Trauma Alert Read online

  “Hey, I’ll take that.” Ali quickly shrugged into her black wool greatcoat and grabbed Wynter’s bag along with her own. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “My big plans for the evening got waylaid by TER-OPS. Besides, I could use the exercise.”

  Wynter gave Ali a look. “Since when? You’re like Pearce. You never take the elevator—well, not unless I’m on rounds with you—and I can tell it drives you crazy.”

  “Not really,” Ali lied while keeping pace with Wynter to the elevator. She would have preferred to run down the four flights of stairs, but she’d seen the swelling in Wynter’s ankles. Their day had started fifteen hours earlier with rounds in the TICU at six a.m. Wynter had to be exhausted.

  “Thanks.” Wynter leaned against the back wall as the elevator descended. “So what’s TER-OPS?”

  “Technical rescue unit. The Philadelphia Fire Department is setting up two special units, one in each division, to respond to any kind of mass casualty event. Bombings, bio-hazard contamination, natural disasters. We’re one of the training centers for the paramedics. They all need eighteen hours of recertification.”

  “That sounds cool. Do they need any docs?”

  “What? Why?” Ali laughed as they filed out into the lobby. “We don’t keep you busy enough in the trauma unit?”

  “I don’t know, there’s something really exciting about being out in the field with no backup, no monitors, no X-ray machines. It’s all on you, you know?”

  “Wait until you’re an attending. You’ll feel that way every single day.”

  “I wish.” Wynter sighed. “I don’t get the feeling Ambrose wants me to stay here.”

  “Well, I do.” Ali gave Wynter a quick hug. “And so do all the rest of us. We all get to vote. And I think you’re wrong about Ambrose. He has to be harder on you. You’re married to his daughter.”

  “Maybe. And maybe when I dazzle him with a grandchild, he’ll forgive me for ruining Pearce’s career.” Wynter laughed.

  “Pearce looks pretty happy to me.” Ali switched their duffels into one hand and put her shoulder against the heavy lobby door to open it for Wynter. Suddenly, she was looking into a familiar face.

  “Here,” Beau Cross braced an arm on the door and smiled at Ali, “let me get that for you.”

  Beau held the door wide as Wynter passed.

  “Thanks.” Ali hesitated, caught by the heat in Beau Cross’s deep blue eyes. The firefighter had donned her denim jacket and carried a take-out coffee cup from McDonald’s in one hand.

  “No problem. Enjoyed the lecture tonight,” Beau said.

  “Did you.”

  “Sure. I love a challenge.”

  “I didn’t get the sense the material was too much of a test for you.” Ali detected a hint of smoke and healthy perspiration, a surprisingly appealing combination, and for an absurd instant had the impulse to brush the soot smear from Beau’s cheek. The sensation was so foreign she pushed her free hand deep into the pocket of her coat.

  “I wasn’t talking about chest wounds,” Beau said, her voice dropping. “If you’re not doing anything later, maybe I can make up for being late. We could talk about pre-hospital emergency care over a drink.”

  Something about the cocky grin triggered Ali’s memory. She had seen the firefighter before. On TV. “You were the one who went back into that row house after the little girl last month.”

  The rescue had been all over the news for days. A burning building had been declared totally involved and fire crews were pulling back when a hysterical woman had screamed her daughter was still inside. The TV cameras had been rolling when a firefighter raced into the structure through a wall of flames, seemingly on a suicide mission. When the roof caved in, the building appeared to have become a fiery crypt for child and firefighter. Moments later, the rescuer staggered out to the street with the child in her arms, her own breathing mask over the little girl’s face. The firefighter—Beau Cross—had escaped with minor burns and minimal smoke inhalation.

  Beau shrugged, her expression blanking. “Yes.”

  “Remarkable rescue.” Ali meant the praise, although she’d thought at the time that only a very brave—or a very crazy—person would have run into certain death without the slightest hesitation. Having met the firefighter in question, she added daredevil and glory hound to her list.

