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especially cautious in the future. But it was a mark of how much she’d changed, even in the last couple of months, that she was less bothered than she felt she ought to have been.
    Because, in truth, she didn’t want to back off. Didn’t want to put emotional distance between herself and Fin, not even for the sake of her career. And besides, wasn’t there more than a grain of truth in the gossip? Nothing had happened between her and Fin after she’d climbed into his car… but it very nearly had. In fact, she was increasingly certain it would have, if Fin hadn’t intervened when he did.
    As she set to work on the ward, reviewing the patients’ medication charts, Melissa shook her head inwardly. Being a trauma surgeon in the making was a complicated life by anyone’s standards. She hadn’t realised her life could become even more complicated.

Chapter Five
     
    Fin had been a doctor and in particular a trauma surgeon for long enough to be able to maintain a calm demeanour in the face of human suffering, but that didn’t mean an especially nasty injury couldn’t provoke a wince within him. He peered at George Harrow’s face as the man sat propped up on a hospital bed. Harrow was sixty years old and had the tough, level-eyed features of a stoic, though he must have been in a great deal of pain.
    A fisherman, George Harrow had been out on the Thames with friends some distance upriver, taking advantage of the early morning quiet. One of his fellow anglers had cast his line a little carelessly and the hook had caught Harrow in the corner of the mouth, tearing his cheek open. They’d arrived as a group, four damp, grizzled men smelling of tobacco and fish, Harrow with a filthy handkerchief pressed to the side of his face.
    ‘It’s just a scratch, Doc,’ he said. Fin peeled away the rag as carefully as he could. Some scratch. The hook had cut through the cheek’s full thickness.
    The wound needed extensive cleaning and coverage with a course of antibiotics. Most of all, it needed painstaking suturing. This wasn’t a simple scrape on a thigh or a back. Both the mucosa inside the mouth and the outer skin of the face required stitching involving different materials, and with enough skill that scarring would be minimal, both for cosmetic reasons and so that there was no distortion inside the mouth which might affect Mr Harrow’s eating or speech in the future.
    Fin considered the options. St Matthew’s had a plastic surgery department, with surgeons specialising in cosmetic repairs. But Fin himself was skilled in such repairs, and for all but the most severe cases the plastics boys were happy for him to do the job. It lightened their work load, for one thing.
    Then he had an idea. It was very early in the morning, and the first casualties of the rush hour traffic chaos hadn’t started to pour in yet. The department was quiet. Fin called across to one of the nurses: ‘Rachel, could you ask Ms Havers to pop in for a moment?’
    ‘Miz who?’ growled Harrow, and winced at the pain that talking evidently produced.
    ‘A colleague of mine,’ said Fin.
    Melissa appeared between the curtains, and Fin caught his breath. First thing in the morning, in the standard-issue white coat, her hair pulled back into a practical ponytail as she always wore it at work, she was still a vision of loveliness.
    ‘This is Mr Harrow,’ said Fin. ‘Take a look at this. Fishing hook injury.’
    Melissa peered at the wound, betraying no reaction. ‘Plastics?’
    ‘I thought you might do it.’
    Her eyes flashed at him – astonished, and excited – but she kept her tone nonchalant. ‘Of course.’
    ‘I’ll assist, if you don’t mind.’
    The fishermen were muttering to each other. At least, Fin thought, it meant they weren’t staring at Melissa any longer.
    Harrow said, ‘No offence, Doc, but you’re the boss, aren’t you? I’d prefer it if you did it.’
    Fin could understand. Everyone wanted to be treated by the most senior,