"No, thanks," Pearce said hastily. She gestured toward the wall clock. "It's late. See you tomorrow."

Hurt by the sudden shift in mood, Wynter watched her hurry away, certain she would never figure Pearce out. And just as certain that she didn't care.


CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Okay, let's take it from the top," Pearce said, as she did every morning at 5:30 a.m.

"1211, Myzorsky, three days post fem-pop bypass," Wynter began, as she had every day for the last month except for the Saturday and Sunday, a week apart, when she had not been on call. She could barely remember a time when she had not been a resident at University Hospital. Spending twelve to twenty-four hours a day immersed in what amounted to a self-contained society with its own particular rules and regulations had inculcated her quickly to the habits and expectations of her fellow residents, the nursing staff, and her attendings. She had a good sense of what everyone wanted--everyone, that was, except Pearce. She studied her senior resident as the other residents began their run-down of the patients assigned to them.

Pearce had dark half-moons smudging each lower lid, as if the delicate, pale skin had been pinched by brutal fingers. Shadows danced in her even darker eyes, whispering of thoughts Wynter could only guess at and tried not to. Since the night she had awakened Pearce in the surgeons' lounge, they'd had no interaction that hadn't been strictly clinically related. Pearce was a fair and highly competent acting chief, and Wynter appreciated how much teaching Pearce provided everyone on the service, including her. But there had been no more offers of dinner, no detours to Pearce's secret hideaways, and no stolen moments to exchange a personal word between cases. As the days passed, Wynter found it more and more difficult to believe that they had shared such an easy connection over dinner the night she had arrived and impossible to accept that there had once been a connection so immediate they had almost kissed. Clearly, whatever had drawn them together in that singular sliver of long-ago time had disappeared with the years. Even as she accepted what she could not deny, this new distance between them made her edgy and short-tempered, which was wholly unlike her.

"Does that meet your approval, Dr. Thompson?" Pearce asked dryly, wondering where Wynter had drifted off to. Her blue eyes were stormy and distant.

"What?" Wynter jumped, aware that she had not been listening.

"Sorry?"

"I just said you can take Liu through the hernia this afternoon.

Marksburg is a hands-off attending and will probably only stick her head in now and then. Of course, if you're too busy--"

"No! Of course not. That sounds great." She purposely slid her eyes away from Pearce, who was staring at her so intently she feared her thoughts might be visible. She gave the first-year resident, who looked both excited and frightened, an encouraging nod. "That will be fine. Make sure you review the patient's chart before you come to the OR."

"Oh, I will," Liu said. "For sure."

Wynter hid her smile, remembering those first few times she had been given responsibility for performing an operation. It had taken her several years to appreciate that she was not really operating at all, but following the subtle directions of those more experienced as they led her by the hand through the procedure, guiding her movements with small verbal and physical cues. The experienced surgeon could perform most of the operation without her even noticing, so that when it was over, she felt as if she had done the procedure. Eventually, she realized that had she been left to her own devices, she would have foundered in the middle of the case with no idea what to do. But a good teacher left her feeling accomplished rather than lost and inadequate. That caliber of instruction was a balancing act that only the very best could perform.

Pearce was that kind of mentor. It was just one of the many things that Wynter admired about the difficult but irrefutably talented chief resident.

Pearce wondered at the small frown line that creased the smooth skin between Wynter's brows. Obviously, something was bothering her.

And that bothered Pearce. That was foolish, and she knew it. Whatever was going on in Wynter's life was no concern of hers as long as it didn't affect her work. She reminded herself of that at least once daily. In recent weeks, Pearce had been very careful not to infringe on personal territory. The day Wynter had arrived she'd been so surprised to see her that she had behaved completely unlike herself. She still felt mildly embarrassed to think that she had taken Wynter to the old residents' lounge, as if she were a kid showing off her favorite rock collection to an adult she wanted to impress.

"Everybody knows what to do." Impatient with her own wandering thoughts, Pearce collected her paperwork and stood. "So let's get to work."

Pearce detoured to the cafeteria counter for a cup of coffee that she didn't really want so that Wynter and the other residents could get ahead of her as they dispersed for work rounds. As she held down the lever to refill her cup from the stainless steel urn, she felt a not-so subtle brush of fingers over her ass. She didn't have to look to know who it was.

