The Doctor's Marriage for a Month Page 2

Her heart softened. For once, her father had been trying to do right by her. To give her a place to hide away from the prying eyes of Loch Craggen. Regroup after being deemed “the most boring girlfriend on earth.”

  Well, Kyle would’ve been boring too, if his mother had been killed and his father had lost the plot. Someone needed to be practical. Someone needed to look after Grannie. Someone had to be there.

  Ponytail Man retrained his gun on her. She stared him straight in the eye. Here was her chance to show Kyle Strout just what boring looked like.

  She looked down at the pure white sand currently soaking up the splatterings of very real blood, courtesy of the egg poachers and guards shooting at each other.

  A swift shot of resolve crackled through her like a flash of unexpected lightning.

  She wasn’t boring.

  Nor was she going to engage in all this mopey, weepy, victim of an ill-fated romance palaver.

  She was going to save this man’s life, then find her father and help him make his dream of saving the sea turtle come true.

  She squared off to Ponytail Man and fixed him with her fiercest look of determination. The type she would’ve given Annie Taggart’s highly energized toddlers when she needed to take blood samples.

  Yes, she’d show Kyle precisely how exciting “fifty shades of boring” could be.

  * * *

  Fury pumped through Diego’s veins. He slammed his phone against the stucco wall outside the small hospital, not caring when the handset shattered.

  If Noche Blanca were going to act like cavemen they could resort to smoke signals if they wanted his help.

  But as quickly as the urge to tell them where to stick their call for help launched his blood pressure through the stratosphere, it crashed back down to earth.

  A patient was a patient. Even if that patient was a class-A idiot. And this particular idiot was the son of Noche Blanca’s take-no-prisoners head honcho Axl Cruz. If he died there was no telling the extremes Axl would take to exact revenge.

  Diego picked up the pieces of his phone and shoved them into his pocket, shaking his head in utter disbelief. It was the third burner he’d obliterated in a week. Just yesterday, as he’d been stitching up one of Axl’s pandilleros who’d lacerated his arm after putting his meaty fist through a window, he’d thought he’d made it crystal clear. The help would continue so long as they left the sanctuary alone.

  Transition periods took time. And, sure, it depleted everyone’s pocket money—which he knew was rich, coming from him—but the ultimate reward was peace. A steady economy for all the islanders. That was priceless. And it was why he’d instructed his family’s company to gift the land to the sanctuary.

  He swore as he strode into the hospital, not caring who heard.

  “Amigo! Hold up.”

  He whirled round as the small hospital’s head surgeon caught up to him.

  “Que paso? I didn’t think you were on tonight.”

  The thunderous expression on Diego’s face told Dr. Antonio Aguillera all he needed to know.

  He raised his hands and backed off. “I’ll call in back-up.”

  “I’ve got it,” Diego growled, grabbing a fresh pair of scrubs and a pair of surgical scrubs from a porter passing with a supplies trolley. “I’ll bring them back to the clinic.”

  They both knew what that meant. These patients weren’t on the right side of the law. The hospital was stretched to the limit as it was, and Diego knew more than most what happened when blood was shed and Noche Blanca were involved.

  “Just a bit short on supplies.” He’d ordered some in from the States, but, as often happened in developing countries, things went missing.

  “Okay, brother. Good luck.”

  Anton disappeared into a nearby supplies cupboard and moments later handed Diego a jute coffee sack he knew would be stuffed full of supplies. Supplies that the hospital’s administration would never officially hand over to him, despite the number of lives he’d saved that hadn’t been linked to Noche Blanca.

  Diego gave his colleague a slap on the back. One that communicated all the things he couldn’t say.

  No one will ever be able to replace my brother, but thank you for treating me like one. We both know luck counts for nothing when dealing with Noche Blanca.

  “See you in the morning.”

  With any luck.

  “Dr. Vasquez! Momentito, por favor!”

  Irritation crackled through him. He didn’t need to wriggle out of another administrative hoop. He wasn’t on shift tonight.

  He turned around.

  Maria del Mar.

  The woman was half siren, half business mogul. It was a shame she’d picked healthcare as her means of expressing the two sides of her personality.

  Running the hospital was akin to a hot night in the sack for her. The life and death decisions... The status... The ability to play God... Or goddess, in her case.

  The only reason he worked at the hospital was because he’d vowed not to hold the rest of the islanders accountable for one woman’s idiot decision.

  Sure. It sent a message to Noche Blanca. You wield guns? Your problem.

  The only thing was, when it was your kid brother lines got blurred.

  “No time, Maria.” He tapped the face of his non-existent watch.

  It was a ten-minute boat run to the turtle sanctuary. He’d thought with Professor MacLeay’s plans to turn the turtle eggs into a legitimate commodity Noche Blanca might back off. That Axl would move on to another island, just as he had moved to theirs some fifteen years ago.

  Maria wobbled toward him on her ridiculous high heels. Why the woman was even at the clinic after-hours was beyond him.

  He snorted.

  She has no life. Just like you.

  No. That was exactly the point. He did have a life. Unlike his brother, who’d died just a few miles away from this very hospital.

