"I hope this is quick," she muttered as she approached the closed door to the chairman's office. An unassuming plastic nameplate next to the door announced his name. Ambrose P. Rifkin, M.D., Chairman.

She knocked on the door.

"Come in."

His desk was situated in the far corner of the room, angled so that he sat with his back to the two walls of windows, as if the outside world were a distraction or, at the very least, of no interest to him. It also allowed him to look at his visitors with the sun at his back, and in their eyes. He knew how to position himself to advantage.

"Pearce," he said, gesturing to the two armchairs in front of his broad walnut desk. The dark furniture and thick area rugs lent the room a traditional air, heavy and rich, and suited his style. Though he was in his mid-fifties, his thick hair was still midnight black, his aquiline features patrician, and his body trim from twice-weekly squash matches.

He looked--and was--a commanding presence.

"Sir," she said as she sat. The last time she'd seen him had been the previous afternoon when she'd assisted him on a low anterior colon resection. They'd said nothing to one another during the case, other than when she had provided him with the pertinent patient history and he had asked her to outline the plan for removing the constricting carcinoma that was lying in the patient's pelvis. She'd answered succinctly and accurately. He'd said nothing until an hour and a half later, when he'd stepped back from the table and said, "I have a meeting. Close her up."

He'd left without waiting for her reply. Now, the sound of his modulated baritone brought her back to the moment, and she realized she'd missed the first part of his sentence.

"...resident."

Pearce straightened, her forearms resting on the wooden arms of the chair. She was careful not to grip the armrests and allow him to see that she was nervous. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't get that."

He frowned, his piercing blue eyes raking over her. "I said, we're adding a new resident."

"In January?" The residency year ran from July to July, and it was very unusual for anyone to start off-cycle. In fact, she couldn't remember ever having seen that happen.

"We've had an empty third-year slot since Elliott decided he couldn't cut it. Now we have a body to fill it. Are you complaining?"

"No, sir, but why is he switching programs in the middle of the year?"

Ambrose Rifkin smiled wryly. "She."

Pearce flushed, knowing that he would enjoy her inadvertent confirmation that surgical residents were usually men. She knew it was his opinion, and that of most of his contemporaries, that they should be men. She was one of the few exceptions in the program, and despite the fact that more female surgeons were trained every year, the specialty remained the last bastion of male privilege within medicine. She said nothing, wishing to avoid another trap.

"She's technically a fourth-year, but she missed six months because of some...personal issues. Spent a few months working in an emergency room, apparently." His tone was both dismissive and disdainful. "But she has good credentials, and I know the chairman of her program. He says she has good hands."

Coming from a surgeon, that was the highest compliment another surgeon could receive. It was better to be the most technically proficient than to be the smartest. Brains didn't help much when you were faced with a bleeding vessel and twenty seconds to stop it before the patient bled to death. The only thing that mattered then was the steel in your spine and the skill in your hands.

"When is she starting?"

"She should be here at seven."

"Today?"

"Problem, Dr. Rifkin?"

"No sir," Pearce said quickly, reshuffling the day's priorities in her mind. Every night before she left the hospital, she double-checked the surgery schedule to make sure that nothing had been changed without her knowledge. Nothing made a staff surgeon angrier than showing up for a case and discovering there was no resident available to assist him.

Unfortunately, sometimes the secretaries canceled or, worse, added cases without informing the resident in charge, and it was the resident who paid for such miscommunication. She'd already assigned today's cases to her team, and she had no one who could orient the newcomer.

"Uh, could Connie take care of her this morning, until I'm done with the aneurysm?"

Connie Lang was the department chair's admin, and the go-to person for anything that the residents needed.

"Call Dzubrow and tell him to assist on the aneurysm. Whatever he's doing in the lab can wait."

Pearce bit back a protest. An abdominal aortic aneurysm resection was a major case, and as the senior resident on the service, it was hers.

