Radclyffe - Passion's Bright Fury Read online

  Passion's Bright Fury

  by Radclyffe

  PROLOGUE

  It was an ordinary Monday morning in July, and she scarcely took notice of the people around her as she leaned against the metal pole in the center of the subway car. Her briefcase was secured in one hand, the Daily News folded in half length-wise and held up in front of her face with the other. It was seven-thirty a.m., the height of rush hour, and eighty early morning commuters filled every seat and pressed against her in the narrow aisle. She had thirty blocks to ride underground to her destination.

  She had given up trying to drink coffee during the trip; she had ruined one too many suits while trying to manage a cup amidst the jostling crowds. Had she stopped to purchase her usual fare of espresso-spiked French roast, she would have taken a different train. Sometimes five minutes can change the course of a lifetime.

  "Damn driver's gonna shake us all to death," someone nearby grumbled.

  "Excuse me, sorry," her pole-mate mumbled for the third time after losing his balance and stumbling into her.

  "No problem," she murmured, lowering her paper and glancing through the thick, scratched glass of the sliding double doors opposite her. Shadows of vertical concrete supports and the gaping mouths of dark recesses flew by quickly in the dimly lit tunnel. Too quickly. When the businessman next to her lurched into her once again, she tucked the newspaper under her arm, pressed the briefcase to her chest with an elbow, and grasped the pole with both hands. The car rocked heavily, and she had to spread her feet to keep her balance. She glanced forward the length of the car and realized that everyone else was having difficulty staying upright, too. Her pulse quickened as she fought to steady herself. The train went into a curve and seemed to tilt up on one side. Over the noise of her own heart pounding erratically in her ears, she heard the reassuring squeal of the brakes being applied. Nothing to worry about.

  That was her last conscious thought before the world turned upside down amidst the sounds of rending metal and helpless humanity. Then there were only fragments of words and dizzying images and jostled movements that catapulted her in and out of consciousness, until finally reality coalesced into a blinding light in her eyes and a crimson roar of pain in her head. She struggled to sit up, but just the slight movement she was able to manage caused a new agony in her right leg to surge upward and force the air from her lungs with its terrible intensity. Forcing her eyes open despite the piercing glare, she found herself looking into a huge silver disk with a hot white bulb in its center suspended over her head. Almost instantaneously, she realized that her arms were tied down. Then she began to hear voices, strident tones forming half-sentences and clipped short-hand phrases.

  Closed head injury...open tib-fib fracture...

  Somebody call the O. R.…another one coming up...

  Type and cross her...four units...

  We need a CT of the chest and abdomen…STAT...

  Fighting down the pain, she gathered all her strength and tried to speak. "What... oh... where am..." Suddenly, a silhouette swam into her field of vision, backlit by the bright light, and she tried unsuccessfully to focus. "Please…"

  Gentle hands restrained her as a deep, calm voice spoke. "You were in an accident. You're at Bellevue. Can you tell me your name?"

  She tried to shape the sounds of her name but they floated away from her on a new wave of anguish. She continued to stare upward, dimly aware of fingers brushing over her face. Finally, features began to emerge from the shadows above her, giving her something to cling to in the sea of confusion and pain. A face bending near-blue eyes, so dark they were almost purple, intense and penetrating. Black hair, thick and unruly, escaping from beneath the band of a surgeon's cap that slashed across a strong broad forehead. Prominent cheekbones and a bold, nearly masculine jaw.

  "You're going to be fine."

  She had no choice but to deliver herself into those confident unwavering eyes-and to believe.

  Chapter one

  Five years later

  "I don't have time for interviews," Saxon Sinclair said with barely contained irritation as she walked unannounced into the Chief of Surgery's office late on the last day of June. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't schedule things for me without discussing it first."

