Turn Back Time

CHAPTER FOUR

You don't usually make floor rounds, do you?" Wynter asked as she matched her stride to Pearce's. The attending surgical staff delegated routine daily patient care--changing bandages, removing sutures, ordering lab tests, renewing medications, and dozens of other tasks--to the residents. The most senior resident on each service ensured that the work was carried out by the more junior physicians.

Pearce should be exempt from such menial tasks.

"I see every patient on the service every day," Pearce said, "but the juniors do all the scut. I just like to make sure they don't miss anything."

As they hurried along, Wynter tried to set landmarks in her mind so she wouldn't get lost the first time she was alone. The University Hospital was a labyrinth of interconnected buildings that had been erected at various times over the last hundred years, and to the uninitiated, it appeared to be a haphazard jumble of walkways, bridges, and tunnels. Despite having a good sense of direction, she was already a little disoriented.

"Thanks for showing me around." Wynter was starting to huff just a little as Pearce made a sharp right and directed her into yet another dark, narrow stairwell. I won't gain any weight on this service if this is her normal pace.

Pearce shrugged, taking the stairs two at a time. "Part of the job."

But it wasn't, Wynter knew. Many other residents wouldn't have bothered, leaving her to fend for herself in a strange place with a heavy load of brand-new patients. Nor would they take the time to double check on the patients the way Pearce apparently did. Even though Wynter barely knew the woman, Pearce's professionalism didn't surprise her. She remembered the way Pearce had cradled her face, examining her jaw, her eyes focused but compassionate, her hands- "Oh!" Wynter exclaimed as she caught the toe of her clog on a tread and plunged headlong toward the railing. She thrust out her arm to break the impact and landed in Pearce's arms instead. They went down in a heap on the stairs.

"Umph," Pearce grunted. "Jesus Christ. What is it with you?"

"Believe it or not," Wynter gasped, "I'm usually very coordinated."

She took stock of her various body parts, uncomfortably aware of Pearce beneath her, sprawled on her back, Wynter's arms and legs tangled with hers. The pain in her left kneecap did nothing to mitigate the sensation of Pearce's tight, lean thigh between her legs. Pearce's heart hammered against her breast, and warm breath teased her neck. "Sorry. Are you hurt?"

"Hard to tell," Pearce muttered. All I can feel is you. She kept her hands carefully at her sides, because any movement at all would only increase the unintentional intimacy of their position. Wynter was soft in all the right places, and every one of them seemed to fit perfectly into Pearce's body, as if the two of them had been carved into mirror images. It's been too long since I've gotten laid. That's all it is. "Any chance you can get off me? I'm going to have a permanent groove in my back from this stair."

"Oh God, yes. Sorry." Wynter braced both hands on the next stair, bracketing Pearce's shoulders, and pushed herself up. Unfortunately, the movement lifted her torso but pressed her pelvis even more firmly into Pearce's. She heard a swift intake of breath just as the rush of heat along her spine took her by surprise. "Oh."

"Something hurt?" Pearce asked, managing to keep her voice steady. Two more seconds of this full-body contact and she wasn't going to be able to keep her hands to herself. As it was, her thighs were trembling and her stomach was in knots. "God, you feel good."

"What?" Wynter asked through a haze of unanticipated and inexplicable sensation.

"Hurt," Pearce mumbled, fighting down her arousal. "Anything hurt?"

"Oh, no," Wynter said quickly. Just the opposite. She wondered fleetingly if Pearce was always so warm. She could feel the heat radiate from her even through their clothes. Pearce's body was firm, but so unlike the angles and hardness she was used to. But then, it had been so long since she'd been this close to anyone that perhaps her memory was distorted. As carefully as she could, she rolled away until she was lying on her back next to Pearce, staring at the watermarked, yellowing paint of the ceiling. "What's the damage?"

Other than the fact that I'm going to be turned on for hours with no relief in sight? Pearce sat up and rested her elbows on her knees. She rubbed the back of her neck where a muscle had knotted when she'd tensed to keep her head from striking the stairs. Then, she carefully rotated her back from side to side. "Everything seems to be in working order. You?"

"I gave my patella a pretty good crack," Wynter admitted, realizing that Pearce had probably prevented her from sustaining a really serious injury. Gingerly, she extended and flexed her leg. "Thanks."

"Here, let me check it out." Pearce slid down several steps and turned. She bent forward and slipped both hands around Wynter's calf.

"Pull your scrubs up so I can see your knee."

"It's okay. Just bruis--"

"Let me decide. We might need to X-ray it."

"Look. We need to make rounds--"

"Jesus," Pearce said irritably, "are you going to argue with everything I say?"

"I'm just trying to save time. We've got patients to see."

"And we will. As soon as I check this out. Now pull up your pants."

Considering the fact that Pearce was standing over her and she had nowhere to go, even if she were able to gracefully extricate herself, Wynter complied. A four-inch abrasion extended over the upper portion of her tibia to her kneecap, which was swollen and discolored. When Pearce instructed her to straighten her leg, she did, watching Pearce's fingers press and probe her knee. Good hands, in every sense of the word. Certain, proficient, and gentle. The dance of flesh over flesh, no matter how innocent, was nevertheless an intimate exchange. She was always aware of the trust bestowed upon her when she examined a patient, and felt it now in Pearce's touch.

"Hurt here?" Pearce asked, palpating first the medial and then the lateral ligaments surrounding the joint.

"No, feels stable. I'm sure it's fine."

Pearce glanced up, her dark brows coming together as she frowned.

"You're a lousy patient."

"So I've been told. Can I get up now?"

"Slowly." Pearce straightened and extended her hand. "And don't full weight-bear right away. Put your other hand on my shoulder until you test the knee."

Wynter took Pearce's hand and allowed herself to be guided upward, but she resisted the instruction to lean on Pearce. She'd had quite enough bodily contact for the moment, and she needed to reassert her independence. She'd be damned if she'd let Pearce think she was anything less than capable in all regards. She gradually settled all of her weight onto the injured leg. "All systems go."

"Good." Pearce noticed Wynter's reluctance to touch her and chalked it up to the usual reluctance of straight women to get too close to her, even when they weren't bothered by her being gay. Somehow, they were still uncomfortable. Usually she didn't care, and the ripple of disappointment she felt at Wynter's avoidance was a surprise. She dropped Wynter's hand. "One more flight."

"No problem."

Pearce waited for Wynter to set the pace and followed this time, carefully assessing Wynter's gait. She was pleased to see there was no evidence of a limp. The stairwell led into a short corridor that ended at a plain brown metal door. She nodded when Wynter gave her a questioning look. Wynter hit the door bar and together they stepped into a brightly lit hallway opposite the surgeon's lounge.

Wynter looked around, frowning. "Damn. I could've sworn we'd be on the fourth floor."

Pearce leaned a shoulder against the wall, fiddling with the tie on her scrub pants, rhythmically drawing the string through her fingers.

She grinned, enjoying the role of tour guide. She didn't question why.

"We were--in the Malone building. Except that the fourth floor of that building connects to the fifth floor of this one. Don't ask me why."

"You're putting me on, right?"

Slowly, Pearce shook her head.

"Oh, I am in so much trouble."

"No, you're not. It's my job to see that you aren't." Pearce pushed away from the wall and walked a few feet to the elevator. She punched the up button. "Usually we walk, but I'll give you a break."

"Don't bother. I can handle the stairs."

"Maybe I can't."

Wynter snorted, but smiled. "I feel like I should be drawing a map or dropping breadcrumbs."

"Pay attention, and in a few days, you'll know all the secrets to this place."

"Really?" Wynter watched Pearce's face, searching for some hidden meaning. They'd been alone for close to an hour, but they hadn't really talked about the last time--the only time--that they'd been alone together. They should clear the air. She knew they should.

But she didn't want to bring it up. She didn't want to know that Pearce had been angry with her all these years. Or perhaps she didn't want to know that Pearce had never thought of her at all.

"It's not all that complicated." Pearce turned away from Wynter's probing gaze. She didn't know what might show in her face, but she didn't want Wynter to think that those few moments years before meant anything now. So many things had happened since then, it might have been another life. She was certainly a different person. The elevator bell rang and saved her from thinking about it any longer. "Let's start at the top."

"Sure."

Several minutes later, they stepped out into a dimly lit corridor, and Pearce pointed. "Two wings on each floor. The lower numbers are to the left, the higher to the right. Main surgical floors are twelve, ten, nine, and eight. Intensive care units are on six."

Wynter groaned. "The ICU is one floor up from the OR? I hate transporting postop patients in the elevator."

"Me too," Pearce agreed. "But there wasn't enough room for them to expand the number of OR suites and still keep the intensive care units on the same floor."

"How many OR rooms?"

"Twelve general surgery, four GYN, four ortho, and a few unassigned."

"Busy."

"Oh yeah." Pearce started down the hallway on their left and indicated the first room. "This is an APR patient--"

"Wait a minute," Wynter said, frowning down at her list. "APR?"

"We tend to identify patients by their attending's initials. This one is Rifkin's."

"The colon resection from yesterday, right?" Wynter asked, still scanning the patient names. "McInerney."

"That's the one. We finished at six last night, routine case. She still has a drain, an NG tube, and an IV."

"Is it weird, working with your father?"

"I wouldn't know," Pearce said flatly. "Rifkin is the chairman.

That's the only relationship we have in here."

Wynter was surprised by the absence of anger or much of any emotion at all in Pearce's voice. Nevertheless, she recognized the finality of her tone. She wondered if it was the subject matter or the fact that she was asking that bothered Pearce. Either way, she had clearly stepped out of bounds. What was it about Pearce Rifkin that made her forget the rules? "I'm sorry. That was none of my business."

"No problem. I get asked it a lot." Pearce pivoted and walked into the first patient's room.

It took a moment for Wynter to recognize that the discussion was closed. She hastened after Pearce, and for the next fifty minutes they moved from one patient to the next, reviewing chart notes, pulling drains, updating orders, and generally coordinating each patient's care.

They didn't speak except to discuss care and treatment plans until everyone on the list had been examined. They worked quickly and efficiently. Comfortably together. Wynter wasn't surprised. From the very first they'd had a natural rhythm, even when they were sparring.

"Ready for another cup of coffee?" Pearce asked as they sat together at the eighth-floor nurses' station finishing the last of their chart notes.

"Oh yeah," Wynter replied. She hadn't had much sleep the night before. The week had been a whirlwind of activity what with packing and moving, worrying about her new position, and trying to anticipate all the difficulties inherent in her new life. She was beat. A sudden thought occurred to her as she and Pearce started down the stairwell yet again. "Am I on call tonight?"

"New residents always take call the first night. You know that."

She did, but she still hadn't planned for it. Foolish.

Pearce put both hands on the push bar of a door that sported a large red sign proclaiming Fire Door--Do Not Open. "Let's get some air." She gave it a shove.

"Why not," Wynter said, glancing at the time. She needed to make a phone call.

"Something wrong?" Pearce asked, checking the sky. The rain in the forecast was nowhere in sight. It was thirty degrees outside, a clear, crisp January day. Neither of them wore coats. The street vendors, as usual, were undeterred by the weather. Their carts, pulled into position each day behind trucks and four-wheel-drive vehicles, were lined up in front of the hospital and throughout the entire campus, dispensing every kind of food from hot dogs to hummus.

"No," Wynter said quickly. "Everything's just fine."

"Actually, I'm on call tonight." Pearce walked toward the third stainless steel cart in the row. The small glass window was partially closed and steamed from the food warming inside. "But I want you to stay and get used to how the service runs. You'll be on tomorrow night."

"Fine." Wynter had no choice, and it really wasn't an unreasonable request. She'd be expected to shoulder some of the responsibility for running the service as quickly as possible, and in order to do that, she had to be familiar with the procedures and protocols of the new institution. Even had she disagreed, it was Pearce's call. That was the nature of the hierarchy, and she accepted that. Time to claim her place in it. She edged in front of Pearce and ordered. "Two coffees." She glanced at Pearce. "Want anything else? It's on me."

"In that case, I'll take a street dog with chili and mustard."

Wynter winced. "It's ten thirty in the morning."

Pearce grinned. "Then I'll take two."

"You're sick," Wynter muttered and then relayed the order. She paid and collected the brown paper bag, turning to Pearce. "I suppose you want to eat outside?"

"Cold?"

"Not at all."

"Uh-huh, sure. You're shivering from the thrill of it all." Pearce laughed at Wynter's muffled expletive. "Come on, I'll show you my hideaway."

"Is this one of those secrets?" Wynter watched Pearce's expressive eyes turn inward, wondering if she'd once again tread on forbidden territory, but then she saw the smile flicker and flare. The tiny scar did nothing to detract from the lush beauty of Pearce's lips. In fact, the irregularity made her mouth all the more appealing, and Wynter had the sudden urge to touch the less than perfect spot with her fingertip.

She tightened her grip on the paper bag, afraid of the impulse. She'd never just wanted to touch someone for no other reason than to feel their skin.

"You never know," Pearce replied, taking one of the coffee cups from Wynter. Her fingers brushed over the top of Wynter's hand. "It might be."

CHAPTER FIVE

Wynter groaned as Pearce grasped her elbow lightly and guided her down a narrow alley between two buildings.

When Pearce pulled open a nondescript door that led into yet another stairwell, Wynter balked. "You're just doing this to torture me, aren't you?"

Pearce turned innocent eyes to Wynter as she propped the fire door open against her hip. "Doing what?"

"You know very well," Wynter grumbled, edging past her. When her arm brushed across Pearce's chest, she blushed. "How far up are we going this time?"

"Third floor."

"Fine." Wynter started up and did not look back until she reached the third-floor landing. "You just want to make sure I can never find this place again."

"Well, it wouldn't be a hideaway if everyone knew about it,"

Pearce said reasonably.

They were obviously in one of the older buildings in the complex.

The vinyl tiles on the floor were scuffed and gray with age. The overhead fluorescents flickered halfheartedly, as if they might go out at any moment. Abandoned equipment lined the walls, some of a vintage well before Wynter had even contemplated medical school.

"Where are we? This looks like where old EKG machines go to die."

Pearce laughed. "In a way, that's true. It is a graveyard, of sorts, now. This entire building housed Women's Care at one time, with Labor and Delivery on the upper floors, GYN and the outpatient clinics on the lower floors. Then, when the new buildings were built, all of the clinical services moved out. There are just a few leftover administrative offices still here and some lab space that no one uses."

"And we're here...why?" Wynter felt as if she were in a museum, not a hospital. The place had an eerie feel, as if they were in a time warp and at any moment, nurses in starched white dresses and caps would appear, trailing along behind physicians as they made their rounds.

"I told you," Pearce said as she removed a key ring from her back pocket. She unlocked a wooden door whose varnish had started to crack and peel, reached inside with a certainty born of habit, and turned on a light. She stepped aside and gestured into the room. "After you."

Wynter gave Pearce a quizzical glance, but stepped inside. "Oh,"

she murmured in surprise.

The room was small, perhaps eight by ten, and appeared even smaller due to the bookshelves that lined three walls, and the large dark green leather sofa, matching chair, and wooden desk that crowded together in the center of the room. There were books and journals everywhere, crammed onto the shelves, stacked on the desk, and heaped in untidy piles on the floor around the sofa and chair. She tilted her head to read some of the titles. Annals of Surgery, Journal of OB/GYN, Archives of Surgery, and a half dozen others that she recognized. The books on the shelves were all surgical textbooks, some of them clearly decades old. She turned to Pearce. "What is this place? It looks like an old library."

"It used to be the residents' lounge."

"But it isn't anymore?"

Pearce shook her head. "When they moved all the surgical patients into the pavilions around the corner, this was too far away to be practical. Now, no one but me even remembers it's here."

Wynter sat on the sofa and ran her hand over the soft surface, worn smooth and thin in places from years of use. A green-shaded student's lamp--an original, not a reproduction--sat on the desk. Once again, she felt like she'd stepped back in time. Even though this room was part of an era when she would not have been welcomed as a member of the club, she felt a kinship to those who had come before her. "This place is awesome."

"Yeah." Pearce flopped into the oversized leather chair and swiveled sideways, hanging her legs over one arm and bracing her shoulders against the opposite one. She dug in the paper bag and extracted a wax paperwrapped hot dog. The roll was orange from the chili sauce that had soaked into it. She took a bite, chewed quickly, and swallowed before lifting it in Wynter's direction.

"You sure you don't want one?"

"Not without premedicating with Prilosec first." Wynter sipped her coffee and watched Pearce inhale the hot dog in three bites. Her pleasure was obvious, nearly carnal, and Wynter found herself staring at Pearce's mouth as she licked a drop of mustard from her chin.

"What's the matter?" Pearce asked. "Am I drooling?"

"No," Wynter said quickly, coloring. To cover her embarrassment, she said, "So if this place is such a well-kept secret, how come you know about it?"

"I used to come here when I was a kid."

"A kid? How old?"

Pearce managed to shrug even lying down. "Eight or nine, maybe."

"With your father?"

Pearce swung her legs around and sat up, extracting the second hot dog from the bag. She kept her head down as she unwrapped it.

"Uh-huh. He used to bring me in on the weekends sometimes when he was making rounds. Then, if things got busy, he'd park me over here until he was done."

"Did you mind?"

"Nah. I could always find something to read."

Wynter tried to imagine a young Pearce browsing through the bookshelves or falling asleep on the couch. She wondered if she'd been lonely. "Did you already want to be a doctor by then?"

"Rifkins are always doctors."

"Your grandfather worked on the first heart-lung machine, didn't he?"

"Yes. His lab used to be in the building behind this one. I don't remember him all that well, because he never seemed to make it to any of the family gatherings. Always at the hospital." Pearce rose and paced in the narrow space between the sofa and the bookcases, running her fingers over the dusty spines of the now-historic tomes. She pulled one off the shelf, opened it, and leaned over Wynter's shoulder from behind, holding the book at eye level.

