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you mentioned organ donation to the family?’ Matt said.

      I frowned. ‘No, but I’m surprised you didn’t thrust the papers under their noses right then and there.’

      His dark blue gaze warred with mine. ‘If Jason’s a registered donor then it’s appropriate to get the wheels in motion as soon as possible. Other lives can be saved. The family might find it difficult at first, but further down the track it often gives comfort to know their relative’s death wasn’t entirely in vain.’

      I knew he was right. But the subject of organ donation is enormously difficult for most people, including clinicians. Relatives are overwrought with grief, especially after an accident or a sudden illness or surgery that didn’t go according to plan. They want to cling to their loved one for as long as they can, to hold them and talk to them to say their final goodbyes. Some relatives can’t face the thought of their son or daughter or husband or wife being operated on to harvest organs, even when those very organs will save other lives.

      It was another thing I wanted to cover in my research. Finding the right time and the right environment in which to bring up the subject could go a long way in lifting organ donation rates, which were generally abysmal. All too often organ donation directives signed by patients were reversed because the relatives were in such distress.

      I let out a breath in a little whoosh. ‘I’ll talk to them tomorrow. I think they need tonight to come to terms with what they’ve been told so far.’

      There was a little silence.

      I was about to fill it with something banal when he said, ‘Would you like Jason moved to the end room?’

      I looked at him in surprise. ‘But I thought—’

      ‘It will give the family a little more privacy.’

      I couldn’t read his expression. He had his poker face on. ‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

      He gave me the briefest of smiles. It was little more than a little quirk of his lips but it made something inside my stomach slip. I suddenly wondered what his full smile would look like and if it would have an even more devastating effect on me. ‘How do you get on with Stuart McTaggart?’ he said.

      ‘Fine.’

      He lifted a dark eyebrow as if that wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. ‘You don’t find him … difficult?’

      I gave a little shrug. ‘He has his moments but I don’t let it get to me. He’s under a lot of pressure and he doesn’t know how to manage stress. Stress is contagious, like a disease. You can catch it off others if you’re not careful.’

      He leaned his hips back against his desk with his arms folded across his broad chest. His eyes never once left mine. I would have found it threatening except I was so fascinated by their colour I was practically mesmerised. In certain lights they were predominately grey but in others they were blue. And now and again they would develop a tiny glittery twinkle as if he was enjoying a private joke.

      ‘So what are your top three hints for relieving stress?’ he said.

      ‘Regular exercise, eight hours’ sleep, good nutrition.’

      ‘Not so easy when you work the kind of hours we work.’

      ‘True.’

      He was still watching me with that unwavering gaze. ‘What about sex?’

      I felt a hot blush spread over my cheeks. Yes, I know. I’m such a prude, which is incredibly ironic given my parents talk about their sex lives at the drop of a sarong. ‘Wh-what about it?’ I stammered.

      ‘Isn’t it supposed to be the best stress-reliever of all?’

      I ran the tip of my tongue out over my suddenly parchment-dry lips. The heat in my cheeks flowed to other parts of my body—my breasts, my belly and between my legs. Even the base of my spine felt molten hot. ‘Erm, yes, it’s good for that,’ I said, ‘excellent, in fact. But not everyone can have sex when they’re feeling stressed. I mean, how would that work in the workplace, for instance? We can’t have staff running off to have sex in the nearest broom cupboard whenever they feel like it, can we?’

      I wished I hadn’t taken the bait. I wished I hadn’t kept running off at the mouth like that. Why the hell was I talking about sex with Matt Bishop? All I could think of was what it would be like to have sex with him. Not in a broom cupboard, although I’m sure he would be more than up to the challenge. But in a bed with his arms around me, his long legs entangled with mine, his body pressing me down on the mattress in a passionate clinch unlike any I’d had before.

      Just to put you straight, I’m no untried virgin. I’ve had three partners, although I don’t usually count the first one because I was drunk at the time and I can’t remember much about it. It was my first year at med school and I was embarrassed about still being a virgin so I drank three vile-tasting cocktails at a party and had it off with a guy whose name I still can’t remember. What is it about cocktails and me?

      But I digress. The second was only slightly more memorable in that I wasn’t drunk or even tipsy, but the guy had performance anxiety, so I blinked and missed it, so to speak. I guess that’s why Andy had seemed such a super-stud. At least he could go the distance and I actually managed to orgasm now and again. Told you I was good at lying.

      Matt kept his gaze trained on my flustered one, a hint of a smile still playing around the corners of his mouth. ‘Perhaps not.’

      My phone started to ring and I grabbed at it as if it were the lottery office calling to inform me of a massive win. It wasn’t. It was my mother. ‘Can I call you back?’ I said.

      ‘Darling, you sound so tense.’ My mother’s voice carried like a foghorn. I think it’s from all the chanting she does. It’s given her vocal cords serious muscle. ‘He’s not worth the angst.’

      I could feel my cheeks glowing like hot embers. ‘I really can’t talk now so—’

      ‘I just called to give you your horoscope reading. It’s really amazing because it said you’re going to meet—’

      ‘Now’s not a good time,’ I said with a level of desperation I could barely keep out of my voice. ‘I’ll call you later. I promise.’

      ‘All right, darling. Love you.’ She made kissy noises.

      ‘I love you too. Bye.’ I ended the call and gave Matt a wry look. ‘My mum.’

      ‘Who’s causing you the angst?’ he asked. ‘Not me, I hope?’

      I backed my way to the door, almost tripping over my own feet in clumsy haste. ‘I’d better let you get to your meeting.’

      ‘Dr Clark?’

      My hand reached for the doorknob and I turned my head to look at him over my shoulder. ‘Yes?’

      A glint danced in his eyes. ‘Check the broom cupboards on your way past, will you?’

       CHAPTER THREE

      I WAS ABOUT to leave for the day when the CEO’s secretary came to see me. Lynne Patterson was in her late fifties and had worked at St Iggy’s for thirty years in various administrative roles. I had only met her a handful of times but she was always warm and friendly. She reminded me of a mother hen. She oozed maternal warmth and was known for taking lame ducks under her wing. Not that I considered myself a lame duck or anything, but right then I wasn’t paddling quite the way I wanted to.

      ‘How did the wedding go?’ Lynne asked as her opening gambit. What is it with everyone and weddings? I thought. People were becoming obsessed. It wasn’t healthy.

      My smile felt like it was set in plaster of Paris on my mouth. ‘Great. Fabulous. Wonderful. Awesome.’ I was going overboard

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