She needed every major case she could get if she wanted the chief surgical resident's position the following year. Henry Dzubrow was her only real competition for the position among the other fourth-year residents, and he was supposed to be spending the next six months working in the shock-trauma lab. It seemed to her, though, that he was showing up in the operating room at every opportunity.

She stood, because she knew if she stayed much longer, she was going to complain about Dzubrow's preferential treatment. And that would surely doom her. A surgery resident did not complain about anything. Period. She could still remember her first day and her father standing in front of the auditorium where the twenty-five new first year residents sat nervously awaiting his instruction. His expression had been unreadable as his cold blue eyes had swept the room, passing over her face as if she were just one of the indistinguishable bodies. She could remember his words and knew that he'd meant them.

If you're not happy here, all you need to do is come to me and say so. There are fifty people waiting for every one of your positions, and I can guarantee they will be happy to take your place. Never forget that being here is a privilege, not a right. He'd looked over the room one more time, his gaze settling on Pearce just a moment longer, it seemed, than on the others. Privileges can be lost.

"What's her name?" Pearce asked.

The chairman looked down at a folder on his desk. "Thompson."

"Okay."

He said nothing, and Pearce left, closing the door behind her without being asked. She took a deep breath and let it out, forcing down her anger and the frustration that always accompanied any kind of interaction with her father. The only time they ever seemed to be comfortable together was in the operating room. She probably should be used to it by now, but she wasn't.

"Fuck."

"Having a rough day already, Pearce?"

Pearce jumped in surprise and spun around. Connie Lang stood behind her balancing two cups of coffee in cardboard containers and a Dunkin' Donuts bag.

"The usual," Pearce said. "You're starting a little early, aren't you?"

Connie nodded toward the closed door. "He's got a budget meeting at six thirty." She smiled, a predatory gleam in her eye. "He knows that the desk jockeys can't think clearly this early in the morning, and he has a much better shot at getting exactly what he wants this way."

"Doesn't he always?"

Wisely, Connie said nothing. "He told you about the new resident?"

Pearce nodded.

"She's downstairs at the admissions desk. I heard her ask for directions to the surgeons' lounge."

"Jesus. Already?"

Connie smiled. "She's eager. Isn't that what you want?"

"Oh, sure. Can't wait." With a sigh, Pearce started toward the elevators. "I better go find her. What does she look like?"

"Just a little bit shorter than you. Nice looking. Shoulder-length hair, a little bit blond, a little bit reddish brown. She's wearing navy scrubs."

"I'll find her," Pearce said, wondering just what Connie meant by nice looking. She was getting tired of dating the usual suspects--nurses and other residents. She didn't date anyone for very long and didn't have much time to look elsewhere for new prospects, so new faces, especially pretty ones, were welcome. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.


CHAPTER THREE

Pearce turned the corner toward the elevators and caught sight of a woman in navy blue scrubs at the far end of the corridor heading toward the surgeons' lounge.

"Hey, yo!" She sprinted down the hall. "Are you the new--" She skidded to a halt, her voice trailing off as she looked into the face she had not expected to see again. Wynter's face had lost the soft fullness of youth and taken on the angular lines of full-blown womanhood. She looked tired, but that was to be expected. She looked leaner than Pearce recalled, too, as if she had taken up running in the intervening years.

"Are you...Thompson? We met--"

"Yes," Wynter said quickly, not wanting to bring up the specifics of an interaction she still didn't understand. She had expected to run into Pearce at some point, because she remembered Pearce mentioning where she had matched. She just hadn't expected it to be so soon, and not this way. "Pearce, right?"

"That's right," Pearce said, trying to fit the pieces together in her mind. The match card had said Wynter Kline. She knew, because it was still stuck in the corner of the mirror over her dresser. Why she'd never thrown it away, she wasn't certain. Married name, Pearce thought with a jolt. Thompson must be her married name.

"I, uh...I'm starting today," Wynter said into the silence.