Jonah felt a wave of relief as Jacquelyn left his office. He’d nearly blown five years of determination in the brief moment he nearly admitted to her—and to himself—that his reasoning had been befuddled by longing.
But his feelings for Jacquelyn were, had to be, the last thing on his mind for more than a few important reasons. First, she had a boyfriend. Jonah’s brief encounter with her in the hospital had proved that she loved Craig what’s-his-name whether the guy deserved her or not. Second, the flail of bitter experience had taught Jonah that romance didn’t belong in the office. And third, a doctor should not allow his emotional feelings for a patient to cloud his judgment about what would be the most prudent medical treatment.
And the most prudent treatment for Jacquelyn Wilkes was mastectomy followed by chemotherapy. Though his throat had ached with regret when he advised Dr. Wilder to proceed with the more radical surgery, he had been certain he was acting in Jacquelyn’s best interest. Women with a family history of cancer typically developed more aggressive tumors at a younger age, and the cancer had already spread to the lymph nodes. Despite her denial, Jacquelyn should have known and understood his concern.
Then why did he feel such torment?
“Dr. Martin?” Jacquelyn leaned into the doorway of his office, feeling as hollow as her voice sounded. Her back ached between her shoulder blades, and the skin across her chest felt like the head of a drum against which her heart thumped in a tired, repetitive motion.
But she was grateful for her weariness. Right now she was too tired to care about Jonah Martin, and felt reasonably sure nothing he would say could upset her.
Jonah was seated at his desk, tape-recording notes the medical assistant would later transcribe onto patient charts. He looked up briefly, saw Jacquelyn, and motioned her in, apparently without breaking his train of thought.
Good, she thought, eyeing the empty chair in front of his desk as if it were an island in the midst of a troubled sea. Dr. Porcupine was back.
He finished his notes, snapped off the recorder, then noticed that she was still standing.
“Please, sit down,” he said, color rising into his face. While she collapsed gratefully into the chair, he shuffled a few papers scattered over the surface of his desk.
“Whew,” he finally said, running his hand through his hair as he glanced over at her. “Quite a day, huh? I’m worn out, and I’m not recovering from surgery. I can guess how you must feel.”
“Can you?” She lifted a brow. She didn’t like him in this warm fuzzy mode, right now she would rather deal with Dr. Porcupine.
He seemed to take the hint. “All right then.” His mouth took on an unpleasant twist as he pulled her chart from a stack on his desk. His voice was controlled now, almost tight. “You know the drill, Jacquelyn, but let me give you the refresher course. You know we can’t say you are cured until ten years passes without a recurrence of the cancer—well, let’s just say that from this day forward, I expect you to faithfully perform monthly breast self-examinations as well as having an annual mammogram.” He glanced at her for a sign of objection. “Understood?”
She nodded, too drained to speak.
He paused and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Next week,” he said, a look of intense, clear light pouring through his eyes, “I want you to begin chemotherapy here. Just in case one or two of those rebellious cells slipped by Dr. Wilder’s scalpel.”
“Chemo?” She tensed at the horrified sound of her own voice. “You cut off my breast and you want me to take chemo right away?”
“Jacquelyn.” He spoke with quiet firmness. “It’s standard procedure. Stage II tumors with lymph node involvement, especially from patients with a strong family history of breast cancer, have a high risk of relapse that can be significantly reduced by taking chemo, followed by hormonal therapy.”
“But—here?” She spread her hands wide. “I can’t take chemo here, not in front of my own patients! I’m the one who’s always telling them to be brave, that nausea won’t kill them, and that those silly wigs look natural. For heaven’s sake—”
“Afraid you can’t take your own medicine?” The words were cold, but when she looked up he wore a pained expression, as though he regretted his bluntness.
How could she explain? It wasn’t fear, pride, or self-consciousness that kept her from agreeing, but a combination of all those emotions. How could she, the stalwart, no-nonsense Nurse Jacquelyn, let her patients see her vulnerability? They needed her strength…and she didn’t need their pity.
She gazed speculatively at her doctor. “You wouldn’t do it if you were me,” she said abruptly. “You wouldn’t take chemo in front of your own patients.”
By his slight squint and the sideways movement of his jaw, she knew her words had hit home. Oh, it was fine for him to challenge her, but woe to any nurse who dared suggest that a revered doctor take his own advice.
When he drew a breath, she mentally braced herself for a rebuke.
“Okay, Jacquelyn.” His voice was surprisingly tender. “You’re right. I’ll administer your treatments myself. We can set up the treatment after hours. I’ll respect your privacy.”
The offer caught her unprepared. Disconcerted, she crossed her arms and pointedly looked away. “I could go to another hospital. I could even find another doctor.”
“You don’t have to do that.” She could feel his warm eyes boring into her. “Jacquelyn, I’m your doctor, and I’d like to be your friend. We’ve come this far together, so let’s keep moving forward, shall we? Your chemo will be completed in sixteen weeks. You can receive your treatment on Thursday or Friday, rest over the weekend and return to work on Monday. If your blood work is clear at the end of six months, you can forget you ever had cancer. I feel certain we’ll be safely rid of it all by then.”
