The Valtieri Marriage Deal. Caroline Anderson

tell her it was all right—and if he tried it, she’d probably kill him. Thank God there was a patient in the way!

      ‘Problems?’ he mouthed as he reached her, and she nodded.

      ‘Maybe,’ she murmured quietly, and he realised with relief that she was going to behave as if nothing had happened—for now, at least. ‘Julie Marchant, third pregnancy, straightforward previous history, admitted late last night in early labour. She had an epidural at five a.m.—so that’s three hours ago, she’s had two top-ups, but progress has slowed right down even though she’s virtually fully dilated, and there’s a dipping foetal heart rate—nothing much, but I’m just…’

      She ground to a halt with a little shrug and bit her lip, and he dragged his eyes off it and made himself concentrate.

      ‘Is the head high?’ he asked.

      ‘A little. It’s probably nothing, just the mother’s position…’

      But she looked troubled, and he knew better than to ignore a troubled midwife. He gave a terse nod. ‘Give me ten seconds, I have to make a note of something and I’ll be with you.’

      Isabelle went back to her patient, and moments later he joined her, squirting gel onto his hands and rubbing it in as he smiled at their patient and tried to focus on her.

      ‘Hi, Mrs Marchant, I’m Luca. May I call you Julie? Tell me, how are you feeling?’ he asked, but as she talked and he probed gently with his questions, he was checking the CTG, watching their patient carefully, his eyes flicking to Isabelle’s from time to time for confirmation of Julie’s words.

      And then, as much to hear her voice as for the information she’d give him, he said, ‘Isabelle, could you run over the notes with me?’

      Isabelle, she thought with a stupid tinge of regret, not Isabella, with that wonderful, slow roll of her name over his tongue, tasting every syllable. Damn. And she needed to concentrate.

      So she filled him in again, showed him the charts and pointed out her concerns without alarming the patient, although there was nothing much to alarm her, anyway—nothing very untoward, nothing drastic, really, at all, and as she was telling him about it she thought, Oh, lord, he thinks I’m overreacting, because the baby’s heart rate was only dropping a tiny bit—but…

      ‘She’s contracting,’ she said, forgetting the charts for a moment, and he looked back at their patient with a smile that should have melted her bones, murmured, ‘May I?’ and laid his hands over her abdomen, the fingers of one splayed over the baby’s head to feel for its descent, watching the monitor as the contraction progressed. This time, she was both pleased and concerned to see that the dip in heart rate was more noticeable. So she hadn’t imagined it—and it was a worry.

      He made a small, thoughtful sound and his eyes flicked to Isabelle’s. ‘She’s fully dilated?’

      ‘Yes, except for an anterior lip,’ she told him, hoping that he was going to believe her and not give Julie an unnecessary internal examination, ‘and she’s been in established labour for four hours.’ So the head should be lower, and coming down with every contraction, not staying stubbornly high as if something—the cord?—was preventing its descent.

      ‘Hmm,’ he said again, then looked back at Julie. ‘I think your baby might be a bit of an acrobat,’ he said with another of those smiles. ‘The cord could be a bit tangled, and if that’s the case, we need to untangle it for him. Unfortunately this means a C-section, but it’s nothing to worry about and you have an epidural already, so you’re all set. We’ll take you up now, there’s a theatre free. Is there anyone here with you?’

      ‘No, my husband’s taking the children to school and getting some food in. I was taking so long—oh, damn! Can we wait for him?’

      He shook his head, busily disconnecting her from the machines and kicking the brakes off the bed. ‘No, your baby’s not comfy so I’m not happy to wait, but we’ll look after you, you don’t need to be afraid. Isabelle will stay with you. I’ll get someone to contact your husband—do we have a mobile number for him?’

      ‘Um—I think so.’

      ‘OK. Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it. Isabelle, could you come to Theatre with Mrs Marchant?’

      ‘Sure. I’ll just hand over my other patients to Sarah—’

      ‘She’ll understand. Come on, let’s go—we can’t miss the theatre slot!’ he said with a grin at their patient, but Isabelle picked up the hidden meaning and pulled the bed out from the wall, relieved not only for Julie but for herself that he’d taken her concern so seriously.

      Sarah must have seen them go, because they were ready and waiting in Theatre, and Julie was on the table and draped in moments.

      ‘OK, time to meet your baby,’ he said the second he was scrubbed, and Isabelle ran in after him, her gown still trailing, and watched him do the fastest section she’d ever seen.

      ‘Good call,’ he murmured to Isabelle, clamping and cutting the cord which was wrapped several times round the baby’s neck, and with a smile for the mother, he eased the tiny girl out and handed her instantly to the waiting neonatal team while Isabelle wondered what it was about him that his praise could mean quite so much to her. But then she stopped thinking about that, because the baby was silent, and in the normally noisy theatre they could have heard a pin drop.