In His Angel's Arms

  “Have I ever told you how your beautiful eyes helped ground me? And did you know you have tiny green and gold flecks in them?”

  She shook her head, mesmerized by the confession.

  “I was panicking about being trapped inside my body, and there you were, confident and gentle. You helped me remember I was still human.” His hand gently threaded through her hair.

  His face grew blurry as involuntary tingles started behind her lids. She blinked to bring him back into focus.

  “I knew when you were here with me I was safe. Someone would fight for me—even if it meant fighting me. I knew you gave a damn.”

  Enthralled by his gaze, she swallowed a swell of emotion, and subtly moistened her lips.

  Steady hands guided her face to his. Looking her soundly in the eyes, he placed a long, luscious kiss on her lips…

  Lynne Marshall has been a registered nurse in a large hospital in California for over twenty years. Currently she is an advice/triage nurse for fifteen internal medicine doctors. She began writing in 2000, and has earned over a dozen contest awards since. She is happily married to a police lieutenant, and has a grown daughter and son. Besides her passion for writing Medical™ Romance stories, she loves travel, reading, and power walks. Lynne’s website is www.lynnemarshallweb.com

  Others Books by Lynne Marshall

  HER L.A. KNIGHT

  HER BABY’S SECRET FATHER

  IN HIS

  ANGEL’S ARMS

  LYNNE MARSHALL

  In loving memory of Don Coppinger.

  God Bless.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  MALLORY GLENN shuddered at the thought of not being able to breathe.

  She used sterile gloves and a flexible catheter to deep-suction the bronchi and lungs of her patient through the tracheostomy. She’d exchanged the inner removable cannula and cleaned the remaining tube in record time, as she’d had to remove the patient from the ventilator to do it. In between, she aerated him with four manual pumps on the ambu-bag.

  Once she’d put her patient back on the ventilator to catch his breath, and the strained look in his eyes had subsided, she felt comfortable enough to suction more. He coughed and sputtered, but his airway toiletry had been done to the best of her ability. She expected no less of herself in whatever function she performed at Los Angeles Mercy Hospital.

  Mallory smiled and reassuringly patted the patient’s shoulder. He returned the look with a nod indicating that all was well.

  She stepped to the trashcan to dispose of the cleaning equipment. Mesmerized by the constant bellows rhythm of the ventilator, she started when another nurse stuck her head inside the room.

  “Dr. Prescott just called. He’s ready to see you.”

  Mallory’s foot slipped from the trashcan pedal and the lid slammed shut. A swarm of butterflies took flight in her stomach. The tall, dark, and intimidating medical director would see her now. With carved features, a strong nose, and cobalt blue eyes that penetrated straight to her core, J.T. Prescott was the stuff fantasies were made of. She wished she’d never allowed herself to imagine how it might feel to make love to him—especially now, as he was her boss.

  How would she face him without turning a deep shade of red? She hated her telling redhead-and-freckles complexion. Would he know what she was thinking?

  “It used to be we could approach him right here on the ward and talk about our problems while we did patient care and he made rounds.” Mallory removed the dirty gloves and tossed them into the can. “Now we’ve got to make appointments.”

  As always, she’d give her all to make sure that everyone was happy. This time her all would be for her fellow nurses. With her luck she’d go all blotchy and perspire above her upper lip while doing it, but face Dr. Prescott she would. She straightened her shoulders and held her head high, willing a wave of confidence to take hold.

  “Yeah? Well, he used to be a heck of a lot nicer, too,” the other nurse said. “Remember we used to draw straws to see who got to assist him with any bedside procedures?”

  Mallory cracked a smile. “I think you used to cheat.”

  “Who, me?” The other nurse grinned back. “I think he preferred working with you, anyway.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.” Fluttery fingers searched for any stray tendrils of hair from around her face and down her long braid. Could everyone tell she’d had a crush on him?

  Back then she’d never considered him as someone to flirt with because he’d been married and out of bounds. Yet still there was something about him that revved up her heart rate whenever he was around.

  “He sure isn’t the same since he took over that suit job, is he?”

  Mallory shook her head. “It’s too bad.” She remembered how kind and caring he’d been to patients, and how once she’d sworn if she ever got sick she’d want him as her doctor. Had it been the job or the divorce that’d gotten the best of him? She slapped her hands together. “OK. Can you cover my patients while I’m gone?”

  The nurse screwed up her face in protest. “I’ve already got five patients assigned today. How am I supposed to take your four patients? Especially the two ventilators?”

  “I’ve assessed everyone, done a.m. care and passed the meds. There’s just one IV antibiotic left for Room 5005.”

  Pumping the instant sanitizer dispenser on the wall, Mallory scrubbed her hands with the gel in a brisk and frustrated manner.

  “Maybe you can take care of the ambulatory patients and I’ll ask someone else to cover the vents?”

  The other nurse didn’t budge from her stance.

