Page 28 of Careless Whisper

Second, why the fuck did Reggie think Maren was my fiancée?

CHAPTER 9

Reggie

Spring had given way to summer in Seattle—and life fell into a pattern.

Three months after our garageencounter, Elias had settled in as head cardiac surgeon, and I was once again one of the most sought-after surgical nurses in the department.

Life was what it should be, but it wasn’t. Asshole Elias affected me, and friendly Elias was once again sweeping me off my feet without even trying.Damn him!

We werefriendly,if not friends. Hard to be that when every time he looked at me, my panties got wet.

“I’ll be in the on-call room if anyone needs me,” Elias had said just the previous morning after a grueling surgery. In Boston, that had been code for:Come to the on-call room, Gigi, and fuck me.

He hadn’t forgotten either—his eyes had practicallyscorched me with the heat in them. The sexual tension between us felt tight enough to catch fire. I wasn’t sure if we were both feeling it, but I was leaning in that direction. He hadn’t made any overt moves, hadn’t said anything that crossed a line—but then again, I’d been careful to keep things strictly professional between us.

As much as my thoughts went to Elias, the truth was that we were in a high-stress work environment, and no one had time to wallow in their feelings. This was, in fact,life and death.

“Damn it,” I muttered when we got a call from ER at 5:00 a.m., an hour before my shift ended.

Couldn’t this emergency have waited for an hour?I thought bitterly. I was exhausted and all I wanted was to collapse in my bed and sleep for twenty-four hours.

Owen Hauser, a maximum-security inmate, had been stabbed in county lockup—lower sternum wound, hypotensive, tachycardic, suspected cardiac tamponade or great vessel injury. They were bringing him up for an emergency sternotomy.

I was already scrubbed and waiting outside OR Three when the transport team arrived.

A corrections officer—mid-twenties, buzz cut, trying hard not to look as nervous as he was—stepped toward me with a clipboard. “Nurse Sanchez?”

“That’s me.” I scanned the transport sheet he handed over.

“Hauser was combative en route. EMS attemptedsedation—they say they gave him 5 mg Midazolam IV and 10 mg Haldol IM. But he’s semi-alert.”

I arched an eyebrow at that.

The officer continued, “He’s restrained at the ankles and wrists. We couldn’t put a belly chain on him due to injuries.” He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. “We’ll maintain security presence until he’s prepped.”

“No armed personnel in the OR. It’s hospital policy,” I reminded him. “Visual contact only, from the scrub bay or viewing window. We follow sterile field and safety protocol—no exceptions.”

He shifted. “Understood. But just…be careful. He’s been unpredictable.”

“I’ve done this before.” I stepped through the doors.

The OR was fully prepped for a trauma sternotomy—suction ready, chest tray opened, bypass circuit primed, drapes laid, and crash cart close. I briefed the junior resident while we waited for Dr. Graham.

The gurney rolled in fast, flanked by two armed corrections officers who stopped outside as protocol demanded. Hauser’s color was pale, and the monitor reading off the portable leads was ugly.

“BP 60/30,” I called out. “We need him transferred. On three. Ready—go.”

The team moved quickly, using a slide board to get him from the EMS stretcher to the OR table. IV lines,Foley, and cardiac leads were stabilized during the move.

And then—I heard it.

A metallic click followed by a sharp snap.

Hauser’s right wrist was free. In one jerky, practiced motion, he sat upright, reached beneath the hospital gown, and pulled out a weapon.

Gun!

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