First Sight by Danielle Steel Page A

Timmie’s call on his cell phone, although he was somewhat overqualified for what he was doing as a favor for her friend in New York. Timmie was grateful that she had made note of his name and number and had a doctor to call, other than a total stranger referred by the hotel. He was a well-known and highly respected doctor in Paris.
    He followed her into the room, and could see that she was moving slowly, and seemed somewhat unsteady, and even considering her fair redhead’s skin, she seemed unusually pale to him. He saw her wince when she sat down as though her whole body ached, which it did. Every muscle in her body felt as though it were shrieking. She’d been vomiting for two days.
    Without saying a great deal about it, he took her temperature and listened to her chest. She had no fever, and he assured her that her lungs were clear, and then he asked her to lie down. As he put his stethoscope away, she noticed that he wore a wedding band on his left hand, and she couldn’t help observing that he was a very good-looking man, with deep blue eyes and still-blond hair, in spite of a little distinguished gray at the temples. She couldn’t help thinking too that she looked a total mess, not that she cared. She felt too sick to worry about how she looked. He smiled at her pleasantly as she lay down, and he gently moved his hands around her abdomen, and then frowned. He asked her then to describe what had happened, touched several places on her stomach again, and asked her if it hurt. She seemed to be most sensitive around the area of her belly button, and once when he touched her she gave a sharp gasp of pain.
    “I think it’s just the flu,” she reassured him, looking worried, and he smiled. He spoke excellent English, but his accent was decidedly French, and so were his looks, although he was taller than most French men.
    “You are also a doctor?” he asked with a somewhat mischievous look. “As well as a famous designer? I should be very angry at you, you have cost me a great deal of money. My wife and both my daughters have bought many of your clothes.” She smiled at his comment, and he pulled a side chair up to the bed, and sat down to talk to her. He could see that she was afraid.
    “Is it something awful?” She had decided sometime that night that it was probably cancer, or at the very least a perforated ulcer, but there had been no sign of blood in anything she threw up. She hoped that was a good sign, but she didn’t like the look in his eyes. Something told her she wasn’t going to like what he had to say, and as it turned out, she was right.
    “I don’t think it’s awful,” he said carefully, as she nervously twisted a lock of her long red hair. She looked like a little girl suddenly, tucked into the big bed. “But I am a little bit concerned. I would like to take you to the hospital tonight, and do some tests.”
    “Why?” Her eyes opened wide, and he saw fear turn to panic. “What do you think it is?” She was sure again that it was cancer after all.
    “I cannot be certain without some scans, but I think it is possibly an attack of appendicitis.” He was almost sure it was, but didn’t want to make an official diagnosis without a sonogram. “I would like to take you to the American Hospital in Neuilly. It is a very pleasant place,” he said reassuringly as tears filled her eyes. He knew the American Hospital would be less frightening for her than the Pitié Salpetrière where he often worked. He had privileges to see patients at the American Hospital too, although he seldom used them.
    “I can’t. I have a show on Tuesday, and rehearsals on Monday. I’ve got to be there,” she said, looking nearly frantic, as he frowned.
    “I can assure you that if your appendix explodes, Madame O’Neill, you will not be at your show. I know your show is important, but it would be irresponsible not to do some tests now.” It was easy to see that she was feeling very ill.
    “Would I have to be