Hot Latin Docs Collection. Tina Beckett

pale in comparison. But each life was every bit as precious.

      He jacked up his treatment on the man lying in front of him. He’d seen this type of injury too many times. Traumatic brain injury. Pupils—nonresponsive. He did as quick a gauge on the Glasgow Coma Scale as he could but there were too many factors yet to be explored to be precise.

      “What do you need?” Saoirse appeared by his side.

      “The whole nine yards,” Santi replied grimly. “Looks like this poor guy was ejected through his windshield. Significant brain trauma. Pupils are nonresponsive.” He held his fingers in front of the man’s mouth. “Breathing is compromised.”

      “Shall I intubate?”

      “Sooner rather than later. We don’t want him having to fight hypoxia as well.”

      Saoirse deftly inserted the intubation kit and together they got a flow of oxygen running. Recovery would be long and hard for this man, if not impossible. But Santi was going to give him every shot he could to fight the odds.

      Together they scored the man’s physiological parameters and gauged his systolic blood pressure.

      “He’s going to need a good neurosurgeon,” Saoirse said.

      Santi nodded. He hoped, for this man’s sake, he could afford the elite clinic where his brother Dante worked as a neurosurgeon. This guy would need the best and Dante did nothing by halves. “Go on.” He pointed Saoirse in the direction of another patient being transferred to the critical section. There weren’t enough hands on deck for buddying up.

      “I need a helicopter now!”

      It was impossible to know if his words had reached the right ears. So he repeated it, again and again, until he was hoarse and a flying doctor’s flight suit appeared in his eye line.

      Time to move to the next patient.

      More paramedics arrived. Doctors stuck in the traffic jam raced to offer assistance, tugging on neoprene gloves as they ran. Injury after injury presented itself. Each time Santiago began to wonder if his body could handle lifting another backboarded patient onto a gurney, a chopper basket, or just lending an arm of support as he steered a patient through the crowd to a loved one...his eyes sought Saoirse’s. The clear blue of her gaze was exactly the life-affirming medicine he needed. Her energy never seemed to abate. Her focus was intense, her manner calm, exacting. Precisely the type of woman anyone would want to have come to their rescue if they were lucky enough to be visited by an angel.

      He shook his head and gave it a rough scrub with the tips of his fingers. His feelings for Saoirse were launching out of his heart at rocket speed. He’d never understood the lure of settling down until now. Not that he imagined a life with her would be akin to hanging up his hat in the adventure department. Far from it. Life with Saoirse would be—

      “Santiago?”

      He saw the man approach, knew he’d said his name, but couldn’t make the connection. Not at first.

      And then it hit him. Harder than he could have imagined.

      Detective Guillermo Alvarez. The first person on the scene after his parents had been shot and ultimately killed. The one man who had promised to find the pendejos who’d turned a robbery into a double homicide, nearly taking his kid brother in the process.

      This man’s appearance was just about the one thing that could shake his focus.

      Well...his brothers could’ve walked out of the crowd. That would’ve done the trick, too, but...

      “Santiago. I thought that was you. Long time no see. Acere, que bola?”

      “Estoy pinchando.” He stuck out his hand, which was met for a sound shake, all the time refusing to concede that seeing the fifty-something detective was rattling him to his very core.

      “You signed up, didn’t you?” The detective looked up to the sky as if a plane were going to fly by with the answer.

      “Marines.” Santi saved him the time.

      “Sí, correcto.” The detective nodded along. “Your brother—I think it was Alejandro who told me.”

      Santi kept his gaze level. How could he tell this man he hadn’t seen his own brother since he’d been back, weighed down by over a decade of guilt and unfulfilled responsibility?

      “Man, is he ever doing well. A pediatric transplant surgeon! Who would’ve thought it, eh? After all he’d been through? Working in a hospital would’ve been the last thing I would’ve wanted after going through what he had...” The detective’s voice petered out, but Santi could have easily filled in the rest. The chain of events following the shootings were as alive in his mind as if they’d happened yesterday.

      Santi scrubbed a hand over his face, hoping it came across as a gesture of pride rather than regret. What had happened to his brother—the shooting, the organ-transplant surgery, the ensuing surgeries—those hadn’t been his fault. Leaving Alejandro to navigate his teens on his own had.

      “He always was amazing.” That much was true. Nothing would change that about his brother. All of them were a league above the rest. Him anyway.

      “Santiago!”

      Saoirse’s voice cut through the rage of memories. “We need to load up and roll with this one!”

      A smile teased at the corners of his lips. Would he ever get tired of hearing Saoirse’s Irish lilt play with American slang?

      Probably not, but this is a two-year deal, bro. Man up.

      Santiago gave the detective a clap on the arm and grabbed the request for help like the lifeline it was. This was the last place he wanted to revisit the sins of his past.

      “Good to see you.” It was a lie that would fly.

      “You, too, Santi.” The detective turned back to the crash site then stopped. “You know we got them, right? Still locked away, as far as I know.”

      He didn’t need to ask who.

      “Good.” He nodded curtly, unable to open that particular door.

      “Valentino! Get yer bony Heliconian ass in gear!”

      “Yup!” He kicked up his long-legged stride into a jog. “On my way.”

      * * *

      “You okay?” Santi threw Saoirse a cold soda.

      “Yeah, why?” She cracked open the can and took a long drink then wiped off her bubbly orange mustache with the satisfied bravura of a six-year-old.

      “It’s normal to be tired and emotional after ten hours at an accident scene. Especially one like that.” He leaned against the sink, taking up his usual pose across the breakfast island from her. Putting a literal barrier between them helped check his body’s constant impulse to touch her. A little.

      “Ha! As if. It felt...” Saoirse fished around for the perfect word. “I obviously would’ve preferred no one got hurt, but the way we worked today? It felt empowering.” She emphasized the final word with real feeling, before giving him a sly smile. “Besides, us Irish never get tired and emotional. We’re all about the stiff upper lip.”

      Saoirse tried to crush her soda can the way Santi always did...palm on top...and yelped when her effort failed spectacularly.

      “C’mon. Hand it over.” Santi gave a fake sigh of exasperation, all the while making a give-it-here gesture with his hand. When she failed to give it up, he smashed the can, basketballed it into the recycling then took her hand in his, feeling at once at peace and complete.

      “Ouch! Don’t poke it so hard.” She yanked it out of his hand.

      “So much for your stiff upper lip.” He snickered, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and curled her fingers gently around it. “I thought that was for the British, anyway, and y’all were the whimsical,