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‘Yes, I must. I’ll see you later, Clare. Thanks for the ward-round and the coffee.’
And he was gone, leaving her feeling fraught with conflicting emotions. What a way for their professional relationship to get off the ground! Dear God, perhaps she had over-reacted, but there was no mistaking his interest. At twenty-five, Clare was something of an expert at interpreting masculine appraisal, and she was seldom mistaken.
And that man was interested.
Well, he’d soon discover that she wasn’t that sort of girl, and, with his looks, if all he wanted was a little recreation he would soon be overrun with offers.
Sighing a little and not understanding quite why, Clare left the office and went about her duties.
Her peace was short-lived. He was back at one with Mr Mayhew, the orthopaedic consultant, and David Blake, the junior registrar, and he looked even better than her fevered mind had remembered.
Sister O’Brien fell instantly under his spell, the motherly woman welcoming him to the ward like the prodigal son, and Clare watched in helpless fascination as he examined the two patients whose hip replacements he had performed that morning.
‘Good. That looks fine,’ he said with a smile, covering up the second patient, and turning to Clare to hand her the notes. ‘Thank you, Staff,’ he said, then, lowering his voice, he added, ‘What are you doing after you wash your hair?’
Ripping it out in handfuls, she thought, and choked down the laugh. ‘Nothing,’ she admitted quietly.
Then come with me. Just a simple meal—nothing elaborate. Take pity on a stranger, Clare. I don’t know a soul—doesn’t it worry you that I’ll be going home to a strange house all alone tonight, and every night? No one to talk to, to share anything with, except my cat, and his conversational skills are strictly limited. Please?’
‘All right,’ she relented with a laugh. ‘When and where?’
‘Do you live in the hospital?’
She nodded.
‘Main entrance, seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up.’
‘OK. What shall I wear?’
‘Anything—jeans? They do good food in the village pub, and we can sit in the garden. Must go. I’ll see you at seven.’
As he turned, she was conscious of Sister O’Brien’s interested scrutiny. They walked back to her office in silence, and for a moment Clare thought she’d got away with it. She was wrong.
‘Nice young man. You seemed to hit it off very well with him, Clare.’
‘He asked me to spare him some time this evening to tell him about the hospital—routine, things he ought to know, et cetera—you know how it is when you start somewhere new,’ she said, modifying the truth for the sake of convention. Not for the world would she reveal how her heart had soared and spun out of control as he had handed back the notes and his hand had deliberately brushed against hers.
Sister O’Brien smiled to herself. About time, she thought. ‘You’ll enjoy it, dear—do you good to get out. Now, about Pete Sawyer—I believe Mr Mayhew wants Mr Barrington to have a go at refixing that wrist—I think they’re going to try a bone graft now his pelvis is nearly healed and they can take bone from the ilium. Perhaps that’ll do the trick.’
Just so long as he doesn’t amputate for the hell of it, she thought to herself as she recalled their earlier conversation.
The day dragged. Not even to herself would Clare admit the reason, but as she went off-duty and found herself rummaging through her wardrobe for an appropriate alternative to jeans for a pub snack, she was brought up sharply against the realisation that her tingling sense of anticipation had only one cause—and that cause was Michael Barrington.
‘Damn!’ she muttered to herself, and all through her shower and preparation for the evening, she worried about her reaction to him. Because he was quite evidently a womaniser, and she had no intention of surrendering her hard-fought scruples to some trifling playboy just because he made her senses reel!
Her preparations complete, she stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and studied her reflection. Her blonde hair, released form the starched white cap and freshly washed, tumbled in casual layers to brush her collar lightly at the back. Her make-up, slightly heavier than usual, was still restricted to a smudge of soft grey-green shadow over her wide almond-shaped eyes, a touch of soft pink lipstick and the lightest feathering of mascara to tint the pale tips of her lashes. Casual, he had said, so she was wearing a soft cotton sweater the same grey-green as her eyes, and a pair of culottes in a rust and green print. Her legs were bare, her feet comfortably shod in soft cotton canvas slip-ons. She wondered if the whole effect was too casual, but it was too late to worry.
At five to seven, her heart pounding, she let herself out of her flat and made her way down to the main entrance of the hospital.
As she emerged on to the steps she saw Michael in the staff car park, deep in conversation with two of the consultants. She hung back, not quite ready yet to have her name publicly connected to his, but he had seen her and, making his excuses, he strode quickly towards her, a smile on his lips.
‘Clare—you’re on time!’
