Chapter 2

Natasha Bridgeport, neé Sorenson, was the only offspring of a couple formed by third generation Norwegian immigrants in the mountain ranges of Idaho, near Montana. In fact the nearest town to their family ranch is Clark Fork over interstate 95. Despite her parents being strict Presbyterians, she was a loved and pampered girl, not strange to the works of the ranch as any hand would, who went from a long legged and adorable teenager to a beautiful young woman. She had inherited the genes of her norwegian ancestors; good and long bones, which sustained the frame of a spectacular slim and trim body of 5 foot nine, 125 pounds with coltish long muscular legs, which ended in supple hips with an intriguing view of that magical area where a woman's legs transform into a round and perk derriere, she had a tiny waist with hourglass shape and an incredible pair of 36 inches breasts roughly the size of medium-sized oranges, they were up thrust and proud; her nipples were pale pink and somewhat thicker and longer than the average pencil eraser. The areoles that surrounded them were quarter-sized and similarly pale pink and quite smooth.

The vision of this goddess was completed with her hair long and fair, blonde almost white, that she used in a pony–tail that went almost to her waist and framed an unforgettable face of large jade or emerald green eyes, natural full rose colored lips that were maybe just a touch wide; she has a small and straight nose, with toned and tanned skin, firm and supple, with only a few laugh and sun lines around her eyes. Her cheekbones were high and well-defined. The small vee of hair that covered her pubic mound was thin and light honey coloured, and she kept it neatly landscaped. This gorgeous person, this goddess, was eighteen years old when she left her parents ranch to go east, to Boston Medical College to learn how to become a registered nurse and a lady world wise, she got her second wish, and instead of the first (becoming a registered nurse) she met her destiny.

Dale Bridgeport was an eminent neurosurgeon and twenty four years Natasha's senior.

Now in his early forties, Dr Bridgeport still rated second glances from women. He had retained the build which had made him an outstanding quarterback in his college years —a tall erect figure with big, broad shoulders and muscular arms. Even nowadays he has a trick of squaring his shoulders when ready to do something difficult or make a decision—as if readying instinctively the charge of a red-dogging tackle. Yet despite his bulk, mostly bone and muscle with less than a pound of overweight, he still moves lightly, like a dancer.

He had never been handsome in the Adonis sense, but he had a rugged, creased irregularity of face, his nose still carried the scar of an old football injury, which women so often, and perversely, find attractive in men. Only his hair showed traces of the pass of time; his not so long ago jet black hair, now it was graying swiftly as if the color of pigments had suddenly surrendered and were marching out.

When Natasha first arrived at campus in Boston form rural Idaho the change was like an earthquake in her life, she was dazzled, and amazed by everything she saw. It was a new world. In the first weeks she went from surprise to surprise, everything was new and different and exciting, her classmates, hospital technology, every think was amazing, but soon her curriculum demands, the work routine of the nurse block, and having to do, as a rookie, the heavier and boring tasks, made what had been a wonderful impression in the first moments, loose its luster in the light of reality; in the opacity of a job that was dramatically exciting and glamorous on TV series only. However, her life would change dramatically in a few months. She was going to meet her future.

From the corridor outside there was the sound of feet. Then the autopsy-room door opened, and a nurse, whom Natasha recognized as a member of the nursing school's teaching staff, looked in. She said,

"Good morning Dr Bridgeport" behind her was a group of young student nurses.

"Good morning" answered the neuro surgeon. "You can all come in"

The students filed through the doorway. There were six, and as they entered all glanced nervously at the body on the table. Dr Bridgeport grinned.

"Hurry up girls. You want the best seats; we have them".

Dale Bridgeport ran his eyes appraisingly over the group. There were a couple of new ones here he had not seen previously, including the young blonde girl. He took a second look. Yes indeed; even camouflaged by the Spartan student' uniform, it was evident here was something very special. With apparent casualness he crossed the autopsy room, then, returning, managed to position himself between the girl he had noticed and the rest of the group. He gave her a broad smile and said quietly,

"I don't remember seeing you before"

"I've been around as long as the other girls" She looked at him with a mixture of frankness and curiosity, then added mockingly,

"Besides, I've been told that doctors never notice first-year nursing students anyway"

He appeared to consider, "Well, it's a general rule. But sometimes we make exceptions—depending on the student, of course"

His eyes candidly admiring, he added, "By the way I'm Dale Bridgeport"

He didn't say, "I'm Dr Dale Bridgeport"; No, just his name, that was class.

She answered, "I'm Natasha Sorensen" and laughed, them catching a disapproving eye from her class instructor, she stopped abruptly.

Natasha had liked the looks of this dark haired and mature professor, but it did seem wrong to be talking and joking in here. After all, the man on the table was dead. He had just died, she had been told upstairs; that was the reason she and the other student nurses had been taken from their work to watch an autopsy. A brain's autopsy. The eminent neuro-surgeon Dr Bridgeport, performing.

To say Dale Bridgeport had been struck by Natasha's youth and beauty is a no-brainer. She was different from the students to which he was used, she had not the sophisticated or sometimes predator style of the girls in the big city. Her attitude had an unusual freshness in the environment in which he moved, he was sure that those features would not last long, and he proposed to himself to seize them and make her his, It didn't matter how, even if he had to abandon his desirable bachelorhood and marry her. He had fallen in love with a young woman who was old enough to be his daughter. But she was not.