Without thinking, Wynter curved her palm beneath Pearce's hand to steady her grip on the book. Pearce's forearm rested against hers. The name William Ambrose Rifkin was scrawled across the inside of the cover in fading black ink. She took a sharp breath. "I can't believe this book is just sitting in here." She twisted around until she could look into Pearce's face. "Shouldn't it be in a medical museum or something?"

"Like I said, I don't think anyone remembers this room is here.

And a lot of my grandfather's papers and notes are archived at the Philadelphia College of Surgeons already. This probably isn't worth all that much." She closed the book, suddenly feeling foolish. She had no idea what had prompted her to bring Wynter to this room, let alone show her some old books that belonged to a man she barely remembered.

Abruptly, she reshelved the volume and returned to her chair and her coffee. "I can get you a key if you want."

"Oh, I don't--"

"Never mind. The library's a lot more comfortable." Pearce stood, agitated and restless. "We should probably head over to the OR and make sure everything is running on time."

Wynter rose quickly and intercepted Pearce's flight to the door.

"What I meant was I don't want to impose on your space. It's obviously special to you."

Pearce's eyes were opaque black disks, revealing nothing.

"Sometimes this place"--she swept her arm in a wide arc, indicating the hospital complex, like a small city, and the hundreds of people who worked inside it--"can wear you down. Sometimes you just need a few minutes to regroup. This is a good place for that."

"I appreciate it." Briefly, Wynter trailed her fingertips over the top of Pearce's hand. "I just might take you up on it. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Pearce's eyes cleared and she grinned. "Come on, I'll show you a shortcut to the OR."

Wynter took a deep breath and plunged after her as Pearce bounded out the door. It occurred to her that this hospital was Pearce's own private playground, and she was being introduced to the neighborhood by the kid who ruled it. She realized something else as well. She very much wanted to be worthy of playing on Pearce's team.

"Pearce," Wynter called, "stop for a minute."

"What's the matter?" Pearce said with a laugh, turning to face Wynter but continuing to walk backward down the hall. Somehow, she managed to miss running into the people coming in her direction, or perhaps they simply parted for her like the Red Sea before Moses.

"Tired already?"

"Not on your life, Rifkin," Wynter snapped, yanking her beeper off her pants and peering at it. "What's 5136?"

Pearce's expression immediately grew serious. "The ICU." She was tempted to take the call herself, but Wynter was a senior resident and it was about time they both got a sense of what she could handle.

She pointed to a wall phone next to the elevator and leaned against the wall while Wynter dialed.

"Dr. Thompson," Wynter said when a ward clerk answered the phone. She pulled her list from her pocket and anchored the phone between her shoulder and ear while she unfolded it. "I was paged.

Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Wait a minute, who...Gilbert, uh-huh...how much fluid?"

Pearce tensed. It was all she could do not to grab the phone and ask the nurse what the problem was, but she forced herself to stand still and just listen. She needed to find out just how far Wynter could be trusted alone.

"No," Wynter said firmly. "Leave the bandage in place, soak it with saline, and make sure she's had a CBC and electrolytes drawn today. We'll be right there. Oh, and make sure she doesn't eat or drink anything."

"What's up?" Pearce asked as soon as Wynter hung up.

"Mrs. Gilbert complained that she was leaking."

"Leaking. As in...?"

"As in," Wynter informed her as they hurried down the hall, "her gown and bed seemed to be covered with cranberry juice."

"Fuck."

"That was my thought too. She's what, three days post gastric bypass?" Wynter took a look at her list. "Yeah. And her last hemoglobin was 12, so it's not likely she had a big postop hematoma that no one noticed. Too soon for that to drain anyhow."

"I agree," Pearce said darkly. "If she bled after surgery, her blood count would be lower, and even if that were the case and we missed it, it's too soon for a collection of blood to drain. Did they get her out of bed today?"

"I don't know," Wynter said, pushing the button for the elevator.

"But apparently, the patient had a coughing episode just before she noticed the leaking."

"Dandy. So what are you thinking?"

They stepped into the elevator and moved to the rear, where Wynter said in a voice too low for the other passengers to hear, "I'm thinking that Mrs. Gilbert has a dehiscence. Aren't you?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm thinking."

"Is she yours?" Wynter asked as they maneuvered their way through the crush of people and into yet another hallway. It was a touchy question, and she half expected Pearce to lose her temper. No one liked to have a complication, especially a surgeon. And a technical complication, one that might have been avoided had the surgeon performed the procedure differently, was the hardest thing for a surgeon to accept or, sometimes, even to admit to. She had a feeling that Pearce did not like to have complications.

"No. Dzubrow...one of the other fourth-years...did it with the chief." There was no satisfaction in her voice. The double doors to the ICU were closed, so she swiped her ID through the card lock and punched in the code. "3442," she said for Wynter's benefit.

"Got it."

The doors swung open and they entered the controlled chaos of the surgical intensive care unit. Twelve beds were lined up along the far wall, separated only by curtains and the minimum amount of room to allow a nurse to move in between them. Tables at the foot of each bed were covered with charts and graphs and lab reports. Flexible plastic tubes connected ventilators to many of the motionless patients in the beds. The lights were too bright, the beeping and clatter of machines too loud, and the atmosphere far too impersonal for the severity of the illnesses housed within.

It looked exactly like every other SICU that Wynter had ever been in. "Which one is she?"

"Bed five."

When they reached the bedside, Pearce leaned over the bed rail and smiled at the anxious woman in the bed. "Hi, Mrs. Gilbert. What's going on?"

"I think I sprang a leak, dear."

"This is Dr. Thompson. She's going to check you out." Pearce eased away from the bed and signaled Wynter to move closer. "See what you think."

Wynter pulled on latex gloves and lifted the sheet. "Mrs. Gilbert, I'm going to remove your dressings so I can get a look at the incision.

"Are you having any pain?"

"It's sore. No worse than this morning, though."

"Did this happen while you were coughing?" Wynter lifted one corner of the sterile gauze that covered the midabdominal incision as she talked. A little conversation often helped to distract the patient during the examination.

"Right after that, I think. They told me coughing was good for my lungs. Do you think I shouldn't have done it?"

"No, I think it's important to keep your lungs clear after surgery.

You did fine." Wynter had a good idea of what she would find, and she wasn't surprised to see a glistening pink loop of bowel protruding through the central portion of Mrs. Gilbert's abdominal incision. She gently replaced the bandage.

"Dr. Rifkin and I are going to talk for a minute, and then we'll be right back," she said and turned away. She met Pearce's gaze. "Did you see it?"

"Yep. Looks like we're going to have to do a little repair job. I'll call the chief. You get her ready to go."

"Okay." Wynter turned back to explain to Mrs. Gilbert that her incision had partially opened and that they would need to go back to the operating room to reclose it. She didn't tell her any more, because it wouldn't change the procedure to be done and would only frighten her.

Although it looked gruesome, it wasn't a serious situation as long as they took care of it before infection set in or the bowel was injured. By the time she had the consent signed, Pearce was finishing on the phone.

"Are we all set?"

"Well, the chief is in the middle of the aneurysm, and after that he's got a colon resection waiting."

"She shouldn't sit around here for a few hours," Wynter said quietly.

"That's what I said."

Wynter waited, catching the glint in Pearce's eyes. "And...?"

"Looks like it's you and me, Doc."

Doc. No one else had ever called her that with quite the same mixture of teasing and respect. Wynter smiled.

"Well then, let's go do it."

CHAPTER SIX

"What have you got?" Ambrose Rifkin asked as he backed through the swinging door of the operating room, his gloved hands held at chest level. He'd shed his gown and used gloves after the last case, but kept his freshly gloved hands uncontaminated before he scrubbed again. It allowed him to cut down his time between cases.

Pearce waited several feet away from the operating table, already gowned and gloved, while Wynter prepped the patient's abdomen with Betadine, taking care to avoid the surface of the exposed loop of bowel with the caustic solution. "Mrs. Gilbert, a sixty-three-year-old female, three days post gastric bypass. She dehisced her wound about forty-five minutes ago."

"Any precipitating event?"

"Probably coughing."

"Huh." He walked to within three feet of the table, took one quick glance at the patient's abdomen, and then swept an eye over the monitors at the head of the table. He nodded to the anesthesiologist.

"Everything okay, Jerry?"

"She's fine, Am."

Pearce's father regarded Wynter across the table. "What's your plan here, Dr. Thompson?"

Putting a resident on the spot by asking them to outline a procedure that in all likelihood they would not do was a tried-and-true technique that quickly identified lazy or inferior candidates. It was axiomatic that a resident never came to the operating room without understanding both the problem and the solution, even when they did not expect to be performing the surgery.

Surprised that the chairman even remembered her name, Wynter made a last swipe over the stomach with the prep solution. "We need to extend the incision and do a thorough intra-abdominal washout as well as a visual inspection of the gastric plication." As she stripped off her prep gloves and extended her arms for the sterile gown which the scrub nurse held out to her, she continued, "We ought to culture the wound too."

"What makes you suspect infection?"

The chairman's tone was level, but his inflection suggested that he disagreed with her.

She shrugged, snapping on her sterile gloves. "I don't. But we're here, and it's a simple test to do, and if we miss an early necrotizing fasciitis we're going to look pretty stupid tomorrow."

He laughed. "And we wouldn't want that, would we."

"I don't know about you, sir," Wynter's eyes sparkled above her mask, "but I wouldn't like it."

"Very well, then. Just make sure you use something that's not going to come apart this time."

"I was planning on a nonabsorbable," Wynter said, wisely refraining from pointing out that she had nothing to do with the previous complication. Culpability was not the issue. Correcting the problem was. "O-prolene should be sturdy enough to hold her together."

"Make sure you interrupt the suture every few inches, because I don't want her back here again." As quickly as he had entered, he turned to leave. With his back to the room, he said, "Call me if you have any problems, Dr. Rifkin. I'll be in eight doing the colon."

"Yes sir," Pearce said as the door swung closed behind him. She reached for the sterile sheet that the scrub nurse held out and passed it across the operating table to Wynter, who waited on the opposite side.

"You like to live dangerously," she said low enough that the others couldn't hear.

"Why?"

"That remark about infection--you'd probably be safer with him sticking with protocol."

"Thanks for the tip," Wynter said, meaning it. In many ways, residents bonded and protected one another, very much like other closed societies such as the military or police. They covered for each other, and they very rarely laid blame, knowing next time they could be the one whose actions were being scrutinized.

"He seemed to take it well enough."

"That's because you're a bit of a cowboy, and he likes that. You wanna be careful, though, because that kind of confidence can backfire if you're wrong."

Wynter snapped the sterile drape down over the patient's feet and picked up the next one that would cover her head. "Well, you should know. You've got hot dog written all over you, and I don't mean with chili and mustard."

"Maybe," Pearce said lightly, "I'm just really good."

"And maybe," Wynter said, "so am I."

"Let's find out."

When they'd finished draping off the sterile field, leaving only a square of abdomen around the open incision exposed, Wynter automatically circled the foot of the table to the left side, to the assistant surgeon's position. When Pearce didn't move out of her way, she stopped in puzzlement. "What?"

"Are you left-handed?" Pearce asked conversationally.

"No."

"Then you ought to be operating from the other side of the table."

Without a word, Wynter headed back to the right side of the table, hiding her surprise. She hadn't expected to be given quite so much responsibility so quickly, but Pearce was letting her act as the primary surgeon. Granted, Pearce was with her and was technically responsible since she was the most senior surgeon in the room, but still, she was turning the case over to Wynter. It was a test, but it was also an honor.

Wynter looked over the raised sheet suspended between two stainless steel poles, which separated the nonsterile area from the sterile operating field, at the anesthesiologist who sat monitoring the patient's vital signs. At one time, when anesthesia was delivered via ether dripped from a can onto a cloth over the patient's face, the divider had been called the ether screen. It still was, although no modern surgeon actually remembered when ether was used. "We're starting."

"She's all yours."

Without looking at Pearce, her attention already focused on the surgical field, Wynter held out her right hand. "Scalpel."

"Nice job," Pearce said as she and Wynter stood side by side in the women's locker room.

"Thanks." Wynter unlocked her locker and opened it, in search of clean scrubs. The case had only taken an hour and a half, but the patient was large, and it had been hard work retracting the thick abdominal wall enough to be certain that their sutures were placed in healthy tissue that would not pull apart yet again. By the time they'd finished, they were both sweating, and when they'd removed their gowns, both their shirts were soaked with sweat. "The second time around is always tough."

"Yeah. But now it's done right."

"For sure." Wynter pulled off her scrub shirt, acutely aware of Pearce standing just a few feet away. Wynter wore a tank top beneath her scrubs because wearing a bra all day was too confining. She was used to changing clothes in front of other women; she had done it thousands of times in the last eight years. She had known that some of those women were gay and it never bothered her. When you lived and worked in such close physical proximity to others for hours on end, you learned to respect personal space. Still, Pearce being this close unsettled her, and she didn't know why. "Thanks for letting me do the case."

"No problem."

Out of the corner of her eye, Wynter saw Pearce strip off her shirt and quickly looked away when she realized that Pearce wore nothing beneath it. The image of toned arms, small smooth breasts, and muscular torso lingered as she stared into her locker. Quickly, she extracted a clean shirt and slipped it over her head. With her face averted, she said, "That was a blast."

"Yeah. It was." Pearce slammed her locker and leaned her shoulder against it. She felt exhilarated, the way she always did after a difficult case went well. In many ways, this one had been routine, because technically it wasn't all that challenging. On the other hand, she'd been under extra pressure because the patient had already sustained a complication, and she wanted to be sure there were no more problems.

Plus, the attending had given her full responsibility for the procedure, and that added to both her anxiety and her pleasure.

Wynter leaned her back against her locker, her shoulder a few inches from Pearce's, and pulled her damp hair off her neck, securing it with a simple gold clip. "How did he know exactly the right moment to come back?"

"Beats me." Pearce shook her head.

Her father had popped in unexpectedly at the precise moment when they were exploring the abdomen. She didn't know how he did it, but he always seemed to show up for the critical portions of the case. He'd watched for four or five minutes and then left without a word. But his implied approval had been enough to satisfy her. She'd learned over the years that that was the most she would get from him. "No one can ever figure it out, but it always happens just like that. He just knows when it's time for him to check up on us."

Wynter wondered what it must be like, having one of the world's premier surgeons for a father and a mentor. Somehow, hearing the controlled nonchalance in Pearce's voice, she sensed it was a burden that Pearce tried to ignore. The shadows in Pearce's eyes suggested a more personal pain that Wynter wanted to reach out and brush away.

Unused to the intensity of her response, she forced a casual note into her voice. "What's he like to operate with?"

"He doesn't say much once a case starts. It's all business. He's fast, and he expects you to be."

"Must run in the family," Wynter jested. Pearce had been just as slick as she'd expected her to be. Fast and competent, certain. Almost cocky, but careful too. The perfect combination for a surgeon.

"Look who's talking. They'll start calling you Flash before long."

Wynter grinned, pleased. "You know what they say--there are good fast surgeons and bad fast surgeons, but there are no"--they finished together--"good slow surgeons."

They both laughed.

"From the looks of things, you're not going to have to worry about that," Pearce said. She'd been pleased to see how skilled Wynter was in the operating room. It was good to know she wouldn't have to worry about Wynter when she wasn't around, and it just added to Wynter's attractiveness. She was smart and quick and clever. And she had good hands. Pearce's heart started to race, and she swallowed around a sudden surge of desire. Jesus. This isn't good. I can't keep getting hot every time I'm around her or I'm going to be miserable for the next two years.

Wynter smiled. She couldn't remember a day of residency that she'd enjoyed so much. Surgery was always a rush, but the pleasure had been heightened by knowing that Pearce thought she had done well. She liked pleasing her. "So, what now?"

Let's go across the street and get a room. All I need is a quick thirty minutes so you can put me out of my misery. It wouldn't be the first time she'd skipped out for a quickie in the middle of the afternoon.

The desk clerks at the Penn Tower Hotel directly across the street were discreet and never raised an eyebrow at an early checkout, even when it was only an hour or so after arrival. As long as she had her beeper, she could be back in the hospital within minutes, which was no more than it took to get from one end of the hospital to the other had she been on site. Oh yeah, thirty minutes ought to be plenty of time.

She fell into Wynter's blue eyes and saw them together on the bed, their hands inside the other's scrubs, too eager even to undress. Wynter's skin was soft and firm, her body sleek and strong. They fit together physically the way they had in the operating room, effortlessly, without words. Each knew the other's need, anticipating the next movement, the next touch. From somewhere deep in her unconscious, the memory of Wynter's spicy scent rose to assault her, and her body quickened.

"Oh, man," she whispered, her vision wavering. "This is bad."

"What?" Wynter repeated, confused. "Are you okay? You look...I don't know--" She put her hand on Pearce's forehead. "You're warm.

You must be dehydrated. It was really hot in there."

Pearce flinched and pulled her head away. "I'm fine." She cleared her throat and forced a smile. "Sorry, just thinking about what we need to do next. First, we'll round up the troops and make sign-out rounds."

She was seized with sudden inspiration. Maybe the hotel wasn't out of the question after all. "Then, I'll take you across the street to din--"

"Sorry," Wynter said as her cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. "I have to take this. Hang on."

"Sure."

"Hi. Everything okay?" Wynter caught Pearce's arm in one hand as she started to move away, stopping her motion. Then she held up one finger to indicate she would only be a minute. "Listen, I'm going to be later tonight than I thought. I know, I'm sorry. I should've thought.

I don't know, probably at least midnight. I know...no, I'm fine." She laughed softly. "You sure? Okay. Thanks." She smiled, listening. "Hey, I owe you...whatever you want. Uh-huh, sure. I'll call you later, then."

As Wynter talked, Pearce tried to ignore the intimacy in her voice.

All day, she'd managed to forget that Wynter was straight and married.

They'd worked together so well, and being around her had been so easy, that she'd forgotten how much stood between them. She remained motionless, but inside, she drew away. She'd let her guard down, and that was foolish. She'd made it a point never to get seriously involved with anyone she worked with. Casual suited her just fine--she was too busy for anything else and wasn't looking for complications. Sure, some of the women she'd had flings with had been straight, but that had never mattered--to either of them. With Wynter, it mattered. Not good.