  “Part of the job,” Beau replied automatically. “Now, back to the important stuff. Drinks? Maybe something a little more excit—”

  “No chance, but thanks anyway.” Ali smiled, but made sure her tone conveyed she really wasn’t interested. Cross was attractive and knew it. She was also exactly the kind of woman Ali had zero interest in.

  “Don’t be too hasty,” Beau called as Ali stepped outside to catch up to Wynter. “Remember, first responders make hot company!”

  Laughing despite herself, Ali shook her head and didn’t look back.

  “Who’s that?” Wynter asked.

  “One of the paramedics in the TER-OPS course.”

  “Wow, she’s seriously smokin’. Pun totally intended.” Wynter tugged on Ali’s sleeve. “Did she just ask you out?”

  “More like a really bad pickup line.” Ali slipped her palm under Wynter’s elbow as they dashed across traffic on Thirty-third toward the parking garage a block east on Spruce.

  “So you said no?”

  Ali gave Wynter a look. “She’s a wise-ass who thinks over-highly of her charms. Of course I said no.”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Her charms seemed kinda A-rated to me.”

  “Not my type,” Ali insisted. “Only thing worse than a firefighter is a cop. I wouldn’t date either one.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay.” Wynter huffed. “Only boring women for you. Got it.”

  Ali didn’t respond to the well-meant teasing. She had her reasons, devastatingly painful reasons, for avoiding women who willfully put their lives at risk, whether for duty or just the thrill of danger. She would fight like hell in the trauma unit to save them, but she would never, ever love one again.

  Chapter Two

  “Sucking up to the teacher, Cross?” Bobby Sizemore jostled Beau’s shoulder with a none too subtle smirk on his broad, ruddy face. A head taller, twice as wide, and all muscle, he looked every inch the college linebacker he’d once been. “’Cause you sure could use some extra points after your entrance tonight.”

  “Just being polite, Sizemore.” Beau steadied her coffee cup, its hot contents threatening to spill out over her hand, and kept her eyes on the street. Ali Torveau protectively shepherded the woman she’d left the hospital with across the street and disappeared into the dark. For half a second Beau contemplated going after her, maybe rephrasing her invitation so it didn’t sound quite so much like she was angling for a quick drink and a one-night stand. Somehow, her usual modus operandi didn’t seem like the right approach for Dr. Ali Torveau. As soon as she had the thought, she discarded it with a self-deprecating mental shake. She hadn’t even gotten up to bat, let alone first base. For all she knew, the intriguing surgeon could be happily married with a pregnant wife. Either way, Ali Torveau wasn’t the live-in-the-moment, try-anything-once kind of girl Beau preferred when she wanted company for a night, which wasn’t nearly as often as she let people think. When she did hook up, she wanted a woman who ran hot and fast and loose, like her. Not one whose eyes dissected her with calm, cool efficiency.

  “Polite,” Bobby scoffed. “Is that what you call making a play now?”

  “Manners, Size Man. I call holding a door for a woman manners—one of the many classes you probably missed.” Beau shot Bobby a grin. He was her best friend. They’d gone through the EMT training program together, gotten their paramedic certifications at the same time, and been assigned to the same field medic unit in the northeast division. They’d even both transferred to the southwest division so they could join the new TER-OPS unit together. She spent more time with him than anyone else
in her life, except Jilly. During a tour, they filled the sometimes long hours between callouts playing video games, arguing politics or sports, or just sifting through newspapers and magazines in companionable silence. On rare occasions, they partied together. Bobby had figured out pretty quickly which way she swung, and though he razzed her about her sex life pretty much the same way he did any of the guys, he never got out of line. When he let it get around that she was a player, she didn’t bother correcting his perception. The image suited her. Another layer of protection never hurt.

  “Yeah, right,” Bobby said. “I noticed your sparkling manners when you showed up late for the first session. Good thing we’re not getting graded by the instructors. You’d be in deep shit already.”

  “I don’t know,” Beau said as they walked outside. “I sort of thought she liked me.”

  Bobby hooted.

  “What’s so funny?” Beau demanded. “She knows my name. More than I can say for you.”

  “Did you forget your APR on that last call? Because clearly you’ve been breathing a little too much smoke if you think you’re on her hit parade after your little show tonight.”

