West Wing to Maternity Wing!

By: Scarlet Wilson

It was the first time he’d seen her in six years. His Amazonian fling. One of the best things that had ever happened to him. Six months of hard work and great sex. She’d left to go back to the US for a holiday but had told him she would be coming back in a few weeks to rejoin the boat. Next thing he knew, two weeks had passed and she’d quit. With no reason. And no forwarding address.

So what had happened to her? What had she been doing for the last six years? And why had she texted him two days ago, asking for help? Was it about this? About being pregnant?

Because this was last thing he’d been expecting.

Over the last few years he’d tried to push Amy completely from his mind. And if thoughts of her ever did creep in, they certainly didn’t look like this! He’d always imagined he might meet her again on another aid boat or working in a different hospital. He certainly hadn’t expected her to seek him out as a patient. And it made him almost resentful. A sensation he hadn’t expected.

He reached out and touched her skin again. She was hot. She hadn’t had a chance to cool back down in the air-conditioned E.R. One of her red curls was stuck to her forehead and his fingers swept across her skin to pull it back.

She murmured. Or groaned. He wasn’t sure which. His hand cupped her cheek for a second. Just like he used to. And her head flinched. Moved closer. As if his hand and her cheek were a good fit. As if they were where they were supposed to be.

Something stirred inside him. And he shifted uncomfortably. They hadn’t made each other any promises. He’d been surprised that she hadn’t come back—had been surprised that she hadn’t got in touch. She’d had his mobile number, scribbled on a bit of paper, but he hadn’t had hers. She hadn’t brought her phone to the Amazon with her, thinking it would never work there. And she couldn’t remember her number. But it hadn’t mattered, because he’d thought he would be seeing her again in two weeks.

Only he hadn’t. Not until now.

That was the trouble of having a reputation as a playboy—sooner or later you started believing your own press. Everyone had expected him just to take up with the next pretty nurse that crossed his path—so had he. But something had been wrong. That pale-skinned redhead hadn’t been so easy to forget. Amy Carson had got under his skin.

Even two years later, when he’d found himself swept along into an engagement with an elegant brunette, something just hadn’t felt right. The first whiff of wedding plans had made him run for the hills. And he hadn’t stopped. Until now.

His eyes darted to her notes and he picked them up, flicking them between his fingers. He wasn’t her obstetrician, he shouldn’t really read them. But he had acted as an E.R. admitting doctor, so surely that meant he should find out about his patient’s history?

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do that. There was a boundary here. David Fairgreaves was much more qualified to look after her and he would be here in a matter of minutes. There were some ethical lines that he wasn’t sure he wanted to cross.

He looked at her overstuffed black shoulder bag. Maybe he should look in there? Maybe she might have her mobile and there could be someone he could contact for her? Or what about a next of kin? She was pregnant, so there was probably a husband.

The thought stopped him dead. He stared at her left hand. It was bare. Did that mean there was no husband? So who was the baby’s father?

He pulled the bag up onto his lap. For some reason it felt wrong. Awkward. To go searching through an almost stranger’s bag. Years ago, as an attending doctor he would have had no qualms about this. Lots of patients came into the E.R. in an unconscious state and had their pockets or bags searched. This was something he’d done a hundred times before. So why didn’t he want to do it now?

And then it happened. Her dark green eyes flickered open. And a smile spread across her face. ‘Linc,’ she whispered huskily, her lips dry and her throat obviously parched. ‘Do you always search through your wife’s handbag?’


HE STARTED. For a second he’d been lost in his own thoughts. He should have known better. That was what you always got from Amy. Miss Unpredictable. That was the nickname the staff on the aid boat had given her. She’d never said what you expected her to say. Maybe that was what made her so unforgettable.

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