‘What did you expect?’
He laughed. ‘I expected you to be like most girls—late!’
‘I’m not most girls,’ she said repressively, and he laughed again.
‘So I’m beginning to realise. Come on, I’m starving.’ He took her arm and led her towards the car park. ‘Oh, I have a confession—I rang the pub, and they don’t do food on a Monday night, so before I spring it on you I wondered if you would consider allowing me to cook for you.’
Her heart sank. Here we go, she thought, and she slowed to a halt.
‘In your house?’
‘My cottage. You needn’t worry, I’m a good cook, but apart from the local pub I haven’t found anywhere else yet in the few days since I moved—by all means suggest something else if you’d rather, but I can promise you I have no intention of jumping your bones, my love.’
She gave a surprised little laugh, and glanced up at him. ‘Am I so transparent?’
He grinned. ‘You were as jumpy as a cat this morning, so it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. I promise to keep my hands to myself if you do.’
‘If I do? What do you mean?’ she squeaked.
He gave a wry little laugh. ‘You think you’re the only one who gets treated like a sex object? Believe me, it makes a refreshing change to meet someone who isn’t all over me like a rash after fifteen seconds!’
Well, and who could blame them? Clare thought to herself, recognising the slight bitterness behind the apparently arrogant remark. If she wasn’t so busy saying no all the time she might well be tempted herself! She smiled at him. ‘You’ve got a deal. You cook, I’ll talk, and we can both clear up afterwards. How’s that?’
‘Great. Here we are. Hop in.’
He opened the door of a sleek red beastie, and she was instantly glad she hadn’t worn a mini-skirt.
‘Wow!’
He grinned self-consciously as he settled himself beside her behind the wheel. ‘It’s my brother’s. I have a battered old Volvo estate for dragging all the boat stuff around, but he’s in Germany for four months on business and suggested I borrow it to bolster the image!’
She laughed. ‘It works! What is it?’
‘A Porsche. Do you want the hood down?’
‘Why not? It won’t do my image any harm either!’
They laughed together, and with the touch of a button the hood folded down behind them and the June evening flooded in.
‘Let’s go, then!’
With a subtle roar, the engine leapt into life and they coasted smoothly out of the car park. Clare settled back into the soft leather seat and sighed contentedly.
When they were on the open road he unleashed the power a little and soon the wind was whipping her hair round her face and bringing the colour to her cheeks. She laughed in delight. ‘Michael, this is fabulous!’
‘Good, isn’t it? Lucky devil. I wonder if he’ll sell it to me?’
He threw her a cheeky grin, and then turned his attention back to the road. After a little while they turned off the main road and headed along a winding lane, leading eventually to another lane and thence a rutted track.
‘Where are we going?’ Clare asked, suddenly conscious of their isolation.
He pointed. ‘Over there—that little pink cottage.’
‘Goodness, it is in the wilds of nowhere!’ Clare said as they pulled up outside the cottage. It was tiny, the thatch low down on the walls arching like eyebrows over the little upstairs windows. The warm pink of the faded terracotta walls blended with the soft apricot of a climbing rose that tumbled in profusion over the front door, and more roses clustered under the little latticed windows.
‘Don’t tell me—it’s called Rose Cottage!’
He chuckled. ‘How did you guess? Come on in. Welcome to my humble abode.’
He doffed an imaginary cap and flung open the door with a flourish.
Inside it was just as charming, heavily beamed as she might have expected from a Suffolk cottage, with fascinating little nooks and crannies, and the furniture was mostly old pine. There was a Suffolk brick floor in the kitchen, and the steep staircase was tucked in under the eaves.
‘Oh, Michael, it’s lovely!’
He grinned. Thank you. You’re my first visitor—let me show you round.’
She followed him, enchanted, as he climbed the steep stairs.
‘Mind your head,’ he said as he led her on to the little landing. ‘It wasn’t built for people as tall as us, I don’t think.’ He waved his arm. ‘Bathroom here, and a bedroom at each end—neither of them exactly furnished to excess at the moment, but I’ll get there. I only took possession of it last Thursday—I should have had it early in the week but I got caught in a storm off the Scillies.’
‘The Scillies? The islands, you mean?’
He nodded. ‘Yes—I took Henrietta out there for a few days’ R and R, and it backfired on me a bit.’
Heavens, she thought, here we are, standing in the middle of his bedroom and he’s telling me all about his problems with Henrietta, whoever she is!
