Tag Archive for "Pinnacle Lust by Michelle Dim-St. Pierre"

Thanks to Della Bercovitch of Book Marketing Services, I am giving away five print copies of Pinnacle Lust by Michelle Dim-St. Pierre.

Description of Pinnacle Lust by Michelle Dim-St. Pierre

In a Tel-Aviv hospital during Operation Desert Storm, Sharon Lapidot, a beautiful young nurse, is having an affair with a married doctor.

Sharon’s colorful and exciting life is ultimately destroyed by powerful and eroding mistakes. But her courage and wisdom lead her to an unregretful commitment.

Vividly told, this compelling journey of love and lust, honor and betrayal, loss and redemption, will move you — and perhaps even change you.

Excerpt of Pinnacle Lust by Michelle Dim-St. Pierre

I looked up and saw Dr. Sloan. He was leaning on the counter at the nurses’ station. There was less than two feet of laminated wood between us. His eyes locked on mine. We were so close I could see my reflection in his green-brown eyes. And beyond that I saw and sensed only temptation. I pulled my gaze away and placed the receiver back in its place. It took me a moment to remember that he’d asked me a question.
“That’s what some people say.” I didn’t want to lie, but couldn’t unveil the whole truth either. Let him think what he wished.
I collected my paperwork and was ready to continue my work, leaving the other nurses there to circle like sharks—they wouldn’t let it go.
“Are you kidding?” one of the nurses said.
“Being in her shoes—it’s impossible not to be in love,” a different nurse said in a malicious voice.
“If you only knew who she’s dating, you would understand,” added another nurse, while passing Dr. Sloan.
I wanted to tell them a little bit about Joel, their hero—to share with them that he was basically good for nothing, that we’d yet to have sex. But how could I—and why should I? Instead, I made eye contact with Dr. Sloan and looked deep into his eyes—I could see the smile hidden there. Does he sense mine? I wondered.
That herd of horny women amused me. They really didn’t care about me, or my love life—they were busy fighting for their own recognition, trying to seize Dr. Sloan’s attention. I felt their jealousy. Their voices had a poisoned pitch. I was amazed at how important I was in their minds, at how much power they gave me, and the endless wasted energy they spent on me.
I focused on Sloan, debating how much attention, if any, he would offer them. But he didn’t, he just asked who was available to assist him with stitching an episiotomy on a post partum woman. They all volunteered except one—“Why don’t you ask the in-house supervisor,” she suggested.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he said with a smirk and turned to me. “Will you?”
My physical imbalance was no longer a brief crisis—I was attracted to him. “I guess I can,” I said with a winning smile, as I stood and clipped the pager to my pocket. Sloan guided me to the delivery suite and kept his lips sealed.
As I stepped into the room, I saw an exhausted young woman in a gynecological position. Her lower extremities were stretched into cold stirrups—one to the right and one to the left. Her thighs shivered as her muscles grew weak. A green, sterile towel lay over her pubic area down to her perineum, like someone had made an effort to cover her privacy. It was hard to tell if the one who covered her intended to protect the patient from infection or embarrassment. My blood pressure went through the roof.
I was offended by the way the patient had been left. I felt humiliated for her. I assumed that Dr. Sloan was ultimately responsible for that crime and for that I was willing to strangle him. In exchange, I was willing to place him nude in the same position and let him live to tell the tale.
I looked at Dr. Sloan for a split second and started gathering the supplies he needed for the stitching. By the time I passed by him I managed to work up enough anger to almost forget how gorgeous he was. Still, I had to avoid inhaling deeply so that I would not get dizzy from his inviting scent.
“How would you feel to be in her shoes?” I whispered loud enough so he could recognize the mean tone in my voice. I did not pause nor did I wait on his response. I didn’t look at him again until I passed him the second time. “It’s no wonder men cannot understand women and their feelings.” And while passing him for the third time, I did my job and counseled him. “Next time, you should reposition the patient, not leave them in stirrups. I’m sure you know better.”
He walked to the mayo stand, gowned and gloved himself. I tied his gown at the back and then carefully pulled the edge of the sterile cardboard that was attached to the waistline sterile string. While I was holding the cardboard, he circled around, letting the string wrap around his waist. He reached to the far end of the sterile string and pulled it back toward him, leaving me with the cardboard. He was well trained and in seconds tied himself without compromising the sterile field.
He stepped toward the patient and stopped in front of her pelvic area, waiting on me to bring the stool and immobilize it with my foot so that he wouldn’t fall. It was not a gesture—it was part of my job. Finally, he sat, looking like a reprimanded child and didn’t say a word—not to me nor to the patient. He had good skills and completed the stitching quickly. I couldn’t fault him for that part.
After the last stitch, he stood up, stripped his gown and gloves, thanked me, and was ready to leave the room. I looked between him and the patient, hoping he would get the hint. When he didn’t I asked, “Are you deaf or blind?”
He stepped back toward the bed and helped me remove the patient’s legs from the stirrups and extended the bed, allowing her to rest her legs. Then he looked at the patient, reassured her with a smile, and left the room.
“Here is the call button,” I said to the patient. “If you need anything, push it.” I tied the cord to the bedside rail. “Try to get some rest.”
I finished up my work, dimmed the lights, and exited the room.
Dr. Sloan was at the nurses’ station, chatting with some of the nurses. My feet directed me to the lounge, but my ears were listening to their conversation. Clearly he had shared our incident with the nurses.
“She is tough,” one of them said.
“But she’s good,” another nurse interrupted.
“And fair,” someone chimed in.
Dr. Sloan did not argue. He didn’t say much, though his eyes followed my steps. Disappointment fought relief. Obviously I wouldn’t become one of his favorites. And maybe that was for the best.

About Michelle Dim-St. Pierre

Michelle Dim-St. Pierre was born in Tel-Aviv, Israel, where she spent more than half of her life before relocating to the United States.

She lived through four wars and served in the Israel Defense Forces for two years. Unlike her first year of service in an armored division in the Golan Heights, she spent her second year serving in the medical corps where she interacted directly with the injured soldiers of the Peace of Galilee war and their families. This interaction, along with the exposure to the hospital atmosphere, fascinated Michelle and further touched her heart.

After graduating from nursing school with a BS in Nursing in Tel-Aviv, she practiced internationally for 32 years in various positions in the surgical field and quickly advanced into health care administration. During her career she worked in the Operating Room, Recovery Room, and CCU – along with many other duties.

Writing was Michelle’s outlet at first, but it soon became her passion. Recently she left nursing and became a full-time writer. Her international background, along with her military and nursing experience is always at the tip of her pen. Her first novel, Pinnacle Lust, starts the Pinnacle trilogy.

Michelle is a world traveler who enjoys cooking epicurean food and creating original recipes.

Webpage: http://www.michelledimstpierre.com/

Blog: http://www.michelledimstpierre.com/blog

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MichelleDimStPierre

Twitter: https://twitter.com/pinnaclelust