Doctor in the House

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Overview

Ivan Munro wanted to be feared, not loved... But Bailey DelMonico, his new intern, is determined to prove she isn't afraid of him...and more. In her own way, Bailey is as brilliant as Ivan--and people like her. Having realized she wanted to be a surgeon after several failed life experiences, she deftly absorbs a barrage of criticism from Munro without ever losing faith in her dreams. Or her conviction to show Ivan that no life is set in stone...

But the more Munro fights against...

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Overview

Ivan Munro wanted to be feared, not loved... But Bailey DelMonico, his new intern, is determined to prove she isn't afraid of him...and more. In her own way, Bailey is as brilliant as Ivan--and people like her. Having realized she wanted to be a surgeon after several failed life experiences, she deftly absorbs a barrage of criticism from Munro without ever losing faith in her dreams. Or her conviction to show Ivan that no life is set in stone...

But the more Munro fights against his intern's charm, the more cracks appear in his abrasive facade. Bailey soon sees that contrary to hospital gossip, Ivan has anything but a scalpel for a heart. Ever the optimist and always persistent, can Bailey now show Ivan that it's never too late to change...or fall in love?

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780373881413
  • Publisher: Harlequin
  • Publication date: 9/11/2007
  • Series: Harlequin Next Series
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 288
  • Product dimensions: 4.10 (w) x 6.50 (h) x 0.40 (d)

Meet the Author

Prolific romance author Marie Ferrarella swears she was born writing, "which must have made the delivery especially hard for my mother." Born in West Germany of Polish parents, she came to America when she was four years of age. For an entire year, Marie and her family explored the eastern half of the country before finally settling in New York. It was there that she was to meet the man she would marry, truly her first love. Marie was only 14 when she first laid eyes on her future husband, Charles Ferrarella. From an early age, Marie's parents would find her watching television or tucked away in some private place, writing at a furious pace. "Initially, I began writing myself into my favorite shows. I was a detective on 77 Sunset Strip, the missing Cartwright sibling they never talked about on Bonanza, and the Girl from U.N.C.L.E. before there was a Girl from U.N.C.L.E., not to mention an active participant in the serialized stories on The Mickey Mouse Club." Marie began to write her first romance novel when she was 11 years old, although she claims that, at the time, she didn't even realize it was a romance! She scribbled off and on, while dreaming of a career as an actress. During her days at Queens College, acting started to lose its glamour as Marie spent more and more time writing. After receiving her English degree, specializing in Shakespearean comedy, Marie and her family moved to Southern California, where she still resides today. After an interminable seven weeks apart, Charles decided he couldn't live without her and came out to California to marry his childhood sweetheart. Ever practical, Marie was married in a wash-and-wear wedding dress thatshesewed herself, appliques and all. "'Be prepared' has always been my motto," the author jokes. This motto has been stretched considerably by her two children, "but basically, it still applies," she says. Marie has one goal: to entertain, to make people laugh and feel good. "That's what makes me happy," she confesses. "That, and a really good romantic evening with my husband." She's keeping her fingers crossed that you enjoy reading her books as much as she's enjoyed writing them!

