Page 11 of Careless Whisper (Modern Vintage Romances #11)

Reggie

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

Three months after our garage encounter , 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 were friendly, 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 practically scorched 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 attempted sedation—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!

What the hell?

With full sedation, he should’ve been out cold. Either he missed part of the dose, or he metabolized it like a junkyard dog. That…or adrenaline was doing what Midazolam couldn’t.

“Back the fuck up!” he bellowed, grabbing me and yanking me close. His grip was iron. Too strong. Adrenaline was flooding his system, or the meds hadn’t touched him at all.

“I swear to God, I’ll shoot her!” he shouted, jamming the gun against my temple.

Behind him, Nina tried to back out. She was too slow.

Crack.

The butt of the gun connected with her temple. She crumpled with a cry, blood streaking her cheek. There hadn’t been enough time for me to use that as a distraction to get away—and his hold was steel.

“Put that down!” he shouted at the resident with the scalpel—who, stupidly, still continued to hold it.

Shell shocked !

“I’m not armed,” I said quickly, trying to shift the focus. “Let’s not escalate this. Owen—you’re in control.”

His eyes snapped to mine, unfocused but alert. “You bet your sweet ass I am.”

I nodded slowly, reading the monitors. BP still dropping. HR erratic.

The monitor blared its angry rhythm—hemodynamics tanking, maybe tamponade, maybe vasovagal, maybe just the end.

I could see it in his skin, his breath, the tremor in his limbs—he wasn’t long for this world, even with the goddamn gun in his hand.

“You’re going into shock,” I warned him softly. “You’re pale, diaphoretic. The wound’s too close to the heart. You’re going to pass out soon.”

Actually, your MAP is basically zero; you should be face-first on the linoleum, not delivering threats like a Bond villain.

“Shut the hell up!” he snarled.

I felt the gun twitch.

Stay alive long enough to be dangerous —that’s what he was thinking. I decided to use that. “You want leverage? Then, stay conscious. Let me assess you.”

He was swaying now; his ankle bracelets weren’t going to help the asshole run, so I didn’t know what the hell he was trying to do except hurt some people before he died. I could feel it—his knees buckled. I caught part of his weight .

“You’ve got three minutes, max,” I spoke calmly. “After that, you’re not walking anywhere. You’ll be a dead man with a hostage no one can negotiate for.”

He blinked, uncertain now.

I kept my voice low and steady. “Let me help you. Keep the gun on me if you have to. But let me save your life.”

The room was still. The monitors beeped their slow warning.

Then—

The overhead lights flickered. Hauser flinched. The gun jerked sideways, and a single shot rang out.

A scream.

The smell of ozone.

Then silence.