  Nico hadn’t been a criminal. Wayward? Absolutely. But his heart had been pure gold. When some bandilleros from a neighboring island had tried to move in on El Valderon Nico had thrown himself between a bullet and the eldest son of Axl Cruz. On nights when he let himself think about it, Diego guessed his brother had thought Better the devil they knew...

  In Maria’s eyes the life-saving gesture had painted Diego’s kid brother with the Noche Blanca brush, and Nico had bled out a handful of miles away as an ambulance idled in the hospital’s parking lot.

  Would going there have been scary? Sure. But that was what bullet proof vests and the police were for. And most of Noche Blanca weren’t true criminals. They were weak men, intimidated and bullied into a life of crime by someone who promised them untold riches. Riches he had no right to promise them.

  The only good thing about Axl Cruz was that he liked a clean shop. Not one other gang had ever gained a foothold on their small island nation.

  Better the devil they knew...

  “Diego Vasquez! Where are you off to with a bag of El Valderon coffee beans?”

  She knew as well as he did that the sack he was holding wasn’t full of premium roast.

  He slung it over his shoulder and pasted on his version of a good-boy smile. “Off to help a citizen of this fair isle, Maria. Where else?”

  He never saw the point in lying.

  “That citizen had better not be inked up and wearing knuckle dusters.”

  He gave a careless shrug. “Won’t know till I get there.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Who made the call?”

  “A concerned citizen.”

  He knew the drill now. Keep it vague, then she couldn’t say no. Theirs was an unwritten agreement, but to all intents and purposes it was written in stone. So long as he could use hospital supplies to treat patients on-scene he’d continue to work at the poorly staffed hospital. The second she turned off the supply room
tap it would be Hasta luego, mamacita.

  “Meet up after for a drink? Maybe we can talk about putting you on the roster for a few more shifts?”

  He laughed. He had to hand it to her. If she wanted something she went for it. Her husband must have one helluva spine. Diego was civil to her. Polite, even. But there wasn’t a chance on God’s green earth that he would be her friend.

  “I’ve got to go, Maria.” He swung the bag back round. “Duty calls.”

  He pulled the keys to his motorboat from his pocket and set off at a jog. He wasn’t going to let Maria stand in the way of yet another life being lost.

  Not on his watch. Not ever again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ISLA HAD TWO CHOICES.

  Give in to the nerves that were threatening to consume her alive, proving Kyle right for dumping her and moving on to someone with “a bit more pizzazz, baby.” Or she could make her parents proud.

  She chose the latter.

  Sure, her mother was no longer here to see her, and her father wasn’t bearing actual witness—not to mention the fact she was saving a human versus an endangered species—but there were guns, bullet wounds and angry faces holding ground over invisible turf lines. This was the stuff her parents were known for.

  Besides... These goons had her father.

  Losing one parent was bad enough. And when her grandmother had passed away a couple of years back she’d been devastated. No way was she losing her father as well.

  She wasn’t ready to be an orphan.

  “Are you going to let me go to him or not?” Isla glared at Scarface—her new nickname for Ponytail Man who, now that he’d closed in on her, had revealed a raised scar running the length of his jawline.

  There was some nice stitch work there for what looked like a massively botched job in the old “assassination with one stroke of the knife” department’. It looked more jig-jaggy than one-fell-swoopy. Whoever had done the surgery had done their best with what must have been a pretty horrific wound. Not to mention offering Scarface the preferred end of the stick in the whole staying alive thing. She’d like to meet that doctor if she got the chance.

  Scarface snapped something short and staccato at her. It didn’t sound very nice, and suffice it to say her nerves were shot.

  “That’s not much of a way to speak to a lady. Especially when she has plans to help your wee friend, here.”

  She pointed down toward the shoreline, trying to channel the strength and courage her mother had virtually glowed with.

  “I’ll have you know if that young man has an arterial bleed...” She crossed her arms and gave him her best knowing look. “He’ll be dead by now. Muerto.” She drew a line across her neck and made a dead face.

  Scarface stepped forward, aimed his gun directly at her face and called the others to close in on her.

  Oops.

  She’d have to work on her communication by body language skills.

  She shook her head and feigned world-weariness with a heavy sigh. “I am a doctor. Médico.” She pointed at herself again, hoping the word was an actual Spanish word.

  She’d taken an oath to treat each and every patient who came her way. Even if they had been caught stealing turtle eggs for their alleged powers of sexual prowess.

  Once Mr. Gunshot Wound was in Recovery, she’d make it clear to him that the one thing these eggs did produce was turtles—not a hot night in the sack. Unless, of course, he was iron deficient, in which case she could recommend some supplements.

  See? Sensible and sassy.

  She turned toward the young man. Instantly all the guns were lifted a bit higher. A metallic reminder that her freedom was not her own.

  “I need to examine him,” she said, irritation threading actively through her voice as she met another one of the pandillero’s dark eyes.

  No response.

  “If I don’t get to him he’s going to die.”

  The men stared at her.

  She persisted. “He could drown. Look at him!”