Forget the cancer? Impossible.
She shrugged to hide her confusion, then dropped her head so he couldn’t study her face. What should she do? The practical, logical side of her brain knew he was right about everything. He’d been right to take the breast. He was right to order chemotherapy. She was upset because she was tired and weak, and for the first time in her life cancer had turned on her.
Mixed feelings surged through her as she lifted her head. Why was she always so reluctant to concede to him? Something in her wanted to deny him and please him at the same time.
“All right, Doc.” Somehow she forced a smile through her mask of uncertainty. “I’ll put myself in your hands. I’ll be your nurse from eight to five, and your patient from five for as long as it takes on chemo days.”
“Good.” Before his appealing smile, her defenses melted away. “Jacquelyn, I promise, I’ll take every consideration of your feelings.”
“You already have,” she whispered, thinking about all the things he had done for her in the past two weeks. Was it possible that his concern was rooted in a feeling deeper than his unusual compassion for his patients? She rapidly dismissed such thoughts. Jonah Martin was an anomaly, a one-in-a-million doctor, and though he might be a trial to work for, she felt fortunate to have him as her physician.
“Have no fear, Dr. Martin.” She smiled with all the enthusiasm she could muster. “I intend to eat right, to take my vitamins, to exercise and be happy. And—” the thought of Daphne Redfield suddenly flitted through her brain “—I’m going to start going to church again. This—situation—has reminded me that I’m not as close to God as I should be.”
A strange, faintly eager look flashed in his eyes. “The church I’m attending is wonderful, if you’re looking for someplace new. I’d be happy to meet you there for the Sunday service.” Like an afterthought, he added, “Of course Craig is welcome, too.”
“Craig?” Even his name tasted like gall. She shook her head and laughed. “I wouldn’t look for him in church.” She wanted to add, I wouldn’t look for him anywhere, but she bit her lip. Dr. Jonah Martin certainly didn’t want to hear about her sad, nonexistent love life.
“All right, then.” His tone deepened to a husky whisper. “Well, I want you to know that I don’t exactly approve of you coming back to work so soon—”
She sputtered indignantly, but he held up a quieting hand. “But since you have, I insist that you eat a hot lunch every day in our cafeteria so I can check up on you.” A faint light twinkled in the depths of his blue eyes. “If you don’t have the energy to pack something microwavable, let me know, and I’ll send one of the girls out for something. And every night you’re not having chemo, you are to leave here at promptly at four and go home to rest. If you need help with that canine pony, you must call me, Stacy, or Daphne.”
She swallowed hard, lifted her chin and boldly met his bright gaze. “You’re not my—” Boss, she almost said before realizing that he was. Struck by the silliness of her rebellious attitude, she shook her head and smiled. “Well, that was certainly juvenile,” she finished, barely able to keep the laughter from her voice.
He regarded her with open amusement. “No arguments, Jacquelyn. If you want to be well, you will do what I tell you, when I tell you.”
She tilted her head and pursed her lips. It was obvious he’d been listening to her little speeches in the office; he sounded exactly like her when she addressed new patients.
“Yes, sir,” she said, standing. She let out an exaggerated sigh. “I hear and obey. All but the lunchroom thing. I’m your patient, not your slave, and you can’t shackle me to this office. If the weather’s nice, I’d like to eat outside on the lawn.”
“That could be a problem.” His voice had roughened, but his lips trembled with the need to smile. “I’m your supervising physician, but how can I supervise you if you’re out of my sight?”
A foolish, bold reply rose to her lips, and before she could bite it back the words spilled from her tongue: “You could join me.”
In heaven’s name, what was she doing? He would think she was shamelessly flirting, as bold and brash as Stacy.
An inexplicable look of withdrawal came over his face, then vanished as an easy smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You could let me take you out to dinner.” The words came out at double speed, as if they’d been glued together. “You name the night, this week or next.”
She froze, shocked. Was he teasing? Surely he was. He’d just told her to invite Craig to church. And he openly flirted like this with half his women patients, though most of them were old enough to be his mother. This invitation was about as genuine as his long-standing threat to show up at the Baldovino’s house for lasagna.
A cynical inner voice cut through her confusion. This was his office. Though at this moment she was his patient, she was also his nurse. Hospitals were not appropriate for romantic rendezvous, so he couldn’t have meant the invitation seriously.
She drew a deep breath and forbade herself to look in his eyes. “I’ll go out to dinner with you, Dr. Martin,” she said, tossing him the sauciest smile she could manage, “when you can scratch your ear with your elbow.”
Jonah felt his smile freeze as Jacquelyn turned and left his office. What a fool he was! At least she’d kept her head and put him in his place, or he’d have spilled his feelings, which at this point were far more dangerous than his careless words.
