The Hollywood Hills Clinic

Dear Reader,

This is my second involvement in an eight-book series, and while in some ways it’s much, much harder than writing solo in other ways it’s so much fun. Writing is normally such a solitary occupation—a bit like being an only child—whereas being part of a series is like being part of a large family. Not only do the other authors become my family, but our characters develop and grow together on the pages and form relationships that carry across all the stories.

I cannot wait to read the completed series and revisit my characters to see if they have managed to keep hold of their HEA :).

I really hope you enjoy a taste of LA glamour!

Happy reading,

Emily

EMILY FORBES is an award-winning author of Medical Romances for Mills & Boon. She has written over 25 books and has twice been a finalist in the Australian Romantic Book of the Year Award, which she won in 2013 for her novel Sydney Harbour Hospital: Bella’s Wishlist. You can get in touch with Emily at emilyforbes@internode.on.net or visit her website at emily-forbesauthor.com.

Falling for the Single Dad

(The Hollywood Hills Clinic, Book 2)

Emily Forbes

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

For Amanda, Ali and Sarah.

Thank you all for an amazing thirty-plus years of friendship. Together we somehow survived our teenage years, the fashions of the eighties, cross-country moves, marriages, babies and now our own teenagers! As we begin to celebrate another round of milestone birthdays I’ve been thinking about the incredible memories we’ve created along the way and how lucky I am to have such ‘old’ friends.

With love xx

Contents

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE HOLLYWOOD SIGN flashed intermittently into Abi’s peripheral vision as she wound her way up into the Hollywood Hills. Her heart rate accelerated as she drew closer to her destination and she felt her palms go clammy as her nervousness increased a notch or two. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, not wanting her hands to slip as she fought back the wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She hadn’t expected to feel quite so terrified today. She’d rehearsed this, she’d prepared for this. She could do this.

She had debated about catching a cab for her first day but had decided that if she could drum up the courage to drive that would give her the freedom that waiting for a taxi wouldn’t, and in order to prepare she’d done a trial run yesterday with Jonty. She’d needed to know where she was going and she’d needed to make sure it was safe. Bringing Jonty yesterday had given her courage and confidence but today she was travelling solo.

One more corner to go and then she was able to turn off the steep, winding road into the staff parking area for The Hollywood Hills Clinic. The iconic Hollywood sign loomed large above her again, its fresh white paint stark against the dull green and brown of the hillside and the shrubby flora that sprouted there. She swiped her card at the gate and waited nervously for it to open. The staff car park was secure, fenced and gated, and she was relieved to see the addition of good lighting and CCTV cameras. She breathed a sigh of relief as she squeezed her second-hand, two-door, soft-top 4x4 between two immaculately shiny sports cars.

She took a moment to sit quietly in her car as she summoned up the nerve to get out of the vehicle. It had taken all her courage to get into her car this morning and now that she was here she needed to find some more. Starting a new job and meeting new colleagues was going to test her limits. She was in the rebuilding phase, trying to cope with the stress of life, and anything unexpected could, and often still did, unsettle her. She needed to find the strength to get out of her car. She closed her eyes and rehearsed the process her psychologist had taught her. She imagined herself walking—no, not walking, striding—confidently into the building and introducing herself to her new colleagues. It would be fine. She could do this. This was a safe environment. She had a plan and she had to believe things would go accordingly.

She gathered her bag, took a deep breath and opened her door very carefully, mindful of the pristine paintwork of the car beside her. She’d made it this far this morning, she’d found the strength to negotiate the LA traffic and now she was here. She held a conversation with herself in her head as she stepped out into the morning sun and followed the sign to the clinic. A short path took her to the front of the building and as she rounded the corner the vista took her breath away.

The view was incredible. The crisp, blue February sky was clear of smog, just one of the bonuses of winter, and she could see over Los Angeles out to the coast where the Pacific Ocean shimmered in the morning sun. She turned her attention to the building itself. It was long and low, sleek and white. A massive wall of windows, shiny and gleaming, faced west, taking in the stunning view, and a semicircular driveway swept around in front of the glass separated from the building by a wide plaza bordered by sculpted, orderly, perfectly manicured gardens and hedges.

There was a low, unobtrusive sign of silver lettering on a white background that read ‘The Hollywood Hills Clinic’ in front of the building. Despite its name, the overall impression that she got was that she was about to step into a five-star resort, not a medical clinic. The sign didn’t need to be large. Everyone who arrived here knew exactly where they were. No one’s arrival at the clinic would be unplanned or unscheduled.

Her job interview had been conducted by phone and although she’d been on the internet and done her homework on the clinic and its management, nothing had prepared her for the reality. The first impression, from the exterior of the building alone, was definitely one of privilege, wealth and exclusivity.

