Michele Dunaway - Emergency Engagement

“I’m not a hooker and I don’t strip bare. I’ve only done it a few times. I needed that money.” She swallowed. When was the last time she’d had something to eat or drink?

She was suddenly so tired, so sick of fighting to eke out an existence. Still, she pressed on. “You wouldn’t know what it’s like to be poor, would you? You wouldn’t know how hard it is to make sure your child doesn’t suffer. You wouldn’t know—” She suddenly saw two Dr. Quinton Searles. How could that be?

Both Quintons spoke. “Beth, you don’t look so good. You’re pale and—”

“I’m fine,” Beth said. She was always fine. She couldn’t afford not to be.

And then, as if fate mocked her, the world went black.

Dear Reader,

As a parent of young children, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in the emergency room. My oldest daughter once got into my purse and ate my cold medicine thinking it was candy, and my youngest daughter once fell and bit completely through her lower lip. These motherhood experiences of mine provided the backdrop for Beth Johnson and Quinton Searle’s love story.

Quinton first appeared as a minor character in my July 2002 Harlequin American Romance release, Catching the Corporate Playboy. The minute I wrote him I knew he needed his own book. I decided he’d be perfect for Beth, a woman who’s been through some pretty rough times in her life but is determined to survive. While she doesn’t need a prince in a doctor’s coat to rescue her, her life is a lot more enjoyable and fun once he does. Of course, Beth’s daughter, Carly, has a few ideas of her own about the man she wants to be her next daddy.

I hope you enjoy reading Quinton and Beth’s tale as much as I did writing it.

All the best and as always, enjoy the romance.

Michele Dunaway

Emergency Engagement

Michele Dunaway

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Julie Picraux, romance reader extraordinaire; Eutana Howard, Susan Benedict, Alexandra Gantner and Joyce Adams Counts. I am honored that I can call all of you my friends.

And to Kenny Chesney, whose music and dedication to it are inspirations.

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

848—A LITTLE OFFICE ROMANCE

900—TAMING THE TABLOID HEIRESS

921—THE SIMPLY SCANDALOUS PRINCESS

931—CATCHING THE CORPORATE PLAYBOY

963—SWEEPING THE BRIDE AWAY

988—THE PLAYBOY’S PROTÉGÉE

1008—ABOUT LAST NIGHT…

1044—UNWRAPPING MR. WRIGHT

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

He wasn’t supposed to be there. It wasn’t his night; in fact, this week he wasn’t supposed to deal with any emergencies unless they occurred during normal office hours.

But because of a wedding or something like that, there’d been a shortage of pediatricians to staff the pediatric emergency floor. So when his partner Bart had asked, Quinton had agreed to take Bart’s shift. Even though it was a Friday night, Quinton had had nothing better to do.

Which, when he stopped to think about it, was pathetic. He, Dr. Quinton Searle, pediatric specialist, should have something to do. At thirty-five, he should have some woman to date, some place to be.

But the truth was that he didn’t, which is why, when the call came through, he was in the wrong place at the right time. He turned to Elaine, who at fifty-something had seen it all. He liked working with her; she was a model of efficiency, the most reliable nurse in any crisis. “What have I got?” he asked.

“Four-year-old child. Poison Control just called. The kid ate the mother’s cold medicine. Thought it was green candy.”

He frowned as he contemplated the situation. “How many?”

Elaine checked her notes. “The mother thinks it was only two tablets, but she isn’t sure. The container is empty.”

Great. Quinton hated variables. “Is she here yet?”

Elaine shook her head. “Any minute. Downstairs knows to buzz me immediately so we can bring the kid right up.”

Quinton nodded. Downstairs was slang for the main emergency room. As part of the Chicago Presbyterian Hospital’s patient care plan, a separate emergency floor had been set up especially for children. Children were triaged in the main ER, then sent to the pediatric ER. Even admittance paperwork could be done on this floor. He shoved his hand into the pocket of his white doctor’s coat. “Let me know the minute you get the buzz.”

“Will do,” Elaine replied. “I’m going to check on the patient in room twelve. The pediatric plastic surgeon should have been here twenty minutes ago.”

“Good idea,” Quinton said. When he had phoned earlier, the surgeon had assured Quinton that he’d be there in ten minutes. Already half an hour had passed.

Which was not good. The three-year-old boy waiting for the surgeon had fallen completely through the skin below his lower lip. Fifteen minutes ago the parents had given up keeping the numbing cream on the injury. That, of course, meant the cream would have worn off somewhat by the time the surgeon finally arrived.

Quinton frowned. Besides coping with variables, he hated waiting on specialists. He could have stitched up the injury himself, but probably not without leaving a worse scar than the plastic surgeon would. So, since Quinton knew the kid needed both internal and external stitches, he and the family were both waiting. Not an ideal situation at all, and now his time would be further divided when the drug overdose arrived.

He could use some caffeine. Having a few spare moments, he went to the staff lounge and filled a white foam cup with hot coffee. Someone had made a fresh pot, and the aroma wafted toward his nose as he sipped. The bitter black balm failed to soothe his soul. He contemplated the real reason he’d chosen to work this weekend.

Bart and responsibilities as a member of the hospital staff aside, work had gotten him out of a family function relating to his sister’s upcoming wedding. Not that he didn’t love his parents or his only sibling, but he didn’t necessarily want to see them, or hear the question they always asked: when was he moving home for good?

Trouble was, he didn’t want to return to St. Louis. The staff lounge window overlooked parts of Chicago, a city he’d called home since attending medical school at Northwestern University, and Quinton paused a moment to study the darkened cityscape. Chicago vibrated with life, and the city had a way of neutralizing differences. In St. Louis, life was all about where you went to high school and what country club you joined after college.

In Chicago, no one in his current social circle cared. In Chicago, he wasn’t Fred Searle’s son, groomed since birth to take over his aging father’s still-thriving medical practice. His parents had it all planned: Quinton was to marry the right girl, join the right club and have his kids attend the right schools. He’d assume his rightful place in St. Louis society.