It’s a good thing you’re renting that apartment, he thought, swiveling in his chair until he faced the window. If you don’t get a hold of yourself, you’re going to be moving sooner than you intended.
And yet he didn’t want to leave Chambers-Wyatt Hospital until he knew Jacquelyn Wilkes was on her way to a complete remission. So he couldn’t afford to be distracted by romantic notions, hormones, or whatever it was that made him want to yield to the dynamic vitality she exuded like a scent. He’d certainly met women as beautiful, and one or two as intelligent, but he had never before met a woman who made him want to surrender his iron-forged resolutions and dismantle the barriers around his heart. With her dogged determination and steely courage Jacquelyn Wilkes had stolen his affections…along with most of his good sense.
Why in the world had he blurted out such an open, obvious come-on? No woman in the world would want to think romantically of a man who had just finished discussing her medical records and ordering her life, but he had been emboldened by the sorrowful look that filled her eyes at the mention of Craig’s name. The boyfriend had never once showed up at the hospital to visit Jacquelyn; Jonah had checked. And in casual conversations with Daphne Redfield, he had learned that Craig did not stop by the house to visit, either.
“It’s really pitiful, Doctor,” Daphne told him when he called to check on Jacquelyn’s progress. “She reads on the couch all day with that giant dog by her side. The animal’s a blessing, though, because she seems to have no one else. Her father did call on Saturday, so I introduced myself. Of course I assumed he knew everything about Jacquelyn’s condition, but when I said she was recovering nicely from her surgery, the man mumbled something about someone at the door and hung up without another word.”
Daphne’s horrified wonder had rolled over the telephone line. “I can’t imagine a father leaving a daughter alone like that. If one of my boys were sick, I’d be at his side in an instant, no matter how grown up they were.”
“I’m sure you would,” Jonah answered. He finished by asking a few questions about Daphne’s health, then he had hung up and stared at the wall in his austere apartment.
So Jacquelyn Wilkes was alone. That explained a lot—her devotion to duty, her fanatic obsession with her dog, the steel beneath her smile.
Jonah and loneliness were well-acquainted. His weapons against loneliness were his busy schedule and the emotional demands of his patients. If not for patients like Daphne Redfield, Concetta Baldovino and young Michael Richards, he’d be as nutty as a mouse in a milk can. Jacquelyn Wilkes would be, too, if he didn’t allow her to stay busy and fill her life with something meaningful.
He’d do anything in his power to keep Jacquelyn from feeling the pain that walked with him daily.
The phone at his belt chimed, snapping him out of his reverie. One of his patients needed him, probably Michael Richards, the kid with bone cancer. He had received a strong dose of Adriamycin and Cytoxan that morning, and his mother had been as anxious as a hen with one chick.
Jonah picked up the phone and tried to settle into his professional demeanor. If the chemo didn’t work, Michael would lose his right leg. Jonah didn’t want to disappoint the world by sidelining an enthusiastic future quarterback.
He cleared his throat and flipped the phone open. “Dr. Martin here.”
On Friday afternoon, October 31, Jacquelyn waited until the office emptied, then sank into one of the cushioned chemo chairs. Someone had hung a string of construction paper jack-o’-lanterns across the wide window of the treatment room and outside, on a distant street, she could see that the parent-and-child patrols for Halloween candy had already begun.
How ironic. She’d begin her chemo treatments on a night primarily noted for goblins, ghouls and cheap horror movies on television.
“Should I give the speech you drill into every new patient?” Jonah asked, his eyes bright with mischief as he entered the room. He straddled Jacquelyn’s little rolling stool, his lab coat trailing behind him like a medieval king’s robe.
“You can skip the speech.” Jacquelyn thrust her arm toward him. “Fill ’er up, Doc, and pop a good movie into the VCR.”
Jacquelyn had to admire the skill with which Jonah slid the needle into her vein. Her own technique wasn’t nearly as smooth.
“There,” he said, attaching the IV drip to the tube that now ran into her arm. “These antinausea medications should keep your night and weekend from becoming too unpleasant. When they’re in, I’ll give you the injectable cocktail and send you home. We’re going to follow the ‘dose dense’ protocol, Cytoxan and Adriamycin once every two weeks for four doses, followed by Taxol every other week for four doses. It’s a fairly intense treatment but usually well tolerated.”
Jacquelyn’s gaze lifted to the pouch on the IV pole. “You don’t have to stay,” she whispered, feeling suddenly guilty. He was here, willingly working after hours, on account of her foolish pride. “This is going to take some time, and I know you’re busy—”
“I have some things to do in my office.” Jonah slapped his hands on his knees, then pushed back, propelling the stool across the gleaming floor. “And nothing to do at home.” He stood, but paused to lower his hand to her arm as if to check the IV site. “Call if you need anything,” he said, the touch of his fingers warm on her skin. “I’m here and I’ll be listening.”
She nodded, too overcome with sudden emotion to speak.