Emergency Marriage. Оливия Гейтс

heaven’s sake, you’re erythematous! What ridiculous modesty. Take them off immediately.”

      “Trust me, I can’t.”

      Did that mean he wasn’t wearing—? “Oh!”

      “Oh is right. La Clínica’s near, anyway.”

      Recovering quickly, she asked, “Until then, shall I wash you down with a hypochlorite solution to neutralize the agent? Is it back there?”

      “Hypochlorite is contra-indicated, Laura. It’s good for other sorts of chemical contamination, but with CS or tear gas it only exacerbates the reaction.”

      “Oh!” She didn’t know that. A good thing she wasn’t ready with a bottle of the stuff. She bounced back with another suggestion. “What about another alkaline solution?”

      “The one effective solution to relieve symptoms and hydrolyze the agent is a mix of sodium bicarbonate, sodium carbonate and benzalkonium chloride. Which I don’t have! Another colossal oversight, going into a riot zone without it.”

      “You couldn’t have known what to expect.”

      “I should have been prepared. I wasn’t. If I suffer burns, it will teach me a good lesson.”

      “Aren’t you being too melodramatic, suffering in punishment for a simple omission?”

      “Says the woman who marched into the middle of a riot and nearly got trampled to death!”

      “OK. Touché. But have you at least washed yourself off?”

      “I did, even though that also makes it worse, acting like the rain did, since it wasn’t a real hosing down. I only did it to decontaminate my skin just enough for when you slept on my lap.”

      Sensations and flashbacks burned their way up to her skin in a flush worse than his chemical burn. “You should’ve kept me awake.”

      “Why? You needed the rest.”

      “Well, I don’t feel rested. I feel bent out of shape, permanently.”

      “And if I’d kept you awake, I would have been heartless and a nuisance.”

      “You could have left me sleeping in my seat with my seat belt on!”

      “And have it pressing on the injuries it caused in the accident? My only other option was to throw you on the van’s floor next to our patient. This archaic van doesn’t have a secondary stretcher and—”

      “OK, stop. You have it.”

      “Have what?”

      “The last word.”

      Her answer was a long, sideways look that had her heart trying to hide in her gut. What was that in his eyes?

      She didn’t want to know.

      She turned blind eyes away, searching for something to distract her. The sight of La Clínica De La Communidad hovering on the horizon wasn’t a good choice.

      Although her experience here had been a crushing disappointment on all fronts, the ‘what if’ factor was overpowering. She could have done a lot of good here. She could have found purpose and happiness. She’d found nothing but every sort of letdown.

      Armando had bought this strategically situated, sprawling establishment from its owners after the collapse, giving them desperately needed cash for a dilapidated, money-pit mansion, many annexed buildings and the surrounding land. It had taken two years to renovate and equip it, to become a gravely needed and pioneering medical facility serving a hundred-mile radius, plus a far wider reach through its flying doctors service. Besides the usual medical services, La Clínica provided emergency surgical intervention to one quarter of the vast pampas region. And now through GAO’s resources it was also reaching out to the wilderness of Patagonia and developing intensive care, research, education and rehabilitation facilities.

      It was the dream of every doctor come true. Practicing medicine on their own terms, really making a difference, operating within a very elastic, responsive medium. A medical establishment based on the community’s best interests and backed by its wholehearted support, not under governmental control, bound by decaying medical systems’ undiscriminating rules or insurance’s stifling restrictions.

      Armando brought the car to a halt in the main building’s emergency driveway, then turned to her. “Right. Back to bed until I say it’s OK for you to leave it.”

      By the time his efficient emergency team had unloaded their patient, he was carrying her to a wheelchair, disregarding her protests.

      Once inside, he ran to discard his contaminated clothes and apply first aid to his inflamed skin, leaving her in her GAO team’s care, to suffer their deluge of questions. The doctor and two nurses who’d accompanied her from the US no longer knew what they were doing here and were constantly looking to her for answers and reassurance until she wanted to scream, Stop asking me. I’m no longer in charge of anything. Ask the magnificent Dr. Salazar!

      She had to get away from here. Away from him. And if today had gone to plan she would have been packing now, not back at La Clínica and under his thumb.

      She got up from the wheelchair, waving away assistance from her team. She’d walk back to her cell under her own steam.

      On her way there, she couldn’t help wincing again at the state of the building. The miserable veneer, the decaying columns and arches, the cracked walls, the stained, lusterless marble floors, all bore witness to Armando’s refusal to restore anything that wasn’t vital to the building’s integrity and functionality. Hard to believe this place housed first-rate wards and state-of-the-art medical facilities. But it still needed so much more to realize its potential. So much more…

      A nurse caught her eye, started to talk. Laura apologized for not stopping and kept her eyes glued to the main corridor’s floor from then on, feeling everybody’s curious glances prickling down her back. Suddenly, large sneakered feet planted themselves in her line of vision. No need to follow the endless denim-clad limbs up to know who it was.

      “If you want to kill yourself, there are much quicker ways.”

      Armando didn’t wait for a comeback, simply bent and carried her to the suite she’d been occupying since he’d let her out of Intensive Care. The moment he closed the door, she struggled out of his arms and onto her feet.

      “I’m leaving, Salazar—now, not later.” Her voice was unsteady, out of control. “And not only La Clínica but Argentina. That’s why I was going to GAO’s liaison office today. To arrange for my departure and replacement. I’ll check into a hospital as soon as I arrive in the States—”

      He cut off her agitated words. “You’re not leaving. Not now and not when you’re fully healed either!”

      What? His next words made even less sense.

      “You’re staying here in Argentina, where I can make sure you and the baby are OK.”

      “What are you talking about? What baby?”

      “Yours and Diego’s. You do realize you’re pregnant?”