Fighting for the Trauma Doc's Heart Read online

  From professional rivals...

  To a family of three?

  Ex-army doc Jacob Peterson is still adjusting to life as a single dad when his job is threatened by returning trauma doc Michelle Forbes. The sparks of animosity with the smart, sassy doc soon turn to attraction. But there’s room in Jacob’s life for only one girl—his daughter—and he can’t risk her heart, or his, again. Resisting his growing bond with Michelle will be the fight of his life!

  Michelle stepped a tiny bit closer, leaning infinitesimally toward him.

  Jacob held his breath and waited for her to make a move. If she kisses me, I won’t be able to stop myself from grabbing her and kissing her back. I need to.

  “Jacob, I’m fine.” She patted his cheek with an open hand, like a grandmother would. His ego and hopes deflated like a balloon. “Better get on.” She walked by him and through the doors with a swish.

  He could still feel the touch of her on his cheek, and he rubbed at the area. He didn’t know exactly what her deal was, but he did know a few things. One, that he wanted her so badly his skin prickled when even her name was mentioned. Two, she wasn’t fine, but she was trying to be. And three, when it came to the crunch, her or the job, he didn’t have a clue which one he would fight for, and which one he could bear to live without.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for reading my debut Harlequin Medical Romance novel! I really hope you enjoy Jacob and Michelle’s story. Being the proud (and pushy) mother of two autistic sons, I was overjoyed to be able to write Ebony and show you all a glimpse of her life. I have always been obsessed with all things medical, so having a job that meant I could eat biscuits in my pj’s while binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy for research was inevitable.

  I have dreamed of writing for Harlequin since I was a little girl growing up in Yorkshire in the UK. The books spoke of romance and dashing heroes and feisty heroines, and I devoured them all.

  The words in your hands and head right now are a dream come true for that little girl, so thank you. Do get in touch and show me your books out in the wild! I love to hear from readers.

  Instagram and Twitter: @writerdove

  Happy reading!

  Rachel Dove

  Fighting for the Trauma Doc’s Heart

  Rachel Dove

  Rachel Dove is a tutor and romance/rom-com author from West Yorkshire in the UK. She lives with her husband and two sons, and dreams of a life where housework is done by fairies and she can have as many pets as she wants. When she is not writing or reading, she can be found walking her American cocker spaniel, Oliver, in the great outdoors or dreaming of her next research trip away with the family.

  Fighting for the Trauma Doc’s Heart is Rachel Dove’s debut title for Harlequin.

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

  This book is dedicated to all the parents and carers out there fighting for their child’s place in the world, and to my sons.

  Thanks for sharing your neurodiverse world with me. I love you to the moon and back, and all the stars in between.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EXCERPT FROM PREGNANT MIDWIFE ON HIS DOORSTEP BY MARION LENNOX

  CHAPTER ONE

  MICHELLE FORBES WAS barely out of her car when she saw the ambulance pull into the bay at the front of the hospital’s main doors. St Marshall’s had another entrance for trauma, but that was around the other side. This couldn’t be good.

  Slamming her car door, she threw her backpack over her shoulders and thrust her keys into her coat pocket, pulling out a bottle of hand sanitiser and running straight to the ambulance. Dousing her hands in the alcohol solution, she shoved the bottle back into her pocket and greeted the two men pulling the gurney out of the back of the ambulance doors.

  ‘What’ve we got?’ she demanded, reaching for a pair of gloves from one of the rig’s shelves before following them in.

  ‘Welcome back. Female, twenty-seven, found unconscious at the scene of an RTA.’

  They rushed through the main doors, shouting at people to get out of the way as they ran the gauntlet of the main reception area, heading right to the trauma wing. A medic she knew—Bradley—did a double-take when he saw her, but then it was straight back to business.

  ‘We have two other ambulances incoming: an elderly couple, both awake and responsive at the scene, and one unconscious pregnant woman. Thirty-two weeks along. Her ETA is approximately ten minutes; they were cutting her out of the car when we left. This one—’ the paramedic pointed at the unconscious woman as they ran hell for leather towards the nearest bay ‘—is a cyclist. Her helmet was on but not fastened. It came off in the collision. Her breathing is stable. Possible fractured pelvis, right broken forearm. She hit her head on the tarmac as she landed. No consciousness since, but pupils are equal and reactive.’

  ‘Right.’ Michelle nodded, jabbing at the door button as they hit the bay.

  She noticed her hands were shaking slightly, but when she clenched her fists tight and then unfurled them it stopped. Heads turned as she barrelled through, barking orders as she went. Michelle commanded any room she walked into, and she had long since forgotten to be sorry about that, even now.

  ‘Check for any other bleeding and call for a CT scan immediately. We need to check on that head. Get Ortho up here to assess these fractures, and I’ll come back to reset them myself once we have the scans. Page OB and Ortho—tell them we have incoming traumas.’

  Bradley gave her a curt nod and got to work.

  The whole trauma centre came to life as she spoke to the room. If Dr Forbes spoke, you damn well listened. Out of respect, mostly. She didn’t work on fear; she had seen its effects too many times to value it as any sort of teaching aid.