  They stopped at the corner of Thirty-fourth and Spruce and Beau slid her hands into her jacket pockets, hunching against the wind. “She’ll come around to my charms sooner or later.”

  “I bet you a hundred bucks you can’t get her to go out with you.”

  Playing along, Beau asked, “Define go out.”

  “Jesus, Cross. A date. You and her alone—and not a quickie in some on-call room.”

  “Hey!” Beau protested.

  “Tell me you haven’t been there.”

  “Well…” Beau tilted her head from side to side and grinned. “I hate to lie to a friend.”

  “Like I said. A date.” Sizemore shook his head in mock disbelief. “You do date women sometimes, don’t you? I mean, besides just fu—”

  “Whoa, let’s not get personal.” Beau didn’t mind having a reputation—it made her just one of the guys, even when some of the guys were women. But she wasn’t going to go as far as pretending women were just about sex to maintain her image. “I know how to romance a woman.”

  “Oh yeah? Prove it. If you can. But I’m betting she’s way out of your class.”

  Beau pretty much agreed. She still remembered the prickling disappointment when Ali had so effortlessly dismissed her. She wanted Ali to look again, and she didn’t know why. Ordinarily, she never wanted anyone to look too close. Not even Jilly. Ali’s casual rejection echoed in her mind. No chance, but thanks anyway.

  “You’re on, Size Man. One date. One hundred dollars.”

  “Good,” Bobby said. “I can use the extra dough. So you want to go out for a beer?”

  “I’ll take a rain check on that one.” She wanted to get home. Jilly had been looking worn out lately.

  “You got it. See you for first shift.”

  “Tomorrow.” Beau walked west, bracing herself against the biting chill. She’d taken Bobby’s dare because it gave her an excuse to talk to Ali again, but she knew she’d just made a fool’s wager. Ali Torveau was not going to go out with her. She’d read the swift assessment in the surgeon’s probing gaze—Ali had pegged her as a player or an all-around fuck-off, and she wasn’t interested. Beau had nothing to complain about. She’d become so good at hiding who she really was, she wasn’t sure herself anymore. Only the hollow ache that never left seemed familiar.

  *

  Ali made the twenty-five-minute walk over the South Street Bridge from the hospital to her three-story brownstone on St. James Place in under twenty minutes. Her chest burned from the cold night air but her blood pumped hot beneath her skin. Invigorated, she let herself into the foyer and collected her mail. The brownstone retained all its historic elements, with high stamped-tin ceilings in the halls, dark wood wainscoting, carved trim on the doors and windows, and polished walnut floors. A wide six-paneled door on the left opened into her apartment and straight ahead a short hallway led to the broad staircase going up to her third-floor tenant’s apartment. She let herself into her bi-level apartment. After swiftly leafing through the bills and junk mail, she dropped the stack onto a side table and followed the smell of chicken and apple pie down the hall and into the kitchen. Two covered dishes draped in colorful dish towels sat on a central gray slate cook island. She passed her hand over them. Still warm. Ralph always seemed to know when she was on her way home, even when she was three hours later than planned. The Littorai rested unopened in the wine rack on a nearby counter where she’d left it that morning. She checked the clock.

  Going on ten p.m. The wine was not one to be rushed and would have to keep for another night. She would, however, have something to eat as soon as she took care of her nightly duties. She went back down the hall, grabbed a fleece-lined windbreaker from a wooden coat stand, and went out into the foyer. She climbed the stairs to the third floor and tapped on the door.

  “Ralph? It’s Ali.”

  The door opened and a white-haired man of indeterminate age, his craggy face a fascinating study of angles and planes, fixed her with a stern gaze. “You’re late again.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I got held up—”

  “Seems like you get held up more often than not these days.” Ralph Matteo’s deep brown eyes swept her from head to toe critically. “You’re getting skinny.”

  Ali laughed. “How can you tell? I’m wearing a jacket. And besides, I’m not.”

  “You work too hard.”

  “You’ve been saying that for the past eight years, Ralph.”