  The distinguished-appearing, fifty-year-old man behind the broad walnut desk smoothed his expensively styled, silvered hair, carefully placed his Waterman pen into the chest pocket of his spotless starched white lab coat, and tried to conceal his aversion to his visitor. He leaned back in the padded swivel chair and regarded the intense, dark haired woman in navy surgical scrubs who stood too close to the front of his desk to be respectful. She wore two beepers on her belt, the trauma pager that would summon her to the helipad or the trauma admitting area, and the code beeper that would call her to the trauma intensive care unit in the event that a patient arrested. Rangy and lean, she was too athletic-appearing for his taste, and too aggressive for his liking. She probably wasn't aware of the fact that she was leaning forward with her feet spread and her hands clenched at her sides.

  "I'm sorry," he said in his practiced bureaucratic voice. "I thought my secretary had cleared it with your office."

  "Apparently not," she said, her tone indicating that she didn't believe him. "Tomorrow is July first, and I've got three fresh attendings, two first-year fellows, and a handful of brand new residents in my trauma unit. I can't leave them to meet with some journalist. You'll have to get someone else to talk to him."

  Preston Smith smiled, thinking how much he'd like to fire her arrogant ass. Too bad the university was so concerned about the gender and minority profiles of their department chairs and division heads. A clear bias might have a negative impact on future state and federal funding, and every institution was feeling the financial crunch. The powers that be-more importantly-the powers that controlled his own budget, would not take kindly to him firing one of the few female chiefs in the entire university hospital system. He conveniently ignored the fact that she was also one of the premier trauma surgeons in the state and had been the focus of several newspaper and magazine articles. He couldn't even find anything, professional or personal, to hold over her head to threaten her with. Private and solitary, apparently wedded to her work, her reputation was unimpeachable. She would not be easy to get rid of. "You're the one they want to talk to, Sax," he said solicitously, assuming a familiarity she had never invited. "You're the one with the name recognition."

  "Then they can come back in September and talk to me then," she said as she turned and started towards the door. Pompous idiot. He hasn't actually been in the operating room in so long, he's forgotten how hairy the first few weeks of July can be.

  "I thought you'd want to meet with these folks and lay down the ground rules," he called after her, "but it's up to you, of course. You know how you want to run your unit."

  These folks? She stopped suddenly and pivoted slowly, her eyes narrowing. "Is there something else you haven't told me, Preston?"

  "Image is everything in today's marketplace, and we're no exception. We're not the only level one trauma unit in Manhattan, nor the only cancer center, nor the only tertiary care facility," he said smoothly, as if she weren't aware of these facts. "St. Michael's needs the exposure, and this is a perfect opportunity."

  "What is this , exactly?"

  He couldn't quite hide his triumphant smile. "One of the independent networks will be airing a documentary medical series, and the production company be filming it here. It's an excellent opportunity for free advertising."

  For a moment, she simply stared, rigidly still but for a muscle that jumped along the border of her jaw. Very
quietly, in a voice edged in steel, she asked, "And what precisely does that have to do with me?"

  "The producers felt that the exposé would have more impact if viewers could identify with a particular individual throughout the episodes, so they're going to present a year-long show based on the life of a surgical trainee."

  " Which trainee?"

  Smith made a show of moving some papers around on his desk, but Sax knew damn well that he didn't need to search for a name. This had all been decided without her input and had probably been set in motion weeks before.

  "Ah...here we are. Deborah Stein."

  "My first-year trauma fellow." It was a statement, not a question. Sax rubbed her eyes and contemplated homicide. "Does Stein know about this?"

  "Of course," Smith replied, his tone implying surprise. "She agreed to it when she signed her contract." He didn't add that the final contract was contingent upon her agreeing to the project, nor did he add that he had led the incoming surgical trainee to believe that Sinclair was aware of the circumstances.

  "Are you trying to tell me that I'm going to have civilians crawling around in my trauma unit with cameras and microphones and God knows what else while I'm trying to triage injured patients? You can't be serious."

  Preston Smith stood up, his eyes suddenly hardening. "Actually, Sinclair, that's exactly what I'm telling you. The hospital needs this, and I've already agreed to it. You'll have to find a way to live with it, so I suggest that you meet with the director as planned."

