The Doctor's Defender (Protection Specialists, 3) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Terri Reed writes heart-warming romance and heart-pounding suspense. Her books have appeared on The New York Times Bestseller list,  Publisher's Weekly Bestseller List, Nielsen's Bookscan top fifty, Amazon Bestseller List and have been featured in USA Today.  When not writing, she can be found doing agility with her dog or digging in her garden. You can visit her online at www.terrireed.com, sign up for her newsletter for exclusive content, or email her at terrireedauthor@terrireed.com 

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"You're working late again."

Dr. Brenda Storm glanced up from the open files spread out across her desk and winced. Dr. Sam Johnson walked into her office, looking very GQ, with his gelled hair, pressed slacks and starched shirt beneath his white lab coat. She hadn't heard the door open, let alone a knock.

The thought of having to fend off another of his unwelcome advances made her stomach churn. The plastic surgeon might have excellent skills when it came to facial reconstruction, but he hadn't a clue about her lack of interest in him. He was probably so used to women falling at his feet that he saw her disinterest as a challenge.

Well, she wasn't looking for romance. She had too much to accomplish, too much at stake. Her career came first. It would always come first.

And even if she were looking for a relationship, it certainly wouldn't be with some playboy hotshot whose ego was triple his shoe size. She'd made that kind of mistake once when she was young and naive.

She'd fallen for such a guy once her first year of med school. Josh had been cute, smart and charismatic. A total player.

And she'd been just another conquest to brag about.

Humiliated and hurt, she'd vowed then to be more careful when it came to romance. So far her carefulness hadn't lent itself to finding a husband, much to her parents' chagrin.

She forced a smile. "Hi, Sam. What can I do for you?"

His white, even teeth gleamed when he smiled. All practiced charm. It usually worked for him, she was sure, but to her it came across as very phony. Too much like the men her parents were constantly trying to fix her up with. Men who wanted the prestige of having a general surgeon for a wife, but not the lifestyle that went with it.

Long hours and single-minded focus were what got her this far. At thirty-four she was a well-respected general-practice surgeon with ambitions to be department chief. That usually didn't settle well with prospective suitors.

She'd been called a workaholic, too serious, too controlling, too dispassionate…

"Since we're both speaking next Friday, I was thinking maybe we could go together," he said.

She blinked. "Where?"

"The annual fundraiser."

She'd forgotten about the hospital's yearly fall gala. She'd been asked to speak about the technological advances used in general surgery. Ugh. No way of bowing out. She scrambled, searching for a reason why they couldn't "go together" as he put it. "I…"

Gary, the hospital's security guard, poked his head inside the doorway. "Package for you."

Glad for the interruption, she waved him in. In his sixties, the man was twice her age, with graying hair and a wide smile, but he was still strong and capable. He'd been a part of Heritage Hospital long before she'd come aboard. She hoped he'd be around for a long time. He helped out when he saw a need, unlike some of the younger guards who manned the front reception area during various shifts.

Given that Heritage Hospital took up a full block in a very affluent suburb of Chicago, she guessed the younger guards viewed their time at Heritage as a cushy job since they saw little criminal activity on a daily basis. Still, having a security presence gave patients and staff of the hospital a measure of comfort.

And for the doctors and nurses, an extra pair of hands was an extra pair of hands. Welcome when needed.

"These smell delicious." Gary carried a pink bakery box. The distinctive label on the side was from a posh cupcake shop not far from the hospital. "There's a card taped to the top."

Brenda rose and came around the desk to peel the envelope from the top of the box. Inside was a pretty thank-you card. The signature of the sender was illegible. She had no idea who was thanking her or why.

"You get cupcakes from patients?" Sam asked, peering over her shoulder. "All I get are pictures once they've healed. I'd prefer cupcakes."

Brenda received other gifts and tokens of gratitude from patients, nice gestures for doing the job she'd spent her whole life training for. She had more wins than losses. Still, the Hanson case hanging over her head robbed her of appreciating this small thank-you.

Three months ago, Peter Hanson had died on her operating table. He'd come into Heritage Hospital with acute appendicitis. She'd been the surgeon on call and quickly assessed he needed surgery. Everything went smoothly until his heart stopped in the middle of what she'd considered a textbook procedure.

The autopsy had been inconclusive. There had been no heart disease. No blockage. No aortic stenosis, no myocarditis. No genetic issues. No structural damage.

And now his family was suing her and the hospital for malpractice.

A blemish on her otherwise spotless record. She felt sick thinking about it. Had she done something wrong, made some crucial mistake? The possibilities gnawed at her, eating away at her confidence.

She set the pink bakery box on the desk and opened the lid to reveal four fancy cupcakes with colorful sprinkles atop fluffy white frosting and little smiley-faced rings, the kind usually meant for children.

Brenda normally didn't operate on children. At least not at Heritage Hospital. However, she did treat patients of all age ranges and walks of life at the downtown clinic she'd helped establish.

In the past couple of years, she'd taken out an inflamed appendix on a ten-year-old girl, adenoids for a preteen boy, a ruptured spleen on a six-year-old and tonsils from at least three prepubescent kids. Had this come from one of those families? Or had these been the only available cupcakes at the bakery? That seemed more likely.

"Yum. Those are from Blissful Indulgence," Sam said. "So much goodness in a small package."

The cupcakes didn't look that small to Brenda. Each confection looked to have about five hundred grams of fat ready to clog arteries. "Help yourselves."

"Don't mind if I do," Gary said and reached to take a cupcake. He peeled back the paper wrapper around the bottom and took a bite. After he swallowed, he said, "Thanks, Dr. Storm. These are amazing." He left the office with a smile.

Sam picked up a cupcake but didn't take a bite. "You still haven't answered my question. The fall gala? Us going together?" He gave her a searching look. "Unless, of course, you already have a date."

No date. And she didn't want one with him. Or anyone for that matter. "Let me think about it and get back to you."

"I know what that means," Sam replied with a slightly petulant tone.

Maybe he had more of a clue than she'd thought. She'd give him an A for persistence.

Gary reappeared at the door. "Help," he croaked, clinging to the door frame, his face ashen as he slid to the floor in a heap.

Alarm jolted through Brenda. Heart attack? A massive coronary, perhaps.

She pushed Sam out of the way and ran to Gary. She rolled him over. "Call for help."

"On it." Sam picked up the phone on the desk.

She placed her fingers against Gary's neck, hoping to find a carotid pulse. He had none. Her stomach sank. "No pulse. Not breathing."

Sam spoke into the phone. "Code Ninety-nine. Dr. Storm's office."

Dread chipped away at her composure. She tilted Gary's head back and tugged his jaw forward to open the airway. From her coat pocket, she grabbed a mi-croshield CPR mask and placed it over his lips, fitting the mask air valve against his tongue. The faint scent of almonds wafted from his mouth. "Beginning CPR."

"Gary died from cyanide poisoning?" Stunned, Brenda sat back in the armchair across the expansive mahogany desk from...