Terri Reed - The Doctor's Defender

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 microshield 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 Ned Landsem, Heritage Hospital’s administrator. Her stomach roiled at the news. The smell of almonds on Gary’s breath hadn’t come from the flavoring in the cupcakes but from poison.

Despite her and the staff’s best efforts, Gary had died. Her heart ached at the loss. She tucked her sadness away in the deep depths of her heart. Compartmentalizing came with the job. “How? Why?”

“I don’t have all the details.” Nearer to seventy than sixty, Ned Landsem was still a dashing man with thick white hair and a robust personality that made working for him a joy. “The police suspect the cupcakes that were delivered to you were laced with cyanide. Once toxicology comes back, they’ll have confirmation.”

Realization slammed into her like a gale-force wind coming off Lake Michigan in the winter. Someone had tried to kill her. Shock stole the breath from her lungs.

She shuddered as anxiety and fear dug deep talons through her, leaving weeping wounds. Someone wanted her dead.

And had murdered Gary instead.

Tears burned the backs of her eyes. A senseless death.

“The police don’t have the resources to give you round-the-clock security, so the hospital has hired a protection specialist from Trent Associates.”

She drew back. “‘Protection Specialist,’ as in bodyguard?”

“We had to move quickly. Trent Associates has an exemplary reputation. They were able to send someone out right away.”

She sat forward. “I don’t get a say in this?”

Though she logically understood the need for a bodyguard and could see the value, she hated not being in control of her own destiny. And having someone out there who wanted her dead made her feel vulnerable in a way she’d never felt before. She didn’t like it one bit.

His expression turned parental. “You’re an important member of our staff, Brenda. Your safety is our priority. We care about you.”

As good as the sentiment felt, she had no illusions about her worth. Her skills in the operating room made her a high-priced commodity, one other hospitals and private practices sought after.

But on a personal level, she wasn’t that close to the staff. Relationships only complicated matters. It was easier to keep people at a distance than to risk disappointment. Theirs and hers.

“I’m sure the staff would appreciate the extra security.” The weight of responsibility pressed on her shoulders. Someone had already been hurt because of her; the least she could do was accept the hospital’s generous gesture.

Ned nodded his approval. “I’m glad you understand. This will be in everyone’s best interest—”

A knock interrupted him. “Come in.”

The door to the office opened. She looked over her shoulder to see the newcomer. Her breath stalled out.

Ned rose and came around the desk, his hand outstretched. “Mr. Martin, I trust your trip went well.”

A tall, lean and drop-dead gorgeous man strode forward and halted beside her chair. He wore khaki cargo pants and a loose-fitting shirt more appropriate for a pool party than a professional meeting. And he wore flip-flops on his feet. Did he plan to head to the lakeshore when he was done here?

“Yes, without a hitch. You must be Dr. Landsem.” The two men shook hands.

Surely this wasn’t her bodyguard. Brenda frowned in confusion. Weren’t bodyguards supposed to look tough and intimidating? Like James Bond or something?

This guy with his shaggy blond hair belonged on a movie set for a beach flick or a photo shoot for a male hottie-of-the-month calendar. Not that she didn’t appreciate his handsomeness. She was a woman with a pulse. She rather liked his angular jawline and full lips.

Lively sky-blue eyes met hers. His gaze slowly raked over her in silent appraisal. Would he see the flaws she worked hard to hide?

The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile as if pleased with what he saw. Her pulse skyrocketed.

She sat up straighter. Oh, no. No, no, no. This guy couldn’t be the protection specialist the hospital hired. He was too...too much. Too young. Too good-looking. Not a man to be easily ignored.