"Wilson, F Paul - Implant (aka Colin Andrews)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson F. Paul)

"Be right there, " Gin said.

She hit F10 to save the H and P, jotted down the file name so she could
finish it later, and headed upstairs for the operating suite. Even on
a V.I.P morning, with only one very important patient, Duncan Lathram
did not like to be kept waiting. She hustled.

Not that she had that far to go. Lathram Surgical Associates sounded
like a multicenter medical group, but actually it was one surgeon at
one location in Chevy Chase. That location was an old single-story
stone building, somewhat Gothic looking, that had once been a bank.

Duncan Lathram and his brother Oliver, also a doctor, but a PhD in
pharmacology, had maintained the old facade while completely gutting
and refitting the interior into a state-of-the-art prlyate
surgicenter.

The main floor offered a two-room operating suite, a large recovery
room with six cubicles, a private V.I.P recovery room, an
examination/consultation room, and Duncan's office. The records room,
lounge, and Oliver's lab took up the basement.

Gin rushed into the scrub room, shucked her white coat, tucked her
unruly black hair under a disposable cap, and joined Duncan at the
sink.

His forearms were already coated with tan lather.

"Morning, Duncan." Since her first day here he'd insisted that since
she was now a full-fledged physician, she must call him by his first
name■"Call me Doctor Lathram' once more and you're fired." But she had
to make a conscious effort to say Duncan. He'd been her hero since she
was ten.

He grunted and nodded absently as he continued working the Betadine
into his skin with the disposable brush.

Hmmm. Preoccupied this morning.

Gin watched him out of the corner of her eye as she adjusted the water
temperature with the foot controls and began her own scrub. Assisting
Duncan Lathram at surgery■still hard to believe it was true. Simply
being alongside him like this never failed to give her a warm tingle.

She'd been working with him for months now and still marveled at how
good he looked for a man of sixty-two. Neat as the proverbial pin,
with dark, glossy, perfectly combed hair graying at the temples,
piercing blue eyes over a generous nose set in a longish, rugged face
that creased deeply when he smiled, which wasn't all that often. Six