  “Look, you guys asked me to talk to Dr. Prescott and I’m doing it on everyone’s behalf, so the least you can do is cover my patients.” Damn. The strain of understaffing had everyone at each other’s throats. She brushed past her co-worker, made an abrupt stop in the nurses’ station and raised her voice so the other four nurses could hear. “Can someone watch my vent patients while I talk to the boss?”

  Amidst the clatter and routine chaos, the newest RN on the ward raised her hand from her stool perch while charting. “Sure thing. All for one and one for all, right?”

  Thank heavens for bright-eyed optimism. Misguided though it might be. Mallory smiled, remembering how she’d felt the same way fifteen years earlier when she’d first started out in nursing, first as a licensed vocational nurse and a few years later as a registered nurse. Back then, before Dr. Prescott had married, she’d had a whopping crush on him, but who hadn’t? For years they’d had a terrific working relationship. Now she hardly knew him any more.

  “Thanks. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck,” everyone chimed in, in a hopeful chorus.

  Heading for the bank of elevators down the hall, Mallory recalled how wonderful Dr. Prescott used to be on the ward. Hell, he could pull off any procedure, and he was always personable, too. His patients used to watch him with adoring confidence in their eyes when he discussed his medical decisions and recommendations with them.

  On Friday mornings he used to bring the nurses a huge bag of fresh bagels, just as a way to say thanks for all of their good care for his patients. Everyone had liked him. And Mallory’s little crush had kindled into a huge and secret fantasy.

  These days, he only showed up on Ward Five West with a stern look and a list of complaints in hand. And since his divorce he’d become even colder and harder to reach. JT liked to be in control of things, and she guessed his di
vorce had thrown him off balance.

  She could only guess which man she’d face today—the great guy she’d once worked with, or the intense and humorless medical director? Using all of her resolve to look confident and determined, she turned and smiled for the bright and eager faces of her fellow nurses who’d just waved and wished her good luck.

  Under her breath, and beneath a forced grin, she said, “I’m going to need it.”

  *

  “Come.” The baritone voice of J.T. Prescott resonated when Mallory rapped on his office door.

  She pushed through the doorway and momentarily stood still, taking everything in. He sat tall behind a large oak desk, busily using every spare moment to sign off on yet a few more papers. Suddenly she remembered just how imposing of a figure he cut.

  “Sit,” he said, without looking up.

  Wearing a black silky-looking knit polo shirt without his usual white coat, she was surprised by his strong and fit arms. He made a jab at his coal-black hair with a few silver threads woven through it, as though searching for the perfect wording to end his report. She’d forgotten how much she liked his strong, aquiline nose.

  “I’ll be right with you,” he said.

  Grateful to sit, so her knees would quit quaking, Mallory did as she was told. Up until a year ago, he’d been out of bounds and her unrequited pining—right, more like lustful wishes—had been just that. Now, however, she had to admit she felt particularly vulnerable to his charm. But too bad he hadn’t any charm left. All that remained of the man she remembered was his good looks. She forced her glance away before he could look up and find her gawking at him.

  Gorgeous framed photographs of scenery from around the world, both in black and white and color, lined his office walls. She’d heard photography was one of his hobbies. One striking red cliff from the Grand Canyon rim caught her attention. How in the world had anyone managed to snap that shot? Having heard of Dr. Prescott’s escapades at the hospital water cooler, she figured he’d probably taken it suspended from an airplane upside down, or while skydiving.

  He still hadn’t looked up.

  Mallory took the opportunity to study him more. She’d always been fascinated with his long fingers and strong hands and wondered if he played the piano. Octaves and arpeggios would be a cinch for someone with a reach like that.

  Chastising herself for not focusing on why she was there, she glanced away and discovered a picture of a dark-haired boy on his desk. He looked pre-teen and full of mischief, with wild black hair and an elfin smile. It had to be his son.

  While she skipped back and forth between father and son, Dr. Prescott lifted his head and impaled her with an intense blue stare. Her world stopped for an instant. She forced herself to breathe.

  He plopped his elbows on the desk, fisted one hand inside the other, rested his chin on top, and gave her an all-business look. “We’ll have to be brief because I’m leaving tonight for Kenya and still have a million things to do. What brings you here, Mallory?”

  Why had she agreed to be the sacrificial lamb for all of the nurses again?

  Frantically chasing after every thought rushing out of her brain, Mallory bit her lower lip and forced herself to focus.

  “Nurse staffing.”

  “Hasn’t the hospital addressed this issue before?”

  “Not to everyone’s satisfaction.”

  He offered a telling look—must they go through this old story again? Being the sole purpose of her appointment, she ignored his expression and forged ahead.

  “As a group, the nurses of Five West are deeply concerned about patient safety under the current conditions. They’ve asked me to speak to you about it.”

  When had he changed? He’d once been the perfect doctor, with impeccable beside manners and a caring heart. Now he was nothing more than a strikingly good-looking man with a dead stare behind a desk. Mallory missed the doctor and man she’d known on the wards.

  *

  Great. Just what he needed, another headache before he could take off on his long overdue vacation.

  This trip would be the first since his divorce, and he intended to enjoy every second of the three-week photography safari in East Africa.

