The Doctor's Courageous Bride. Dianne Drake
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Dear Reader,
I’m so thrilled to be back for my fourth medical romance, and I’d like to thank Harlequin®, and my editor, Kate Ahl, for allowing me to write these stories for you.
Years ago I knew a marvelous doctor. He had a successful cardiology practice, a beautiful home and a nice car. Then one day he gave it up. I was just a child then, and I remember people saying things like “He must have gone crazy!”
Years later I picked up a magazine and read an article about him. He’d gone to Appalachia—a region in the United States that was notoriously poor and without health care. He was a circuit doctor, hiking around the mountains to various towns and villages, performing medical care out of a backpack. At that time he’d been doing it for fifteen years, and he was quoted as saying that was his life’s dream, and all he ever wanted to do.
Where I live, a multimillion-dollar monorail was built to transport doctors from one hospital to another so they wouldn’t have to walk or drive those few blocks. Every time I see it I think about my friend, who hiked through the mountains year after year with his backpack. He achieved a dream few people can even imagine, and lived a life few would want. My friend, like Solange, the heroine of this book, had a true servant’s heart. To him, and to others like him, I dedicate this book.
Wishing you health and happiness!
Dianne Drake
Recent titles by the same author:
206—NURSE IN RECOVERY*
218—THE MEDICINE MAN*
245—THE SURGEON’S RESCUE MISSION*
The Doctor’s Courageous Bride
Dianne Drake
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
“YOUR HÔPITAL is all you have on your mind, mon ami. You should take the night off. Enjoy with me. Drink the champagne, look at the pretty women. All work and no play makes Dr Paul Killian a very old man very fast. And once you wither up and blow away, what will become of your hôpital then?” Bertrand Léandre threw back his head and laughed heartily, then took a puff of his big fat Cuban cigar. A mountain of a man in his tuxedo, he was big, broad and obviously the domineering factor in the room, domineering in every physical aspect. And the people at the party responded positively to him, hovering around him, listening and laughing.
All except Paul Killian, who was already tired. For them, it was a party. For him, it was work. He couldn’t even remember when he’d taken the time to enjoy, and it was a pity because as parties went, Bertrand Léandre always threw the best. But raising funds for his hospital was a vital part of Paul’s job now, and Bertrand had the funds Paul needed. More than that, he attracted the funds, so there was no turning his back on generosity, especially when he wanted to add a new children’s wing and buy another whirlpool therapy tub.
Paul laughed. “All work and no play adds a whirlpool to physical therapy.” He tugged at the tight collar of his starched, white shirt. Tuxedos weren’t his style. Neither were the silk bow-ties nor the stiff, shiny black shoes that protocol demanded with the formal ensemble. Horrible dress for a man who had gotten use to the garb of Kijé and found it not only fetching but comfortable. Gauzy pants, loose cotton shirts, sandals. If anybody had told him two years ago when he arrived on Kijé that the tops of his toes would soon be tanned, he would have laughed.
But they were now, as were the toes of every other fair-skinned person who spent their time in a tropical paradise. And that’s what Kijé was. A tropical Caribbean paradise. Blue skies, blue waters and those legendary balmy breezes, none of which required formal garment.
But an evening in a tuxedo was part of the job, and shedding comfort for formality was worth all the bother because people, overall, were generous at these affairs. And he counted on that generosity to improve the condition of his hospital. Bottom line. That’s what he was about. Finding the funds that made Killian Hospital run.
Paul flagged a passing waiter for a flute of ginger ale, because he bypassed the Dom Perignon at these affairs when he was representing the hospital and so much was at stake. “And as for the pretty women, even if I did notice them, when would I have the time, Bertrand? You know my life. Do you think a woman in her right mind would even look twice at me if she knew that I was destined to run off at a moment’s notice?” He’d been married to a beautiful woman who hadn’t been able to abide the lifestyle. She’d wanted to wake up every morning looking at his face on the pillow next to hers, which had turned out to be a rare occurrence in their marriage. Traditional domesticity wasn’t his strong suit, but it’s what Joanna had needed. Too bad they hadn’t known that before they’d married. “Tried it once, mon ami, and you know how that turned out.” And trying it twice wasn’t on his agenda. So he didn’t tempt himself. All work and no play…the substance of Dr Paul Killian.
Bertrand snorted. “You are too hard on yourself. Even the most untraditional of marriages can be the most wonderful, if the two people involved are meant to be together. You and the other Dr Killian were not meant to be together no matter what the circumstances. In marriage, mon ami, that’s what you get: either meant to be or meant not to be. You, unfortunately, fell into the not category, and it had nothing to do with your absences.” He smiled wistfully, then sighed. “I know these things, Paul.”
Bertrand referred to his own marriage to the late Dr Gabriella Léandre. She had been a pioneer in heart surgery, living most of her life in Paris while her husband had lived in Miami and Kijé. It had worked nicely for them, but it hadn’t worked at all for Paul and Joanna, and he was fully aware that many, maybe even most, of the shortfalls in that fiasco of a marriage had been his. “You were the fortunate one in your marriage,