Abi could see her reflection in the glass facade as she approached the front entrance and she self-consciously straightened her navy jacket and made sure her shirt was tucked into her pencil skirt. Her civilian clothes felt unfamiliar. The fabric was slippery and light compared to the thicker, more robust fabric of her army uniform and tended not to stay in place quite so firmly. Her low heels clicked on the pavers as she crossed the plaza area and she wondered if she was underdressed. If the luxury cars parked in the staff car park were any indication, she suspected her colleagues were going to be a hell of a lot more sophisticated than her. She suddenly felt like a country bumpkin on her first day in the big city.

You grew up in LA, she reminded herself. You can do this. You are an excellent doctor, you will be a valuable member of staff.

She didn’t have to fit in; she just had to do a good job. She needed a job, this job, as her money wasn’t going to last for ever and her psychologist had suggested, rather strongly, that it was time for her to start testing her reserves and her limits.

As the glass doors slid open Abi noticed a helicopter landing pad positioned at the far end of the building. It wasn’t on the roof, neither was it tucked away discreetly out of sight, but instead it sat out the front, making a bold declaration that this was a place for the privileged and wealthy. Were people planning on making a statement as they arrived? That wouldn’t surprise her given the sensational appearance of the clinic itself. The building alone certainly looked as though it was out to make a statement. Time would tell her what that statement was.

An expansive, modern foyer greeted her. A reception desk stood at one end in front of a wide window that looked out to the city below and on the opposite side of the foyer was a large courtyard with a central water feature and several oversized sculptures. More sculptures were displayed in the foyer itself and artworks hung from the walls. The look was reminiscent of a contemporary art gallery that had been merged with a very expensive and exclusive hotel. The artworks were beautifully lit and the foyer was sleek and modern.

She approached the reception desk, which was a long slab of marble. An enormous flower arrangement was positioned at one end and two chandeliers hung above it. The more Abi saw, the more the clinic looked like a five-star hotel—six-star, even, if there was such a thing. There wasn’t much to indicate it was a medical facility. Even the woman behind the desk looked as if she had stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her hair was styled in a neat bob and her make-up had been expertly applied, and Abi felt more and more like the country cousin who expected to be evicted for not being glamorous enough.

She tried to ignore her misgivings as she introduced herself to the receptionist and explained that Freya Rothsberg was expecting her. Abi knew the clinic was owned by Freya and her brother, James. James was a world-renowned reconstructive surgeon who specialised in cosmetic surgery, and, from what Abi had discerned, Freya was responsible for the PR side of things. Freya had interviewed Abi over the phone but they were yet to meet.

‘Welcome!’ a woman called out loudly from several feet away. This must be Freya. She was about Abi’s age, thirty or thereabouts, and of similar height, but that was about the extent of any resemblance. The closer Freya got the more the differences between them multiplied. Freya gave the immediate impression of someone who belonged here in the sun-kissed glamour of LA and the Hollywood Hills. She had a mane of dark hair that fell over her shoulders in natural surfer-chick waves. Her blue eyes were shining and her skin had a light tan, even at the end of winter. She had the typical LA cheerleader look—fit, trim and toned—and Abi doubted anything would have ever gone wrong in Freya Rothsberg’s life.

In contrast to Freya’s glowing Californian beauty Abi felt like a pale imitation of an LA woman, even though she had been born and bred here. Her dark brown hair with mahogany lights was cut just below her chin and had been softly feathered to frame her oval face. Her porcelain skin always looked like it had never seen the sun and Abi had never felt particularly pretty or noticeable. Her best, most striking feature were her eyes and she noted Freya’s double-take when their eyes met as they introduced themselves. Abi was used to that reaction from people. Her eyes were a deep, rich amber, much like the glass eyes often found on a child’s teddy bear. They were an unusual colour and she knew that was what people remembered about her.

‘Hello, I’m Freya Rothsberg,’ she said as she shook Abi’s hand firmly. ‘It’s so nice to meet you! I hope you’ll love it here at The Hills. Hold on one moment,’ she said, ‘there’s someone I want to introduce you to.’ A man entered the foyer and Freya called out to him. ‘Damien!’

The man started walking towards them and Abi’s first thought was that he was absolutely divine to look at. There was no other word to describe him. Was there no end to the beauty in this place?

He had designer stubble, brown eyes, so dark they were almost black, and a full head of black hair, short and spiky. He was tall, lean and looked like a model. His black suit might have been tailor-made for him rather than off the rack. No tie, open-collar shirt. Incredibly smooth, unlined skin.

‘Abi,’ Freya said as he reached them, ‘this is Damien Moore, chief of reconstructive surgery.’

