Return of the Rebel Surgeon - Connie Cox

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the boy’s knee, then pointed toward the medical tent. Without needing a prod from the intercom system, Cole headed in that direction.

      From the moment she’d entered the stadium that morning, Bella Allante’s attention had been drawn to him as if he had some preternatural power over her.

      Why now? Why, when her world spun on the tip of a needle, did Cole Lassiter have to show up now?

      Distracted, she tried to focus on the one-sided conversation her teenage helper was carrying on.

      “So my mom says to tell you thanks. Working with our family photo album has really helped my sister understand age appropriateness much better.”

      “You’re welcome.” Isabella had stumbled upon her son’s fascination with family photographs a few years back. “I’ve used them to teach everything from facial recognition to table manners.”

      “My sister is obsessed with photos of our grandmother. Didn’t you tell us that happened with Adrian, too?”

      “Yes, it did.” Obsession wasn’t an unusual trait for someone on the autistic spectrum. Isabella just wished Adrian’s obsession had been with anyone other than Cole Lassiter.

      The day her son had asked about the tall, dark-haired boy in many of her high-school photos, displaying curiosity but also being able to recognize him in photos at different ages, Isabella had been overjoyed at Adrian’s breakthrough in development but torn about using the image of the man she despised above all others to teach her son.

      Although she’d been mightily tempted to tell him a half-truth that day, she had never lied to Adrian. So she had confessed that the boy in the photos was Adrian’s father, now a grown man and a renowned surgeon.

      Instantly, she’d had to page through copies of her father’s medical journals to show Adrian photos of Cole as an adult.

      Since then, Adrian had elevated Cole to the status of superhero, insisting on having a dark-haired plastic doctor doll along with his superhero action figures and adding Cole’s photo to the collection of pictures of family and friends on his bedside table.

      She had been so thrilled she had found a way to reach her emotionally locked-away son she had decided to encourage and embrace his fascination with Cole, in the certain belief that she would never have to deal with the man in person.

      Was that Adrian in the lead? He never wanted her to watch him compete, so she had only seen him run from afar.

      Once more she scanned the crowd, intently watching the athletes take their final lap.

      What was Cole doing here—beyond watching the son he had never acknowledged? That small part of her that needed closure nagged at her now like it had so many dark nights in the past. Had she tried hard enough, done enough?

      Isabella lifted her chin. An Allante didn’t beg—and she would never stoop that low again. If only he had acknowledged her pregnancy in some way, she could have put her doubts behind her, along with those tarnished memories of first love.

      “Ms. Allante, is something wrong?”

      Isabella replaced her worried frown with a forced smile. “No—just anticipating a problem that might never happen.”

      If only it was just a commonplace problem worrying Isabella now, instead of the man in the front row, sitting all alone with his elbows propped on his knees.

      The girl, old beyond her years, nodded with understanding. “My mom does that all the time. My dad keeps telling her to just take it each moment as it comes, but it doesn’t seem to help.”

      Isabella tried to follow the same creed, even while she tried to provide an environment as secure and routine as possible for her son. While she was doing well on the secure environment part, she was failing miserably to live in the moment.

      Usually her problem was trying to anticipate the future. But today her worry was all about the past.

      Only fifteen short years ago, she had wished with all her heart to set eyes on Cole Lassiter.

      She had wished it right up to the moment she had repeated her marriage vows to another man. At that point she had begun wishing just as fervently never to see Cole again.

      Cole stood and stretched, spreading to the skies those arms that had once held her so tight, and began to amble toward the medical tent.

      The loudspeaker popped and squealed, then blasted out, “Will the mother of athlete number 183 please meet him in the first-aid area?”

      A burst of panic flipped her stomach with her heart. “That’s Adrian.”

      “Go.” The girl threw away the pencil Isabella had snapped in two. “I can take care of this.”

      “Thanks.” Like she had every day since the pregnancy test had shown positive, Isabella straightened her spine, put her anxiety behind her, and vowed to do whatever was best for her child.

      Under the tent in the makeshift first-aid station, Cole knelt to examine the boy’s skinned knee.

      “You’re Adrian, right?” He was careful to move slowly and talk plainly.

      “That’s right, Doctor,” an assistant answered for the boy. “Adrian is fourteen years old.”

      Cole would have guessed he was a year or two older. The boy was tall and rangy. He rocked back and forth as he flexed his left forefinger over and over again.

      Adrian wasn’t Cole’s standard client. As a hand surgeon who specialized in sports medicine, Cole usually treated highly paid professional athletes.

      He’d been informed that Adrian was autistic, mostly nonverbal, and skittish around strangers. Adrian particularly disliked being touched.

      Volunteering for these special athletic games challenged Cole’s doctor-patient skills. He wasn’t familiar with treating athletes with mental challenges, but he had stepped out of his comfort zone to fill in for one of the future partners who’d had a family emergency.

      Family—something else Cole wasn’t too familiar with.

      Cole could relate to the boy, though. He himself was more of a thinker than a talker. Thankfully, professional athletes rarely required much chit-chat.

      Still, he felt the need to be encouraging. “That was quite a race you ran, Adrian.” Cole kept his voice calm and low despite the noise of the cheering crowd around them.

      Adrian smiled with his eyes, showing acknowledgment of the compliment.

      “Tough luck about the fall.”

      Adrian showed no anger, or even frustration, over the accident. Good sportsmanship personified.

      “Adrian’s mother is here, Dr. Lassiter,” the assistant warned.

      Before Cole could stand and turn around, Adrian’s mother asked over his shoulder, “Honey, are you all right?”

      He knew that voice.

      Even after fifteen years, it rasped down his spine. Who would have thought a voice from his past could slam into his gut like this?

      Calling on all the stoicism he’d developed over his career, Cole stood and moved aside so she could take his place. Isabella Allante was more beautiful now than the last time he’d seen her—sound asleep in his bed.

      For the sake of the boy, Cole used every ounce of professionalism he had to reassure the anxious mother. “Adrian is fine. Just a scrape.”

      “Cole,” Bella said in a monotone, as if she’d turned off a switch to her emotions. Her face registered nothing, a mask of calm.

      She had always been good at keeping her emotions in check, a trait that would have made her a good doctor if she had gone to medical school as they had planned.

      He did the math. Had marriage and pregnancy, not necessarily in that order, caused her to drop out? Had it been her choice or

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