"Not here," she murmured.

"Where have you been?" Andrea said in a low throaty voice. She moved closer and skimmed her hand inside Pearce's lab coat, playing her nails up and down Pearce's thigh.

Pearce took a sharp breath and drew back. "Busy."

"So busy you don't get horny anymore?"

"Look," Pearce said, sliding away even though her coffee cup was only half full. "I gotta be in the OR in a few minutes. I'll catch you later."

Andrea wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, a moist pink flicker of invitation. "Next time, I'll take care of you first."

Skip Ronito, a resident in Pearce's year, snickered as he passed with a breakfast tray laden with bacon, eggs, and a six-inch stack of toast. When Pearce followed him to the checkout line, he muttered, "Hey, Rifkin, if you don't have time for her, I'll take your place. Just thinking about her gives me a boner."

"Now there's a news flash," Pearce said. "Be my guest."

He looked at her quizzically. "You really don't care?"

"What Andrea does is none of my business."

"Does she...you know...swing both ways?"

Pearce shrugged but she definitely doubted it. "Ask her."

"Yeah, maybe," Skip said, glancing over his shoulder. Andrea looked past him as if he were invisible, her gaze riveted on Pearce.

"Yeah," he added with a sigh, "right."

"Here," Pearce said, dropping a dollar on his tray. "Get my coffee, will you?"

Not waiting for an answer, she edged around him and beat a hasty retreat before Andrea could catch up to her and make another offer that didn't interest her any longer.

v "Whoa, whoa. Slow down," Wynter said sharply. "That thing you're about to cut is the spermatic cord, and I don't think this guy would like it very much if you chopped it in half."

Liu looked where Wynter pointed, now clearly able to discern the round tubular structure as large as his little finger. "I don't know how I missed that."

"Well, how many times've you seen it in a living person?"

"This is the first time."

"That's how you missed it. So be careful and look before you cut.

It's good to be fast. It's bad to be sloppy."

Liu nodded earnestly and resumed dissecting the filmy hernia sac from the surrounding muscles and fascia in the groin of the twenty-five year-old weightlifter. Wynter heard a small snort of disgust and looked over the top of the ether screen at her friend Ken, who was managing the anesthesia for the procedure. He rolled his eyes at her and she grinned behind her mask. Because anesthesia had a shorter training period than surgery, Ken was in his final year of training. He had seen hundreds of surgery residents come and go, and like most anesthesia residents, shared a mostly good-natured rivalry with his surgery counterparts over who had the ultimate authority in the operating room. All surgeons felt that the operating room was their kingdom and often opined on the fine points of appropriate anesthesia management. The anesthesiologists invariably took offense and often vented their frustrations by heckling or deriding the hapless junior surgery residents.

"You're doing fine, Liu," Wynter said, ignoring Ken's grumbling about the longest hernia repair on record. "There...right there. See that little pink half-moon? Poking out right next to the vas? That's a loop of bowel. Do not cut it."

"Okay, okay," Lu muttered, sweating as if he were defusing a ten megaton bomb without a shield.

From just behind her right ear, Wynter heard a soft, sensuous voice ask, "Having fun?"

She didn't look around, but her pulse sped up and her stomach tightened. Keeping her voice cool and professional, she said, "We just isolated the hernia sac and are about to tie it off. It's small."

"Good," Pearce said, moving closer so that she could see over Wynter's shoulder. Careful not to overbalance and push Wynter into the field, she rested her fingertips on Wynter's back to steady herself. Since nothing behind a surgeon was sterile, she didn't risk contaminating anything. She watched the first-year resident work for a few moments, automatically following his progress as all of her senses became absorbed by impressions of Wynter--the slight sheen of sweat on the back of her neck, the movement of firm muscles as she reached for instruments, the scent of her skin like the flowers that ringed Pearce's grandmother's porch, their petals heavy with early-morning rain- sweet and fresh and rich. Unconsciously, Pearce swept her fingers in a slow rhythmic arc along the curve of Wynter's shoulder blade. "Looks great."