His Surgeon Under The Southern Lights. Robin Gianna
WITH THE SHIP pitching from side to side and up and down like a stomach-churning roller coaster, trying to get any sleep felt impossible. Normally Dr. Jordan Flynn could sleep anywhere, anytime, as long as she wore her eye mask, had earplugs stuffed into her ears and soothing sounds were coming from the white-noise machine by her side. This time, though, none of it helped one bit.
Maybe it was because the top bunk of her cabin seemed to threaten to toss her out of it with every swell of the ship as it crossed the infamous Drake Passage on their way to Antarctica. Or because the noise machine’s nature sounds were completely drowned out by real ones—the shrieking wind that she suspected no earplugs were heavy-duty enough to truly muffle.
She rolled to her side and it seemed the ship rolled along with her. Some people might pay big money to go on a crazy ride like this one at an amusement park, but at that moment, she’d pay even bigger money to get off it, if she could.
She squeezed her eyes closed behind the mask, then laughed at herself a little. Early October might be closer to bringing all-day sunlight to Antarctica, but she knew the low glow coming from a small window above her head wasn’t what was keeping her awake. Trying to somehow force her mind away from the uncomfortable rolling sensations, she tried to think about the plus side of the adventure she was embarking on. And working as a doctor at an Antarctic science station would definitely be an adventure.
Fletcher Station was brand-new, and despite her current discomfort, she was still thankful she’d been chosen to work there as a surgeon and general practitioner for six months. Not only work there, but be the very first person to set up the medical clinic and hospital and get it ready for the thousand or so crew members who’d be arriving in a week or so. Plus, they’d seemed to love the idea of having the marine biologists test her parents’ diving invention while they were underwater gathering samples, which was equally exciting.
Right now, only about seventy-five people were crossing the Drake Passage on this ship, getting things set up just like she was. Chefs and others prepping the kitchen and food, engineers getting machinery and equipment ready, and other support staff of all kinds. And, of course, a few scientists, with more on the way. Because scientific explorations, studies and discovery were the whole reason Fletcher Station existed.
Jordan thought about her little flat in London, her steady surgery job and her predictable life, which was exactly what she’d wanted when she’d decided to set down roots for the first time ever. Living all over the world with her doctor parents had been a great way to grow up, but she wanted something different for her adult life, and was happy with her choices.
She’d had to think hard about taking on this six-month stint in Antarctica. Then had decided, why not? One of these days, she expected that her roots would deepen and grow to include a husband and family, living in the same house together forever and ever. Until then, though, she’d enjoy this adventure, take care of patients and get further testing of her parents’ diving invention, one that would hopefully solve the problem of barotrauma. Doing a trial on how well it worked in Antarctica’s extremely cold water as compared to other places would be another strong step toward getting it on the market.
The boat tossed hard, and to focus on something besides the rough ride, she tried to visualize what the medical center would look like, and how much would be involved in getting the equipment set up. Then, inexplicably, that picture was interrupted by an absurdly handsome face floating in her mind’s eye. A face that belonged to the man in the cabin next door.
She’d been trying to get her door unlocked, hanging on to the doorjamb with one hand so she could stay upright, when he’d rounded a corner and strode down the hallway toward the door next to hers. He’d paused, with the key in his hand, to send her a charming smile and ask if she needed help. She’d given him a quick smile back and a “No, thanks” before she finally got the door unlocked and opened. She’d stepped inside and bolted it, relieved to climb up on the bunk and not have to wonder if she’d fall down before she got there.
Making small talk with anyone while working to keep her balance and swallow down a slight queasiness hadn’t seemed very appealing. But now, in the rolling darkness of her cabin, his tall, muscular body, dark skin and deep brown eyes seemed to float in front of her. Eyes that held humor and intelligence, and a hint of a twinkle that had drawn her in the second she’d looked at him. Had even sent her heart into a ridiculous and unwelcome flutter.
She frowned, wondering why in the world she was thinking about a guy she didn’t know. The deepening pitch of the boat had her grabbing the metal rungs at the top of the bed and holding on. Good thing she wasn’t prone to full-on seasickness, or she’d probably be crawling her way to the bathroom by now.
Maybe sleeping on the top bunk hadn’t been the best idea. With the way the boat swayed, she’d been afraid that the equipment she’d brought would slide across the floor, or be dislodged from the top bed, so she’d secured it on the lower bunk. Probably, though, being higher made her feel the pitch of the boat more than she would otherwise. Just as she was pondering if maybe she should just try to sleep somewhere on the floor, the storm sent the boat into its deepest roll yet. First one direction, then the other, then back so suddenly and violently she was flung from the bunk.
Her brain took a second to compute that she was airborne at the same time an automatic shriek left her lips. When her body reached the other side of the tiny cabin, her head connected with the wall as she slammed into it before dropping hard onto the floor like a rag doll thrown by a toddler. “Ow! Damn it!”
Dazed, she lay there a moment. The bruises on her elbow and shoulder started to complain. Her head throbbed. Something warm slid onto her forehead, and she lifted a shaking hand, coming into contact with sticky blood. She shoved off her eye mask and felt around her hairline, confirming that her darned head was cut open. Carefully moving her fingers to figure out where exactly the blood was coming from, and to gauge how much was oozing, she determined it was a fairly small trickle. Must