‘I’ll take you to see her some time—she’s very pretty, and I can handle her on my own easily unless the wind’s very fierce. She’s a bit of a handful then. You’ll like her—do you get seasick?’
It dawned on Clare that Henrietta must be his boat, and she almost laughed out loud—till she realised that the feeling she had experienced had probably been jealousy. She wasn’t sure, she’d never felt it before, and couldn’t imagine for the life of her why she was feeling it now, but life was full of little surprises …
‘No, I don’t get seasick—or I didn’t. I haven’t sailed since I was about thirteen, but I used to go out a lot with my brother before that.’
‘Snap! We had a Mirror, then a Fireball. Henrietta was my grandfather’s boat—I spent a lot of time on her with him when I were a lad, as they say.’
Their laughing eyes met, and Clare was suddenly terribly conscious of the high iron and brass bedstead behind them.
‘Why don’t you go on down and find yourself a drink? There’s white wine in the fridge, or red if you prefer, open on the side, and all sorts of soft drinks—I just want to get out of this suit and relax a bit.’
‘Fine,’ she said, a trifle breathlessly, and turned for the stairs as he stripped off his tie and kicked off his shoes. She heard them land with a thud as she ran down the stairs, and then he was humming, and she could hear drawers opening and shutting above her head as she rummaged in the kitchen for the fridge. She was still looking for it when he ran lightly down the stairs in his bare feet, clad only in a pair of old jeans that clung lovingly to every contour of his body. He was tugging on a T-shirt over his head, and his chest gleamed golden brown under the soft scatter of blond curls.
Her fingers itched to touch him, and she rammed her hands into her pockets to control them.
‘Where’s the fridge?’ she asked, her voice sounding strained to her ears.
‘Here—sorry!’ He opened a cupboard like all the others, hand-built in dark oak to match the beams, and she saw a built-in fridge tucked in behind the door.
‘How clever!’
‘It’s been well done—it belonged to an interior designer who’s gone to Scotland to escape the rat race.’
‘Rat race—here?’
He laughed. ‘Over-populated, she said. I gather their nearest neighbour up there is ten miles away. Red, white or something soft?’
‘White with something in it?’
‘Good idea.’ He took a bottle of hock from the fridge, pulled the cork deftly and splashed it into two tall glasses, adding soda water and ice.
‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers! Welcome to the Audley.’
He smiled. ‘Thank you, Clare. Right, sit down over there and tell me all the pitfalls—who’s fallen out with who, who I mustn’t speak to, who does the crossword in the staff lounge, all that sort of thing.’
It was her turn to laugh. ‘Nothing like that. The Audley’s a very happy hospital, and there’s practically no hierarchy. We’re all in the same business, after all.’
‘Well, thank God for that! My last hospital was the giddy limit—I was forever treading on someone’s toes.’ He put the washed lettuce in the salad spinner, and placed it on the table in front of her. ‘Now, what do you fancy? I’ve got a fresh sea-bass, or we could have steak if you’d prefer.’
‘Did you catch the bass?’
He laughed. ‘Afraid not, not this time. I bought it from the guy on the next boat. He caught it last night.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’
While she spun the lettuce and made the salad, he washed the fish, stuffed it with butter and a handful of fresh fennel from the garden, and pinned it together with cocktail sticks.
‘Thirty minutes in the oven,’ he said with a grin. ‘Time for a walk round the garden.’
It was lovely, heavy with scent and ripe with colour, and in the last rays of the June sunshine it was quite intoxicating.
Michael’s enthusiasm was infectious, as he discovered things in the garden and pointed out others to her that he had noticed before. Under a tree at the end was a swing, old and creaky, but he tested it and then offered her a ride.
She shook her head. ‘I never could make them go high enough.’
The next second his arm had snagged her waist and she was on his lap, swinging high in the air and laughing with delight as the wind tugged at her hair and the ground rushed up to meet them.
Finally he slowed it, and as they drifted gently back and forth, his lips touched warmly against hers before his arm released her.
She stood up, her legs shaking, but whether from the dizzying ride or the effects of the kiss she wasn’t sure. After all, it had only been a very tiny kiss, not at all the sort of thing that smouldering passion was made of, but it had affected her more deeply than she dared admit, even to herself. She could still feel the hard imprint of his thighs against her legs, and the warmth of his chest against her side.
‘The fish,’ he said abruptly, and she followed him back to the kitchen, her emotions in turmoil. As he unwrapped the bass and lifted it carefully on to the plate, she forced herself to behave calmly.
‘Do you have any salad dressing?’
