Midwives On Call: Stealing The Surgeon's Heart. Marion Lennox

she unravelled the oxygen tubing and slipped the mask over the man’s face as Ciro took the paramedics’ stethoscope while one inserted an IV bung, shaking his head as he listened to the patient’s chest.

      ‘Poor air entry, he’s making only minimal respiratory effort.’

      And there was a decision to be made—to scoop and run and take him to the hospital, which was a few minutes’ drive away at breakneck speed where skilled help and equipment was waiting, or to intubate the patient here, knowing that at any time Vince could arrest again or suffer another seizure.

      ‘His oxygen saturation is only eighty-five per cent,’ one of the paramedics called. ‘What do you want to do, Doc?’

      ‘Intubate,’ Ciro said after only the briefest of hesitations. Clearly the paramedics agreed with his decision and wasted no time in handing Ciro the necessary equipment as Harriet applied crico-thyroid pressure—pressing on the patient’s neck to allow for easier insertion of the tube.

      ‘His air entry is better now,’ Ciro said, listening to the chest again. ‘I think we should get him to Emergency now. Do you want me to let them know?’

      ‘We can do that. Are you coming for the ride, Doc?’ the paramedic asked. But another ambulance was pulling up now, more assistance arriving with each passing minute. The emergency was under control now and Ciro finally relaxed, a rueful smile appearing on his exhausted face.

      ‘Preferably no!’ He gestured to his drenched boxer shorts and now bare feet. ‘I’m sure you guys can take it from here.’ Standing up, he took a moment to shake the paramedics’ hands firmly. ‘You’ve done a great job. Thank you for your prompt assistance.’

      ‘No worries,’ one of the paramedics answered, lifting the stretcher, the wheels not exactly designed for the soft sand. ‘It’s going to be nice working with you, Doctor.’

      The other team was tending to the rescuer, wrapping him in blankets, reassuring Vince’s friend as the police arrived and started to make their enquiries, taking statements from the witnesses.

      ‘Here you go!’ A thick blanket was being placed around Harriet’s shoulders. Still kneeling on the sand, she was too tired even to offer her thanks and shivered violently, vaguely aware of Ciro talking to police officers as a paramedic knelt down beside her. ‘Are you OK?’

      Harriet nodded, her teeth chattering too violently to attempt an answer, shock and fatigue starting to set in.

      ‘You’ve cut yourself,’ the paramedic observed, shining his torch down her legs. Harriet vaguely recalled the sharp pain that had shot through her as she’d knelt down. She stared down at her leg as if it belonged to someone else as he carefully examined it. ‘Looks like it was glass, there’s a few broken bottles lying around. Let’s get you into the ambulance and get you to the hospital…’

      ‘I don’t need to go to hospital,’ Harriet managed, but something in her voice must have alerted Ciro. He swung around, forgetting the conversation he was having with the police officer and coming straight over.

      ‘What’s wrong?’

      ‘Nothing.’ Harriet coughed, wishing they would all leave her alone. ‘I’m cold, that’s all.’

      ‘She’s got a laceration on her leg…’

      ‘I’ve got a small cut on my leg,’ Harriet corrected him, but Ciro was dropping down on his own knees now, running a concerned, trained eye over her.

      ‘She had an appendicectomy last week,’ Ciro said to the hovering paramedic.

      ‘She can speak for herself,’ Harriet retorted.

      ‘She’s also a terribly uncooperative patient.’ Again he spoke over her, but there was a hint of humour that softened it, his eyes narrowing in concern as he eyed her more closely. ‘What is wrong, Harriet?’

      And he said it so softly, so gently she felt a sting of tears in her eyes. The night’s events, the week’s events, the entire wretched last few months finally catching up with her. ‘I’m cold and I’m tired and I just want to go…’ The tears came then, tears she had held back for so long now, tears she had sworn no one would ever see. But sitting on a beach, wrapped in an ambulance blanket, at two a.m. only compounded her sudden chaotic existence, only served to enforce her desolation.

      Ciro thankfully understood, realised that her tears and overwhelming lethargy were more emotional than physical, that the very last thing she needed right now was to be hauled back to hospital, to fan the flames she was so desperately trying to put out.

      ‘Let’s get you home.’ He said the last word very deliberately. His strong hand gently guided her up and he pulled her into his chest, he held her closely as he addressed the police officer.

      ‘I have told you all I can. If you need anything more from me you can contact me at the hospital.’

      ‘If you can just tell us when you first became aware—?’ the young officer started, but Ciro wasn’t listening.

      One strong arm around Harriet, he guided her slowly along the beach towards the apartments and called over his shoulder, ‘This can all wait until tomorrow.’

      They took the lift in silence, Ciro’s arm still wrapped around her, still holding her tightly against him. Somewhere between the second and third floors he wasn’t just someone to lean on, somewhere around the fourth the heart pounding in her ears was Ciro’s, not hers. As he held her to his chest, she could feel the quiet masculine strength of him, the smooth velvet of his chest against her cheek, the slight scratch of hair as he pulled her even closer, and she knew without looking that they were bypassing her floor, that they were going back to Ciro’s apartment.

      ‘I’m going to run you a warm bath and then take a look at you.’ Leading her over to the sofa, he unwrapped her from the blanket.

      Harriet gingerly sat down, casting a shy eye around the room.

      His apartment was the image of hers, exactly the same floor plan, the furniture almost identical, yet it was an entirely different dwelling. Somehow he had masculinised it, the tangy citrus of aftershave hanging in the air, a mountain of newspapers on the coffee-table, his tie and jacket tossed messily over the chair and endless coffee-cups filling the sink.

      ‘Your bath is ready.’ He was back, smiling that familiar professional smile, and Harriet almost physically ached for earlier, not the earlier downstairs in her own apartment but back in the lift, when he had held her in his arms, when he had dragged her into his personal space, his touch the only comfort that would suffice. But it would be dangerous to let him see that, dangerous to head down that path in a weak and vulnerable moment. It was far easier to paint on a smile, far easier to reassure him that she was fine.

      ‘I really am OK.’ She was feeling more like her old self now. The exquisite loneliness that had assailed her on the beach had abated and Harriet felt almost foolish for lowering her guard, guilty even that she had worried him. ‘I was just in such a deep sleep when you knocked, I didn’t have time to process it…’

      ‘You’ve had a shock,’ Ciro explained, the voice of reason, but Harriet shook her head.

      ‘I work in Emergency, Ciro. It’s hardly the first time I’ve given CPR.’

      ‘There’s a big difference between a well-stocked emergency room with doctors and nurses on tap and a beach in the middle of the night.’

      Almost reluctantly she nodded.

      ‘You’ve just recovered from surgery,’ Ciro continued. ‘You’re supposed to be resting.’

      ‘Hey, you were the one who knocked!’

      ‘And I’d do it again tomorrow,’ Ciro answered, ‘but that doesn’t mean—’ The ringing of the telephone halted his little lecture, but from the expletive that escaped his lips Harriet guessed he wasn’t particularly impressed at the intrusion.

      ‘Aren’t