So not good.

"Sorry, sorry," Wynter said as she terminated her call. "What were you just saying about sign-out rounds?"

Pearce stepped over the low bench that ran down the center of the aisle between the facing rows of lockers, suddenly needing to put distance between herself and Wynter. "Nothing. I'll page the guys and we'll meet in the cafeteria in half an hour."

"How about I get you a Coke, then? We can hang out in the surgeons' lounge until--"

"I'll pass, thanks."

"But I thought--" Wynter looked after her in surprise as Pearce walked out of the locker room without a backward glance. She seemed angry, but Wynter had no clue as to why. The day had seemed to be going so well, and they'd moved like clockwork together in the operating room, each anticipating the other with no need for words.

"What the hell?"

Irritated now herself, feeling abandoned even when she knew it was irrational, she yanked her lab coat out of her locker and shoved her arms into the sleeves. She double-checked the breast pocket of her scrub shirt to be sure that she had her list and decided she'd take a quick walk through the wards before the end of the day. If Pearce is in a mood, fine. Let her be. I couldn't care less.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Yo, Phil. Can I borrow a smoke?" Pearce gave the gray-haired, stocky security guard a light punch in the arm.

He frowned. "You're about hitting your limit this month, Sport. A couple more and you're gonna owe me a pack."

"I'll see that you're appropriately recompensed." She grinned.

"You know my credit's good."

"Don't give me that," he said good-naturedly, shaking a filtered Marlboro from the pack he kept out of sight in the desk at his station near the Spruce Street entrance to the hospital. A bank of video monitors lined up behind him on a counter showed real-time images of passersby on the street and visitors and staff making their way through the hallways leading from the auxiliary entrance into the main areas of the hospital. "I've been feeding you these things since you were fifteen, and you haven't paid me back yet."

"Sixteen," Pearce corrected. "And I bet in all these years, it's only added up to a few cartons."

"Let me check my tally," he said, making a show of moving some papers around on his desk.

Pearce laughed, rolling the firm white cylinder between her fingers.

"Thanks. You want to key the freight elevator for me?"

"Is there anything else I can do for you, your highness?"

"Coffee?"

"Don't push," he said, wagging a finger at her. He preceded her down a short corridor to the elevator adjacent to the corrugated metal roll-up doors that opened onto a loading dock. He inserted a key from a ring he pulled off his wide leather belt into the control panel and the oversized doors slid open. "Been a while since you took this ride."

"Just looking for a little air," Pearce said, knowing that Phil had caught on years ago that she escaped to the roof when something was bugging her. Phil Matucci had befriended her when she was just a child, allowing her to sit beside him on a tall stool while she waited for her father on endless Saturday afternoons. She'd watched the World Series with him on his tiny portable television, they'd discussed politics when she'd gotten older, and on rare occasions when she'd been more lonely than usual, she'd told him about her dreams. Maybe it was because he had five children of his own that he never seemed to mind her company.

He'd chastised her when she'd started to smoke and made a deal with her that if she didn't buy her own, he'd give her one whenever she wanted. She'd broken their agreement on a few occasions when she'd been a teenager, and then felt guilty about it, tossing the illicit packs into the trash so he wouldn't see them.

"Let me know when you come down, so I know you didn't freeze to death up there."

"Thanks," Pearce said quietly. "I will."

The elevator stopped on the top floor, and she went down the hall and out the fire door to the roof. Before the Rhoads Pavilion had been erected with its state-of-the-art heliport, Penn Star--the medical helicopter--had landed here. She crossed to the concrete barricade surrounding the tarmac, hunched down against the wind, and lit the cigarette from a paper matchbook she kept in her back pocket along with other essentials. Taking a deep breath of cold air and smoke, she straightened and looked out over the city. There'd been a time when she'd been too short to see the Schuylkill River that separated West Philadelphia from the downtown area without jumping up and down, her hands pressed to the top of the wall for leverage. Now, she could lean her elbows on it, and she did, contemplating her strange day.

She couldn't figure out why Wynter got under her skin so badly. It had to be more than that Wynter was hot. Instant attraction was nothing new--hell, she got turned on by good-looking women all the time.

Sometimes they connected and sometimes they didn't, and either way, it never mattered enough for her to lose sleep over. When she thought back to their encounter that afternoon in the quad on Match Day, she could easily chalk up her reaction to Wynter to the fact that she'd been high on the excitement of the day, knowing that med school was almost over and she was finally about to start the journey she'd been preparing for her entire life--or so it felt. Wynter had literally walked into her, and for a few brief moments, they'd shared a pivotal point in their lives.

They'd been alone, and Wynter was beautiful, and so damn sexy, and she'd had the overwhelming desire to kiss her. It wouldn't have been the first woman she hadn't known whom she'd kissed.

But she still wanted to kiss her.

"Fuck," Pearce muttered, crushing out the cigarette beneath her foot. The wind lashed her shirt around her body as if it were a windsock, plastering it to her chest. Her nipples tensed in the cold beneath the thin cotton. The sensation was too close to sexual, the memory of wanting to feel Wynter's mouth beneath hers still vivid, and she hummed with another swell of desire. Perfect. I come up here to settle down, and all I do is make it worse than ever. I should've spent the time in my on-call room taking the edge off.

She wished for another cigarette, but Phil would rag on her if she asked for one.

"I just need to keep my distance until I can find a woman to spend some time with."

Armed with a plan, she headed back to work. That was her panacea--loneliness, arousal, anger--she could lose it all in work.

v Wynter noted with satisfaction that she was the first to reach the cafeteria. She couldn't put her finger on exactly why it mattered to her that Pearce was not there first, but it did. She was used to feeling competitive with her fellow residents; it was part of the world she had chosen to inhabit. From the time she had been in high school, she'd understood that if medicine was to be her choice, she would have to be the best at everything she did. Even though the field was not as competitive as it had once been, medical school slots were still at a premium, and once she'd decided on surgery, the field had narrowed even more. There were often hundreds of applicants for a handful of residency positions in the most sought-after programs. It was only because they depended upon one another for mutual survival, banding together against the pressure of long hours and constant stress, that the competition between residents usually remained friendly as opposed to cutthroat. There were exceptions, but she had never had any desire to win at the cost of others. Hers were personal goals. She wanted to be the best, because this was what she had chosen to do with her life and anything less was not acceptable.

She grabbed a cup of coffee and staked out one of the larger tables for their team. As she ran her list again, checking to see that she hadn't overlooked anything during her walk-through, she thought back to the case she had just done with Pearce. It wasn't the most difficult case she'd ever done, or all that unusual. It always felt good to operate--a personal challenge, a problem to solve, a wrong to set right with her own hands.

But operating with Pearce had added something special, something she hadn't experienced before. They'd accomplished something together, a mutual victory, and the sharing was...satisfying. She frowned.

Satisfying. That wasn't quite right. Exciting? Yes, it seemed so, but that didn't make much sense. She leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to figure out what it was about Pearce that confused her so much.

"Hey," Bruce said, pulling out a chair and dropping into it with a sigh. "What's up?"

"Not much," Wynter said. "We took Mrs. Gilbert back this afternoon. She dehisced."

"No shit. Wow." He made a note on his list of the new OR date.

"Did it go okay?"

"Not a hitch."

"I wish I could've been there," he grumbled. "I spent the afternoon holding hooks on that colon."

Wynter suppressed a smile. There was nothing worse for an eager young resident than to be stuck in surgery holding retractors while someone else had all the fun. However, it was a rite of passage, and the junior residents had to first learn to assist on surgeries before they won the right to do the operations themselves. It was a process that took years, not months. "It sucks, I know."

"Tell me about it."

"Tell you about what?" Pearce asked as she settled down across from Wynter. "Problem?"

"Nope," Bruce said quickly. He wasn't going to complain to his chief about anything, especially not when the attending surgeon for whom he'd been holding back the abdominal wall all afternoon had been her father. "Everything's cool."

"Where's Liu?" Pearce felt Wynter's eyes on her, but she kept her gaze on Bruce. She didn't need to look at Wynter to remember the shape of her face or the color of her eyes or the way she tilted her head and looked out from beneath those long honeyed lashes when something amused her. She didn't need to look at her to feel that tug deep in her belly. Man, I am not looking forward to spending the next six hours or so with her. She put her mind to the job, hoping to block out Wynter's effect on her. "Page Liu and tell him he's late. If he's not here in five minutes, I'm leaving, and we'll have sign-out rounds in an hour."

Bruce bounded up and practically ran across the room to the wall phone.

"Works every time," Wynter murmured. There was nothing worse than spending an extra hour in the hospital when you didn't have to. The most effective way to make sure that residents showed up where they were supposed to when they were supposed to was to punish tardiness by making them wait longer to go home. Unfortunately, the entire team suffered if one member was late, so peer pressure was relentless.

Pearce couldn't help but grin. "Well, I'm not going anywhere tonight. If they wanna hang around, it's fine with me."

Wynter nodded her head toward the far side of the cafeteria. "Here he comes."

Liu looked as if he might hurdle the chairs in his path in his haste to reach them. He slid the last few yards and crashed into a chair. "Sorry.

Sorry."

"Six thirty means six thirty," Pearce said flatly.

"I know. I know. I was trying to get that culture report on Hastings, but..." He caught himself as he saw Pearce's eyes narrow. "Won't happen again."

Pearce didn't bother to respond, but focused on Bruce. Never a particularly fit-looking guy, he'd gained a good twenty-five pounds in the last six months. It wasn't uncommon for residents who were deprived of just about every pleasure in life to turn to food, which was always available, as a source of comfort. She controlled her own weight by jogging every morning and lifting several times a week at the university gym. "Let's start at the top."

Bruce pushed up his wire-rimmed glasses and said, "1213.

Constantine. Fem-pop bypass..."

Evening rounds took longer than morning report, because all the critical leftover work of the day needed to be discussed and eventually taken care of by the person on call. Even though Liu would also be on call, Pearce, in addition to covering the ICU and the ER for their service, would need to see that everything got done before morning.

Everyone made notes. When the last patient had been covered, she put down her pen.

"Okay. Bruce, you're done. Dries at five thirty."

"See ya," Bruce said and within seconds, was gone.

Liu rose and said, "I'm gonna grab something to eat while it's quiet. You want anything?"

Pearce raised an eyebrow in Wynter's direction. Wynter shook her head.

"No, thanks," Pearce said. "I'll check in with you about eleven.

Call me if you need me, but remember...To call--"

"Is a sign of weakness," Liu replied, grinning. It was the first thing she'd said to him his first day on the service. It was the first thing that every senior resident said to a first-year resident the first day on any surgical service. It was the great paradox of surgery. Responsibility warred with autonomy, and the need to stand alone in the midst of uncertainty underlay every action.

When he left, Pearce looked across the table at Wynter. "You should probably eat. Things could get busy."

"What about you?"

"I was thinking about street dogs."

Wynter gave her a hard stare. "I don't know you well enough to know if you're kidding, but I'm not going to stand by and watch you take your life in your hands twice in one day. Let's go next door to Children's and get McDonald's."

Children's Hospital was part of the university system and had a self-contained McDonald's on the ground floor. It was always busy, twenty-four hours a day. Against her better judgment, Pearce countered, "What do you say to dinner at the Penn Tower restaurant?"

"It's my first day. I don't want to stretch the rules quite that far,"

Wynter said quietly.

"You're not on call, I am."

Wynter regarded her steadily, annoyed that she couldn't decipher anything in Pearce's expression. She'd seen those dark eyes hot with desire once, and the answering surge of longing Pearce's gaze had stirred within her had surprised and disconcerted her. She'd written her response off as momentary insanity and chaotic hormones, but now she found the inscrutable coolness even more unsettling. She didn't like that Pearce could shut her out so completely. Her voice betrayed her irritation. "I'm not sure I want to help you break the rules either."

"My father is the chief of surgery. Do you think anyone is going to complain if I walk across the street for dinner?"

"I don't believe you. I don't believe you'd take advantage of your father's position for one minute." Wynter leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table, fixing Pearce with a blistering glare. "In fact, I bet you push the envelope just because your father is the chief of surgery, and you don't want anyone to think you're getting special treatment."

Pearce laughed. "And you base this all on what?"

The sadness in your eyes that you think no one sees. Wynter said nothing, because she had a feeling that Pearce Rifkin did not want anyone to see her vulnerability. And she didn't want to threaten her.

More importantly, she didn't want to risk hurting her by bringing up her father. She shrugged. "It's your ass, not mine, if we're in the middle of fettuccine Alfredo and someone calls a code in the SICU."

"Did I mention to you that I ran track in high school?"

"You've never mentioned anything about high school." Wynter couldn't prevent her smile. She could see Pearce's long legs stretching out in an easy gait as she circled the track or loped over a rolling cross country course. With her muscular upper body, she didn't look like a typical runner, though. "You're pretty built up for track, aren't you?"

"I switched to crew in college."

"So now you're slower."

"You like to push, don't you?" Pearce said with a hint of challenge in her voice. "You wanna come running with me some morning?"

"Any time. I've done some running myself." Wynter didn't feel like mentioning it had been four years since she'd done any serious running, and she wondered if she'd be able to keep up. She wasn't going to show her doubts, though.

"I'll give you a couple of days to get settled in, and then we'll see who can still run." Pearce stood, forgetting her earlier vow to keep her distance. Being around Wynter felt too good to be cautious. Besides, there was nothing wrong with being friendly. "Come on. Let me take you to dinner."

Laughing, Wynter nodded. Pearce was impossible to say no to.

"All right, but it's Dutch treat."

"We'll do it your way," Pearce said. "This time."

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Should we change?" Wynter asked as she and Pearce left the cafeteria.

"We don't have to. They're used to seeing people in scrubs across the street," Pearce said. "Do you have a blazer or something? That should be good enough."

"I've got something in my locker."

"Let's grab it, then. I'm starving."

Two minutes later, Pearce nodded in silent approval as Wynter pulled on an ocean blue cable knit sweater that was a few shades lighter than her eyes. The sweep of her red-gold hair against the soft blue wool reminded her of a flaming sunset over crystal Caribbean waters. She had an image of Wynter on the beach, small drops of sweat beaded on her skin. She could taste the salt.

"That's perfect."

Wynter gave her a quizzical look, then regarded her favorite, but hardly new, sweater. It wasn't her usual dinner attire, but the compliment pleased her, as did the appreciative expression in Pearce's eyes. Slightly disconcerted by that fact, she said, "What about you?"

"Oh," Pearce said, remembering why they had stopped by the locker room. She dragged her eyes away from Wynter, pulled out her baggy, faded navy and maroon Penn sweatshirt, and shrugged into it.

"All set."

The shapeless garment did little to hide her physique and reminded Wynter of the way she'd looked the day they'd met. She said without thinking, "That's pretty perfect too."

Pearce blushed. "Come on, before we get paged for something."

They were both quiet as they hurried outside. As if sensing freedom, they dashed across the street in front of the hospital's main entrance and into the lobby of the hotel. The restaurant was in the rear, and as they crossed the plush carpeted expanse of lobby toward it, the hostess stepped forward from behind her small dais and gave Pearce a welcoming smile.

"Dr. Rifkin," the blond breathed. "How nice to see you. It's been far too long."

"Hi, Talia," Pearce replied. "Can you put us in the corner by the windows for dinner?"

The hostess glanced briefly at Wynter, then seemed to dismiss her.

Wynter found the Elle Macpherson look-alike's expression verging on avaricious as her gaze roamed unabashedly over Pearce, and for an instant, Wynter contemplated stepping directly into her line of vision.

She was startled by her reaction. She'd seen women look at her husband that way on more than one occasion, and their interest had never bothered her. Irrationally, she found this woman's attention--to another woman, no less--supremely irritating. She held out her hand, diverting the hostess from Pearce. "Hello. I'm Dr. Wynter Thompson."

With a courteous but cool smile, Talia turned toward the dining room. "Very pleased to meet you. Let me show you to your table."

"Come here often?" Wynter said when they were alone.

"Every once in a while," Pearce replied noncommittally, glad to have escaped Talia's scrutiny before Wynter noticed the unwanted attention. She should have realized Talia would not be pleased to see her with another woman, even if it was just for an innocent dinner. She set the menu aside; she knew it by heart. "If you're not a vegetarian, the steak is great. If you are, they really do make a great fettuccine Alfredo."

Wynter laughed. "I'm not a vegetarian, but the pasta sounds good.

I'll have it."

"I'll stick to Coke because I'm on call, but you're not. Feel free to try the wine. Their house label isn't bad."

"Coke will be fine for me too." Once they had ordered, Wynter leaned back and regarded Pearce thoughtfully. "You don't mind being a resident, do you?"

"I'll be a lot happier in two years when I can call my own shots,"

Pearce answered. "But I knew what I was getting into, so, no, I don't mind. Why do you ask?"

"Because you don't seem angry. Most...well maybe not most, but many residents at our stage hate the work, or at least hate being on call." She looked around the restaurant, which was upscale for a hotel, probably because of the proximity to the hospital and the fact that many VIP patients' families stayed there. "Take this place. for example. You're on call, but you're about to have a very nice dinner, and it appears that's not unusual. You don't seem to let being a resident cramp your style."

Pearce grinned. "Why suffer when you can be comfortable?"

Wynter laughed. "I agree."

"What about you? Being a resident for you must be a little bit harder."

"Why?" Wynter asked, feeling the slightest bit uneasy.

"Well," Pearce shrugged. "Being married."

There. Finally. Wynter felt an unexpected surge of relief. "I'm divorced."

"Oh."

"Yes." Wynter had no idea why it should be important to her that Pearce know this about her, but it was.

"That helps, then." As if realizing what she'd just said, Pearce gave Wynter a wry smile. "Sorry. I just meant--"

"No need to apologize. I happen to agree with you. It makes quite a few things simpler."

"So I don't need to offer my sympathies?"

