More Than Time. Caroline Anderson

I’ll have to remind her—if I ever get the time!’ He waved the coffee at the other man. ‘Ross?’

      Her eyes swivelled towards the stranger. He was tall, taller even than Oliver, and well made, neither gangly nor heavy. His coffee-cup seemed tiny in the long, strong fingers. His forearms were dusted with dark hair, and in the V of his green theatre tunic she could see crisp black curls edging the hollow of his throat. His lean hips were propped against the worktop, his feet, still in anti-static boots, crossed at the ankle.

      Weary though he undoubtedly was, he exuded a sort of natural energy, a healthy coiled strength that hinted at youth and vigour, but that was misleading. His most startling feature was the mass of soft, thick silver hair which looked casually tousled—as if a woman had just run her hands through it, Lizzi mused, surprised at the untypical and highly personal direction of her thoughts. As she watched, he thrust it back off his face with those lean, hard fingers, rumpling it even further.

      Then he lifted his head and their eyes met, and Lizzi blinked. Warm, gentle grey-green eyes, eyes that seemed to see straight through her façade. She suddenly felt totally exposed—and very vulnerable.

      ‘Sorry, you two haven’t met, have you? Lizzi, this is Ross Hamilton, our new consultant. Ross, Lizzi Lovejoy, our own personal whirlwind.’

      ‘Sister Lovejoy.’ Ross extended a hand, and Lizzi found her own engulfed in its warmth and strength.

      ‘Welcome to the madhouse, Mr Hamilton.’

      One side of his mouth lifted in a wry, lop-sided grin that made him look years younger. She realised with a shock that he was, in fact, much younger than she had at first supposed. It was his silver hair that aged him, that and tiredness.

      And he was, she saw, quite exhausted. There were bags under his eyes, and shadows, and the lines bracketing his mouth were harshly etched, as if he had been overworking for weeks—or even years.

      As she took all this in, he turned to Oliver and refused another cup of coffee.

      ‘I want to go to ITU and see a couple of patients, then I really ought to try and get respectable before my outpatients clinic’

      He ran his hand over his jaw, rasping against the stubble and, coincidentally and unexpectedly, Lizzi’s nerve-endings.

      ‘OK. I’ll catch up with you at lunch,’ Oliver replied.

      ‘Uh-huh.’ His voice was soft, deep and husky with a Scots burr that was strangely attractive.

      He crossed the tiny kitchen in a stride, and Lizzi watched, transfixed, as he reached her. Tall as she was, he was so close that she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes.

      A smile flickered around his full, firm lips. ‘I’m sorry to run away, but I’ve been in Theatre all night. I’ll come and see you later.’

      Lizzi felt a rush of confusion. Why should he want to see her? She felt threatened, strangely excited. Close up she could see the rough stubble on his jaw, and he looked utterly disreputable and totally fascinating. A surge of adrenalin brought a flush to her cheeks and a pulse to life in her throat. Her lips moved soundlessly.

      His brows twitched together, and he seemed to have difficulty dragging his eyes away from her lips. Unconsciously, the tip of her tongue came out to moisten them, and his eyes flicked up and tangled with hers for an endless moment.

      ‘Yes, later,’ she managed, almost normally.

      ‘Good.’ Still he stood there, as if he was waiting for something. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and then the smile which had been waiting sprang to life on his lips and touched his eyes with subtle humour. His big, strong hands came up and cupped her slender shoulders, and he moved her gently out of his way before brushing past.

      Lizzi realised, belatedly, that she had been standing like a fool in the doorway, blocking his exit. She watched him walk away, his stride confident, unhurried, yet covering the ground at a good speed. So that was him, she thought, the much talked about James Kinross McKenzie Hamilton, BSc, MB, BCh, FRCS …

      Oliver was watching her speculatively. ‘Coffee?’

      ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, and dragged her mind back into a professional gear. Ross was out of sight now.

      She turned back to Oliver. ‘I take it you’ve been busy?’

      ‘Hell on wheels. That snow really screwed things up. I’ve been here since five o’clock yesterday afternoon, and Ross rang in at six to find out if we needed help.’

      Lizzi took the coffee from him and stirred it thoughtfully. ‘That was good of him.’

      Oliver nodded. ‘He’s a damn fine surgeon. We were lucky to get him. He’s been going flat out all night, and he’s only just finished moving in to his new house. I gather he’d been to Scotland over the weekend and just got back down yesterday afternoon before the snow started. He said he’d been running in his new car rather faster than was advisable!’

      Lizzi frowned. She didn’t want to be reminded about cars just then. ‘So, what’s new on the ward?’

      They gravitated back to her office, deep in conversation, and Lizzi found the night sister and the nurses on the early shift gathered for report.

      ‘Morning, all,’ she said cheerfully, and quickly pulled up a chair. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting; Mr Henderson was just filling me in on the new admissions.’

      The night sister, Jean Hobbs, flicked open the Kardex, and went systematically through the patients. The additional information on the three new ones caught Lizzi’s attention.

      The first, Roger Widlake, was a man in his forties who had suffered severe internal injuries, including a ruptured spleen, punctured lung and ruptured liver following an RTA. ‘No doubt he’ll drive more carefully in future if he lives long enough,’ Jean Hobbs commented.

      ‘Why isn’t he in ITU?’ Lizzi asked, horrified.

      ‘No room,’ Oliver put in. ‘They’re run off their feet. He’s in a side-ward—Hamilton operated on him. He’ll be back down later; he wants to talk to you about his care.’

      So that was why he was coming back. Lizzi felt a little surge of disappointment. ‘How stable is he?’

      The night sister shrugged. ‘Difficult to say. He’s only been down from Recovery for two hours. We’ll have to watch him like a hawk.’

      Lizzi nodded. She would put Sarah, her best staff nurse, on to special him for the morning at least.

      The next patient was a woman with similar but less severe problems. Jennifer Adams had sustained a ruptured bowel and a messy abdominal tear when her steering-wheel had snapped and penetrated her abdominal wall.

      She was, Lizzi thought, extremely lucky to have got off as lightly as she had.

      Oliver joined in again. ‘There was a minor abrasion on her left ureter, and her left ovary was also slightly bruised. Apart from that she’s fine, and came through surgery very well. She’s had two units of whole blood but she’s on saline now. Her worst problem will be scarring, I suspect. I’ve done my best, but she’ll probably need plastic surgery later.’

      Lizzi nodded. She had seen these sorts of injuries before.

      The third patient to catch her attention was a young man of twenty, Michael Holden, who had been thrown clear of his car and then run over by another vehicle, causing a whole range of internal injuries.

      ‘He should definitely be in ITU!’ Lizzi protested, mentally assigning herself the task of specialling him.

      ‘He will be,’ the sister replied. ‘They’ll take him as soon as they can clear a bed. They’ve got a head-injuries patient they’re hoping to transfer to Addenbrookes, and a spinal injuries case for Stoke Mande ville as soon as he’s stable enough. That should clear two beds. I would think they’ll take him then. Of course, if the bloody fool had