  She left without another word, because any longer and she wouldn't have been able to contain her temper. This was a fight she knew she couldn't win, and she had battles of much more importance to wage.

  *****

  Six A.M. July 1

  A figure, back turned, leaned against the wall outside her office, a newspaper held aloft in the traditional lengthwise, half-fold configuration of the habitual New York City subway rider. All Sax could make out was a mass of rich red curls fanning out over the collar of a khaki safari-style shirt and long legs encased in tailored trousers. She slowed as she approached, curious, because she was quite certain she was not expecting anyone. Her orientation with new residents and staff was scheduled for seven.

  At the sound of the footsteps in the deserted hallway behind her, Jude Castle turned and got her first look at the elusive Doctor Saxon Sinclair, Chief of Trauma at St. Michael's Hospital in lower Manhattan. The surgeon wasn't entirely what she expected of someone with that title-particularly not with the motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm, the well-worn black leather jacket, and the faded blue jeans. Jude stared, momentarily perplexed, because the woman standing a few feet away, studying her with a raised eyebrow and a slight frown, looked familiar. And she was sure they had never met. She would not have forgotten someone with the simmering good looks and unapologetically self-assured attitude that this woman exuded. Probably a promo photo from somewhere , she thought, dismissing the uneasy feeling of déjà vu.

  "Dr. Sinclair?" Jude said, finally finding her voice and stepping forward with an outstretched hand. "Jude Castle, Horizon Productions."

  Sax's frown deepened, but she accepted the proffered hand. The redhead's grip was firm and definite. Her green eyes were direct and self-possessed, too. Sax released the other woman's hand and pulled her keys from the pocket of her leather jacket. Fitting them to the lock in her door, she said over her shoulder, "Do we have an appointment?"

  "No," Jude said, edging closer to the door, planning to jam her foot in it if necessary, "we don't. I've been trying to set something up for weeks, but your secretary wasn't able to pin you down as to a convenient time."

  "Probably because there isn't one," Sax said, turning to block the path into the small room she used as an auxiliary office as well as an on-call sleeping area. She was startled to find the other woman almost nose to nose with her across the threshold. "This is a hectic time of year, and I don't have time for…" She ran a hand through her hair, disheveling the already wild strands of midnight waves. "… public relations."

  "Understood," Jude agreed, holding her ground. "I have an entire crew arriving here tomorrow, and I'm short on time, too. Maybe we could do this over coffee?"

  "Do what?" Sax asked pointedly, stripping off her jacket and tossing it onto a narrow bed covered with medical journals and a pile of navy blue scrubs. Relenting, she motioned Jude to enter. "Close the door," she said offhandedly as she reached for a pair of scrub pants and began to unbutton her jeans. "You can fill me in while I change."

  Jude stared wordlessly for an interminable moment when she thought Sinclair was going to step out of those sexy, nearly threadbare levis right in front of her, and then she hurriedly spun her around to face the opposite wall where an old wooden desk labored under the weight of a modern computer system. She cleared her throat, which was suddenly dry, and replied evenly, "I had hoped we could talk logistics. I don't want to get in your way, Dr. Sinclair…"

  "You're already in my way," Sax pointed out, pulling her T-shirt over her head and replacing it with a navy top. Moving around the redhead to her desk, she found a pen, which she stuck in her chest pocket. She leaned her hip against the edge of the desk and regarded her visitor, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a sigh of exasperation. "I'm stuck with this, aren't I?"

  Shrugging, Jude smiled. "'Fraid so. I'll try to make it as painless as possible." She wasn't sure that levity would get her anywhere with the clearly aggravated surgeon, but she just couldn't help herself. Besides, she needed to do something to take her mind off how damned attractive Sinclair was. It wasn't like her to be quite so affected by a pair of deep, brooding eyes and a mane of black hair that begged for fingers to run through it. She tried to ignore the faint flush of heat in her limbs. She had work to do.

