Surgeons, Rivals...Lovers. Amalie Berlin

      She’s okay.

      They’re okay.

      Awake with head laceration.

      Okay.

      Okay.

      Of course this was how her first week in New York should start.

      By the time she reached the motorcyclist he was wholly beneath the SUV and several feet from where he’d landed. Dragged by the front bumper. The driver looked stunned through the shattered glass. He had a gash on his chin and another smaller cut above his left eye, but he was awake, moving…

      Over the past year she’d gone from running from accidents to running toward them—but it always felt wrong. Even the times she’d come on the scene after the carnage had been wrought, her very soul had vibrated with the wrongness of it.

      Wrongful death. All her fault.

      From the first wreck she’d passed on the highway after her accident—when she’d been three months post-op, still in a cast, and on the way to yet another session with her physical therapist—she’d forced her mother to stop the car so she could get out and help. And she hadn’t stopped since that accident. Couldn’t stop.

      Only the top of her current patient’s helmet showed his location under the SUV and the only thing she could feel at all good about was the lack of engine noises. It must have shut off during impact.

      “Check breathing,” she whispered to herself, words slipping in a steady stream through her lips as she talked herself through the things she needed to do. Order of operations. Mental checklist for emergency scenarios. Only action could keep her focused, let her ignore the tangle of emotion rotting in her gut.

      It was also the only way to try to block out Janie’s face, always with her—cut, battered and swollen—at the back of her mind. It became harder to ignore in situations like this.

      “Bashing damage to chest. Get to his chest…”

      If his heart still beat, he had a chance. If she got to him fast enough… Nothing could guarantee survival. Even if he appeared stable, some injuries just took longer to kill you than others.

      “If the patient can’t come to you, you go to the patient. Gotta get under the car…”

      She dropped her backpack as she fell to her knees and scrambled over broken glass. Craning her neck, she looked under the car to see if anything besides the helmet had been snagged.

      She couldn’t see much besides that he wasn’t moving. To try to take control of her mouth, she began to narrate on purpose—the habit drilled into her as an intern so that the patient knew what you were doing. And on the off chance that he could hear her…

      “Sir?” Sir, because this patient wasn’t Janie. Sir. A man. A man she didn’t know. Not her fault. Not her fault, not this time. “Keep still, I’m going to come under there with you.”

      Her voice sounded shrill even to her own ears. Anyone would know she teetered on the edge of panic, but she wouldn’t fall headlong into it. She had control. Always. Always. But if her patient could hear her, she should be comforting him. Making him confident she’d help him, not squeaking like a cartoon mouse. Her throat refused to loosen, but she forced a few more words through. “I’m a doctor… We’re going to get you out of there.”

      Her heart banged a couple times, popping out of rhythm as it tended to do when dosed with adrenaline. It would settle down. It was nothing, a flutter. Pay no attention…

      “Not answering… not moving…” The whispering started again, and something new—the slow, hard beats of her heart, an insistent reminder of the emotion she tried so desperately to ignore. He was never coming out of this. There was nothing she could do.

      Be optimistic…

      Straightening, she looked around the street to the closest group of people, eyes skating from figure to figure. No police to help yet…

      Get under the car. Take a light.

      Ripping open her backpack, she fumbled inside for the kit, glad for once that she had to keep it with her.

      Once the dented silver case was in her hand, she flipped it open and snatched out the penlight. With only her light clutched in her hand, she looked around again for help.

      Running toward her through the scene she saw a figure in ceil blue, the color of the scrubs she also wore.

      Someone with appropriate skills coming to help…

      She flattened to her belly and crawled under the SUV with her patient. When she was beneath far enough to reach his wrist, she felt for a pulse. Present… but weak. She continued to narrate, as she’d been taught to do. The practice was supposed to help patients manage their own fear in emergency situations, but it saved her from drowning every time. Even now, when the man didn’t move or answer her.

      She ran her light up and down the motorcyclist’s body, looking for points of contact with the vehicle. Nothing. No snags. No parts of his body pinned beneath wheels. It didn’t look as if he had any points of contact with the underside or the vehicle, except for where the bumper had snagged his helmet.

      “Is he trapped?” a man’s voice yelled from beside her, his words only just registering above the noise of the street and the roar in her ears.

      Kimberlyn backed up carefully, doing her best not to bloody herself on the broken glass. When she finally got out, she took the light out of her mouth and straightened to look at her helper. The embroidery on the left breast of his scrubs showed the name of her hospital, where she’d been headed for her first day.

      The name DellaToro stood out on the tag beneath the logo for West Manhattan Saints.

      Him. Enzo, her cousin Caren had called him. At least she knew he was knowledgeable and skilled. He’d help her.

      From the narrowing of his gaze as it rolled over her own embroidered name, he recognized who she was, too.

      Neither Caren nor her new friend Tessa had told her how good-looking the man was. Dark hair and olive-skinned, deliciously scruffy. Shockingly dark blue eyes beneath eyebrows built for brooding… No wonder he was so used to people doing what he told them to. Difficult to argue with a jaw that square—made him look hard and unyielding. Like granite. Sexy, sexy granite.

      Perfect time to think about the man’s attractiveness. Goodness, what was wrong with her?

      The answer hit like a slap in the face. His face had blocked out Janie’s. That was why she’d noticed, and why her cheeks tingled.

      What she needed was for her patient’s face to replace Janie’s. He deserved all her attention. But DellaToro’s scruffy good looks would serve as a guilt shield until she could get that helmet off.

      “The helmet is wedged under the bumper.” Breathlessness replaced her shrill tone. Was that better? “But it doesn’t look like there’s any crushed areas or snags. We have to get him out from under there.”

      “But the helmet is wedged?” He bent to look, then felt around to where it was caught, apparently coming to the same conclusion she had: there was no foolproof way to get him out from under there. “We need to be careful of his spine.”

      “I know, but a perfect spine never did anything for a dead man. I can’t even tell how he’s breathing like this. Or if his eyes are open.” Or show her inner demon that the motorcyclist wasn’t Janie, even though she logically knew that couldn’t be the case. “We might be looking at head trauma, too. We have to push the car off him.” She turned toward the sidewalk and the closest pedestrians and called, “Guys, we need some help pushing the car.”

      DellaToro straightened to look at the group she’d called to. The group that wasn’t moving at all to help them. He then knocked on the hood and yelled to the driver, who had found cloth in his vehicle to put pressure on his bloody wounds. “Put it in Neutral.”

      The