Radclyffe - Turn Back Time

"I can do it."

"I'm sure. But this way I can see what I need to see before you stir up the bleeding again."

Pearce quirked an eyebrow. "You don't have much faith in my skill."

"Well, considering where you trained..." Wynter carefully loosened the crusted blood below the pink surface of Pearce's lip. "Damn. This goes right through the vermilion border, Pearce. You probably should get stitches."

"Let's get a look." Pearce leaned toward the mirror and squinted.

"It's not too deep. A Steri-Strip will probably take care of it."

"And if it doesn't, you're going to have a very noticeable scar because of the color mismatch," Wynter said pointedly.

"Jeez, you sound like a surgeon."

"I hope so. That's the plan."

"Really? Where are you going?" It was the most common question of the day, but for Pearce, the day had held little excitement. She knew where she was going. She'd always known where she was going.

Suddenly, she was much more interested in where Wynter would be going.

Embarrassed, Wynter sighed. "Actually...I don't know."

"Oh. Shit. Sorry. Look," Pearce said hastily, "maybe I can help out. You know, with finding places that still have openings."

Wynter frowned, trying to make sense of Pearce's offer. Then, suddenly, she understood what she was saying. "Oh, no. It's not that I didn't match. Oh well-- maybe I didn't match, but...I just haven't looked yet."

"You're kidding. You got your envelope three hours ago, and you haven't looked yet? Why?"

Because I know it's not going to say what I want it to say. Wynter didn't want to admit the truth, especially not to this woman, and struggled for an explanation. "I was tied up on rounds. I didn't get a chance."

Unexpectedly bothered by Wynter's obvious discomfort, Pearce didn't push for further explanation. "Do you have the envelope with you?"

"Right here." Wynter patted her back pocket.

"Well, come on. Let's see it."

For the first time, Wynter actually wanted to know, and she wanted Pearce to be the one who shared the moment with her. It didn't make any sense, but she felt it all the same. With a deep breath, she pulled the envelope from her pocket and opened it in one unhesitant motion. She slid out the card, and then without looking at it, passed it to Pearce.

Pearce looked down, read the words, and hid the swift stab of disappointment. "Surgery. YaleNew Haven." She met Wynter's eyes.

"Good place. Congratulations."

"Yes," Wynter said, not surprised. Her tone was flat. "Thanks."

"Well. Let's see to the rest of you."

"What?" Wynter asked, still trying to decipher the odd expression on Pearce's face. For an instant, she'd looked sad.

Pearce handed the card back and cupped Wynter's jaw with both hands. She saw Wynter's eyes widen in surprise. "Open," she said, placing her thumbs over each temporomandibular joint. "Slowly, but go as far as you can."

Wynter was aware of a rush of butterflies in the pit of her stomach and her face flushing. Pearce's hands were not only strong, but gentle.

They stood so close that their thighs brushed.

"Feels okay," Wynter murmured as Pearce carefully circled the joints. Feels...wonderful.

Pearce slid her fingers along the border of Wynter's jaw and over her chin. "Sore?"

Wynter shook her head. She couldn't feel her chin. All she could feel was the heat of Pearce's skin. She was breathing fast. So was Pearce. Pearce's eyes had gotten impossibly dark, so dark that the pupils blended with the surrounding irises, creating midnight pools that Wynter was absoluty certain she could drown in.

"Pearce," Wynter whispered. Whatever was happening, she couldn't let it. But as she slipped further into Pearce's eyes, she couldn't recall why not. She forced herself to focus. "Don't."

"Hmm?" Pearce lowered her head, intent on capturing the hint of spice that was Wynter's scent. She slid her hand around the back of Wynter's neck as she very lightly kissed the tip of her chin where the bruise shadowed it. Her lips tingled and she tightened deep inside.

"Better?"

"Much," Wynter said teasingly, hoping to make light of the moment.

"It gets better," Pearce said, her lids half closed, her mouth closing in on Wynter's.

"I...Pearce...wait..." Wynter's cell phone rang, impossibly loud, and she jumped. She fumbled for it, unable to look away. Pearce's mouth was an inch from hers when she whispered, "Hello?" She listened, staring at the pounding carotid in Pearce's throat. "I thought you weren't coming. Okay. Fine. I'm in the bathroom. I'll be right out."

She closed the phone. Her voice was thick. "I have to go."

"Why?" Pearce kept her hand on the back of Wynter's neck and caressed her softly, tangling her fingers in Wynter's hair. She knew what she saw in Wynter's eyes. She'd seen it before, but it had never stirred her quite like this. "Got a date?"

"No," Wynter said as she gently backed away, escaping Pearce's grip, if not her spell. "It's my husband."

Standing absolutely still, Pearce said nothing as Wynter stepped around her and hurried out. When the door swung closed, leaving her alone, Pearce bent down and retrieved the forgotten white card. Wynter must have dropped it. She ran her thumb over the type, then slid the card into her breast pocket.

Goodbye, Wynter Kline.

CHAPTER TWO

Four Years Later Just as Pearce pulled her robin's-egg blue 1967 Thunderbird convertible into the parking garage on South Street next to the University Museum, her beeper went off.

"Shit," she muttered as she tilted the small plastic rectangle to check the readout. Five a.m. and the chaos was starting already. The number, however, wasn't one of the nurses' stations in the twelve-story Rhoads Pavilion, which housed most of the surgical patients. It was the chairman's office. And at that hour of the morning, it wasn't his secretary calling. It was him. "Fuck."

She pulled the classic car into the angled slot in the far corner of the first floor next to the security guard's tiny booth. It was a reserved space and one for which she paid premium rates, but she wasn't about to let some idiot dent the vehicle that she had spent countless hours restoring. She knew all the guards would keep an eye on it. She tipped them every month in thanks. "Hey, Charlie," she called as she climbed out.

"Good morning, Doctor," the pencil-thin retired cop said. He wore his security guard uniform with the same pride with which he had worn the Philadelphia Police blues for thirty years. "Might better have left the baby home today. The news is calling for rain later. Could be snow if it gets a little colder."

"I'll leave the car here until spring, then," Pearce yelled as she jogged toward the street. Her cell phone wouldn't work in the parking garage. And it wouldn't matter to her if it rained or snowed, because she was on call for the next twenty-four hours and would not be leaving the hospital for at least thirty. "You take good care of my girl, now."

Charlie laughed and sketched a salute as she disappeared up the ramp.

Once on the sidewalk, she thumbed the speed dial and punched in the number. When it was answered by the voice she anticipated, she said, "Rifkin."

"Would you stop by the office before rounds this morning?"

Although framed as a question, it wasn't a request.

"Yes sir. I'm just outside the hospital."

"Come up now, then."

Pearce didn't have time to reply before the call was cut off. Fuck.

She ran through the list of patients on the chairman's service, wondering if something had gone wrong that she didn't know about. The junior surgery resident who had been on call the night before knew that he was to advise her of any problem, no matter how small. But other than several routine questions about transfusions and antibiotic coverage, she hadn't gotten any calls of note. Despite the fact that her family home was only forty minutes away in Bryn Mawr and she could easily have had her own wing of the house and all the privacy she required, she lived in an apartment in West Philadelphia so that she could make it to the hospital in less than fifteen minutes. She did not like to be surprised by problems in the morning, and a call at this hour to the chairman's office could only be a problem. Fuck.