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Read an Excerpt

Dr. Ivan Munro liked saving lives, liked making a difference in those lives. It was people he didn't care for.
People with their endless complaining. People with endless details about their humdrum lives that he had absolutely no interest in. If he possessed so much as a thimbleful of mild curiosity regarding his patients, he would have gone into a medical discipline that required contact with those patients on a fairly regular basis.
But such contact would have necessitated feigning interest on his part and he had never been one to lie or even seen the need to lie. Ever. For any reason whatsoever. The truth, any truth, was what it was and needed to be faced. No sugarcoating, no beating around the proverbial bush. Just shooting straight from the hip.
He'd chosen neurosurgery as much as it had chosen him and he'd selected it for three reasons. The first was to heal, to pit himself against the power that delivered such a low blow to the individual on his operating table. The second was that it was the only way he could possibly make it up to Scott, even though Scott was no longer around to see the results.
The last reason was distance. Neurosurgery afforded him distance. Once he tackled a condition, he could distance himself from the recovering patient and thus move on, leaving the chore of hand-holding to the patient's friends, relatives and/or referring physician, all people who were far better suited to the tedious chore than he. They were the ones who either wanted or felt compelled to establish and maintain a rapport with the patient.
He'd been told, more than once, that he had the bedside manner of an anaconda. He took it as a compliment. Ivan could not,would not, allow emotions to get in the way of his making a judgment call.
Unfortunately, emotions or some sort of cursory display of them, was what most patients thought they both needed and were entitled to. His chief of staff, Harold Bennett, a man he grudgingly admired and respected, told him that was the way patients knew that they were in capable hands. They measured capability by the physician's capacity to act as if he or she cared.
Ivan cared, all right, cared that he successfully eliminated the tumor, or reconnected the nerve endings, cared that he did no harm and only accomplished what he'd set out to accomplish: to make the patient better than he or she had been when they'd first laid down on his operating table.
But as for verbally talking the patient through the steps of the surgery before it transpired to set to rest any fears that patient might have, well, that just was not why he got up each morning to come to Blair Memorial Hospital.
Being "patient with patients" wasn't something he was any good at and he saw no reason to pretend that he was. He wasn't in medicine to forge friendships, only to save lives.
"They call you Ivan the Terrible, you know," Harold told him over the lunch he'd insisted that his chief neurosurgeon share with him in his office.
There was an ulterior motive for the invitation. It was that most painful time of year again. January. Time for the annual review where budgets were wrestled with and unpleasant decisions had to be made. It was a time to lightly sprinkle praise and to make a sincere call for improvement. This meant even from a man who clearly did have the ability to walk on water, but did not, to any and all who took note, possess so much as a single drop of humility.
"I know," Ivan replied, his attention appearing to focus on his sandwich. "It's my name. Good sandwich," he commented in the next breath, infusing as much interest and feeling in the last sentence as he had in the first two he'd uttered.
After almost a dozen years, Harold was skilled at tiptoeing into conversations with his chief neurosurgeon. "Funny, I don't remember seeing 'the Terrible' on your application form."
"I didn't want to brag," Ivan replied in the semi-raspy voice that was his trademark. As far as anyone knew, it had been awarded him courtesy of a near-crushed larynx he's sustained from an incident in his late teens. An incident that he never talked about. Rumor had it he'd offended someone and they'd tried to hang him. The rumor tickled Ivan and he never bothered correcting it.
Harold tried again. "Ivan, I know that you're good at your job—"
Dark eyebrows rose on a relatively unlined forty-six-year-old forehead as Ivan looked up at the man across the desk. He stopped eating.
"'Good' is a very mediocre word, reserved for things like pudding or foodstuffs chosen for breakfast and touted in mindless television commercials. It also can be used to praise a child for mastering accomplishments society requires, like potty training. 'Good boy, good job," Ivan added for emphasis and as examples. "It also blandly shows up in greetings. 'Good morning. Good afternoon." Or in partings. Such as good night or goodbye. Equally as bland and in no way descriptive of what I do when someone comes to your illustrious hospital holding a severed hand and expecting to be reunited with it so that it's of some use to them."
The chief of staff closed his eyes for a moment, searching for strength. He and Ivan had known one another for twelve years now. He had been the one to hire him and he was as close to a friend as he imagined Ivan Munro had. But there were times when the man's personality was a little hard to take. Specifically the hours between dawn and midnight.
To get to his point, Harold acquiesced. "All right, you're magnificent at your job—"
