Chapter 7

His bruised lips form a half smile.

“Nathan, is it true?” I say, leaning forward, whispering to him. “You’re Russian mafia?”

“Done…nothing wrong.”

I stare at him, but his eyes have slid shut again. No doubt the morphine is kicking in, mercifully easing his suffering.

I struggle with what to do. I finally land on the fact that he’s innocent until proven guilty. If the cops have a case, they’ll make it and haul his Russian ass away. But he’s asking me to help him…what do I do?

As if hearing my internal conflict, Nathan eyelids rise. “Framed,” he says, “I’m a businessman…graduated from…Cornell University.”

Since when does the mafia attend Ivy League colleges? Who do I believe, him or the cops?

“Look me up…” a slight smile touches his lips though his eyes remain shut. “G****e me.”

I chuckle despite the situation. “Believe me, I will, and if you don’t check out, the gun’s going straight to the authorities.”

His tortured smile widens. “What…what’s your name?”

The question catches me off guard. It’s an innocuous enough question that, technically, doesn’t violate any rules. “Uh, Madison.”

“Madison,” he whispers my name like a prayer. “My angel’s name…is Madison.”

I snort with laughter. “Trust me, I’m no angel,” I say, even as I move to hide the gun in my emergency medical bag. “But for now,” I lower my voice and whisper in his ear, “it’s hidden.”

He nods, a gentle warmth spreading across his face as he drifts into sleep.

“What in the world are you still doing here?” says Chleo Weiss, the new chief resident. She eyes me with a mix of incredulity and wonder. “You’ve worked a double shift. Go home already.”

I stop at the main nurses’ station with her. Her green scrubs hang from her tall slender frame. Her auburn hair is pulled back into its usual ponytail. This woman lives for the job. Rumor is, she’s divorced, and her ex has their two kids. Pot, meet kettle, I want to say. But instead, I reply, “Yeah, I am in a minute. I just wanted to check on a patient before I go.”

Her finely plucked brow shoots up. “What patient can’t wait for tomorrow?”

I shrug. “The valve replacement that came in this morning. I just want to look over her charts before I go, I have some thoughts on her case.”

Chleo folds her arms across her chest. “You want to run them by me? I’d be interested to hear.”

“I was reading up on a new procedure that I thought she might be a good candidate for, but it depends on how well she’s responding to the current treatment,” I say, refusing to so much as blink.Chleo has only been here six weeks and I’m still trying to determine whether she’s a friend or foe.

She eyes me dubiously, then steps aside. I give her a tight smile and head down the hall. I try like hell to remember which room they placed that patient in. I purposefully stride passed Sebastian Petrosky’s room and curse myself for being so obvious. Or am I being paranoid? Chleo could honestly be concerned about one of their brightest medical students burning out.

Between my rounds, and the cops always sniffing around Nathan room, it’s almost impossible to make my daily checks on him. My specific attention is no longer required, but the one time I missed a day from pure exhaustion, Nathan inquired as to where I’d been and why I hadn’t come to see him. And so, I make it a point to stop in to see him for a few minutes every day.

After I swing by the valve replacement patient (just in case Nathan is watching), I make my way back down to the 3rdfloor to Nathan’s room. I glance down the hall before entering it, relieved to find that Nathan is gone.

As I move down the hall, I again question my motives. I did my research on Nathan the night we rescued him. He is the eldest son of the late Layla, a Russian who was rumored to be a major crime boss back in Moscow. Layla moved her family to the U.S. when Nathan was eleven years old. A year or so later, Layla had been gunned down during a business deal gone bad. Her mum , while Nathan was left behind in the U.S. to be raised by Layla’s half sister, Mrs Wood.

As Mrs Wood had no male heirs, it was widely held that Nathan was his heir apparent. Nathan for his part performed superbly in school and went on to earn an MBA with honors from Cornell University and was then recruited by Goldman Sachs Investment Banking firm as a securities analyst. Today, he runs several legitimate Russian import/export businesses along the East Coast as well as a small financial services company.

After a few days of interrogating Sebastian, it became apparent that the cops had no clear case against him and had found no incriminating evidence in his car. No mention at all was made of a gun or what evil it might have been used to accomplish. Based upon that, I informed Sebastian that I’d tossed his gun into the Hudson River.

It seemed to please him.Iseem to please him.

I must confess that I did, of course I did, look up images of him as all I saw was a bruised and battered face with brilliant eyes. I’m not one to be caught up in looks and outward appearance, but damn if he wasn’t one of the most gorgeous men I’d ever laid eyes on. He has a face that belongs on the cover of a Calvin Klein cologne ad and a body that looks like it hasn’t missed a single day in the gym. He wore his light brown hair a little on the long side for the business world, but he made it work.