  The poor lad was sprawled on the shoreline, legs apart, hands clutched to his chest, and the tide was coming in without an ounce of pity for a young man whose life could be taken away. Much like the baddie now staring at her as if he were carved out of marble.

  This was absolute madness!

  She glanced toward the security men wearing El Valderon Turtle Sanctuary T-shirts. Their guns had been taken from them and they were being tied to palm trees by yet more members of Noche Blanca. Terrific. When had that happened?

  “Any one of you willing to let me know why I can’t help this guy?”

  She stared at Scarface for answers. He pushed her further into the center of the newly floodlit part of the cove with the butt of his rifle.

  “Hey!”

  She rubbed the small of her back. No one—and that included gun-wielding criminals trying to steal turtle eggs from idyllic beaches in the middle of the Caribbean—was going to push her around. Had she mentioned being dumped this week? The cancelled wedding?

  She wheeled on him. “I am a doctor,” she ground out. “Dottore?” She pointed at herself, wondering why she was now speaking in Italian.

  Maybe because you’re a boring GP whose only access to the world is via your television.

  She pushed Kyle’s cutting tone out of her head. It was a heck of a lot better than getting access to the world via an array of flight attendants’ lady gardens!

  She gave the pushy gunman her best no-nonsense face. The one she always had to use with Mrs. MacGregor when she refused to take her insulin. Scottish stubbornness was a force to be reckoned with. If she could get Mrs. MacGregor to listen she could do the same with these men.

  “I can stop your friend from bleeding to death...” she pressed her hands to her stomach and then braved making her dying face again before looking him in the eye “...but you have to let me go to him.”

  She pointed at the young man again, speaking as calmly as she could. Difficult with her heart trying to launch itself into her throat every few seconds.

  “I need to help him.”

  She kept pointing at herself and then the young man, feeling about as awkward as she did every Christmas when her aunties forced her to play charades.

  Talking slowly didn’t appear to be remotely helpful. The man stared at her entirely unmoved.

  He would have been terrific at playing a tree in the school play. She tried to picture the scene in an attempt to make him seem less scary. Miraculously, it worked.

  So she did the only thing she could think of that would end this ridiculous stand-off while that poor man bled into the approaching surf. She ignored the man in front of her and began deliberately walking toward her patient.

  No one moved a muscle.

  No guns were raised.

  No safety catches were unclipped.

  Not that she really knew what that would sound like, but she was over-familiar with the crime show oeuvre and knew having the safety on or off was very important.

  Was that what she’d done her life these past few years? Approach it with the safety on?

  Well... Look at her now. Here she was in the middle of a crime scene, marching toward a patient as if the Hippocratic oath made her bullet proof.

  At least if she died it would be in a blaze of glory. How very “MacLeay” of her. That would make the papers back home!

  She looked down at her wrinkled eyelet blouse and crumpled A-line skirt. Her hand crept up to her hair. Her auburn curls had exploded into the equivalent of a comedy wig the second she’d stepped off the plane and she hadn’t had the heart to try and wrestle them into submission. Yet. She’d given herself a week to cry and feel sorry for herself and she was only halfway through it.

  Another reason to be annoyed with these banditos. How dare they interrupt her self-indulgent sob-fest when s
he so rarely took time for herself?

  She gave her shoulders a little wriggle and kept her head held high. Looks weren’t everything. Besides, she hadn’t been shot yet, so perhaps dying in a scrappy skirt and T-shirt ensemble wouldn’t be an issue.

  She kept her eyes glued on the young man. A late teen at best. On the cusp of the rest of his life. He deserved a fighting chance to make some new decisions. Take a fresh path. And she was going to be the one to give him the chance. Then the pandilleros would free her, liberate her father, and everyone could get on with their lives.

  Scarface shouted at her and then at another one of his hombres as the roar of a motorboat cracked through the thick night air. She heard the word médico somewhere in there, so thought the best thing to do was to keep on walking.

  Finally! They were getting the hint. She was trying to help. And maybe the boat was the island version of an ambulance.

  The waves were just beginning to shift the sand around the boy. She pulled off her light cardigan and moved his hands away from the wound without too much effort. His strength was clearly fading. She sucked in a sharp breath. The bullet had entered the lower region of his right shoulder. His breathing was jagged. She pressed her fingers to the pulse line on his throat. Accelerated.

  Diagnoses flew threw her mind. Pneumothorax? Chest wall tenderness? Only an X-ray would give a proper read on the situation, but if that bullet had nicked the boy’s lung on entry there was every chance he was suffering a hemo-pneumothorax. A potentially lethal combination of air and blood filling the chest cavity.

  “Me llama, Isla.”

  He stared at her with glazed eyes and said nothing.

  She silently berated herself. It didn’t matter if he knew her name or not. What mattered was whether or not she could stop the bleeding and keep him breathing. The frightened look in his eyes sharpened her resolve to help him. Her heart twisted inside her chest as it hit home just how fortunate she had been as a child.

  Okay, her parents had been away on research trips for the bulk of her childhood, but she’d had her grandmother. She’d known her parents would try their best to get home for holidays. They’d make a huge event out of her birthdays. She’d been clothed, fed, and she’d always known she was loved.