  And now Miss Perky Redhead, Mallory Glenn from Five West, insisted on robbing him of more of his precious time. But as Medical Director of L.A. Mercy Hospital, it went with the territory.

  He tossed his pen on the desk and leaned back in his chair.

  “OK. Shoot, Mallory.”

  She looked taken aback. Her large amber eyes widened and she went pale. Oh, hell, that wasn’t how he’d meant to come off. He briefly considered searching his drawer for an ammonia ampoule in case she passed out. But she didn’t give him a chance. The color returned to her cheeks in record time and blossomed to bright red.

  “We on Five West feel understaffed. There is evidence regarding the relationship between nurse staffing and rates of hospital-acquired infection, urinary-tract infections, and pressure ulcers,” she said, leaning forward in her chair, fingers fidgeting.

  “And the evidence is not compelling,” he added.

  Mallory locked eyes with him, and it pleasantly surprised him. She’d always been straightforward and sincere—it had been something he’d particularly liked about her—but why did she seem nothing less than stubborn today?

  “We currently have two nurses injured on duty, one indefinitely off the job. And our rate of incident reports for unusual occurrences, patient falls, and medication errors has increased over the last three months.”

  “Nurses get injured because of poor body mechanics. Mercy Hospital sends you to annual updates, yet nurses still manage to throw out your backs.”

  “When you have a two-hundred-pound patient suddenly fall on you, there is no such thing as proper body mechanics. The goal is to keep the patients safe and to get them back in bed. Our backs pay the price.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t we have a hospital lift team?”

  She squinted and shot him a contemptuous look—one that said, You just don’t get it since you’ve left bedside care, do you?—then quickly worked to cover it up—doing a poor job, he noted.

  “It isn’t always in the patients’ best interest to leave them lying on the floor while we wait for the lift team to materialize. Not to mention how that must look to other patients and their visitors.”

  OK, so he was a bit out of touch with patient care these days, but really she was acting as if it were the end of health care as they knew it in the twenty-first century.

  What had started as a routine meeting had turned into a heated debate. He was a skilled and highly paid professional, and he knew how to de-escalate tension. But he felt particularly wiped out today, maybe because of everything he’d been doing lately—hospital administration, constant meetings for the new rehab wing, making father-son bonding time, and vacation planning.

  He’d felt especially exhausted when he’d made out the huge alimony and child support check earlier. His ex-wife had raked him over the coals in their divorce settlement, and now she was fighting for full custody of their ten-year-old son, Corey, so she could get even more money.

  No way would he let that happen. He intended to stay involved in his son’s life and that meant having him live at least fifty per cent of the time with him. Someday he hoped to have Corey accompany him on his trips. The boy already showed an uncanny eye for photography. But…

  Focus, Prescott.

  “Let’s back up. What is the current patient-to-nurse ratio on Five West?”

  “In writing? Or reality?”

  “Both.”

  “As you know, we are considered a general medical-surgical ward, therefore our numbers are supposed to be one nurse to four patients. Yet we seem to be the dump-on-us ward. Frequently we are short-staffed, and everyone has to take as many as five patients, and occasionally, when we have a late-shift admission, six patients. It’s killing us.”

  “That’s a bit extreme, isn’t
it?”

  “Two of my patients are long-term ventilator patients, yet I still have to take four patients when it should be three, max. Three of the other nurses have five patients today because our ward is full. Our nursing supervisor couldn’t spare an extra nurse. It’s a joke to even think about giving patient education. No one has time.”

  She paused just long enough to make sure he was listening. He assumed his most studious expression.

  “Last week we had a near code blue.”

  He watched her, digesting what she’d said. She’d pulled her long, thick braid over her shoulder and wrapped and unwrapped the bottom of the red tendrils around her fingers in a nervous yet intriguing manner. He’d always wondered how her shiny, silky hair felt.

  “The patient had become short of breath and used the bedside call light. We were all so busy that it was several minutes before anyone went into the room. By that time his lips were blue and his cheeks mottled. His oxygen sats were in the high eighties. He could have gone into respiratory arrest. I shudder to think what could have happened if I’d gone in a minute later.”

  Her cheeks were hot with color, her hands had balled into fists, and an earnest gold glint had appeared in her eyes. She wasn’t asking about more money, she was asking for better staffing. Why? Because she cared about the patients. Well, so did he. Hadn’t patient care been foremost on his mind when he’d been the attending doctor? But he also had a budget to balance, especially with the drain of the new rehab construction project. And his statistics didn’t bear out what she’d claimed.

  “I can only tell you, Ms. Glenn, that there is no hard and fast evidence that the number of staff RNs affects hospital mortality or the rates of hospital acquired pneumonia or, for that matter, the number of RNs and hours worked adding to or subtracting from hospital length of stay.”

  “We work in the real world, Dr. Prescott. When you used to work at the bedside, you understood. Now your statistics can’t possibly explain why more nurses are getting burned out on our ward. But if you must quote statistics, I’ve got a few of my own.” She gave an agitated scratch at her pert nose.