He could break tradition by studying medicine—even do a year’s post-graduate study in far-away Australia—but he’d promised he’d then return and marry in the traditional way, marry the wife he didn’t know but to whom he’d been betrothed since he’d been sixteen.

  ‘Hi! Can I help you? Are you looking for my grandparents? I’m afraid Gramps is in hospital at the moment and Gran’s up there, making sure the nurses look after him properly.’

  The tall young lad had stopped a couple of feet in front of Kal, who stared at him, shaken, bewildered and tongue-tied as he drank in his son’s appearance. Anger that this should be his first meeting stirred turbulence into an overwhelming rush of emotion at seeing him.

  ‘Aunt Mary should be home soon. She said she’d do a run up to the hospital with some clean clothes and stuff, so I guess that’s where she is.’

  There was another awkward pause, the result of Kal’s continued inability to speak, then the boy stuck out his hand.

  ‘I’m Patrick, anyway.’

  Kal stood up and took the hand offered to him, feeling the fragile bones in the thin fingers, knowing the boy’s lanky leanness was a sign of recent illness, not a growth spurt. More anger rushed through him. He should have known—he should have been here! What if his son had died?

  Realising he was probably freaking the boy out with his silence, he blotted the anger from his mind, swallowed hard and introduced himself.

  ‘Kal,’ he said, with gentle pressure on the bony fingers. ‘I’m Kal.’

  ‘My father’s name is Kal,’ Patrick said cautiously. ‘His whole name is Khalil al Kalada—he’s a kind of prince in a foreign country.’

  The stream of information stopped abruptly and the boy stared at Kal, his gaze going from the top of Kal’s head, down to his feet, then back up again. Then the colour drained from the lad’s face, and Kal reached out to grab him, scared the shock might prove too much.