Tortured by Her Touch. Dianne Drake

…”

      Jason laughed. “It gets you in the soft spot every time, doesn’t it?”

      “How did it happen?”

      “He was a medic, got hit by shrapnel … nails, wire, that kind of stuff … from an IED. Was a pretty bad injury, touch and go for a while. But luckily—if you can call anything about it lucky—his injury could have been worse. He’s pretty independent. In fact, the only thing he can’t do is walk.”

      “And that’s not going to happen?”

      Jason shook his head. “He’s in the chair for the count.”

      “With a lot of anger issues you’re attributing to PTSD.”

      “He worked through the physical end of it like a man possessed, but he neglected … himself. Lost himself in the whole affair. Which is a damn shame because he saved lives, was commended as a battlefield surgeon.”

      Anne walked over to her desk and sat down. “OK, I’ll cut him some slack, but only some. That’s the best I can offer you right now.”

      “He’s going to be spotting a lot of your patients and referring them to you. You do realize that, don’t you?”

      She nodded.

      “And I’m not going to soft-pedal this. He’ll be a challenge, Anne, but, unlike Bill and all his affairs, it won’t be directed at you.”

      All Bill’s affairs. She’d been overseas in one medical capacity or another for three tours, while the husband who’d vowed to be true had been tracked to nine different affairs. Even Bill’s attorney hadn’t tried too hard to help him during nearly a year of divorce proceedings. “I can take on a challenge as long as it’s not personal,” Anne replied. “And apart from a husband having all those affairs while his wife was off, serving her country, I don’t think anything could be much more challenging than that.”

      “I really want Marc stable enough to stay with us,” Jason said. “We need someone who’s been through it so he can get to others who are going through what he did.”

      “I know. And you’re right. So I’ll be on my good behavior with him.”

      “And you’ll help him get acclimated to the way we do things here?”

      “Yes,” she answered. “But he’s got to meet me halfway.”

      “That takes believing in himself. And what better way to do that than being involved in his job?”

      “When does he start?”

      “He’s started. I couldn’t see any reason to put him off. I hired him on the spot and sent him down to his office.”

      “Then there was no point to this discussion.”

      Jason smiled. “You’re my other volatile physician, so I thought I’d give you fair warning. Let’s just call it a family courtesy.”

      “Speaking of which, tell Hannah I’ll be by soon,” Anne said as Jason headed to her door, leaving her to study her surroundings. She loved this place, loved the contemporary chrome look. Most of all, she loved the Gallahue Rehabilitation Center for Veterans for the good work it did. It was small, limited in the cases it could take. But the services it offered, thanks largely to Maynard and Lois Gallahue in memory of their fallen son, were amazing and much more extensive than one might expect from a relatively small clinic. And waiting lists for admittance were long.

      Rumors had it the Gallahue Foundation for returning wounded soldiers would be upping its contribution, and she’d heard other notable companies were making funds available. So, as far as Anne was concerned, the sky here was the limit. She hoped so, anyway, because she saw the work being done every day. Witnessed firsthand the miracles.

      “Got a minute?” she asked a little while later, poking her head through the semi-open door that read “John Hemmings” in gold letters and would soon read “Marc Rousseau”.

      “Depends on what you want to do with that minute. If you’ve come to gawk, then, no, I don’t have a minute.” Marc looked up at her. “If you’ve come to be sociable, I’m not sociable. And if you’ve come about a patient, I haven’t even figured out how to fill out all my employment forms, so patients are a no-go as well for the next day or so.”

      His office was sparse—a desk with a chair shoved into the corner, empty shelves, no diplomas. It was as if the man didn’t exist. But he did, and she couldn’t help but admire his massive, muscular arms, and the way his reading glasses slid to the end of his nose, revealing clear, dark brown eyes. And his hair cut … longish, over the collar, dark brown as well. He was goose-bumps-up-the-arm handsome, but the attitude … wow, was it bad!

      “So, have you had enough time to get what you came for?” he asked her.

      “What do you mean?”

      “Your first glimpse of a doctor in a wheelchair.”

      Truth was, she hadn’t even noticed the wheelchair.

      “That’s why I didn’t stand to greet you. Can’t.” He shrugged indifferent shoulders. “Don’t particularly want to, either.”

      “You are a piece of work, Dr. Rousseau.”

      He stared at her over the top of his glasses for a moment. Appraising her. Taking in every last little bit. “So how would you like it if someone came to your office just to look at your blond hair …?” Shoulder length with a slight wave. “Or your green eyes. How would you like that, Miss …?”

      “Dr. Anne Sebastian.”

      “How would you like that, Dr. Sebastian?”

      “Actually, if a man wants to look, it’s not a big deal.”

      “If you were in a wheelchair, it would be.”

      “Then that’s who you are? Who you want to be known as? The doctor in the wheelchair?”

      “Your minute’s up,” he said, pushing his glasses back up his nose and turning his attention to the mountains of employment paperwork on his desk.

      “Then give me another minute.”

      “And the reason for that would be?”

      “Lunch?” She heard herself say the words, and couldn’t believe they’d come out of her mouth. What in the world had possessed her?

      “Seriously? You want to have lunch with me? Or did you draw the short straw and you’re the one elected to be nice to the disabled guy?”

      “Believe me, if that was the reason, I’d be the first one backing out of it and running away. And I do mean running because I’m not about to give in to your poor-me-in-a-wheelchair attitude and cop some wary attitude when I’m forced to be around you.”

      Marc actually laughed. “My reputation really has preceded me, hasn’t it?”

      “Let’s just say that one of your former colleagues at Mercy wished me luck and said something to the effect that it was better me than her.”

      “If I were insulted, I’d try to guess which one, but I really don’t give a damn because this is a job and I’m not here to win a popularity contest.”

      “Trust me, you’d come in last place.”

      He actually gave her a genuinely nice smile. “Is your motive really just to ask me to lunch?”

      Her heart fluttered just a bit all because of a single smile. “Someone has to.”

      “I can carry my own tray.”

      “In our doctors’ dining room we have table service. Otherwise, by the end of the week, I’m sure someone would have already dumped their tray on your head.”

      “Lucky for me,” he said as he wheeled out from behind his desk. “And