"I won't pretend it's been fun, but no condolences required."

"Is that why you're back a year?" When Wynter looked away, Pearce said hastily, "Sorry. None of my bus--"

"No, that's okay," Wynter said with a wan smile. "It's complicated, but that's part of the reason, yes."

"Well, you landed in a good place. Too bad about the extra time, though."

"Thanks," Wynter replied. "It hurts to lose a year, but all things considered..." She held Pearce's gaze. "I'm happy to be here."

"Good," Pearce said, feeling suddenly euphoric. She wished she weren't on call and could order a bottle of good red Bordeaux to celebrate. Celebrate what? So she's divorced. It doesn't change anything. But it didn't matter, it just felt good.

"What?" Wynter asked.

"What what?"

Wynter shook her head. "We're having the most bizarre conversation. You just looked...happy, all of a sudden."

"No reason." Fortunately, the waiter approached with their meal at that moment, saving Pearce from any further explanation. "Let's eat while we have the chance."

"Ah yes, another important surgical dictum," Wynter said, forking up a few strands of fettuccine. "See a chair, sit in it. See a bed, lie in it.

See food...eat it."

Cutting into her steak with gusto, Pearce said, "And truer words were never spoken."

"God," Wynter said with a moan, "this is great."

"Yeah, it is." And Pearce didn't mean the food.

"So," Wynter said when she slowed down enough for air and conversation, "how many sibs do you have?"

Pearce poised with her fork in midair. "None. What made you think I did?"

From the carefully neutral tone in Pearce's voice, Wynter knew immediately that she'd once again trespassed on forbidden territory with what she had thought was an innocent question. "I didn't, not really. I guess I just assumed..."

"Yes?" Pearce put her fork down, growing very still.

"Oh, I'm making this worse. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get personal."

"No, go ahead. I want to hear what you have to say."

"Pearce, really...it's not import--"

"It is to me," Pearce said quietly.

Wynter let out a long breath. "Okay, here goes. It's just always seemed to me that doctors, and especially surgeons...often have more than the average number of children. You know--powerful men, the prestige of carrying on the family name, and all that."

"I know." Pearce scraped back her chair and twisted to the side so that she could stretch her legs out. She draped one arm over the back of her chair and gazed past Wynter out the plate glass window to the street where taxis lined up in front of the hospital. "You're right.

And you would have been right about us, too, except there was a small problem--Rh incompatibility. The first child, a boy, died as a result of it. Then I came along, and after that, there was one more miscarriage. I think they decided the risk wasn't worth another try."

Wynter closed her eyes for a second. "I am so sorry. I didn't mean to blunder into this."

Pearce shrugged. "It's ancient history now."

She smiled as she spoke, but Wynter saw no warmth in her expression. There was more, much more, she knew, but she couldn't bear to explore areas that obviously hurt Pearce. She wanted to get them back to the lighthearted moments they had shared during dinner.

"There are three of us, all girls. My oldest sister is a stay-at-home mom who lives two miles from my parents, and my younger sister is a first year law student at Temple."

"Here in the city. That must be nice for you." Pearce pushed back at the specter of loneliness and disenchantment that accompanied thoughts of her family. "Are you from around here?"

"Not too far away. My parents have a working dairy farm in Lancaster."

"You're kidding."

Wynter pretended to take offense. "There are still real live farms in this country, you know, Dr. Rifkin."

"Yeah, but you don't strike me as a farmer's daughter."

"Really?" Wynter said playfully, enjoying the light that had returned to Pearce's eyes. "And why is that?"

"Well, for one thing, you're not a wide-eyed and innocent country bumpkin." Pearce narrowed her eyes as if in serious thought. "Well, maybe the country bumpkin part fit--" She ducked, laughing, as Wynter's napkin sailed toward her face. "Hey!"

"I'll admit to being naïve at one point, but believe me, I'm quite worldly now," Wynter said archly. She kept her tone casual, thinking that Pearce had no idea how naïve she had been at one time. Naïve enough to think that she had understood what direction her life would take, and she'd followed that path for far too long before she'd begun to question it.

"Seriously," Pearce said, leaning forward, turning the butter knife on the white linen tablecloth in a slow circle as if it were the hand on a clock, "if you'd told me that you'd grown up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the daughter of a family of doctors, with a summer home in the Hamptons, I would have believed you."

"Thank you. I think."

Pearce laughed. "Yeah, maybe that's not such a compliment after all. Listen, do you want cof--" Her beeper sounded, and she rolled her eyes. "I knew we were living on borrowed time." She glanced down and stiffened. "Fuck."

Wynter immediately rose, her voice tight. "The SICU?"

"Almost as bad," Pearce said, standing too as she sorted through her wallet for her credit card. "My father."

"What does he want? It's almost nine o'clock," Wynter said as she and Pearce hurried toward Talia.

"He wants to make rounds." Pearce handed her credit card to the hostess and then punched in the extension on her cell phone. After a second, she said, "Rifkin. Yes sir. Five minutes. See you there." She met Wynter's anxious gaze. "Yep. He wants to see patients."

"Now? Does he usually make rounds this late at night?"

Pearce shrugged. "He makes them whenever he wants to.

Sometimes if he's been out of the country and gets in at three in the morning, he'll show up here and want to go around. He calls, we go."

They sprinted across the street, dodging traffic without even giving the taxis, limos, and cars a second glance, then jogged through the fairly deserted lobby to the elevators. They made a quick stop at the locker room to shed their outerwear and grab their lab coats. As they rode the rest of the way to the twelfth floor, Pearce said, "When we get up there, you run the list for him."

Wynter wanted to object. The fastest way to make a bad impression on her very first day was to screw up on attending rounds. She'd taken the extra time to get to know the patients on her walk-through right before sign-out rounds, but there were still fifty new names to assimilate, and many of the cases were complicated. Plus, she didn't know the physical layout all that well. The last thing she wanted to do was lead the chairman of the department into a dead end somewhere.

Still, she couldn't object. It was Pearce's call.

"Okay."

They stepped off the elevator and Pearce led the way to the nurses' station. Ambrose Rifkin was already there, studying a lab report. He wore a perfectly pressed, spotless white coat over dark trousers, a white shirt, and a blue tie with thin red stripes. He turned to watch Pearce and Wynter approach, nothing registering in his face. When they were a few feet away, he said, "Everything quiet?"

"So far," Pearce said. "Do you want to see everyone, or just make spot rounds?"

Ambrose shifted his gaze to Wynter. "Since we have a new member of the team, let's see everyone."

Wynter hid her surprise. It would take close to an hour and a half for them to see all fifty patients, but apparently, time of day had no meaning to the chief of surgery. She took out her list and stepped up to his side. "Mr. Pollack is in room 1222. He's four days post abdominal hernia repair and..."

As Wynter and her father started down the hall toward the first patient's room, Pearce detoured to the storage area adjacent to the nurses' station and began gathering the supplies they would need. She automatically sorted through the rows of plastic bins stacked one on top of another from floor to ceiling, grabbing sterile gauze pads, tape, Steri-Strips, suture removal kits, and all the other supplies required for changing bandages and anything else that the attending might want done.

"Who's the new resident?" a female voice said.

Pearce turned slowly and faced the small brunette in the tight black skirt and scoop-necked beige Lycra top. A good deal of her cleavage was showing, and the outfit would undoubtedly fail to pass an "appropriate outfit for work" check, but Andrea Kelly was a ward clerk, and a very good one, and no one was going to complain about her style of dress.

"Don't tell me you don't know," Pearce said teasingly. "You who know all?"

Andrea stepped closer, running her bloodred nail-polished fingertips along the edge of Pearce's lab coat. "I heard there was a new third-year, but no one mentioned that you were going to be escorting her around personally."

"Just doing my job."

Andrea stepped even closer, sliding her hand inside Pearce's coat and around her flank to her ass, which she squeezed. She swiveled her hips as she insinuated herself tightly between Pearce's thighs and looked up through lowered lashes. "I can think of some other work to keep you busy."

Pearce was bombarded by images of Andrea writhing beneath her, her arms and legs wrapped tightly around Pearce's body, her nails digging into Pearce's back as she clawed her way to a screaming climax. The visceral memory, coupled with the pressure of Andrea's body undulating against hers, made Pearce close her eyes with a groan.

With her free arm she twisted her fist in Andrea's hair, her mouth against Andrea's ear. "You gotta cut it out, babe. I'm working here."

"That never stopped you before," Andrea gasped, her teeth raking down the side of Pearce's neck.

"I wasn't in the middle of ro--"

"Oh! Sorry," Wynter exclaimed as she pushed through the door and nearly stumbled upon the two women locked in an embrace. "I...I need some four-by-fours."

Pearce backed away from Andrea and indicated the supplies cradled in one arm with a tilt of her head. "I've probably got everything you're looking for right here."

Andrea smirked as she edged around Wynter and disappeared into the hall. "Don't you just always."

"Thanks. We're in 1215," Wynter said curtly as she turned her back and walked out.

Pearce sighed. "Perfect. Just perfect."

CHAPTER NINE

During the rest of rounds, Wynter directed her conversation to the elder Rifkin, speaking to Pearce only when it related to one of the patients. It was after ten p.m. when they were finished, and Ambrose Rifkin left with a short good night.

"You should probably take off too," Pearce said as soon as her father was out of earshot. "You're on call tomorrow."

"Good night, then," Wynter said, starting down the hall.

Pearce debated letting her go. The air had been decidedly chilly for the last hour, and she wasn't in the mood to apologize. Hell, it's not like she had been committing a crime. She had nothing to apologize for. Fuck.

Wynter disappeared into the stairwell. Pearce debated for another second and then jogged after her. On the landing, she leaned over the rail and called down, "How're you getting home?"

Startled by the question, Wynter craned her neck to peer up to the floor above. "What?"

"I know you weren't expecting to be on call tonight. Did you drive to work?"

"No. I took the trolley."

"Well," Pearce said as she clambered down the stairs, "you can't ride the trolley home alone at this hour."

Wynter was still too annoyed to be gracious. She'd been embarrassed and uncomfortable walking in on an intimate encounter.

"Pearce, I took the trolley the entire time I was in medical school. I'm used to it. I'm only going out to Forty-eighth Street."

"Yeah, but West Philly isn't all that gentrified yet, and it's late."

She reached into her back pocket and extracted her keys. "Here. Take my car. I'm not going to be using it."

"I'm not taking your car."

"Look, you'll get home sooner and be well rested for tomorrow.

I just wanna make sure you're up to speed so you can carry your share of the work."

"You don't need to worry about that." Wynter turned away.

"It's not safe, Wynter, God damn it."

"Then I'll take the security van if it makes you feel better. I'll see you tomorrow." Without looking back, Wynter hurried down the stairwell. Reluctantly, she acknowledged that Pearce's concern was touching, but she was still too disturbed by the unexpectedly erotic image of Pearce with her fingers possessively entwined in another woman's hair. She didn't want to think about her own reaction to the sight. She didn't want to think about Pearce Rifkin at all.

Thirty minutes later, Wynter climbed out of the security van, one of a fleet of vehicles provided by the university to ferry students and employees to off-campus locations, and waved to the driver as he pulled away. She hurried up Cedar Avenue to a Victorian twin in the middle of a block of similar structures and let herself into the kitchen through the side door. The house was dark and she switched on a light over the sink.

A chocolate Lab padded into the room and nosed her hand.

"Hey, girl," Wynter murmured, leaning down and patting the dog's head absently. She took a battered white teapot with yellow painted daisies on the side and filled it in the sink, then set it on the stove to boil.

She was searching in the unfamiliar cabinets for a mug when a voice behind her caused her to jump.

"Honey, if you wake up the kids, I'm gonna have to shoot you."

Wynter spun around, contrite. "Oh my God. Was I making a lot of noise? I wasn't even thinking about it."

"Well, it sounded like you were putting on an addition to the house," the comfortably round, warmly attractive, and very pregnant African American woman said. She pulled out a chair at the table and settled heavily into it with a grateful sigh. "And if you're making tea, I'll have some."

"I was actually thinking of cocoa," Wynter said, taking down an extra mug.

"Even better."

"How were the kids?"

"Everyone's getting along just fine."

"I'm glad someone is," Wynter muttered.

"I figured you were having a rough first day when you called to say you'd be late. I told you to go into anesthesia if you didn't want to work so hard."

Wynter smiled at Mina Meru. "Tell that to your husband. I'm sure his opinion is very different."

"I keep telling him he should stay at home with these two children if he wants to see hard."

"And here I've added to your burden with mine." Wynter spooned cocoa into the thick ceramic mugs as they talked. "I promise, as soon as I have time to find an apartment, we'll be out of here."

"Don't you worry about little Miss Ronnie. She's the best three year-old I've ever seen. She keeps up with my four-year-old, and it gives him someone to play with."

"I know, but--"

"I was serious when I said I want you to keep her here during the day even after you get your own place. Preschool is expensive--"

"I can afford it--the one thing I got out of the divorce was good child support."

"But with your schedule being so unpredictable, it's going to be hard to manage just dropping her off and picking her up on time."

"I know. It was easier when I was working shift in the ER." Wynter sat at the heavy wooden table in the old-fashioned eat-in kitchen and leaned her head in her palms. She rubbed her temples and sighed. "My God, Mina. I really appreciate it, but with the new baby coming in a few months, it's going to be a handful."

"You know my mother and sister are in and out of here all day long. That's one of the reasons that Ken wanted to stay here to train, so I'd have more help. One more kid is not going to be a problem."

The kettle whistled and Wynter got up to get it. As she stirred the cocoa, she said, "I would feel a lot better with her here. Before, with two of us, she was only in daycare during the day, but now..." She shook her head. "I don't know how single women do this."

"Well, you haven't been single very long. You'll get the hang of it."

Wynter carried the cocoa to the table and sat down again. "I hadn't planned on getting pregnant until after my residency, and I certainly hadn't planned on raising a child without a husband."

"Things don't always work out the way we plan, honey, that's for sure," Mina said, squeezing Wynter's arm. She sipped her cocoa and regarded Wynter fondly. "If you don't mind me saying, I think you're better off without Dave."

"I don't mind at all. I agree." Wynter closed her eyes and leaned her head back. "Half the time I feel like a huge burden has been lifted off my shoulders, and the other half, I'm downright panicked."

"Well, you don't show it."

"Practice. A surgical residency will do that for you. Never show fear." Wynter sat forward again, frowning into her mug. "I didn't think things could get much tougher than at New Haven, but this place is something else."

"You looked wired when I walked into the kitchen. Somebody giving you a hard time already?"

"No more than I expected." Wynter blew on her cocoa and then took a healthy swallow. "Actually, the residents seem really nice, and that's the most important thing."

"Then what was bothering you so much just now?" Mina reached down and absently petted the dog's head. The Lab thumped down beside her on the floor with a long-suffering dog sigh.

Wynter colored slightly and shook her head. "Oh, it's nothing. It's silly."

"Can't be that much of nothing if it had you slamming cabinet doors in the middle of the night."

"It was just something that happened on rounds tonight." Wynter pushed a hand through her hair, still struggling with the remnants of discomfort. "I walked in on the chief resident in a clinch with one of the ward clerks."

"Is that all!" Mina laughed. "I thought that was standard operating procedure for residents. I told Ken before he started that he'd better keep his hands and all his other parts to himself, or else lose them."

Wynter laughed self-consciously. "You're right. It's not all that unusual. I just didn't expect it--it was embarrassing."

"So this new chief resident of yours. Is he worth a second look?"

Mina waggled her eyebrows. "Maybe you should think about taking him on."

"He's a she," Wynter said, feeling herself grow warm.

"Oh, my. That's interesting." Mina studied Wynter over the top of her mug. "And I assume the ward clerk was of the usual female variety?"

"Oh yes, very much so." Wynter's eyes glinted. "She looked like she was about to start taking bites out of Pearce any second."

"Pearce. That's the chief resident with the wandering hands?"

Wynter flashed on Pearce's hand, strong and broad, and the ward clerk's dark black hair tangled between her fingers. Such a beautiful hand, so powerful. She remembered how precisely Pearce's hands had moved in the operating room, deftly teasing at the tissues with her instruments, gently pushing aside vital organs. Good hands. Simple words that said everything.

"Wynter, honey? Where did you go?"

Wynter jumped. "Oh. Nowhere. Just tired, I guess. What were we saying?"

"Dr. Hotty Pants. Is that Pearce?"

"Yes. Pearce Rifkin. She's the chairman of surgery's daughter."

"Well, no wonder she doesn't mind having a quickie during rounds. She can probably get away with anything she wants."

"No," Wynter said immediately. "She's not like that at all. She's incredibly focused and very responsible about work. She's not taking advantage of her position."

"Sounds like you like her a little bit."

"I..." Wynter stood and carried her mug to the sink. As she rinsed it out, she said with her back to Mina, "I don't have to like her, I just have to work with her. And I'd rather not walk in on her when she's feeling up some bimbo in the storage closet."

"Uh-huh. I get that." Mina pushed herself up with one hand on the edge of the table and released a soft groan. "Maybe I should let Ken take care of his urges at the hospital. I'm about done with this baby making business."

Laughing, Wynter turned and rested her hips against the sink. "Oh yeah, I can see that." She reached out for Mina's cup. "Here, let me take that."

"So, is it the extracurricular activities that bother you or that she's gay?" Mina asked casually.

"I don't care that she's gay," Wynter said immediately. She frowned. "Why would you think I would?"

"I didn't. I just wondered."

"I couldn't care less who Pearce Rifkin sleeps with," Wynter said succinctly. "Man, woman, or beast."

Mina laughed. "Well, sometimes they are hard to tell apart."

"Oh, who cares who any of them sleep with." Wynter linked her arm through Mina's. "I'm going to go kiss my sleeping fairy princess good night."

"Just be sure you don't wake her up."

"Don't worry, I'll be careful. I have to be up at four and I'm ready to fall into bed."

"Pleasant dreams," Mina said as they parted just outside the kitchen.