  ‘Clear the beds, people! Three traumas incoming. One thirty-two weeks pregnant and unconscious. Two elderly people, awake and responsive. Bed Two is stable, unconscious, and has multiple fractures. Check them in, people, and check them out!’

  She headed for the on-call room, grabbing a pair of fresh scrubs from the pile kept in there. Within seconds she was dressed and ready to go. Talk about a gentle easing back into the day job. Sheesh.

  She went to open the door, but froze when she heard her name being mentioned. She held her hands out in front of her, grateful to see that they were as steady as a rock now.

  It must have been the adrenaline, she thought to herself. I’m back. I can do this. I want to be here. Here grounds me. Normality. Work. Friends. Just got to keep it together. Fake it till you make it, Doctor.

  ‘Shh—not the time!’

  One of the nurses was trying to silence a porter Michelle recognised—Alan. He’d worked in trauma for years and was one of her favourite colleagues. Fast, quick, and he got the job done. Just the kind of person every head of trauma wanted to have working for her.

  ‘We have trauma incoming—just leave it!’

  Michelle opened the door just a crack more, giving herself half a second to listen in. Alan seemed rattled, and that made her Spidey senses tingle. One thing she had learned from her tours as a medic: you listened to your gut. Helping charitable organisations overseas and working with the army had taught her that staying alive
meant being true to your own instincts and having the courage to see your plan through.

  ‘It’s not fair, though,’ Alan hissed into the nurse’s ear. ‘She went to help her fellow countrymen and this is what she gets? We don’t need any more change around here; I don’t like it. I really don’t like lying to her, either.’

  The nurse didn’t get the chance to reply as Michelle swept out through the door, shutting it firmly behind her, having stashed her backpack under one of the beds.

  ‘Michelle!’ Alan said smoothly, and any reservation that might have shown on his face was shrouded carefully by his friendly open smile. ‘Glad you’re back.’

  She smiled, tapping him on the shoulder. She could hear the incoming ambulances and was already back to thinking about work. Whatever that was all about, it would come out in the wash soon enough. Even in a large hospital like this gossip never stayed secret for long. No need for her to get involved.

  ‘Glad to be back. I hope you haven’t wrecked the place!’ she called over her shoulder as she ran to the trauma centre doors.

  Two ambulances came screeching to a halt, one after the other, and medics were already scrambling to help. Michelle burst through the doors and was at the door to the first ambulance when she was almost hit by one of the doors flying open, with a shouting man behind it.

  ‘Trauma, people! Female, Annie Weston, thirty-two weeks pregnant plus three, knocked unconscious at the scene of an RTA. Vitals stable. Foetal heartbeat strong, detected in the field and en route. No sign of labour, but we need to assess the injuries, stat.’

  Michelle, furious at being sideswiped by both the door and the stranger, sprang up from her position and poked the guy right in the chest. Quite a firm chest, as chests went... Her short, neat little fingernail jabbed into his pectoral flesh, producing a wince from him. He looked down at what was causing the pain as Michelle’s team, already called by her, got to work on the pregnant patient and the two casualties in the other rig. His piercing green eyes locked on to her angry baby blues and they sized each other up.

  ‘You almost clipped me with the ambulance door, genius. I don’t know who you are, but please step aside.’ She gave him a pointed look, turning away to see to her patient.

  Honestly. These mansplainers, she thought. They see a few episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and suddenly they’re all McDreamy.

  Although, truth be told, he was quite easy on the eye. If you liked arrogant, haughty men with delusions of grandeur. Michelle for one, did not.

  The team sped off after the patients, and she went to follow.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ came an amused voice from behind her.

  She turned, eyeing up the man once more.

  ‘Comobos...a year or so back?’

  For a second Michelle just shook her head. Surely she’d remember having seen him before? Or would she? These days she wasn’t one hundred percent sure which way was up when she thought of that tour.

  Then it came. The wave of nausea, the feeling of being tied to the earth with only a flimsy string, like a helium balloon. One little snip and she would be airborne, helpless.

  Oh, God, not now. Please.

  Michelle felt sick. Comobos. That had been the start of it all—of the way she was feeling now. All the emotions that were tied up in that place, that tour, came flooding back.

  Looking down at her hands, she saw that she was clasping her hands together tightly, the white gloves she held making her skin look all the paler alongside them. She took out her hand gel and coated her gloves with it, relieved when her hands were still again. Tremors were certain death to surgical careers.

  ‘I was there. I don’t remember you, though.’

  She didn’t elaborate, but waited for him to explain himself.

  He smiled easily. ‘I had to go wheels down before the end of the tour—left in a bit of a rush.’

  His jaw flexed, and she saw something akin to pain flashing across his features. It was only there a moment, and then he put his smug mask back on.

  ‘Rebecca’s your close friend there, right? The nurse?’

  Rebecca. Michelle swayed a little on her feet as a memory of her friend’s face, twisted in panic and pain, slapped her. She practically growled at the man, hating him for ruining her first day back. She wanted to be normal; how could she do that with all this around her?