Abi recognised his name. This gorgeous man was her new boss. She found herself looking for telltale signs of plastic surgery and hoping not to find any, hoping it was just good genes because, despite working in the industry, she didn’t find narcissistic men attractive. Not that she should care about what Damien Moore did with his body or his spare time.

‘Damien, this is Abi Thompson, the new addition to your surgical team.’

‘Dr Thompson.’ He greeted her with a slight nod of his handsome head. Everything about him was dark and intense. Serious. He sounded totally controlled or was he just underwhelmed? Abi’s lack of confidence made her question his expression before she could tell herself to relax. There was no reason for him to be unimpressed. He extended his hand but as Abi took it she felt a sharp shock as if there was a massive amount of static electricity between them. She felt as if her hand had been burnt and she withdrew it quickly, almost snatching it away, and resisted the temptation to check her palm for redness.

‘You’re a reconstructive and plastic surgeon?’ he asked, apparently oblivious to the shock. Had he not felt it? ‘Fully qualified?’ he added, and Abi felt herself bristling.

What the hell did he mean by that?

‘Of course,’ she replied.

‘Your résumé is very extensive.’

Was he accusing her of lying about her experience? Abi met his chilly stare head on and felt some of her old fire returning. ‘If you’d like to fetch my application I’ll wait and then we can compare notes.’ She could feel the steam coming out of her ears and knew her amber eyes would be flashing angrily, but if she thought that would scare him into apologising she was mistaken. So she carried on. ‘I have spent the past two years in Afghanistan, working in a CASH unit, putting soldiers back together. Making sure they have viable stumps for prosthetic limbs, repairing hands, sewing fingers back on that have been blown or shot off, holding chest walls together on the side of the road while under fire, so I think I’ll be able to handle working here. I’m sure your facilities and your clients won’t trouble me too much.’ A combat support hospital may not be the equivalent of the five-star set-up currently surrounding her but Abi knew the surroundings were irrelevant. She was good at her job, very good, and she refused to let someone denigrate her skills.

Abi was aware that Freya was grinning and trying to suppress laughter but her cellphone rang before she could comment.

Freya glanced at the screen and apologised to them. ‘It’s Mila. I’m sorry but I have to take this. We have to finalise the plans for the function this weekend. Damien, would you mind giving Abi a quick tour of the clinic? I was going to do it but I’ll catch up with you at morning tea instead.’

Abi hesitated as a slight sense of panic crept up on her. ‘I don’t mind waiting,’ she said. It seemed a better option than going with Damien, who clearly wasn’t impressed by her and who was putting her on edge. She didn’t need to be stressed. Not on her first day. But Freya had already turned away to answer her phone, leaving Abi and Damien standing in silence, staring at each other.

‘Looks like you’re stuck with me.’ The prospect didn’t seem to bother him. ‘Come on, it’ll give us a chance to get acquainted. To see if we’ll be able to work well together.’

Not an overly pleasing prospect. Abi was feeling increasingly nervous about the decision she’d made to take the Hollywood Hills job. Perhaps it had been a mistake not to have had a face-to-face interview and checked out not only the facilities but her new colleagues too.

She needed to calm down, employ some of the coping strategies she’d been working on.

She took a deep breath and fought for composure. She needed to present a professional, controlled demeanour. It wouldn’t do to fall to pieces in front of her new boss in the first five minutes of her first day.

‘How much of the clinic did you see when you had your interview?’ Damien asked her.

‘This is the first time I’ve been here. My interview was conducted over the phone, that’s why you read my résumé and why we haven’t met.’

‘I see. I’ve been on leave, I assumed this was all finalised while I was away. Didn’t you want to see where you’d be working?’

‘I know the clinic’s reputation. That was enough for me.’ In reality it was the closeted, safe and secure environment that she was most attracted to. She wasn’t ready for a large public hospital. She didn’t want to fight for funding or waste hours in meetings. She wasn’t ready to deal with emergencies and chaos and shift work. She needed regular patterns and habits. She needed regular sleep too if she was to get her life back on track. Well-mannered, exclusive and polite was what she wanted and she hoped that this job would be a peaceful environment compared to public-hospital and defence-force work.

Damien showed her to her new office, which had light oak furniture, leather chairs and large picture windows with one-way blinds that looked out over Los Angeles. His office was beside hers and they shared a secretary who managed their appointment diary and theatre bookings. Damien introduced her to Jennifer and Abi expected that he would palm her off onto the secretary, but he surprised her by continuing her tour himself. Abi wasn’t sure what to make of that. Was he being polite or was he going to use this as an opportunity to cross-examine her further about her experience?

Let him interrogate her, she decided. She’d answer any question he put to her.