Wynter hoped that she didn't dream at all.

v Pearce stretched out on the narrow bed in the small windowless on call room. She'd shed her shoes and arranged her assorted equipment on the tiny bedside stand--beepers, cell phone, wallet, and keys. She folded her arms behind her head and stared at the ceiling. She didn't expect to sleep, because she knew that within a few minutes--or certainly before an hour had passed--the phone would ring. Sometimes it would just be a question about medication or instructions for dressings, and she could take care of it without leaving the room. But her sleep would be interrupted nevertheless, and sometimes the frustration made it not worth going to sleep at all.

Other times, a nurse would call to report a change in a patient's vital signs, and Pearce would need to get up to evaluate the situation.

A temperature spike in the middle of the night could signal something as simple as incisional pain preventing the patient from taking a deep breath. Mucus and other secretions eventually accumulated in the lungs and produced a fever. The treatment was simple--voluntary coughing.

At other times, however, a sudden fever indicated a severe wound infection or, worst-case scenario, a breakdown in the area of surgical repair. In those instances, a missed diagnosis or delay in treatment for even a few hours could seriously affect the patient's well-being. Those were things she couldn't, or shouldn't, handle over the phone. Some residents tried, because night after night of no sleep and the unrelenting pace made cutting corners look inviting. But for the most part, the residents lived up to their responsibilities, and for Pearce there was never any question. She knew what needed to be done, and she did it.

She willed her body to relax, hoping that if she didn't sleep, at least she could unwind. But she tossed and turned, more keyed up than usual. The day had been a roller-coaster ride of unexpected emotions, starting when she'd first seen Wynter in the hallway. Wynter had been on her mind ever since they had parted, and why she couldn't just shrug off Wynter's anger, she didn't know. Sure, they had a little bit of history, but a lot less than she had with some women she saw every day. A few of the women she'd had short liaisons with made it pretty clear that they'd like to hook up again, but she had no problem sidestepping their attentions. She'd never even kissed Wynter, and she was totally off her stride around her. She made a disgruntled sound and squirmed around, trying to get comfortable.

"Horny," she muttered, but she didn't have the energy or inclination to do anything about it. She'd been keyed up all day, and she doubted it would take more than a minute or two, but somehow she knew that a quick orgasm was not going to settle her disquiet. She rolled onto her side and faced the wall, drawing her knees up and closing her eyes.

She must have drifted, because the soft kiss on her neck was completely unexpected. She hadn't heard anyone come in. Blinking in the dark and trying to clear her fuzzy brain, she rolled onto her back.

"Who?"

A warm wet mouth descended onto hers, a soft tongue tracing the outline of her lips. She tasted something sweet. Peppermint, maybe.

The curve of full firm breasts pressed against her side and a hand tugged at the tie on her scrub pants. Pearce slapped her hand over the fingers working at her pants.

"Hey. Andrea?"

"You expecting someone else, baby?" Andrea murmured, nipping her way along Pearce's jaw as she pushed her hand inside Pearce's scrubs. "I couldn't wait until I got off work tonight. I am so hot for you."

"How about you slow down a lit--" Pearce gasped as Andrea's fingers dove between her thighs. "Jesus!"

"I knew you'd be wet." Andrea climbed onto the bed, her skirt hiked up to her hips, and threw one leg over Pearce's thighs. She rocked hard against her leg. "I have been dying to do this. Oh, you feel so good."

The shock of the sudden assault on her already overstimulated nerve endings catapulted Pearce's body into overdrive. She wanted Andrea to stop and she wanted to come all at once. Panting, hips heaving, she groaned, "Let up on me for a minute. Just wait, will you."

Andrea was moaning, pulling at her, writhing against her, already too far gone for reasoning. Pearce felt teeth against her neck, and before she had time to object or resist, she came in quick sharp spasms. She bit Andrea back, her mouth finding soft flesh, and Andrea screamed out in pleasure. Pearce's mind went blank as another orgasm rocketed through her.

"Oh God, baby," Andrea moaned, licking at the spot she had bruised on Pearce's neck. "I needed that. And I could tell that you did too." She squeezed between Pearce's thighs. "Didn't you."

"Sure," Pearce said tonelessly as Andrea sat up to rearrange her clothes. "That was just what I needed."

"You should change your pants, baby," Andrea said as she stood and fluffed her hair. "I left a wet spot on your leg."

Pearce closed her eyes to the sound of Andrea's laughter fading down the hall. When sleep eluded her, she got up and made her way to the roof. The sky was overcast, the night bitterly cold. The distant echoes of Andrea's attentions still twisted through her, but there was no trace of warmth left by her touch.

CHAPTER TEN

Wynter arrived in the cafeteria the next morning ten minutes before rounds. She was slightly annoyed, but not surprised, to see Pearce there before her, slouched in a chair, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand. She checked the table, half expecting to see evidence of street dog detritus, but there was none. She assumed that the street vendors hadn't warmed the chili yet. She pulled out a chair next to Pearce. "Morning."

"Looks like it," Pearce grunted.

"Rough night?" Wynter sipped her own coffee and glanced at Pearce, then stared at her neck. A quarter-inch bruise marred the pale skin just above her collarbone. It was more than a hickey; it was an intentional bite mark. Someone had meant to mark her, and had succeeded. The idea that someone wanted to possess her that way, and that Pearce had allowed it, offended her. An image of the brunette in the utility room, crawling all over Pearce, flashed through her mind, and she reacted without thinking. "From the looks of things, I guess so."

Pearce frowned at the sarcastic note in Wynter's voice, then saw where her eyes were riveted. She rubbed her neck and felt the tenderness. Crap.

"I've got some cosmetics in my locker if you want to cover that up," Wynter said coolly. "Unless you don't mind that everyone knows what you were doing while you were...on call."

"I might have been on call," Pearce said with an edge to her voice, "but what I do while I'm waiting for something to happen is no one's business."

"Has it occurred to you that it sets a lousy precedent for the other residents?"

"You think so?" Pearce leaned forward, her nerves jangling.

Despite the fact that no emergencies had arisen after Andrea's middle of-the-night visit, she hadn't slept. She'd spent an hour on the roof, despite the frigid temperatures, then been propelled inside by the urgent desire to shower. She felt soiled, and wasn't sure why. It wasn't as if she'd never had a tryst in her on-call room before, and she usually enjoyed a woman who took what she wanted, because so did she. Plus, Andrea hadn't done anything she hadn't done half a dozen times in the last year. But for some reason, Pearce was angry. Angry that Andrea thought she could walk in uninvited and find Pearce willing. Angry that she hadn't said no and meant it. Angry that when it was finished, she'd felt nothing. Wynter's criticism now only underscored her own self loathing, and that was more than she could handle after thirty hours of no sleep. "Has it occurred to you that your job is to take care of patients and not offer your opinions on things that don't concern you?"

Wynter rocked back in her chair, stunned by the cutting tone of Pearce's voice and the flat, hard fury in her eyes. Belatedly, she realized that she was out of line. Pearce was not only her senior, she was a virtual stranger. They'd shared a dinner, but that didn't give her the right to pass judgment. Still, the anger--arising from where, she couldn't be certain--simmered. It was all she could do not to snap back. Instead, she did what she always did when her back was against the wall. She grew very still, damping her emotions with iron control. In a voice that revealed none of her feelings, she said, "I'm quite prepared to take care of my patients. Thank you."

Cursing under her breath, Pearce stood abruptly and walked back to the cafeteria line. When she returned with her second cup of coffee, the other members of the team were present. As she sat, she avoided Wynter's eyes and said curtly, "Let's take it from the top."

In a studied voice, Wynter said, "1222, Arnold. Four days post..."

When they'd finished updating the patients' status, Pearce gave everyone their instructions for the day. "Wynter, you're with the chief on that splenectomy he's doing later this morning."

"Great case," Bruce said enviously.

"Are you leaving?" Wynter asked Pearce as the junior residents left to take care of the work generated during rounds.

"In a while," Pearce said vaguely. By rights, she should be off call now and could go home. Should go home. But she very rarely did.

Wynter gave her an appraising glance, but decided not to mention the fact that Pearce looked worn out. As the senior resident had just pointed out quite succinctly, it was none of her business. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Right," Pearce replied, waiting for some indication that Wynter wanted company on the way to the operating room. When Wynter turned and walked away, Pearce shrugged and let her go. Watching her disappear up the stairs, she wondered how they had gone from their friendly and relaxed dinner the night before to this uncomfortable silence. She wondered, too, if she had been a guy whether Wynter would have minded that little scene with Andrea quite so much. She'd never been sensitive about being gay, because she didn't care who had a problem with it. But it saddened her to think that Wynter might. Fuck.

With a sigh and a shake of her head, she tossed her empty coffee cup into the trash. She headed toward radiology to check on the X-rays that had not been officially read the night before. She wasn't going home. She would have nothing to do except lie around and think, and that was exactly what she did not want to do.

v "What changes can we expect to find in the patient's peripheral blood following this procedure, Dr. Thompson?" Ambrose Rifkin asked Wynter as he made a midline incision in the abdomen of a twenty three-year-old woman extending from the xiphoid at the lower end of the sternum, curving around the umbilicus, and stopping several inches below.

Wynter hadn't known which case she would be assigned to scrub on when she'd left the hospital the night before. Even though she'd taken a copy of the OR schedule home with her to review the upcoming cases, she had never looked at it. She'd fallen asleep instantly and, despite her plans, slept through the alarm she had set an hour earlier than usual. She had awakened with barely enough time to shower and kiss her daughter goodbye.

Ronnie, wide awake, had greeted her with a smile and upheld arms. Despite the little time she had, Wynter sat on the side of the bed as the three-year-old clambered into her lap. They had an animated conversation about something the child had seen on a video that Mina had apparently played for the kids. Wynter didn't recognize the names or the references, but she nodded excitedly and faked her way through the discourse. She scooped the little girl up and held her close, losing herself for a few moments in the unique smell of childhood, brushing away the sadness that consumed her when she realized how much of her daughter's life she was likely to miss in the next two years.

Now, she scrambled through her memory for the answers to a fairly esoteric question. If the chairman had asked her about the blood supply to the spleen or the differential diagnosis of hemolytic anemia, she might have fared better. However, the adage Better wrong than uncertain played through her mind, and she said with conviction, "An elevated white count and megakaryocytosis."

"Hmm. Pack that bleeder off back there, would you please,"

Rifkin said to Wynter.

As Wynter carefully placed a surgical sponge behind the spleen, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and saw the OR door open. Pearce walked in. Surprised, Wynter quickly checked the plain faced wall clock. It was almost 1:00 p.m.--Pearce should've been gone hours ago. Wynter looked back to the surgical field, peripherally aware of Pearce quietly approaching until she stood next to the anesthesiologist and looked over the top of the sterile sheet.

Without taking his eyes off what he was doing, Rifkin said, "What can we do for you, Dr. Rifkin?"

"There's a patient in the emergency room with a dissecting abdominal aneurysm. He needs to come up right away."

The chief continued to work, quickly and precisely. "How big is it?"

"Eleven centimeters. It involves the left common iliac too."

"What's your plan?" Rifkin held out his right hand and requested a vascular clamp. "Satinsky."

"We can open the aneurysm and place the graft in situ, then jump to the femoral on the left," Pearce replied immediately.

Rifkin straightened and looked across the table at Wynter, who raised her head at his movement. "Finish removing this spleen, Dr.Thompson. Dr. Rifkin will lend you a hand."

With that, he stepped back from the table and indicated to the circulating nurse to untie the back of his gown. He stripped it off along with his gloves and tossed the bundle in the direction of the used linen container. It drifted to the floor several feet short of the bin.

For several heartbeats, Wynter was speechless; then she said, "Yes sir," just as Ambrose Rifkin walked out. Wynter quickly moved around to the opposite side of the table where she would have the appropriate view and exposure to complete the procedure. Five minutes later, Pearce stepped up into the first assistant's position.

"Hi," Pearce said.

"Hi," Wynter replied, gently palpating the posterior surface of the spleen. There did not appear to be any unusual adhesions that might tear and lead to hemorrhage. She opened her right hand, palm up, and extended it toward the scrub nurse, who stood so close to her right side that their shoulders brushed. "Metzenbaum scissors, please."

Pearce leaned over and looked into the abdominal cavity. "Man, that really is big."

"Mmm. Could you pull a little harder on that retractor."

"Did he ask you about the peripheral blood tests after splenectomy?"

Wynter's eyes flickered up quickly and then back to the field. "Is that one of the standard questions?"

"Uh-huh."

"Thanks for the heads-up," Wynter muttered.

"How far did you get?" Pearce grinned behind her mask. It was a rite of passage, and although she would ordinarily have warned Wynter about the kinds of questions various attendings asked, everyone got caught on the splenectomy question.

"Leukocytosis and megakaryocytosis."

Pearce whistled softly. "Very good. Did he ask you the follow up?"

Wynter clipped and then divided the splenic artery and vein.

Carefully, she removed the hugely engorged organ. "No. You walked in."

"I saved you, then. He was going to ask you what distinguishes the red cells after splen--"

"Hal Jolle bodies," Wynter said.

Pearce blinked. "Very impressive, Dr. Thompson."

Pleased to hear the surprise and the grudging respect in Pearce's voice, Wynter smiled to herself. She was even more relieved to see that the spleen had come out without inordinate bleeding. Now all she had to do was be sure that all of the major vessels were appropriately tied off, and then they could irrigate the abdomen, wash out any bits of debris, and close.

Forty minutes later Wynter and Pearce rolled the patient's stretcher into the recovery room and turned her care over to the nurses. As they walked back toward the lounge, Wynter said, "What are you still doing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're post-call. You're supposed to go home right after rounds in the morning."

For an instant, Pearce was genuinely confused. She never went home during the day, whether she'd been on call the night before or not.

"Oh. Things got busy and I lost track of time."

"Uh-huh." Wynter had a feeling that Pearce often lost track of time when it suited her to stay at work. She respected her for her ambition, but didn't share her single-mindedness. She had a life outside the hospital, and even though at the moment that consisted primarily of her daughter, that was reason enough to leave when she could. Pearce looked tired, and for a second, Wynter contemplated urging her to leave, but then she decided that what Pearce Rifkin chose to do was none of her business. "Do you think I should go down to the emergency room to see if the chief needs any help?"

"I was just going down to make sure that the patient gets up to the OR before he blows that aneurysm and bleeds to death down there."

Wynter stopped in the middle of the hall and turned into Pearce's path. "I'm on call tonight, and I'm supposed to be the most senior resident in the house today. I'll go down and take care of it."

"Why don't you go check on the boys and make sure things are under control on the floors."

"Pearce," Wynter said quietly. "I know you're the chief, but--"

"That's right, I am," Pearce replied just as quietly.

Wynter flushed, realizing that Pearce's suggestion had not been a request. "Right." She pivoted and started toward the elevators, wondering if she would have any opportunity at all to manage things on her own if Pearce was always around.

"I'll page you when the patient is in the holding area," Pearce called after her. "You can scrub the case."

Convinced that she was never going to understand Pearce Rifkin, Wynter halted once more and looked back. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Pearce said with a grin, wondering why the hell she was giving up a great case. "You take it. I'll just hang around to put out fires until you're free again."

"Okay. Thanks," Wynter said, frowning slightly. She didn't get her, not at all.

v Six hours later, Wynter made her way wearily toward the surgeons' lounge, her scrubs soaked with sweat, her body feeling as if she'd spent the day performing manual labor. The case had been difficult, as all major vascular emergencies were. If they could not remove the diseased portion of the patient's aorta and replace it with an artificial graft, the patient would lose his leg or die. It was one of those procedures that needed to be done right the first time, because there were no second chances. Nevertheless, Rifkin had been calm and cool and methodically proficient. He'd even let Wynter perform a portion of the anastomosis, sewing the Gore-Tex graft into the section of diseased artery. It had surprised and thrilled her.

She was halfway to the soda machine in the surgeons' lounge when she realized that the resident sacked out on the couch, whom she had initially ignored since it was such a common sight, was Pearce. They were the only ones in the room. An empty pizza box sat in the middle of the coffee table in front of the sofa where Pearce slept. Wynter was willing to lay odds that had been Pearce's supper.

Pearce lay on her back, one knee slightly bent, an arm dangling half off the edge of the green vinyl sofa. Her face was unlined, youthful, beautiful. Wynter watched the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest, noting the swell of her breasts and the long hollow curve down her abdomen to the jut of hipbone. Her hand was open, supplicant, waiting.

Wynter was glad they were alone--she didn't like to think of strangers seeing her this way, so innocent and exposed. She had the urge to cover her, to protect her from prying eyes while she slept.

She debated letting her sleep and then decided that Pearce would want an update on the case. Plus, she really did need to go home. She leaned over the sleeping woman and gently shook her shoulder. "HeyPearce."

Pearce opened her eyes, which were hazy and unfocused. After a few seconds, she smiled. Wynter bent over her, her eyes soft with welcome. It was a wonderful way to wake up. "All done?"

"Yes," Wynter said softly, resisting the urge to brush the damp strands of hair off her cheek. When Pearce sidled over to make room, Wynter sat next to her without thinking, their hips lightly touching. "It went great. Thanks for letting me do it."

"No problem." Pearce stretched lazily, her hips coming off the sofa as she raised her arms over her head and rolled her shoulders.

Her scrub shirt had come untucked while she slept and rode up now to expose an expanse of smooth, tanned belly surrounding a tight, shallow navel.

Wynter tracked the path of fabric over flesh and was struck by the unexpected beauty of muscles playing beneath soft skin. She saw bodies every day of her life, clothed and unclothed, in every stage of health and disease, but she couldn't remember ever seeing anything quite so lovely.

Pearce followed Wynter's gaze, and the muscles in her belly twitched as if stroked. In an instant, she was aroused. She searched Wynter's eyes, wondering if she knew what her glance had stirred, hoping that her own hunger did not show. Her voice was hoarse when she said, "I should probably get home."

Abruptly, Wynter stood, backing away as she spoke. "Yes.

Everything is quiet here, I take it?"