"Better," Ivan allowed charitably, nodding his head and once again focusing on his pastrami on rye.
It was getting late. He had a meeting scheduled at one, Harold thought. At this rate, he was never going to get to his point. "Look, I didn't call you here to praise you—"
There was a hint of a smile as Ivan looked at him. "Good—see how I worked in your word?—because you're doing not that excellent a job of it."
Abandoning finesse, Harold blurted, "Ivan, you need to learn humility."
Ivan cocked his head, as if he were deliberating over the request. He obviously found it wanting. "Why, Harold? Will it make me a better neurosurgeon?"
Harold blew out a breath. "It'll make you easier to get along with."
Ivan laughed shortly. He paused to take a sip of the iced coffee—he required and consumed all forms of caffeine whenever possible—before commenting on what he felt was the absurdity of the last statement.
"I'm not here to get along with people, I'm here to put together people's pieces, remember? You want someone easy to get along with, hire some clown in big, floppy shoes and a red rubber nose. I don't do floppy shoes or red rubber noses, Harold."
Harold looked at him over the half glasses that were perched on the tip of his nose. He wasn't about to be dissuaded or diverted from the path he was determined to take. "We have classes now."
Wide, rangy shoulders that could have belonged to a onetime football guard rose and fell carelessly at Harold's words. "You've always had classes, Harold. This is a teaching hospital." Holding his sandwich with both hands now, the pastrami overflowing at the nether end, he fixed Harold with a penetrating look. "The question is, do you have hot mustard?"
Harold sighed. Reaching for a packet of the requested condiment that was on his side of the tray, he pushed it across the desk toward his irritating neurosurgeon. "Classes that teach interns bedside manner," he doggedly continued.
To his surprise, Ivan nodded his approval. "Excellent." Harold squelched the urge to pinch himself. His association with Ivan had taught him never to jump to an obvious conclusion even if it was shimmying before him. "You mean that?"
"Of course," Ivan attested with feeling. "The more of those little buggers who come out knowing how to coo and make it 'all better' for Sally or Bobby or whoever, the less likely we'll be having this annoying conversation again."
Harold sighed. "How is it your parents never drowned you?" "I was too fast for them," Ivan deadpanned, then nodded toward the chief of staff's plate. "You going to eat that pickle?"
"Why?" Harold asked. "You're not sour enough?"
"Touché." Not standing on ceremony and aware that the older man didn't really care for pickles, Ivan commandeered it and dropped it on his own paper plate. A tiny yellow-green pool of pickle juice formed. Ivan played along with the chief's quip.
"Let's just say I don't need any input in that category."
"No, by God, you don't." It was more of a lament than an evaluation. "All right, I can't force you to take that class."
"Glad you see that."
Harold wasn't finished. "But I can assign you a resident." Ivan's expression was deceptively bland, but his eyes locked on the other man. "Not if you know what's 'good' for you—see, there's that word again—or for the resident."
And then Harold said the unthinkable to him as he shook his head. "This is not negotiable, Ivan. You refuse and you're gone."
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 5 )
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Sort by: Showing 1 – 6 of 5 Customer Reviews
  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    a warm character driven tale

    Everyone who meets Dr. Ivan ¿the Terrible¿ Munro detests him although he is recognized as the best neurosurgeon at Blaire memorial Hospital. Ivan likes saving lives, but ironically loathes people. Those forced to work for him fear his wrath as he is sarcastic and condemning especially of residents, nurses, and other medical professionals.------------ Bailey Del Monico is the latest resident trained by Ivan. He is nasty as always with his acerbic barbs about her incompetence. Although his ugly commentary hurts, Bailey refuses to show he intimidates her. Having grown up as part of a missionary family in Africa, she has participated in much worse than a few caustic comments. However, she also sees the vulnerability Ivan hides from everyone with his acerbic armor so she reaches out to him risking his slicing her arm and her heart.----------------- Ivan actually makes this a delightful contemporary medical romance as his terrible bedside manner is somewhat abated with a sharp dry humor. He meets his match in the Pollyanna of residents as Bailey refuses to back down. Marie Ferrarella provides a warm character driven tale starring two doctors in the house.------------ Harriet Klausner

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 14, 2012

    Angela

    A lovely book. Well written with fully developed characters. I wish it had been longer just because I liked Ivan the terrible and Bailey so much.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 19, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

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    Posted June 27, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

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    Posted September 15, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted February 27, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

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