Nathan’s been at the hospital recovering for about a week now. He’s been moved into a private suite and is visited often by his work associates and a couple of police detectives. When I enter the room, Nathan is sitting up in the bed tapping a text into his cell phone. His hair is neatly combed and he’s wearing a personal pajama top, burgundy, and opened at the chest where I spy a medallion around his neck. When he glances up, his expression is cold and bleak, until he realizes it’s me. A warm smile spreads across his face and it’s like the sun rising on a cold winter’s day.

Dr. Wood , how good of you to come,” he says with only the faintest hint of a Russian accent. “It’s good medicine, seeing your smiling face.” Though he’d suffered from blunt head trauma, an open tib-fib fracture, and some internal bleeding, he was well on his way to recovering. His face was still a canvas of purples and yellow from the bruising, but at least the swelling had gone down. Every day, his handsome face became more and more visible.

I pull up a chair next to his bed, careful not to knock over the fresh arrangement of flowers. I drop into the chair exhausted. “So, how’s my favorite patient doing today?”

He frowns a little. “Better than you, I think. Has it been a rough day?”

I chuckle. “I know, I know, I must look dreadful.”

“Quite the contrary, Dr. Wood,” Nathan smiles, but he winces as if the mere effort is painful. “Like I said, it’s good medicine to see the lovely face of the angel who saved me.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face. “Ken deserves just as much credit.”

“But he’s not nearly as pretty as you.”

“Ah,” I wave a finger at him, “that charm won’t knock a dime off your hospital bill.”

He chuckles and winces.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t make you laugh.”

“Sometimes a little pain is good, no?” he says with a devilish wink.

“I’m in the business of relieving pain, not causing it.”

“You wish to relieve my pain?”

That’s a loaded question if I ever heard one. “I haven’t spent four years in medical school for nothing.”

“When I get out of here,” he says slyly, “and they say it’s in a couple of days, will you please have dinner with me?”

Despite my exhaustion, my heart leaps in my chest. This guy, as charming and as handsome as his pictures indicate is still, in all probability, the crown prince of the Russian mafia. This littlethingwe seem to have during the recovery period must end the second he’s discharged from the hospital. I’m not going to allow this little Florence Nightingale syndrome we’ve got going go beyond the confines of these hospital walls.

He sets those mesmerizing sapphire eyes upon me, they’re compelling me, dragging compliance forth from me. I have to break free of his gaze lest he take me under.

“Nathan, I don’t think that’d be the best course of action.”

“Why won’t you have dinner with me? Tell me, Dr. Wood,” he asks, his voice low, demanding my attention.

“I--” I clear my throat. “As much as I’ve been enjoying your company, I simply don’t have the time to see you outside this place. As a fourth-year medical student, I have zero social life.”

He frowns. “No social life at all?”

“Not really and it’s only going to get worse,” I attempt to explain unable to hold his gaze. “I’m fairly confident I’m going to get the surgical residency at Presbyterian Hospital, the cardiothoracic training program to be specific. At which time, I’ll have no life to speak of. So, there’s really no point in pretending I will.”

The knee-buckling smirk is back, making me grateful that I’m sitting. “It’s just one dinner, Madison. You name the place and time, I’ll be there.” The smile stretches wider, and he points to his face. “In a couple of weeks, the bruises will heal, and I won’t be so hard to look at.”

A bark of laughter escapes me. Even with the bruises, this man is not hard on the eyes, and he knows it. “That’s definitely not the problem. Besides, you don’t owe me any thanks. I was just doing my job.”

“Coming here to see me every day,” he replies and holds me captive with those eyes, “Was that also part of the job?”

Did the room temperature just shoot up ten degrees? “Well, I work here. I pass by your room every day,” I force a laugh in an attempt to deflect his insinuation. “It would’ve been rude of me not to pop in to say hello.”

His expression falls, though his gaze doesn’t falter. “What do I have to do to see you again? Wrap my car around another tree? I will if that’s what it takes.”

“Don’t you dare,” I laugh nervously. “You were very lucky last time.”

“Then agree to have dinner with me, Layla ,” he gives me a lopsided grin. “To prevent me from doing something rash.” His voice drops an octave. “It’s just one dinner. Say you’ll join me.”

I peer at him, study him like a problem that I need to solve. His gaze doesn’t waver, not for one second. Why does this feel like it’s the first of many battles of wills we shall have?