"As the grave." Pearce swung her legs to the floor and rose.

Wynter was already feeding coins into the soda machine with her back turned. "You should get some dinner. You can't afford to lose any more weight."

Wynter turned, her expression questioning. "What do you mean?"

"You look thinner than I remember you. Surgery residencies will either pork you up or cause malnutrition."

"Oh, you mean when we first met?" When Pearce nodded, Wynter smiled. "This is my baseline. I was pregnant then."

Pearce grew suddenly very still. "You've got kids?"

"One. A little girl. She's three."

"Jesus," Pearce whispered. She's straight and she has a kid. Oh, man. You need to stay far, far away from this one.

Busy opening her soda, Wynter didn't see the shock on Pearce's face. "So, can I buy you dinner?"

"No, thanks," Pearce said hastily. She gestured toward the wall clock. "It's late. See you tomorrow."

Hurt by the sudden shift in mood, Wynter watched her hurry away, certain she would never figure Pearce out. And just as certain that she didn't care.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Okay, let's take it from the top," Pearce said, as she did every morning at 5:30 a.m.

"1211, Myzorsky, three days post fem-pop bypass," Wynter began, as she had every day for the last month except for the Saturday and Sunday, a week apart, when she had not been on call. She could barely remember a time when she had not been a resident at University Hospital. Spending twelve to twenty-four hours a day immersed in what amounted to a self-contained society with its own particular rules and regulations had inculcated her quickly to the habits and expectations of her fellow residents, the nursing staff, and her attendings. She had a good sense of what everyone wanted--everyone, that was, except Pearce. She studied her senior resident as the other residents began their run-down of the patients assigned to them.

Pearce had dark half-moons smudging each lower lid, as if the delicate, pale skin had been pinched by brutal fingers. Shadows danced in her even darker eyes, whispering of thoughts Wynter could only guess at and tried not to. Since the night she had awakened Pearce in the surgeons' lounge, they'd had no interaction that hadn't been strictly clinically related. Pearce was a fair and highly competent acting chief, and Wynter appreciated how much teaching Pearce provided everyone on the service, including her. But there had been no more offers of dinner, no detours to Pearce's secret hideaways, and no stolen moments to exchange a personal word between cases. As the days passed, Wynter found it more and more difficult to believe that they had shared such an easy connection over dinner the night she had arrived and impossible to accept that there had once been a connection so immediate they had almost kissed. Clearly, whatever had drawn them together in that singular sliver of long-ago time had disappeared with the years. Even as she accepted what she could not deny, this new distance between them made her edgy and short-tempered, which was wholly unlike her.

"Does that meet your approval, Dr. Thompson?" Pearce asked dryly, wondering where Wynter had drifted off to. Her blue eyes were stormy and distant.

"What?" Wynter jumped, aware that she had not been listening.

"Sorry?"

"I just said you can take Liu through the hernia this afternoon.

Marksburg is a hands-off attending and will probably only stick her head in now and then. Of course, if you're too busy--"

"No! Of course not. That sounds great." She purposely slid her eyes away from Pearce, who was staring at her so intently she feared her thoughts might be visible. She gave the first-year resident, who looked both excited and frightened, an encouraging nod. "That will be fine. Make sure you review the patient's chart before you come to the OR."

"Oh, I will," Liu said. "For sure."

Wynter hid her smile, remembering those first few times she had been given responsibility for performing an operation. It had taken her several years to appreciate that she was not really operating at all, but following the subtle directions of those more experienced as they led her by the hand through the procedure, guiding her movements with small verbal and physical cues. The experienced surgeon could perform most of the operation without her even noticing, so that when it was over, she felt as if she had done the procedure. Eventually, she realized that had she been left to her own devices, she would have foundered in the middle of the case with no idea what to do. But a good teacher left her feeling accomplished rather than lost and inadequate. That caliber of instruction was a balancing act that only the very best could perform.

Pearce was that kind of mentor. It was just one of the many things that Wynter admired about the difficult but irrefutably talented chief resident.

Pearce wondered at the small frown line that creased the smooth skin between Wynter's brows. Obviously, something was bothering her.

And that bothered Pearce. That was foolish, and she knew it. Whatever was going on in Wynter's life was no concern of hers as long as it didn't affect her work. She reminded herself of that at least once daily. In recent weeks, Pearce had been very careful not to infringe on personal territory. The day Wynter had arrived she'd been so surprised to see her that she had behaved completely unlike herself. She still felt mildly embarrassed to think that she had taken Wynter to the old residents' lounge, as if she were a kid showing off her favorite rock collection to an adult she wanted to impress.

"Everybody knows what to do." Impatient with her own wandering thoughts, Pearce collected her paperwork and stood. "So let's get to work."

Pearce detoured to the cafeteria counter for a cup of coffee that she didn't really want so that Wynter and the other residents could get ahead of her as they dispersed for work rounds. As she held down the lever to refill her cup from the stainless steel urn, she felt a not-so subtle brush of fingers over her ass. She didn't have to look to know who it was.

"Not here," she murmured.

"Where have you been?" Andrea said in a low throaty voice. She moved closer and skimmed her hand inside Pearce's lab coat, playing her nails up and down Pearce's thigh.

Pearce took a sharp breath and drew back. "Busy."

"So busy you don't get horny anymore?"

"Look," Pearce said, sliding away even though her coffee cup was only half full. "I gotta be in the OR in a few minutes. I'll catch you later."

Andrea wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, a moist pink flicker of invitation. "Next time, I'll take care of you first."

Skip Ronito, a resident in Pearce's year, snickered as he passed with a breakfast tray laden with bacon, eggs, and a six-inch stack of toast. When Pearce followed him to the checkout line, he muttered, "Hey, Rifkin, if you don't have time for her, I'll take your place. Just thinking about her gives me a boner."

"Now there's a news flash," Pearce said. "Be my guest."

He looked at her quizzically. "You really don't care?"

"What Andrea does is none of my business."

"Does she...you know...swing both ways?"

Pearce shrugged but she definitely doubted it. "Ask her."

"Yeah, maybe," Skip said, glancing over his shoulder. Andrea looked past him as if he were invisible, her gaze riveted on Pearce.

"Yeah," he added with a sigh, "right."

"Here," Pearce said, dropping a dollar on his tray. "Get my coffee, will you?"

Not waiting for an answer, she edged around him and beat a hasty retreat before Andrea could catch up to her and make another offer that didn't interest her any longer.

v "Whoa, whoa. Slow down," Wynter said sharply. "That thing you're about to cut is the spermatic cord, and I don't think this guy would like it very much if you chopped it in half."

Liu looked where Wynter pointed, now clearly able to discern the round tubular structure as large as his little finger. "I don't know how I missed that."

"Well, how many times've you seen it in a living person?"

"This is the first time."

"That's how you missed it. So be careful and look before you cut.

It's good to be fast. It's bad to be sloppy."

Liu nodded earnestly and resumed dissecting the filmy hernia sac from the surrounding muscles and fascia in the groin of the twenty-five year-old weightlifter. Wynter heard a small snort of disgust and looked over the top of the ether screen at her friend Ken, who was managing the anesthesia for the procedure. He rolled his eyes at her and she grinned behind her mask. Because anesthesia had a shorter training period than surgery, Ken was in his final year of training. He had seen hundreds of surgery residents come and go, and like most anesthesia residents, shared a mostly good-natured rivalry with his surgery counterparts over who had the ultimate authority in the operating room. All surgeons felt that the operating room was their kingdom and often opined on the fine points of appropriate anesthesia management. The anesthesiologists invariably took offense and often vented their frustrations by heckling or deriding the hapless junior surgery residents.

"You're doing fine, Liu," Wynter said, ignoring Ken's grumbling about the longest hernia repair on record. "There...right there. See that little pink half-moon? Poking out right next to the vas? That's a loop of bowel. Do not cut it."

"Okay, okay," Lu muttered, sweating as if he were defusing a ten megaton bomb without a shield.

From just behind her right ear, Wynter heard a soft, sensuous voice ask, "Having fun?"

She didn't look around, but her pulse sped up and her stomach tightened. Keeping her voice cool and professional, she said, "We just isolated the hernia sac and are about to tie it off. It's small."

"Good," Pearce said, moving closer so that she could see over Wynter's shoulder. Careful not to overbalance and push Wynter into the field, she rested her fingertips on Wynter's back to steady herself. Since nothing behind a surgeon was sterile, she didn't risk contaminating anything. She watched the first-year resident work for a few moments, automatically following his progress as all of her senses became absorbed by impressions of Wynter--the slight sheen of sweat on the back of her neck, the movement of firm muscles as she reached for instruments, the scent of her skin like the flowers that ringed Pearce's grandmother's porch, their petals heavy with early-morning rain- sweet and fresh and rich. Unconsciously, Pearce swept her fingers in a slow rhythmic arc along the curve of Wynter's shoulder blade. "Looks great."

"Yes." Wynter imagined she could feel Pearce's breath against her skin, although she knew that Pearce's mask prevented that. With effort, she cleared her mind of the feel of Pearce's hands on her back, the gentle pressure along her body that she knew came from Pearce's breasts and thighs just touching hers as the other woman leaned over her shoulder. Carefully, she massaged the adventurous loop of small intestine back into the abdominal cavity where it belonged. Holding the bowel firmly out of the way, she directed, "Now put your suture just above my fingers. You want to be careful...Ow...ow, damn it...

damn!"

"You get stuck?" Pearce asked briskly as Wynter reflexively jerked away from the table and slammed into her. She was already reaching for the bottle of alcohol from beneath the metal prep cart as Wynter swore again and jerked off her glove. Blood streamed from the pulp of her index finger onto the floor. "Here, hold out your hand."

"God, that hurts," Wynter said, gritting her teeth as she squeezed her finger to force the blood from the puncture site. At the same time, Pearce doused it with alcohol, adding to the pain but making her feel better, at least psychologically. She looked back at the operating table, where Liu was watching her with wide, panicked eyes. "It's okay. Just put a moist sponge on the field. I'll be back in a second."

Pearce grasped Wynter's hand when she tried to pull away, ignoring the blood that dripped into her palm. "Wait a minute while I pour some Betadine on it."

"Now I have to rescrub," Wynter protested halfheartedly. "And you're getting blood on you."

"I'm not worried." Pearce grabbed several gauze pads from a nearby stack and pressed them to Wynter's finger. "Looks deep."

"Deep enough," Wynter muttered, fighting a wave of nausea.

Surgical needles were razor-sharp, heavy steel. The puncture had struck bone.

"What's the story on your patient?" Pearce asked, dabbing at the still-bleeding site. She had an insane urge to kiss it. Like her chin. She chased the image away. "Anything we should worry about?"

"No. No history of drug abuse. No transfusions. Straight, as far as we know. Mr. Joe College." Wynter shook her head. "It's no big deal."

Pearce met Wynter's eyes. They both knew that needle sticks were par for the course in the operating room. Everyone got stuck at least once a month. Fortunately, the needles used for suturing were not hollow, so they were far less likely to transfer contagious viruses than syringe needles. Despite the deadly threat of HIV, the possibility of hepatitis was much more likely and often as debilitating. "After the case, stop by employee health and get baseline bloods drawn. I'll order an HIV and hepatitis screen on this guy just to be sure."

"It's not really necessary. I'm sure he's clea--"

"I'm sure too. But let's be safe. Get the baseline titers drawn."

Wynter sighed and nodded assent, realizing that Pearce was right, even though it was a nuisance. Now she'd have to have follow-up bloods drawn at six weeks and six months. They'd come back negative. She was sure of it. She glanced down and saw that Pearce's fingers shook as they cupped her hand. She'd never seen Pearce tremble the slightest bit, even after thirty-six hours of no sleep and gallons of coffee. Suddenly hyperaware of Pearce's touch, she pulled her hand away as her stomach cartwheeled. "I need to finish this case."

"Right," Pearce said hoarsely. "Go ahead and scrub. I'll watch Junior until you get back."

Wynter hurried out, anxious to complete the surgery and even more anxious to reclaim some semblance of control. Pearce had a way of making her do things she didn't want to do. She'd spent almost seven years with a man who'd manipulated and cajoled her into making choices she didn't want to make. Now, when she thought she'd left all that behind, it seemed that Pearce had only to ask and she was willing to comply. It was maddening and more than a little frightening.

When Wynter returned, ready to don new gloves and a clean gown, Pearce was leaning against the anesthesia machine, laughing at something Ken had just said. As Wynter stepped up to the table, Pearce said, "You okay?"

"Fine. Just a little bit swollen."

"I know how much that can hurt. If you want me to scrub the rest of the case--"

"Oh sure," Ken interjected teasingly, "I bet she's just trying to get out of moving furniture tomorrow. Seems like a cheap trick to me."

Pearce raised a questioning brow.

"Go ahead, Liu," Wynter said, redirecting the resident to the case.

"Put that suture in before the wound heals by itself...and try to miss my finger this time."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again." Wynter kept her tone light, but all business. Once the resident had safely placed the first suture, she glanced at Pearce. "I'm moving tomorrow."

For a second, Pearce had a vision of Wynter sharing an apartment with some unknown man. Sharing the moments of her day, her bed, her life. She searched for words and couldn't find any.

Wynter, her attention back on the field, continued, "My daughter and I've been staying with Ken and his wife since I moved here. I just got a sublet in the other half of their Victorian for six months. It's perfect while I look for a permanent place."

"That's good," Pearce finally managed.

"Yeah," Ken said. "We're glad she's not going far. You're welcome to come and help move furniture tomorrow, Pearce."

Neither Pearce nor Wynter said anything.

Ken continued, oblivious to the silence. "We're having pizza and beer after."

Pearce spoke before she could change her mind. "I never pass up free beer. I'll be there."

"Don't break that when you tie it down," Wynter instructed, suddenly looking forward to the next day's labor. Moving hadn't been her choice as to how to spend her first full weekend off, but now, it didn't seem quite so bad.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"You don't have to do this, you know," Wynter said when Pearce entered the locker room the next morning. She tucked in her blouse and tossed her scrubs into the nearby laundry basket.

"Hey, I already signed on for the detail." Pearce banged open the steel door of her locker and draped her white coat over the metal hook.

Then she stripped off her scrub top and exchanged it for a navy blue rugby shirt. "When is everyone getting together?"

"About eleven. That gives those of us who were on call last night time to go home and get cleaned up." Wynter resisted the urge to look down as Pearce stepped out of her pants and tugged on threadbare 501s. While Pearce buttoned up, Wynter shrugged into her knee-length woolen coat and eyed the brown leather bomber jacket that Pearce tugged out of her locker. "Don't you freeze in that?"

"This?" Pearce said, pulling on the jacket. "No way. It's the real deal. My grandfather was a Navy flight surgeon."

Wynter smoothed her hand down the sleeve, amazed at the suppleness of the leather. Pearce looked young and tough and outrageously attractive in it. Fleetingly, Wynter wondered just when it was that she'd begun to think of women that way, but she quickly pushed the question aside. "It's beautiful."

"Thanks." Pearce held her breath, watching Wynter's face soften with pleasure. At that moment, she'd have given anything she had if only that look were for her. Warning bells clanged, and she reminded herself why she wasn't going down that road. "It keeps me warm."

Wynter lifted her eyes to Pearce's, her fingers still resting on the jacket. "I bet it does."

"See you in a little while," Pearce murmured, sidestepping over the bench and out of touching range.

"Come hungry," Wynter called after her.

"Count on it." Pearce laughed as she shouldered out the door.

That's my problem.

v "Who are you waiting for?" Mina asked.

"No one," Wynter said.

"You've been watching that clock like an expectant father. So don't tell me no one."

Wynter blushed. "I was just checking..." She saw Mina's eyes narrow the way they did when one of the kids was telling a particularly clumsy fib. She sighed. "My senior resident is supposed to come over to help out. That's all."

"Dr. Hotty Pants?"

"Shh," Wynter admonished, stifling a laugh. "Someone will hear you."

"All the men are in the living room plotting strategy. You'd think they were going to war and not unloading a truck full of furniture.

Speaking of which, they're late."

"When have you ever known a delivery service to be on time? Everything about this move happened so quickly, I'm just grateful I don't have to leave everything in storage for the next year."

Ken walked into the kitchen and threw an arm around Mina's shoulders. "The truck is just pulling up out front. Is your sister with the kids?"

"They're all tucked away upstairs with Chloe and a roomful of toys. If anyone wants me, I'll be next door in Wynter's new kitchen telling her where to put everything. I just adore organizing kitchens."

"Yeah, and just about everything else," Ken said good-naturedly.

He kissed Mina and hurried outside to continue his supervisory role.

Wynter looked after him fondly. "I don't know what I'd do without you and all the rest of your family. I--"

"Just hush up. You and Ronnie are family. Now let's get going before those men put everything in the wrong place."

They made it as far as the front porch before Mina stopped so abruptly that Wynter nearly ran into her. The eighteen-foot delivery truck had backed up onto the sidewalk, and its tailgate now rested on the wooden steps that led up to the wide front porch of the other half of the Victorian twin. A small cluster of people congregated by the open truck bed, most of them gesticulating and talking at once. One person stood apart observing the conclave, legs spread and arms folded, sporting an amused expression.

"Well doesn't she make an interesting picture," Mina said softly.

"Would that be your Dr. Hotty Pants?"

"Mina," Wynter hissed, "for God's sake...she'll hear."

"Ooh, she's a real looker. I bet plenty of men have been brokenhearted to find out she plays for the other team."

Pearce glanced up to the porch idly, then fixed on Wynter and waved. "Hey."

"Hey." Wynter waved back, unable to put the image of Pearce--in low-slung black jeans, scuffed brown boots worn down at the heels, and olive-green army jacket with faded patches where the insignia had once been--together with a man. It didn't seem right. "You think? She doesn't seem like the type guys would go for."

"It's not what she's wearing, honey, it's her face. She's beautiful- and I bet she's got a body to match under that bad-boy get up."

