The Heroic Surgeon

She had continued translating Dante’s insistence that she’d already done all that needed to be done, that all that remained was a simple chest X-ray to see if there wasn’t a residual clot around his lung, that all other costly tests were unnecessary. His insistence that as a trauma surgeon himself he should be allowed an opinion of his own condition had been overridden. Then his objections had grown stronger, and her translations more selective.

When all else had failed, he had demanded, loudly, to be left alone.

That needed no translation.

And that was when her role was considered over and she was herded out with the departing people. Frantic to be torn away from Dante’s side, she almost burst into tears of gratitude and relief when he clung to her. But to her distress he didn’t stop there. He forced her to translate to the crowd his indignation at their dismissal of her role in it all. “Just tell them what I’m saying,” he persisted. “Word for word, Gulnar. I’ll know if you’re watering it down.”

She needn’t have worried about his extravagant report, though. No one was inclined to believe that she was the real hero, the one who had snatched him from death’s jaws twice, and the reason all those who’d survived had. It was more palatable for them to believe a man of Dante’s stature and abilities to be the real and sole hero of the day.

Though she was happy to fade into the background, to get no recognition or gratitude, their prejudice still rankled. Chauvinist pigs!

But, to be fair, women thought the same. Even more. Chauvinist race, it seemed.

To further clarify her status in his eyes, he ordered a bed to be brought in for her in his room, made it clear she was the one to consult with about his condition, that she would be his companion until he was out of the hospital. Then he growled them all out of their room.

After freshening up all he could, he sat there in bed, envying her her no-holds-barred shower, huge and haggard and just too much for her battered senses. Then he asked her permission to sleep.

Torn between wanting to howl with laughter at his small-boy-asking-mama’s-consent act and her phobia of seeing his eyes closing, she forced herself under control. The man had to sleep some time. To save her sanity, she planned to stay awake beside him, counting his breaths. That sanity evaporated when he raised exhausted eyes to her and asked for a kiss goodnight.

It was as if a dam had burst. Tenderness swelled and crashed inside her. She wanted to throw herself at him, but couldn’t, dammit. He could barely breathe without moaning in agony, analgesics and all. But when she took his lips, he sank into instant slumber, his groan becoming one of contentment, reverberating on her lips, in her soul. She cast a look at her bed then curled herself in the few inches of space beside him.

She began her vigil, lost count of the times she counted his heartbeats, soothed his starts and sent up prayers of thankfulness for his survival, for his very existence, and a plea for his recovery.

It was so weird. She was beyond finished. Beyond devastated. The ghastly memory of taking another’s life, no matter how justified, and the nightmares of every complication he could suffer were tearing at her. Yet she wasn’t wishing all those horrors erased, like she did those before them. They had introduced her to him, and he was part of them and she would cling to their memory, scars and nightmares and all.

She eventually succumbed to her own fatigue, but only when his vital signs remained steady and strong. She woke up to his body fused to hers, to his gaze tender and restored. It was such a privilege, such luxury to lie there, staring at him, exchanging expressions of gratitude for sharing the ordeal, halving the burden of recollections.

Then he advised her to get out of bed. He was hungry enough to eat her. She would have offered herself as fast food if she hadn’t needed to take care of him first.

The morning nurses came in and tried to do that. He wouldn’t let them. He wanted no one else near him. Gratitude, relief and pride choked her as she fed him breakfast and tended to his medical needs.

Not that anyone but him trusted her measures. With the morning rounds, the hordes of doctors were back, checking and double-checking them. Dante conceded that the fastest way to get rid of them was to go with the flow. This time he let them satisfy themselves, ooh and aah over his luck and improvement. Once the test results were back to confirm his stable condition, the happy news was announced to the panting press and representatives of the Azernian town whose people had been involved in the hostage situation. Then they were let in to visit him.

They got Gulnar’s rushed thanks out of the way before turning the full force of their gratitude on Dante. She tried to convey Dante’s discomfort at the extravagance of their emotions, but it only raised him higher in their eyes. They kept asking what they could do for him in return. It was clear that at the height of their emotions these people would have laid all their belongings, all their daughters at his feet.

No, scratch that. The daughters, and every other woman of every age and marital status, would hurl themselves there. No question.

He was turning away from the mirror now, bringing back that first moment when she’d seen him walking into that hall. After all he’d been through, poetry still coursed in his every move. Looking imposing and majestic in the ridiculous just-below-the-knee hospital gown had to be some world precedent, too!

She waited for her breath to return, her heart to resume beating. No such luck.

What was the matter with her? She’d already shared with him the most traumatic experiences two people could share, had had her hands all over him in every possible way—well, not every one, but she had kissed and fondled him. She’d slept with him—OK, beside him. But to be shy now? When she’d never known what shyness was? For heaven’s sake!

Her mind was incredulous but her body was going to pieces, her heart staggering in her chest with his every step closer.

Look away. Make a joke. Do something.

She escaped his intense gaze, only to find hers rushing down his body, greedy, feeding her rioting thoughts, inflaming her simmering senses.

She had noted the chiseled perfection of his torso and back while treating him. But it had been out of the question to salivate over them then. Now, with her body rested and replenished, with him out of danger, it was a different story. It was beyond her to resist making a visual feast of the rest of him, especially the parts she could see clearly, his legs, oh, my—those legs! She saw them between hers…

He stopped just a foot away. Oh, hell, he had to see her condition, read her thoughts. His gaze was burning. Then he dropped it.

He looked away, exhaled. “You won’t have to do anything else for me again, promise.” He paused, a grimace of disgust twisting his expressive features.

He really didn’t like imposing on others in any way, didn’t he? He really thought it was less than a total pleasure, tending to his every need. Time to disabuse him. “Let’s get one thing straight here, Dante. You can ask anything of me.”

Obsidian eyes turned on her now, explicit, stormy. “Anything, Gulnar?”