Chapter 2

By three in the morning, the frantic rush in Resuscitation and A&E finally died down, and Rosie was reassigned upstairs to the Intensive Care Unit to take over special post-op nursing for the soldier Colonel Sinclair had brought in.

She stood beside the bed of Lieutenant Julian Whitaker, checking the ventilator settings before gently replacing an IV dressing stained with blood on his arm.

The automatic door of the ICU hissed softly. Rosie turned her head and saw Cameron Sinclair striding in. He had changed into a clean black tactical uniform, her white bandage still wrapped beneath his left sleeve, and the heavy authority around him had not faded despite the late hour.

Cameron stopped on the opposite side of the bed, looking down at his unconscious subordinate tethered to tubes and monitors. After a moment, he raised his eyes to Rosie, his voice low and guarded.

"Are his vitals stable?"

Rosie flipped open the chart clipped to the foot of the bed and reported briskly.

"Heart rate eighty-five, blood pressure one-ten over seventy, oxygen saturation ninety-eight percent. Post-op drainage from the splenectomy is within normal limits. No signs of infection."

Cameron held her gaze, searching for any hint of carelessness, and found only calm professionalism. He gave a brief nod, his tone softening slightly.

"Thank you. He's the finest lieutenant under my command. I can't afford to lose him."

Rosie hooked the chart back onto the rail.

"Saving lives is my job, Colonel. No thanks necessary. However, if you keep standing here disturbing his rest, I will have hospital security escort you out."

Cameron raised an eyebrow. Instead of leaving, he took a small step forward, his tall frame casting a shadow right over her.

"You seem to lack a healthy respect for men in uniform, Nurse," he murmured, his dark eyes fixed on her face.

Rosie stood her ground and met his stare evenly.

"In the ICU, I only respect the waveforms on the cardiac monitor. Your full name for the visitor log, Colonel?"

Cameron studied her for a beat before answering.

"Cameron Sinclair."

Rosie signed her own name at the bottom of the nursing sheet without a flicker of emotion.

"Very well, Colonel Sinclair. Visiting hours are over. Please leave."

Cameron gave her one last deep look, then turned on his heel and walked out of the unit with steady military discipline.

At seven in the morning, after a long night on her feet, Rosie finally handed over her shift. Rubbing her stiff neck, she changed into her trench coat and walked out into the cold London drizzle toward the Underground. As she squeezed into a packed suburban-bound carriage, the image of the tall officer standing steady in a pool of blood flashed across her mind. She shook her head to clear it and stared at the dark tunnel walls until her stop arrived.

When she pushed open the front door of her parents' house, the smell of toasted bread filled the hallway, but the air in the dining room was freezing. Her mother, Margaret Bennett, sat at the table glaring at her mobile phone.

Hearing the door, Margaret looked up sharply.

"Rosie! Preston rang me last night and said you ran out before finishing your main course!"

Rosie dropped her handbag onto the sofa and unlaced her shoes, her shoulders sagging.

"Mum, there was a massive pile-up on the M25. The hospital called a Code Red. I had to go back."

Margaret shoved her chair back with a screech against the floorboards.

"Always the hospital! Always A&E! Do you have any idea how good a catch Preston is? He's a financial analyst making a hundred thousand pounds a year!"

Rosie walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of cold tap water to steady her rising irritation.

"Mum, he insulted my job five minutes after sitting down. I wouldn't marry a man who doesn't respect me even if he made a million pounds."

Margaret marched to the kitchen doorway and pointed a finger at her.

"Respect? You're twenty-four years old! Working night shifts covered in blood every week, what decent man is going to put up with your hours?"

From the living room sofa, her father lowered his newspaper.

"Alright, Margaret, the girl just came off a night shift. Let her get some sleep first."

"You stay out of this!" Margaret snapped at her husband. "You've spoiled her since she was a child, and look how stubborn she is now!"

Rosie's fingers tightened around the glass until her knuckles turned white, her chest aching from exhaustion and the shouting. She set the glass down hard on the counter. The sharp clink silenced the kitchen.

"Mum, I am dead on my feet," Rosie said, her voice flat. "Just let me sleep for four hours, please."

Margaret looked at the dark bruises under her daughter's eyes and hesitated, her mouth tightening before she hardened her tone again.

"Aunt Brenda pulled strings to set this up. You must go and apologize to him."

Rosie closed her eyes as a throbbing migraine started behind her temples. She knew her mother would not let her sleep a single minute unless she gave in. Opening her eyes, she looked at Margaret numbly.

"Fine. You set the time, and I'll meet him. Now can I go to my room?"

Margaret let out a long breath, her voice instantly turning pleasant.

"That's a good girl. I'm only doing this for your own good. Sunday at three in the afternoon, at that café in Soho."

Without answering, Rosie dragged her heavy legs up the stairs to her bedroom and collapsed face-down onto the mattress. As sleep pulled her under, the memory of Preston's sneering face made her stomach churn with nausea.