"She does. And I think she looks great exactly the way she is,"

Wynter said. Pearce was just Pearce. An attractive, desirable woman where everything fit just the way it should. Her looks, her brains, her spirit. Her charm. Oh my God. What am I thinking.

"Did I say she didn't?" Mina gave her a look, then ambled over to the porch rail and called down. "You sure you want to get mixed up with these crazy men, honey?"

"I figure someone needs to keep them out of trouble," Pearce called back.

Mina laughed. "Well, good luck. You'll need it."

Wynter joined Pearce on the sidewalk while Mina headed for Wynter's new house. "You made it."

"Just in time, it looks like."

"I'm going to direct traffic inside. If you get tired, don't feel you need to stay--"

"Are you kidding? These are a bunch of anesthesiologists and internists, for crying out loud. They'll quit a long time before me." She scanned the porch, looking for the glimpse of Wynter's life that she didn't know. "Where's your daughter?"

"Upstairs with Mina's sister and Ken and Mina's kids. I'll introduce you later--if you want."

"Sure. I'd like that." She turned when Ken called her name. "Time for me to flex my muscles."

Impulsively, Wynter grasped her arm. "Be careful, okay?"

Pearce laughed. "No sweat. I'll see you later."

Wynter sidled around the tailgate and joined Mina inside. The three-story Victorian, renovated by a recent owner, featured a clerestory ceiling in the rear of the first floor that opened all the way to the third.

The hardwood floors gleamed. The kitchen had been modernized as well, and although she rarely had time, she looked forward to the opportunity to cook. Decks opened off the kitchen as well as off the master bedroom on the third floor. Although the backyard was postage-stamp sized, she contemplated yet again getting a puppy for Ronnie. The problem was that when the sublet was over and she moved to a permanent location where Mina and her extended family were unavailable to help with child care, a dog would be out of the question.

"What are you thinking about so hard?" Mina pointed several men who had boxes marked kitchen in their arms toward the rear, calling after them, "And don't drop them on the floor when you put them down."

"Ronnie keeps asking for a puppy. She's a good age for it, but I just don't see how I can handle taking care of one."

"Our kids want another one too. Maybe we could work out joint custody," Mina suggested. "Our yards are side by side, and if we put a gate in the fence, we can share the whole space."

Wynter shook her head. "It's going to be hard enough as it is for her not to be with you and the kids every day once we get a permanent place. I don't want to add a puppy to everything else she's going to miss."

Mina pursed her lips as if to disagree but merely said, "We'll see."

For the next hour and a half, Wynter directed the half dozen men carrying boxes of books, furniture, and suitcases to various parts of the house. One of the last items off the truck was a tiger oak rolltop desk that she'd inherited from her grandmother. It was huge, heavy, and cumbersome, but she loved it and had carted it all over the country.

"Where to?" Pearce asked as she balanced one rear corner of the desk on her knee at the foot of the second-floor staircase. Ken had the front and another anesthesia resident, Tommy Argyle, had the opposite back corner.

"The middle room on the second floor. On the wall opposite the fireplace."

"It's going to be a tight corner up here," Ken called down.

"We might have to lift it up over the banister," Pearce said. She glanced at Tommy. "Think you can handle it?"

"Huh. With one arm tied behind my back."

Wynter rested a hand on Pearce's shoulder and said quietly, "Do you compete with everyone about everything?"

"It's no fun otherwise." Pearce craned her neck and called up to Ken, "Let's get this done. I smell pizza."

Wynter turned, and sure enough, the pizza delivery man stood behind her in the middle of the living room with eight large pizza boxes cradled in his arms. "Back here in the kitchen. I'll show you."

Wynter and Mina were setting out paper plates, napkins, and bottles of soda and beer when a crash sounded from above followed closely by a chorus of shouts. Wynter ran ahead of Mina and started up the stairs two at a time. Ken came racing down and nearly collided with her.

"Ice. We need some ice," Ken said urgently.

"What happened?" Wynter, a sick feeling in her stomach, searched the landing above but saw no one.

"Tommy dropped the damn thing."

"Is he hurt?"

"He's fine, but Pearce got her hand caught--"

"Oh God. Pearce." Wynter pushed around Ken and ran upstairs.

The men huddled around a figure on the floor. The desk sat on its side nearby. She pushed at the nearest figure. "Move. Move out of the way."

Pearce slumped on the floor, one arm cradled across her chest, her head leaning back against the wall. Her face was ashen. Wynter dropped to her knees beside her. "Let me see."

"Give me a minute," Pearce whispered.

Wynter could hear the pain in her voice and it tore at her. She was used to seeing people in pain from far greater injuries, but she felt exactly the way she did when Ronnie hurt herself. She wanted to absorb the pain, take it away at all costs. So she did exactly what she did when Ronnie was hurt. She put her arm around Pearce's shoulders and drew her close. "Let me see, honey. It's okay."

Eyes still closed, Pearce buried her cheek against Wynter's chest, trying to lose herself in the scent of petals and raindrops and long ago joy. "Hurts. Hurts like a mother."

"I know. I know it does." Wynter pillowed Pearce's head between her breasts, rocking her softly. Then she kissed the top of her head and stroked her sweaty cheek. "Are you bleeding?"

"Don't know. Don't think so."

Wynter felt a rush of relief. Her stomach was twisted into knots, her chest so tight she could barely breathe. "Do you think you can let me look now?"

"Couldn't have been my foot," Pearce said, her voice stronger.

"Had to be my goddamn hand."

"Pearce," Wynter said more firmly, her own strength returning along with Pearce's. "Let's see what we're dealing with."

With a soft groan, Pearce sat forward, still half in Wynter's lap. She lifted her left hand, gently supporting it with her right. It was already twice its normal size, the knuckles scraped and swollen.

"Range your fingers for me...slowly," Wynter instructed quietly, one hand on the back of Pearce's neck, lightly caressing her.

Even though the pain threatened to overpower her, Pearce managed to extend her fingers nearly completely, but she could not make a fist.

There was too much swelling. "I don't think anything's broken."

Wynter laughed softly. "Thank you Dr. X-ray Eyes. That's so helpful."

Ken clambered up the stairs, shouting, "I've got the ice."

"Good. Give it to me." Wynter reached behind her without taking her eyes off Pearce's hand and set the plastic bag of ice on the floor by her feet.

"Is it bad?" Ken asked anxiously. "Should we take her to the ER?"

Wynter felt Pearce tense. "No. We're okay. I'll be down in a minute."

Ken rocked back and forth uncertainly for a minute, and then when ignored, crept away.

"I'm going to palpate it," Wynter said.

Wincing, Pearce gently probed the base of each finger. "I don't feel anything."

"Just let me confirm." Gently, Wynter repeated the action, searching for point tenderness that would indicate a fracture. On close examination, Pearce's fingers did not appear deviated, and there was no apparent deformity of the hand. The marked swelling and rapidly discoloring skin made it difficult to examine her critically, however.

"We've got to X-ray this."

"Let's ice it first and see what it looks like in a few hours. The last thing I want to do is sit in the emergency room for half the day." What Pearce didn't say was that if she showed up in the emergency room, someone would call her father within two minutes. She didn't want him involved. She didn't want to hear him tell her that she shouldn't have been doing anything to endanger her hands. Every time she worked on her car, she heard his voice admonishing her. She could just imagine what he'd say about her moving furniture.

"I'll call ahead and let them know we're coming," Wynter said.

"I'm sure they'll get you right in--"

"No," Pearce said fiercely.

Wynter recognized the fear beneath the stubbornness, and because she couldn't imagine Pearce being afraid of anything, she relented.

After a final gentle caress down Pearce's neck and over her shoulders, she retrieved the ice pack and held it out. "We'll wait until tonight. If it's worse, we're going."

Pearce carefully placed the ice pack on the palm of her hand and leaned back against the wall. She regarded Wynter through eyes dull with pain. "You've been waiting for this moment, haven't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"For me to be helpless so that you could take charge."

Wynter laughed. "Oh, if I had wanted to take charge, I already would have." She brushed the damp midnight strands off Pearce's forehead. "And if I had wanted you helpless, I probably could've managed that without the desk."

Despite the relentless, thundering pain in her arm, Pearce was aware of her body quickening. She knew that Wynter didn't mean what she had said that way, but her body would do what her body would do.

She stretched her legs restlessly, trying to lessen the sudden tightness in her thighs. "Pretty confident."

"You just noticed?"

Pearce grinned and closed her eyes with a sigh. "No. I noticed."

Wynter wanted to tell everyone in the house to clear out. She wanted to take Pearce to her bedroom, where she didn't even have a bed, and tuck her in. She wanted to watch her sleep and guard her while she did. She wanted to take away her pain. She wanted to kiss her and make her feel better--make herself feel...something. Something she couldn't even name.

Instead, she got unsteadily to her feet, her legs weak with the force of her unexpected desires. "I'm going to get you a soda. Can you eat anything?"

Pearce shook her head. "Not yet. But I could use something to drink and a half bottle of aspirin."

"Coming right up."

Ken and the others waited in a nervous clump at the bottom of the stairs. Tommy stood next to him looking miserable.

"Is it bad?" Ken repeated anxiously.

"I can't tell. It's pretty swollen."

"Oh man," Tommy moaned. "Jesus, if it's broken her old man is going to take me out and kick my ass into the river."

"If it's broken..." Wynter said tightly, wanting to say that Rifkin wouldn't have to kick Tommy's ass because she would, "it will heal, and it will be fine. She'll be fine." She walked away from them, determined that it would be so. She didn't intend to let anything hurt Pearce.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Do you think we should wake her up?" Mina asked Wynter, who leaned in the doorway between the dining room and the living room watching Pearce.

Wynter shook her head. "It's her hand, not her head. We don't have to wake her up for neurochecks."

"She sure sleeps like someone knocked her out."

Although Wynter's books and personal articles were still in boxes stacked about the room, the living room furniture was at least accessible, and she had insisted that Pearce stretch out in the leather recliner and rest. The men had consumed the pizza and quickly disappeared. While Ken and Mina fed the kids next door, Wynter had curled up on the sofa next to Pearce to read a book. Now, four hours later, Mina was back, the sun had gone down, and Pearce had not stirred.

"She works too hard," Wynter murmured, trying to recall the last time she had seen Pearce leave the hospital before midnight. Just like her father.

"I'm awake." Pearce, her long legs spread on the raised foot support, shifted in the chair and opened her eyes. "Stop talking about me."

"Well, there goes all the fun," Mina said, starting toward the front door. "I'll see about getting the Wild Bunch settled in for the night.

Chloe's probably ready to go home."

"I'll give you a hand in a minute," Wynter called.

"I've got it all under control--you'll just mess up my system. You look after the patient here."

Laughing, Wynter edged around boxes and settled on the corner of the coffee table nearest Pearce. "How do you feel?"

"A little fuzzy. What exactly did you give me?" she asked suspiciously.

"Three aspirin and ten milligrams of Valium. I thought the muscle relaxation might help with the pain."

"Jesus," Pearce muttered. "Leave it to a surgeon to just take over.

Don't mind me, I'm only the patient."

"It's standard procedure to sedate a trauma patient," Wynter said, looking not the least bit contrite. "No one's allergic to Valium. And admit it--you feel better, don't you?"

Pearce rolled her head back and forth. The sick headache was gone. Then she glanced down to her lap where her hand rested on the soggy ice pack wrapped in a towel. Experimentally, she flexed her fingers. "It's easing up."

"Let me see."

Wynter cradled Pearce's injured hand in both of hers. She felt the pulses, examined the scrapes, probed gently. "It's definitely not worse."

"I said that." Pearce wasn't even thinking about the pain. She was studying Wynter's face as she bent her head over Pearce's injured hand.

Pearce wanted to run her fingers through Wynter's hair. She wanted to trace her fingers along the edge of Wynter's jaw as she had that one time years before. She wanted to close her eyes, believing that she would awaken to the smile in Wynter's eyes. "I should get home."

Wynter straightened, carefully releasing Pearce's hand. She wanted Pearce to stay so that she could check her hand throughout the evening and just...watch her. Watch her sleep, watch her laugh, watch her stretch her long body in that lazy animal way she had. "I'll drive you. Where is your car parked?"

"I walked."

"You live near here?" Wynter had not expected that the chief of surgery's daughter would live in the off-campus student enclave.

University City was an eclectic mixture of beautiful old homes that had been converted into student apartments, gentrified sections cheek by jowl with blocks where it wasn't safe to leave any items in a parked car.

It was convenient to the hospitals and campus and cheap by comparison to many other areas, but not the first choice of those with enough money to live in Center City apartments with all the amenities and close to the night life. Many of the residents like Ken and Mina lived there, and Wynter needed an apartment with proximity to the hospital so that she could minimize her time away from Ronnie. Adding an hour-a day commute to her already overburdened schedule was simply not acceptable.

"About five blocks," Pearce said. "A ten-minute walk."

"I'll walk you home, then."

Pearce grinned. "Do you think I need an escort?"

"No," Wynter said with exaggerated emphasis. "I think you've taken a muscle relaxant and the effects have not worn off. You have a badly injured hand. And you shouldn't be walking around at night alone when you're incapable of protecting yourself if you have to."

"I'll be fine." To prove it, Pearce kicked the foot extension down and stood. She swayed, instantly dizzy.

"God, you're stubborn," Wynter snapped as she jumped up and wrapped an arm around Pearce's waist. When Pearce sagged against her, Wynter knew she must really be feeling ill. "You don't have to prove anything to me. I already know how tough you are."

"Not trying to prove anything," Pearce muttered, desperately willing her head to stop spinning.

Yes, you are, if you know it or not. Wynter rubbed her palm in circles in the center of Pearce's back, supporting her until she saw the vacant expression on Pearce's face disappear and her usual focus return.

"Okay now?"

Pearce, embarrassed by her weakness but enjoying the contact with Wynter, settled her arm around Wynter's shoulders and squeezed.

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Let me go next door and tell Ronnie I'm going out for a while, and then we'll get you home. I'll just be a minute."

"You're going to introduce us, remember?"

"You sure? We can do it some other time when you're feeling better."

Pearce shrugged. She liked the idea of there being another time, but she didn't want to wait. She might not have anything else in her life except work and her car, but Wynter did, and she wanted to know something about it. "No, come on. I'll go over with you."

"All right," Wynter relented dubiously, "but take it easy, okay?"

Pearce looked down at her hand. It was discolored and raw, the knuckles crusted where the skin had been crushed between the desk and the banister. Just remembering it made her queasy. "You don't think this will scare her, do you?"

"Ronnie understands about owies, she just doesn't appreciate that some could be much worse than others. She won't be frightened because she's used to bumps and bruises."

"Some fucking owie," Pearce muttered.

"Come on, Chief," Wynter said, squeezing Pearce's good hand.

"Let me take you over to meet my little angel."

v The little angel, looking cuddly and sweet in soft flannel jammies covered with Scooby-Doo and friends, was in the midst of demolishing a fort, which she and Mina's son Winston had built out of blocks, by crashing a red fire truck into it and screaming boom each time more blocks scattered across the floor. Plastic action figures that had been perched atop the blocks flew willy-nilly through the air. Winston, his face set in studied concentration, carefully picked up each fallen body and placed it into a white plastic ambulance.

Pearce stood in a doorway observing the carnage, thinking that the beautiful child with the red-blond hair might very well be angelic under other circumstances. At the moment she looked like a little terror. "They make a good pair," she whispered to Wynter, who stood beside her looking amused. "Ronnie runs them down and he resuscitates them."

Laughing, Wynter picked her way across the toy-littered floor and squatted down by the absorbed children. After a few whispered words to her daughter, she stood, Ronnie in her arms, and crossed back to Pearce. "Honey, this is my friend Pearce. We work together at the hospital."

Ronnie studied Pearce solemnly, her enormous blue eyes the exact color of Wynter's. Then with a squeak, she buried her face in her mother's neck.

"Oops," Pearce said.

Wynter rubbed Ronnie's back and rocked from side to side in a motion that was second nature to her. She shook her head. "It's just the age. Nothing personal."

"If you say so."

"Let me get her settled and then we can go."

"You sure? Because I can--"

"Stop," Wynter said firmly and returned Ronnie to the play area.

Within seconds, the two children were once more absorbed in their demolition activities.

As they walked outside, Pearce said, "She's gorgeous. She looks just like you."

"Thank you." The sidewalks were dry, but snow banks lined the walkways, remnants of the last storm. In the dark, with only the street lights for illumination, everything looked clean and oddly peaceful.

Wynter took a deep breath of the cold night air and felt good all over.

She did not have to work the next day, her child seemed to be settling into their new living circumstances well with the help of Ken and Mina's extended family support structure, and she was walking with a person whose company she enjoyed. An attractive, intriguing person.

A woman. A woman who occupied far more of her thoughts than any person in recent memory. She was going to have to think about that soon, but right now, she just wanted to be happy. "She's a really solid little kid."

"Uh...what about her father?"

Wynter looked straight ahead, her expression remote. "What about him?"

"Does he...you know...get to have her part of the time?" Pearce unzipped her army jacket halfway and slid her left hand inside against her body, letting the material form a makeshift sling. The cold was making her hand ache.

"Is your hand okay?"

"I know it's there."

"I want to take another look at it when we get to your place."

"It's just around the corner." Pearce recognized evasion. She was an expert at it. "Ronnie's father?"

"I have primary custody. He gets unlimited visitation--which he apparently has no desire for." Wynter pushed her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat. "He also has a new wife and an infant. He started that family before our divorce. I haven't seen or heard from him in six months."

"Fucker," Pearce said vehemently.

"Yes."

"I can't imagine anyone looking at another woman when they had you."

Wynter blinked, speechless, and tried to remember when anyone had ever said anything as nice to her before. And the funny thing was, Pearce hadn't said it to get anything from her. Not a date, not a kiss, not a promise of anything at all. In fact, she'd said it in an angry tone as if deeply affronted by the very thought. "Thank you."

Pearce whipped her head around and frowned at Wynter. "He was obviously a jerk."

"He was," Wynter agreed. "I feel stupid for not realizing it sooner.

