Augustus Tulare

Painful paradise

CHAPTER ONE

Palmyra Weston slid the tray onto the small table and looked around the hospital cafeteria before pulling out a chair. She saw none of her close acquaintances, but there were several other nurses in groups of two or three spotted at random in the large room. She took her seat at the table, sipped at the tomato juice in the small frosted glass, and picked up her fork.

As she toyed with her salad, she rested one elbow on the table, bringing her arm up and placing her fingertips on her brow. Her fingers formed a protective guile through which she could peer without being easily detected.

Her eyes searched the faces at the nearby tables as she nibbled half-heartedly at food she didn't really want. There was a restlessness in her today, and it worried her a little. She was to be in surgery this afternoon, and Dr. Grafton was operating. One sign of restlessness around him, and she would be in trouble. He was a fanatic on complete alertness at all times.

As she tried to throw off the unexplainable nervousness, her gaze halted on a group seated two tables away from her. Her pulse raced for a few beats as she studied the darkly handsome countenance of the man who was facing toward her. He was nodding at something one of the other diners at his table was saying.

She realized that it was Dr. Grafton's back which partly hid the upper torso of the man whose appearance excited her so much. If he was in Grafton's company, he must be another doctor, and probably an important one. Grafton was known for his snobbishness among the other members of his profession.

Palmyra was trying to remember where she had seen the exciting face before. Her fingers parted to give her a better view of him. Just then, he looked up while drinking from his water tumbler, and his piercing gray eyes met her gaze.

Her pulse jumped, starting an even more rapid pace than before. Her china-blue eyes flickered away from the gray orbs which had tried to lock them in place. She fumbled with the peas on her fork, and several dropped off to roll across the table. As she reached out to keep them from falling on the floor, her hand knocked over the juice glass.

As the edge of the glass hit the tabletop, it rolled, and tomato juice splashed out at her just as she jumped to her feet. It made a crimson pattern on the front of her uniform, right at the crotch. Clumsily, aware that she was being stared at by those around her, she dabbed at the puddle on the table with her tiny paper napkin.

It was definitely inadequate, and she now regretted not having used it to blot the worst off her uniform. To get more napkins, she would have to walk through the room past dozens of diners, her embarrassing stain looking for all the world as though she had been caught unaware by a sudden and generous menstrual flow.

She could feel the heat of the blood pounding at her temples, and knew she was blushing furiously. The longer she postponed the humiliating promenade to get napkins or a cleaning rag, the longer she was the target for all the eyes nearby.