  Sax pushed away from the desk and strode rapidly to the door, pulling it open. She looked back over her shoulder and called, "Well, come on then. You've got twenty minutes to fill me in."

  "Thirty," Jude responded, hurrying after her. "Make it thirty, and I'll buy the coffee." She didn't get an answer, but she could have sworn she saw a grin. It was a small victory, but she'd take it for now.

  *****

  Chapter Two

  Jude was used to running while on the job. She'd filmed almost everything there was to film at one time or another except actual combat, but she'd been close enough to the front in Kosovo to need to sprint to avoid being flattened by falling debris during bombing raids. She was practically racing now to keep up with Sinclair as they rushed through the halls on their way to the cafeteria. As Jude started to turn right around a corner clearly marked with a sign indicating the cafeteria, Sinclair grabbed her arm and pulled her left.

  "This way," Sax said, drawing the other woman with her in the opposite direction.

  "What…?" Jude started to ask.

  "Some things are essential in this business," Sax informed her, fishing a handful of bills out of her shirt pocket, "and good coffee is one of them."

  Then Jude saw the tiny kiosk tucked into the corner of the large admissions area waiting room. The top of a brass and chrome espresso machine was visible behind a stack of cups and a plastic bin of pastries. "Ah, I see," she noted. "A real coffee drinker."

  Sax leaned over the counter and peered around the cash register down the narrow aisle beyond. Then she smiled in satisfaction. "Terry! Coffee - quick!" Glancing at Jude, she inquired, "What'll you have? Terry's making me a red eye."

  "Perfect," Jude replied. A minute later she accepted the cup of coffee with an added shot of espresso with a grateful sigh. When Sax started to pay, she caught her hand. "I've got it, remember?"

  For a second they both stared at Jude's hand on Sax's wrist. Jude stared because her fingers were tingling, and that didn't make any sense at all. She had no idea what the surgeon was feeling, because her face was expressionless as she pulled away and said, "Sure. Thanks."

  Carrying their cups, they walked across the lobby level public seating area toward th
e elevators.

  "So," Jude began, anxious to take advantage of every minute with the reluctant surgeon, "I need to clarify a few details of the shoot with you."

  "So I gathered," Sax responded dryly. She pushed the up button, a little surprised at how easily the persistent director had maneuvered her into a discussion of something that she wasn't at all sure she wanted to happen. Usually not so susceptible to persuasion, she had to admit that the redhead had a subtle charm about her that was hard to resist. To take her mind off that disconcerting thought, she said, "I have an orientation meeting with new staff in forty minutes. We can talk in the conference room before everyone arrives. That's probably the only time I'll have free all day."

  "Fine," Jude replied. She sipped her coffee and groaned faintly. "Oh yeah. Nice."

  Sax grinned in spite of herself. "Definitely."

  When they were seated in the small meeting room adjoining the hospital cafeteria, Sax leaned back in her chair and regarded Jude seriously. "Preston Smith told me last night that you want to film a documentary in my trauma unit."

  "Last night?" Jude said in surprise. "You just found out yesterday ? We've been negotiating with the hospital for months about this, and I'd been told everyone involved was onboard. Why didn't he tell you before?"

  "Probably because he knew that I would refuse," Sax offered mildly, watching her companion over the top of her coffee cup. The other woman so far had been unflappable - confident and capable, but surprisingly nonconfrontational. An iron hand in a velvet glove. Sax was impressed, and she didn't impress easily.

  "Really?" Jude commented just as placidly. She thought she understood some of the surgeon's resistance now. She could hardly blame Sinclair for being aggravated if she'd just been informed about the project, and that also explained why she hadn't been able to get an appointment with her sooner. But she sensed something else beneath the other woman's opposition. Something more personal than bureaucratic conflicts. "Mind telling me why you're opposed to it?"

  "Because you and your cameras don't belong in a trauma unit. It's an invasion of privacy to film what might be the most intimate and personal moments of someone's life." Her concern about patient confidentiality was true, even if it wasn't her only objection. She had no intention of disclosing her own aversion to publicity.