matter-of-factly. “Who have we got here?”
“We don’t have anyone. I’m here by myself. And my name is Annie. Am I going to die?”
Dr. Petrocelli glanced at the girl, obviously taking her terse words in stride. “No. I’m Dr. Tony Petrocelli. It’s nice to meet you. How old are you, Annie?”
“Seventeen. How old are you?”
An arched eyebrow was the doctor’s only indication of surprise. “I’m thirty-six. Nice night to have a baby.”
The line creasing his lean cheek and his notorious half smile didn’t seem to faze the girl. Squaring her jaw and straightening her shoulders, she said, “I’m not having the baby tonight. It’s too early. I’m not ready. For once in my life, I’m going to do something right. So just make it stop.”
Beth spared another glance at Dr. Petrocelli. She’d heard all the rumors and tall tales about the sexual prowess of the Don Juan of Vanderbilt Memorial. She’d seen him in the cafeteria, the corridors and elevators, but until now, she’d never actually worked with him. And she’d certainly never understood how a man with his image could also have the reputation for being one of the best obstetricians in Colorado. It didn’t take long for her to understand.
While Beth held the girl’s hand, showed her how to breathe and bathed her face with cool water, Tony conducted a quick examination. All the while, he talked to Annie, asking her questions about her pregnancy, the weather, and then moved on to about a dozen other topics. His voice was a husky baritone, his lips prone to smiling. His touch was strong and sure and was meant to put patients at ease, even through his latex gloves. “I’ll be right back,” he said, then motioned Dr. Jennings and Dr. Howell out to the hallway. Moments later he returned. Going around to the other side of the bed, he looked directly into Annie’s eyes and said, “Your labor is too far advanced to stop. This baby wants to be born tonight. Let’s get to work. Dr. Jennings here is going to help out.”
Beth had expected panic, stark and vivid, to glitter in Annie’s eyes, but she hadn’t expected the shuddering breath the girl took or the pride and determination thickening her voice as she said, “My sister’s name was Christie, so if the baby’s a girl, I’m going to name her Christina. Christopher, if it’s a boy. I just want you to know. In case something happens.”
The girl cried out with the next contraction, and there was no time to reassure her. She groaned, bore down and cried out again, clutching Beth’s hand, straining, hurting. She breathed when she could, pushed when she had to, and wept, her face contorting in pain a girl her age shouldn’t have to endure. And then, after a momentary stillness, a baby’s weak cry wavered through the room.
“It’s a boy!” Dr. Petrocelli called.
“A boy?” Annie cried. “Is he all right?”
“He’s tiny, but he has all ten fingers and toes.”
Smiling around the lump in her throat, Beth wrapped little Christopher in a blanket, then held him up so his mother could see. Lord, he was small, but he was alive.
“Can I hold him?” Annie asked.
Beth placed the baby in his mother’s arms for but a moment while the doctor cut the cord, then she whisked him away into a mobile incubator for his trip to the neonatal unit upstairs. Annie’s voice stopped her at the door. “Promise you’ll take care of him for me?”
Touching the baby gently, Beth turned. The young girl looked weak and exhausted and so alone Beth would have promised her anything. “I’ll take care of him, Annie. You have my word.”
For some reason, her gaze trailed to the foot of the bed where Dr. Petrocelli was standing. He was tall and dark, and looked as if he could have just stepped off a steamship from southern Italy. Even tired, his features were striking and strong—his nose, his chin, his cheekbones. But it was his eyes that held her spellbound. She knew the moment only lasted for the span of one heartbeat, but in that instant, everything went strangely still. His look warmed her in ways she hadn’t expected, and didn’t want to examine.
The baby moved beneath her hand, and the moment broke. With one last glance at Annie, Beth turned and left.
Tony heard the swish of the door and saw the blur of an auburn braid as Bethany Kent disappeared. He was aware of the whir of a fan, the strong scent of disinfectant and the floor beneath his feet. But he felt frozen in time, and in place. He’d delivered hundreds of babies, had been yelled at and kicked and hit. He’d witnessed countless moments of joy and tears and happiness at that first tiny cry. But he’d never felt exactly the way he had during that brief instant when his gaze had met Bethany’s.
He’d seen her around the hospital and had heard rumors about a recent divorce. Although she kept to herself, he’d noticed her the way all men notice all women. But he hadn’t had this gut-wrenching, knee-jerk reaction to her before. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so…so—hell, he didn’t even know what to call it.
Telling himself the jolt of longing that pulsed suddenly in the very center of him was a result of too little sleep, too many patients and an adrenaline surge due to the emergency, he shook his head to clear it, then turned back to the seventeen-year-old girl who was crying, and trying not to let it show.
Chapter One
Bethany walked through the automatic door, her senses assaulted with the sudden burst of air-conditioning and the smell and clatter of patients’ supper trays. After saying hello to the lab technicians heading for the cafeteria, she rounded a corner, her footsteps slowing to accommodate all the people milling around in front of the elevators. Too restless to wait, she spun around and took the stairs.
The exercise felt good. Maybe climbing eighteen or nineteen flights of stairs would ease the dread and disappointment dogging her steps. Unfortunately, Vanderbilt Memorial had only four floors. Beth stopped at the third.
She’d just come from the social worker’s office downtown. All the deep breaths she’d taken since her meeting with Mrs. Donahue had failed to dull the sharp edges from the words still echoing through Beth’s head.
“I know you love Christopher, Bethany,” Mrs. Donahue had said. “And I think you’d be a wonderful mother. But even in this day and age, our court system prefers two-parent homes, especially in infant adoptions. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid your only hope is to get married.”
Beth was no stranger to marriage. She’d been married for seven years. The attorney who’d handled the divorce had casually dubbed Barry’s quest to end the marriage “the seven year itch.” Of course, the legal terminology he’d used in court was irreconcilable differences. Nobody had addressed the real reason Barry had wanted a divorce. But Bethany knew.
Her stomach roiled, a combination of the smell of hospital food, her dark thoughts and the memory of Mrs. Donahue’s parting words. Forcing her worries to the back of her mind, she strode down the hall to the nursery.
Kitty Garcia looked up from the diaper she was changing and slanted Beth a genuine smile. “Hi, Beth. You’re a little later than usual today.”
“I had an appointment,” Beth answered, her gaze automatically trailing to the other side of the glass. Already smiling at the tiny hands flailing over the top of the incubator, she strode to the sink, scrubbed her hands and donned a sterile gown. The sadness and despair she’d felt since her meeting with Mrs. Donahue faded the instant she took Christopher in her arms.
Lord, he smelled sweet, all talcum powder and baby innocence. She kissed his cheek, his chin and the tiny fold of skin at his neck. “Hello, sweet pea,” she whispered. “How’s my big boy today?”
She was almost sure she heard him sigh. Holding him several inches from her face, she smiled at him, marveling at his serious expression. He was two months and three weeks old, and he was slowly but surely gaining weight. It was a little too soon to tell what color his eyes would be, but his little head