He showed her through the rehabilitation area, which included a gym and hydrotherapy pools used by the physical therapists on staff, before taking her into the operating theatres. The facility was amazing. Absolutely no expense had been spared and Abi couldn’t help but be impressed.

‘Different from what you are used to?’ Damien asked as he pushed open the swing door that led into an operating suite.

‘We have state-of-the art equipment in the defence forces but those facilities don’t extend past the medical necessities. The army certainly doesn’t waste money on modern art and marble floors.’

‘The Hills patients have high expectations,’ he said with a light shrug of his designer-clad shoulders, ‘not only of our expertise but of the service. They’re LA’s wealthy and they are used to having every whim catered for, and they have the same expectations when they walk through our doors as when they walk into a hotel or restaurant. They expect to be well looked after.’

Abi didn’t care about the patients’ expectations. The demands these patients would put on her would be nothing compared to what she’d put upon herself. In the army people got what they got, they had no expectations, the most important things were to keep them alive and maintain their function, but her expectations of her own skills was high. She knew she’d be able to handle the patients here. Operating on a millionaire would have to be less stressful than operating under fire. What she was interested in was a job that wasn’t dangerous. She wanted peaceful. She needed peaceful. She knew she was going to get demanding but she was confident that she could cope. Stress presented in different ways and the pressure that she expected to encounter here, in civilised luxury, would be entirely different from the high stress in Afghanistan.

She was interested in a low-stress environment and one factor in keeping her stress levels down was knowing that the people she worked with were capable. It was time to ask Damien some questions of her own. ‘How long have you worked here?’

‘Two years.’ He didn’t volunteer anything further as he led the way out of the theatre suites. ‘Our definitive observation unit is through there and the patient suites are around this way.’

They were six feet along the corridor when there was a crackle over the ceiling intercom.

‘Code blue, room five. Repeat, code blue, room five.’

Damien took off. One minute he was next to her, the next he was gone, his long legs eating up the metres of the corridor and leaving Abi staring after him.

CHAPTER TWO

ABI LOOKED AT his retreating figure before she came to her senses and followed in his wake as the voice continued through the loudspeaker. ‘Code blue, room five.’

Damien sprinted past the next two rooms before he shouldered open a door and Abi followed him into what was possibly the largest private hospital room she had ever seen. In the centre of the wall in front of them was an oversized hospital bed. A nurse was kneeling on the bed, delivering cardiac compressions to a young woman wearing pale pink silk pyjamas.

‘She’s in cardiac arrest. Unresponsive, not breathing, no pulse,’ she told them as she continued with the compressions. She was doing a good job, delivering regular hard, deep compressions. The patient’s shirt had been opened at the front and Abi was astounded at how underweight the woman was. She was so thin Abi could see each and every rib.

‘Ellen, this is Dr Thompson,’ Damien said, as he reached behind the bed and pushed on the wall. A small door that was set flush into the panelling popped open and he pulled a defibrillator from the alcove. And that was it by way of introductions. There was no time for anything more as he quickly tore open the packets and Ellen sat back, stopping CPR, as Damien applied the adhesive electrodes to the patient’s chest wall.

Abi watched as he connected the wires, flicked the machine on and pressed the ‘analyse’ button. The patient’s heart rhythm appeared on the screen. She could see the disorganised pattern of ventricular fibrillation indicating that the brain was sending chaotic impulses to the heart that the heart couldn’t interpret. This meant the heart couldn’t fire a proper beat and it lost its rhythm and was unable to pump blood. The brain would be starved of oxygen, causing the patient to lose consciousness, and if the heart rhythm wasn’t corrected the patient would die. Defibrillation to restore regular rhythm and normal contractions was the best way to stop ventricular fibrillation, and that was exactly what Damien was instigating.

The machine issued instructions in its automated voice.

Stop CPR, analysing.

Shock advised.

Abi could hear the whine as the power built up in the defibrillator unit.

Stand clear.

‘Clear.’ Damien repeated the machine’s instructions to Abi and Ellen and checked to make sure they were well away from the patient before pressing the flashing red button. The machine delivered its first shock but there was no change in the rhythm of the heart.

Continue CPR.

‘Ellen, can you get an IV line in, oxygen monitor and an Ambu bag,’ Damien instructed, as he lowered the bed before continuing chest compressions.

Abi kicked off her shoes and stepped forward, ready to help. She hitched her skirt up to give her room to move, wondering why on earth she’d thought it was a good idea to wear a suit, and climbed up on the bed. She tipped the patient’s head back, opening her airway. She was ready to breathe for her the moment Damien paused in his compressions. They worked at a steady rate for two minutes until the AED machine interrupted them.

Stop CPR, analysing.

Shock advised.

‘Clear.’ Damien repeated the process to deliver a second shock.