  “And it’s been true the whole time.” He held out a leash and a fat bulldog stumped out into the hall and nuzzled Ali’s leg. “Too much work. Not enough good food. No fun. That’s a recipe for a life of regrets.”

  “Thanks for worrying, but you don’t need to.” Ali reached down to scratch behind the bulldog’s ears. “Come on, Victor. Let’s take a run around the block.”

  “He doesn’t need to be out very long. Eat your dinner before it gets cold,” Ralph called as Ali led the wheezing dog down the stairs.

  Victor didn’t show much interest in being outside in the cold. The instant he’d watered a lamppost he dragged her with surprising speed back to the wide stone stairs of their building. She took him inside her place while she ate the dinner Ralph had brought down. Victor lay on the dog bed she kept for him in one corner of the kitchen, watching her lugubriously as she ate at the butcher-block breakfast bar. The routine was familiar. On the nights she wasn’t on call, Ralph cooked for her and in turn, she undercharged him on the rent and helped take care of the dog. The arrangement worked for both of them, but their relationship was more than mutual convenience. Victor and Ralph were family.

  She saw her biological family only rarely. Her parents had retired to a gated community in California where they could golf year-round. Her brother, who shared their parents’ social, economic, and political values, lived close to them. She didn’t have much in common with any of them and hadn’t felt part of their lives since she was twenty. Her work, her friendship with Wynter, and her home with Ralph and Victor gave her all the satisfaction she needed.

  Victor snorted as if reading her mind and disagreeing.

  “All right,” she murmured as she forked up flaky crust and tangy apples. “I think about it once in a while.” She pointed her fork at Victor. “But sex is a fleeting pleasure. And it’s very rarely worth the hassle.”

  Ali looked away from the dog’s unblinking gaze to the black squares of night outside her kitchen windows. She knew exactly when she’d closed her heart away, but she couldn’t remember when she’d stopped wanting the transient intimacy of sex. Heather had been six months—no—almost ten months ago. Casual encounters weren’t her thing, and she almost never slept with a woman she hadn’t seen socially for a while. But when two adults were attracted to one another, a few weeks of dating usually progressed to sex, and it did with her and Heather. But somehow, wha
t should have signaled a deepening of a relationship had spelled the end for her. That was her pattern.

  Ali pushed the tiny flakes of savory crust, all that remained of Ralph’s homemade apple pie, into a straight line across the center of her plate. If she were being honest with herself, she did miss sex. What she didn’t miss was the inevitable anxiety that followed, the suffocating feeling of someone getting too close that made her want to run. And she did run, until she stopped putting herself in situations where she’d have to.

  Maybe she should try something different. Maybe she should try casual.

  Beau Cross’s cocky grin and sexy eyes immediately popped into her mind. She didn’t doubt for a single second that Beau’s offer of a drink would have been followed by an invitation to bed. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? The woman was sin personified—young, hard body; gorgeous mouth; broad, strong hands. Ali shivered as the image became sensation. Hot slick skin sliding over hers, a sharp cry of fulfillment, the wild pounding of another heartbeat in the dark.

  Abruptly, Ali stood and carried her dishes to the sink. Beau Cross was a reckless charmer who undoubtedly thought she was God’s gift as well as being immortal. She was a heartbreak waiting to happen, and Ali wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.

  *

  “Jilly?” Beau tossed her jacket over the back of the faded blue sofa that had been in her family for at least two generations. She wended her way around the comfortable overstuffed chairs and end tables through the living room to the kitchen. Skirting around the wood peasant table pushed under the windows facing the small backyard, she opened the fridge and hunted around for a bottle of Red Dog. “Jilly? Want a beer?”

  “No thanks,” a soft voice behind her said. “I’m having wine.”

  Beau edged the door closed with her hip and twisted off the bottle cap. She was about to toss the cap into the trash when she caught her sister’s raised brow and made a swift ninety-degree juke and dropped it into the blue plastic container labeled “recycle.” Dark circles shadowed Jilly’s green eyes, and her long curly hair, more red than brown—the opposite of Beau’s—had lost its lustrous shine. Her long-sleeved T-shirt hung loosely on her slender frame. She’d lost weight. Beau’s chest constricted.