He wanted a stay-at-home wife, but I never saw that, even when he tried to talk me out of surgery."

"But you were married when you were a medical student. He must've realized you weren't going to be that kind of wife." Pearce stopped in front of what had once been a huge single-family home.

It was set back from the street with a slate sidewalk that bisected the front lawn. Four mailboxes were lined up on the wall next to the double wooden front doors. "I'm in here."

"We met when we were freshmen in the combined BS/MD program. I don't think either one of us realized what medicine was going to be like--we were only eighteen years old. We got married in med school before I'd even had a surgery rotation. My choosing surgery was our first big issue, because he wanted a family right away and my residency was going to be a problem. My hours weren't conducive to easy child care."

"And what about him? Couldn't he have helped out there?"

"He's an orthopedic surgery resident at Yale. That's why I ranked Yale surgery first--he already had a promise of a spot outside the match, and obviously, I had to go where he was going." She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. She'd followed him to Yale, even though it wasn't where she wanted to train. Her fault. She'd ignored all the signs that they were a bad match until it was far too late.

"You should have dumped him then."

Wynter smiled wryly. "Probably. But I was pregnant. I didn't mean to be--but the Pill never agreed with me and he hated condoms and sometimes--" She colored and looked away, realizing how pathetic she must sound to Pearce. "I made some stupid choices."

"Maybe, maybe not. But you have the little angel to show for it,"

Pearce said quietly, gratified to see Wynter's smile deepen to one of pleasure. "Look, do you want to come in for a minute?"

"I'd like to see your hand again."

"Come on, then." Pearce led the way up the sidewalk and unlocked the front door. She stepped into a small granite-tiled foyer with beaten tin wainscoting painted eggshell white. When Wynter followed her in, she felt the press of Wynter's body close against her side. She never wanted to move. She wanted to stay in that warm secluded space where they had nowhere to go except up against one another. She wanted Wynter to hold her injured hand again, to cradle it against her breast, to ease the pain with the force of her caring. She couldn't think of anything except Wynter and the smell of her hair and the soothing tones of her voice, and she fumbled for the doorknob on the interior door with its leaded glass windows. Her voice sounded hoarse to her own ears.

"One flight up."

"Okay," Wynter said softly.

Pearce led the way up the wide curved wooden staircase to the central hallway on the second floor. She unlocked a door on the right side that opened into what once had been a formal sitting room. It was now her bedroom, living room, and study all rolled into one. A dark burgundy sofa bed sat in front of the bay windows, facing into the room.

A stone fireplace was centered on the opposite wall, a desk next to it, and an archway beyond that led into a small kitchen. A dresser stood in the far corner of the room next to another door that undoubtedly led to the bathroom. There were books and journals everywhere, and the room reminded Wynter of the abandoned residents' lounge in the hospital. It was definitely Pearce.

"I like your place," Wynter said.

Pearce was busy making space on the sofa, awkwardly stacking textbooks and stapled articles into piles on either side with one hand. "I don't get many visitors."

Wynter wondered whether Pearce brought women here. Dates or...whatever. The thought unsettled her, because it was so unlike her to even go there, let alone to have the quick surge of jealousy that accompanied the visions. "That's okay. Don't fuss."

"I have..." Pearce ran a hand through her hair, looking flummoxed.

"I don't know what I have. Beer for sure. Maybe a bottle of wine somewhere. Hot chocolate?"

"You have hot chocolate?" Wynter asked with pleasure.

Pearce grinned. "Yup. It's a weakness of mine."

"Mine too."

Relieved to have something to do, Pearce indicated the sofa.

"Sit down. I'll have it in a minute. I like mine with warm milk. Is that okay?"

"It's perfect, but let me help. You're one-handed, remember?"

The kitchen, although tiny, was impeccably clean. Probably, Wynter surmised, due to the fact that Pearce obviously didn't cook.

The refrigerator held a container of milk, a pizza box on the bottom shelf, a six-pack of beer, some cheese, and a half dozen eggs. While Pearce got mugs and cocoa, Wynter warmed the milk. "How long have you had this place?"

"Since I was a medical student."

"You didn't live at home?"

Pearce carefully placed the mugs on a metal tray with a Coca Cola sign painted in the center. She didn't look at Wynter when she answered. "No. I haven't lived at home since I was seventeen."

Wynter leaned one shoulder against the refrigerator, watching the shadows flicker over Pearce's face. "Did your father and your grandfather go to Penn too?"

"Yup. And my great grandfather, and my great great grandfather."

"Did you ever think about going somewhere else?"

"No."

"It must've been tough."

Pearce pointed to the refrigerator. "I should make another ice pack."

"I'll get it." Wynter opened the freezer door and jiggled the ice tray to free it from the accumulated frost. Pearce was very adept at deflecting the conversation away from the personal. At least her personal life. Wynter realized she'd shared more with Pearce in a few brief conversations than with anyone other than Mina. Pearce had a way of listening that made her feel heard. "That's quite a legacy to live up to. Did it bother you?"

"I always knew what I would be. I always knew where I would end up." Pearce spoke quietly as she searched in a cabinet for a dish towel. "It never occurred to me that there was any other choice."

Wynter turned with the ice cube tray between her fingers, trying not to freeze her hands. She held it out. "Are you happy with the way things turned out?"

Pearce settled the tray onto the palm of her uninjured hand, studying the orderly alignment of the rectangular cubes. "I don't know.

I've never stopped long enough to think about it." She looked into Wynter's eyes. "How about you?"

"I'm pretty happy with where things are right at this minute."

Wynter smiled. Standing in Pearce's kitchen with the smell of cocoa in the air, she realized just exactly how much she meant that.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Oh, God," Wynter murmured, stretching her stocking feet toward the fireplace. "If I stay a minute longer, I'm not going to be able to get up and go home."

Pearce turned her head lazily on the sofa, her heavy white mug of hot chocolate balanced on her knee. She had forgotten to drink it as they had talked about medical school and Wynter's residency at Yale, sharing the many experiences they had in common. They had not mentioned Wynter's ex-husband again, although Wynter spoke often and freely about Ronnie. Pearce found she could easily discount the shadow of a husband if she didn't think about it too hard. She could sometimes even forget that Wynter was very likely to have another husband before very long. She was too beautiful and bright and dynamic to be without a partner. But those were thoughts for lonely nights when she stared into the fireplace and saw only dying embers, not the promise of light and warmth. Tonight, Wynter was beside her, and nothing had ever felt quite so right. "I'll walk you home."

"I believe I see a pattern forming here." Wynter tipped her cup and drank the last of the bittersweet chocolate. "No. We already established that you shouldn't be wandering around by yourself."

"I'm fine now. The Valium has worn off, and"--she held up her hand--"this feels a lot better."

"What are you going to do if you have to operate tomorrow?"

Wynter tucked her feet up under her on the sofa and studied Pearce, who lounged a foot away on the opposite end, her head tipped back against the sofa, her back relaxed into the curve of the cushions, her legs splayed. So comfortable in her own body. So apparently unaware of how beautiful she was.

"I'm backup call. Hopefully it will be quiet. If not, I'll get a glove on somehow and fake it with my good hand. I'd only need to scrub to second assist anyhow."

"Pearce," Wynter said with real worry. "It will kill you to scrub with those open wounds. Your hand will be a bloody mess before you're done."

"I'll use one of the scrubless chemical disinfectants." She grinned at Wynter's groan. "Okay, so it'll still sting like a mother, but I won't tear anything open with a brush. I'll survive. Besides, chances are I'll get a few phone calls during the day and nothing else, so I won't even need to go in. How 'bout you? What are your plans for tomorrow?"

"You know that you're an expert at changing the subject?"

Pearce frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Wynter leaned toward her and rested her fingertips on Pearce's knee. She tapped for emphasis as she spoke. "Whenever we talk about you, if it gets the least bit confrontational, you change the subject. Or if we're sharing secrets, you manage to turn everything back on me. You know more about me than my mother at this point. And I don't know anything about you."

"Okay," Pearce said with a hint of challenge in her voice. "Ask me something."

"It doesn't work that way," Wynter said in exasperation. "It's not about twenty questions. It's about...it's about..." She stopped, uncertain what it was about. She'd never been bothered when her other friends had been overly private. She'd never wanted to know everything about one of them. What made them happy. What made them sad. What they dreamed about. She had no idea why it annoyed her that Pearce would not easily disclose those things to her. "Never mind."

"You know things about me too," Pearce said quietly. "Secret things."

"Really? What?"

Pearce tapped the back of Wynter's hand where it now rested on her thigh. "You know about my secret room. You know about the hot chocolate. You know about..." She searched her mind frantically and then looked into Wynter's inquisitive eyes, knowing that she had told Wynter her story in fragments over dinner the night Wynter had arrived, in the abandoned residents' lounge, in the operating room as they teased and bantered, and this evening, as they talked in desultory tones about growing up with the knowledge they would always be doctors, and nothing else. "You know that I am everything my family expected me to be...except a son."

Wynter's lips parted in stunned surprise. "You can't mean that."

"You've seen him with me. I'm the only heir." She tried to put words to what she had always known but never wanted to face. From the time he had first taken her with him on rounds, she had understood that that place--those buildings, those people, that world--was her destiny. She would be what he expected, because that's why she had been born. "I'm his legacy. That's what he sees when he looks at me."

"Are you doing what you want to do with your life?"

"I don't know. I never had any reason to think about it." Pearce rolled her shoulders and forced a smile. "It doesn't matter now. It works for me."

Wynter didn't question that statement. It wasn't her place to second-guess what made Pearce happy. "What are your plans? After you finish?"

Pearce watched the flames lick at the center of a thick log, destroying it from the heart out, weakening it until only a shell remained around a crumbling black core. "I'll do a vascular or CT fellowship somewhere, then move into an academic position. I'll earn my stripes, and eventually I'll come back here. And I'll take my father's place."

"Is that what he did?"

"No, he's always been here. But there won't be room for me here for a while. Things have changed enough that he won't be able to push for me to succeed him unless I've got the credentials to support it. To do that, I'll have to break ground elsewhere."

"There aren't very many female chairs of surgery," Wynter said, stating what they both knew. It was still very rare for a woman to head the most powerful division in the hospital hierarchy, and the competition for the coveted position was fierce. Pearce would have to devote every waking moment for years before she might obtain the reluctant respect and support of her colleagues.

Pearce grinned, a hard, feral grin. "None of it's a cakewalk, is it?"

"No," Wynter admitted, thinking that there were easier paths to take. Paths that would allow Pearce some kind of life, some kind of happiness. "Is it what you want?"

"Sure." Abruptly, Pearce stood. "I'll walk you halfway home."

"I want to check your hand tomorrow. Remember that you agreed if it wasn't better you'd get an X-ray."

"If it's not better, I'll--"

"No. No deals."

Pearce started to protest, then sighed. "Okay. Come by whenever you're free. I don't have any plans."

"All right," Wynter said, watching as the large log split in half.

The pieces dropped to either side of the dancing ring of flames and lay smoldering alone on the edges of the fire. The blaze was so beautiful as it consumed itself. And so sad.

v "And then the Little Prince..." Wynter carefully closed the book and leaned over her sleeping daughter to rest it on the windowsill.

Ronnie lay curled up against her side, sleeping the dreamless sleep of the innocents. She'd awakened when Wynter had kissed her upon returning home, and had insisted on a story. Wynter leaned down and kissed her forehead once more, then eased out from under the covers and tucked her child in securely. A Mickey Mouse night-light by the bed guided her through the small room to the door that connected to hers. She left Ronnie's door slightly ajar and turned on the standing lamp just inside her own bedroom.

With a sigh, she contemplated her empty double bed and the prospect of reading until she fell asleep. That usually took under five minutes. Tonight, however, she was restless and had a feeling that it would take more than a few chapters of Elizabeth George to wash away the residual tensions of the day. The move, Pearce's accident, the storm of emotions that her conversation with Pearce about her marriage had brought up for her had left her feeling wired.

A glass of wine might help.

As she passed Ken and Mina's bedroom, she saw that the door was open. Mina always slept with the door open when Ken was on call, as if to maintain contact with the other sleeping members of the house when the bed beside her was empty. The blue-gray light of the television seeped into the hallway. The sound was muted, but she could hear laughter. Probably Letterman. She tapped lightly on the door and pushed it open an inch. "Mina?"

"You're up late," Mina called.

"It's only midnight."

"And you're usually asleep before dinner's over. Come on in."

"I was going to get some wine. Can I bring you anything?"

"Popcorn. Make it two bags. And a Dr Pepper."

"Coming right up."

Ten minutes later, Wynter returned with a tray laden with snacks and drinks and a bottle of wine under one arm. "I'm going to miss this when I'm living next door."

"Well, you're not going to be over there for at least a week until we get you unpacked and settled. And then you're only going to be next door, which means we can still have slumber parties." Mina patted the bed beside her. "Come get under the covers and bring all that good stuff with you."

Wynter set the tray down on the bedside table, put the bottle on the floor, and dug through the closet where she knew Mina kept the extra pillows. She grabbed one, then returned to the bed and kicked off the moccasins she wore around the house. She tossed the pillow onto Ken's side of the bed, placed the tray carefully in the center, and climbed under the down comforter. With a sigh, she poured a glass of wine, balanced the wineglass on her stomach, and leaned back into the pillows. "I feel guilty about being happy that Ken's not here tonight."

"No reason to. He gets me two out of every three nights." Mina turned down the sound on the television until it was only background noise. Reaching for the popcorn, she said, "Something wrong?"

Wynter sipped her wine. "No, not really. Just--I don't know, sometimes I'm so busy trying to get through every day that I never really stop to think what I'm doing."

"You've been going pretty much full speed ahead since you were a medical student. Feeling a little burned out?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. I really like the work. I'm no more tired now than I ever used to be. In fact, it's a lot easier than it was when Ronnie was three months old and never slept through the night."

"You had Dave around then," Mina said carefully.

"Oh yeah, and he was so much help." Wynter snorted and downed half the wine in her glass. She leaned over the side of the bed and found the bottle, replenished her wine, and took another swallow. Then, remembering her vow not to be bitter about what she couldn't change, and not to forget that she had had some part in the decisions that had led her into a life she had not wanted, she amended, "All right, he was good with Ronnie in the beginning. And that did make a difference."

"I wasn't talking about child care. I was talking about him warming your bed."

"I'm not talking about sex."

"Maybe that's because you haven't had any for a while."

Wynter laughed and nearly upset her wine. "I don't have time to get a haircut, let alone find the time or privacy to have sex."

"Don't tell me there aren't some likely candidates at that hospital that you couldn't drag off into some empty room for twenty minutes."

"Oh, please. That's just what I need. To get the reputation for being an easy lay."

"Well, would you rather get the reputation of being an Ice Queen and scare all the likely takers away?"

"I'd like," Wynter said with feigned dignity, "to get the reputation of being an unassailably professional physician."

"Oh, bull. You just haven't seen anyone you want to get into the sack."

Wynter had to admit that that was true. Even well before her divorce, she and Dave had not been sleeping with one another. It had taken her a while to realize that he was home less and less, even more absent than a busy residency would require, and after she had become suspicious, she hadn't wanted to sleep with him when he was home.

When he didn't challenge their sudden abstinence, she had finally put all the pieces together. She had asked a few friends who were nurses at the hospital what they knew, and they had reluctantly admitted that it was common knowledge that he was involved with a senior medical student. She'd met him at the door after he'd been out all night with another "emergency," demanded his keys, and told him to pack a suitcase and get out. That had been over a year ago, and with her life in total disorder since, sex had disappeared from her radar.

"I'm not looking for a bedmate."

"All right," Mina acquiesced cheerfully, "then what do you think it is that's gotten you out of sorts?"

"I'm not out of sorts. I'm just...restless."

"Restless. Restless like you want to take a trip?"

"No."

"Restless like...you hate your job and want to do something else with your life?"

"No."

"Restless like you need an emergency vacation from the kids?"

"No. Mina--"

"Restless like--"

"Stop!" Wynter pleaded. "Just forget I said anything."

"You know I can't. It's gonna bother me so much that I won't be able to sleep."

"Liar."

"Are you going to eat that popcorn?"

"No, go ahead."

"So," Mina observed, tearing into the second bag, "maybe it's got something to do with Pearce."

A rush of heat started at Wynter's toes and climbed to the top of her head. "What are you talking about?"

"Maybe she's making you uneasy."

Wynter's throat was so dry she could barely speak. "What...why do you say that?"

"Because she's got the hots for you."

Wynter shivered as if the wind had suddenly blown through the room, carrying slivers of ice that pricked at her skin. "That's ridiculous."

Mina laughed. "Oh, honey. You do need a vacation if you can't recognize when someone is looking at you like they want to lick every little drop of sweat from your--"

"Pearce is a lesbian. She's not going to be looking at me that way."

"Last time I looked, you were female."

"That's different. I'm not even her type."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I've seen the kind of women she goes for, and believe me...This is ridiculous. What difference does it make what kind of woman Pearce Rifkin is attracted to? It wouldn't be me."

"You sound like that might bother you," Mina said with a gentle question in her voice.

"That's not what I meant. I just meant..." Wynter had no idea what she meant. She emptied her wineglass in a long swallow and gathered the remnants of their late-night snack. "I promised Ronnie she could help me make pancakes tomorrow morning. Which means she's going to be up at five a.m. We'd better get some sleep."

"You can snuggle up right here," Mina said. "You know I don't snore."

"Thanks," Wynter said, leaning over to give Mina a quick hug.

"I'd better bunk in next to her so that I can divert her if she decides to go exploring when she wakes up."

"Well, if you want company, I'm here."

"I appreciate it. Night." Wynter made her way through the silent house to the kitchen. As she methodically rinsed the wineglass, put the bottle in the recycler, and tied up a bag of trash, she kept thinking about what Mina had said. That Pearce had looked at her with desire.

It shouldn't have meant anything to her, no more than if a man she was not attracted to had made an overture. But Pearce wasn't a man, and the only thing she knew for certain was that she liked the way Pearce looked at her.