But then, he excused himself, there was a strong element of macho reserve in all cardiac surgeons. So many operations meant life or death for the patients, and success was measured, quite literally, in the whisper of a heartbeat. He gazed without pity at the fat, florid little woman who was crying. She dug pink fingers and manicured nails into her bedcovers. Her face was screwed into a childlike visage of misery. “I’m going to die,” she wailed. “I just know I’m not going to survive my bypass operation.” Sebastien clasped his hands behind his back. Standing beside her bed, he trained his gaze on a mauve flower appliquéd on her robe. “There is that risk in any kind of surgery. I can quote success statistics, but I can’t give you guarantees.” From the corner of his eye he noticed the cardiac counseling nurse glaring at him. She grasped the patient’s hands. “Mrs. Spencer, your prognosis is excellent. You really shouldn’t worry.” “B-but Dr. de Savin said—” “Your chances of having a successful operation are very high,”