  ‘Yes, she—’ Was. A simple word, but Michelle couldn’t spit it out. ‘Rebecca’s a friend.’

  Then it hit her. This was him. The him.

  ‘You’re the doctor, aren’t you? The one with the crème brûlée?’

  The man smiled wolfishly.

  Michelle didn’t respond.

  Rebecca, on that tour, had had a ‘friends with benefits’ relationship with some flash doctor. They had worked together before, briefly, but she hadn’t really registered him at the time. Michelle and Rebecca had nicknamed him Mr Sweet Tooth after he had once managed to produce just the dessert that Rebecca had been craving since arriving in the Army camp, where such things had been almost impossible to get.

  She could see Rebecca now, sitting on her cot, laughing with Michelle about her sexploits with him, and the delicious puddings he had provided. It was a nice memory, and one she was glad to remember. Even if he was the one to evoke it within her.

  ‘I see my reputation precedes me,’ he quipped. ‘That was a pretty nice dessert. How is dear Becks? Wheels up again?’

  Michelle shook her head and he frowned, catching her sudden change in demeanour.

  She’s dead.

  ‘Something like that. Forgive me—I have a trauma centre to run.’

  She turned away before he could question her further. She did have work to do, and memories, good or bad, weren’t going to save any lives today.

  ‘Sure, I’ll see you around,’ he called after her.

  ‘Yep,’ she said in reply.

  Doubt it, bucko. Relatives’ lounge for you, dude. No work for you today.

  Passing Alan, who was pushing a patient in a wheelchair into the foyer of Trauma, she beckoned him closer.

  ‘Alan, we have a family member outside—a doctor. Can you show him to the lounge please? I don’t want him wandering around.’

  She didn’t want him about when she was trying to work; she needed to focus. She put her hands by her sides, nipping at the skin of her thighs to ground herself. She felt better here. If she could see her hand on her scrubs, feel the slight pain her fingers produced, then she was fine. She was here. Safe. Alive and intact—for the most part. Once he was gone and forgotten about, she’d be just fine.

  ‘When you get a minute.’ She smiled at Alan, grateful to see him there.

  Alan nodded, but then, looking back at the doors, he stopped, his face dropping.

  ‘Er...that man?’ he checked.

  Michelle turned to see Dr Dessert heading over to the pregnant woman. Michelle nodded, groaning. ‘Let him check on his loved one—then he goes to the lounge.’

  She passed a glance over at them. He was checking the monitors, asking the nurse with the patient questions. She’d let him get some peace of mind, then off he needed to go. She didn’t want him hanging around. The thought of him being there thrust the past into her present. She couldn’t deal with that today. She was back, and she needed to work.

  Alan was looking at her gormlessly.

  ‘Problem, Alan?’ she asked.

  Alan looked down at the man in the wheelchair, who shrugged back up at him. ‘Sorry, pal, I’m just along for the ride.’

  Alan sighed, patting the man gently on the shoulder. ‘You and me both, brother.’

  His meaty hand almost dwarfed the man’s whole shoulder, and his dark-tinted skin looked all the deeper against the whites and yellows of the hospital gowns and blankets.

  ‘Michelle, you need to speak to Andrew.’


  * * *

  Andrew Chambers was just asking his secretary to hold all calls so he could have lunch, his hands wrapped around his favourite steak and cheese sub, when the door nearly came off its hinges with a determined knock. He dropped the sandwich in shock, heading to the door, and groaned slightly when he saw who was making her presence felt.

  ‘Michelle, you scared me! What’s wrong?’

  He picked up his sandwich again, taking a huge bite as his chief of trauma stood before him, her arms folded. His secretary, Rita, came running in on her little heels.

  ‘Sorry, Andrew. I asked her to wait till I could announce her.’

  Andrew smiled through his mouthful, waving her away.

  ‘It’s fine, Rita,’ Michelle replied, increasing her glare level to singe, her eyes never leaving Andrew’s pale blue ones. ‘He’s the one who should be apologising.’

  He swallowed, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘Rita, you can take your lunch now; get the secretarial pool to field my calls till you get back.’

  Rita nodded, taking her leave, and Michelle closed the door behind her, throwing her scrubs-clad body into one of the chairs. She grabbed the other half of Andrew’s sandwich.

  ‘Hey! My lunch! Michelle—come on!’

  She took a huge bite, chewing and devouring it fast. ‘Not bad—bit more pickle would have been nice.’

  ‘I hate pickles.’

  ‘I know!’ she retorted, dropping the rest of the sandwich back onto his plate. ‘I hate a few things too—like coming back to find you’ve hired some other doctor to take my job!’

  Thinking about this job had kept her going all these months since she’d returned to British soil, bringing Rebecca’s body with her. After Scott had left, when she hadn’t been able to get out of bed... The thought of losing it was making her react, and she couldn’t help it. She felt threatened—as if the ground beneath her feet was turning to sand, shifting...

  There was a gentle tap on the door, but the pair of them ignored it. Andrew laughed softly—out of awkwardness, probably. Michelle didn’t see any humour.