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Just What the Doctor Ordered
Caroline Anderson
FROM BROODING DOC—TO DADDY? Dr Cathy Harris, busy GP and single mum, wants to bring her little boy up in the country and the Cotswolds seems the ideal choice. Until she meets brooding but gorgeous Dr Max Armstrong. He’d rather be working in the city, and the last thing he needs is a time-constrained mum with an adorable child. But his attraction to Cathy is obvious, and however much he protests that he has no desire to marry he can’t help but get involved with Cathy and her boy. They certainly put a smile on this brooding doc’s face, and with a matchmaker in their midst too there’s more than a chance that they could give Max the one thing he’s never thought about—a loving family…
Just What the Doctor Ordered
Caroline Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u59a10d88-a065-5a16-bd02-43f4ba08bcf2)
Title Page (#uf45ef237-4708-51c8-83cf-b9dcf640a4ce)
Chapter One (#u19c6e745-9977-5511-872f-31212165a4a3)
Chapter Two (#uca9e1c46-ea42-5d7e-8646-c5589ce1bf6b)
Chapter Three (#u0318a159-890d-522f-b7de-065742f5084c)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_3480f7e5-701b-54bb-abb2-5ca604a1317d)
IT WAS a typical little Cotswold town, the broad main street lined with pretty little houses and shops of pale honey-coloured stone, liberally sprinkled with tearooms and antiques shops, with here and there a timber-framed Tudor house jutting out precariously over the pavement.
Following the directions in the letter, Cathy drove past the old stone market hall with its broad open arches and then turned right over the river.
There, just where she had expected to find it, was a sprawling stone-built house with a car park beside it, and a large sign that read, ‘Barton-Under-Edge Surgery’. As Cathy turned the car into the surgery car park and switched off the engine, she felt a sudden, unexpected rush of nerves.
Ridiculous! She chided herself. Either you get the job, or you don’t. It’s not as if you’re out of work! It really doesn’t matter at all…
But it did, because in driving through the little town she had fallen irrevocably in love, and her bruised and saddened heart had felt suddenly at home. And so it did matter, quite enormously, that she should succeed.
She swivelled the rear-view mirror round and peered at her reflection, checking that her wild tangle of red-gold hair was still confined in the rather severe bun at the nape of her neck, that the soft green shadow which so exactly matched her eyes hadn’t creased, that the heat of the day and the effect of her suddenly rebellious nerves hadn’t smudged her mascara or made her ridiculously tip-tilted nose shine, although nothing in the world could rid it of the hated freckles.
Her lips still bore the trace of the soft pink lipstick she had applied earlier, and she was torn between appearing over-casual or touching it up, risking giving the impression of being over-glamorous. She settled for a quick swipe and a dab with a tissue, then, wiping her suddenly damp palms on the tissue, she stepped out of the car and pulled on her lightweight jacket. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she made her way into the surgery.
The reception area was deserted except for a few escapee toys. She rang the bell, and, while she waited, she picked the toys up out of habit to return them to the box in the corner. As well as half an armful of bricks and blocks, there was a squeaky rabbit, grubby with much use, and a frayed old rag doll that must have been dearly loved in her past. Cathy smoothed back the tangled woollen hair with a wistful smile.
‘Can I help you?’
The deep voice, so unexpected in the silence, made her jump and she squashed the rabbit, making it squeak.
‘Sorry, you startled me!’ she said breathlessly, and turned, flustered, to find herself face to face with a tall, fair-haired man. His physique was impressive, his shoulders filling the doorway, but it was his eyes that drew her, eyes that seen against the golden bronze of his tan were the most astonishing blue she had ever seen.
‘I—I’m Dr Harris—I have an interview with Dr Glover at three o’clock.’
He held out his hand. ‘Max Armstrong—I’m his partner.’
She hesitated, juggled the toys into one arm and extended her own hand. His handshake was firm, brief and positively electric. Startled by the sudden warmth that flooded up her arm, Cathy loosened her grip on the bricks and they cascaded to the floor again.
‘If you’ve finished with the toys, perhaps we should put them back in the box and proceed with your interview?’ he said with a laughing smile, and the smile transformed him from plain old attractive into the most devastatingly good-looking man she had ever seen. Her heart kicked against her ribs, and she frantically put it down to interview nerves.
‘We’re on the run this afternoon, I’m afraid,’ he explained as he straightened, his hands full of blocks, and tossed them into the toy-box. ‘I’ve been on holiday and there’s a hell of a backlog as usual—here, let me help you.’
He scooped the remaining toys out of her arms, and she drew in her breath sharply as his hands brushed casually against the fullness of her breasts. Her heart jerked again, and as she looked up into those gorgeous blue eyes she could see a devil dancing in them.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured, but she had the distinct feeling he wasn’t. Swallowing her confusion, she stooped and picked up the last of the toys and returned them to the box hastily, then followed him through a doorway to the kitchen at the back.
Her heart was still in turmoil from the look in his eyes and the unexpected touch of his hands on a body long condemned to abstinence, and so she was relieved to see that the other man in the kitchen was much older, perhaps in his fifties, a gentle, kindly looking man with crinkles round his eyes, a slight paunch and a straightforward, no-nonsense handshake.
‘Dr Harris—welcome to Barton-Under-Edge. You’ve met Max, I take it? Sorry about the kitchen, but we’re on the drag and as we’ll probably be working till seven tonight we ought to grab a bite. Have you had lunch?’
‘I have, thank you. And please don’t apologise. I know all about eating on the run!’
‘I’m sure you do. Coffee, then?’
He poured her a cup from a jug on the machine, and she sipped it gratefully while they unwrapped some pre-packed sandwiches. Her application was lying on the table, a coffee-coloured ring on it, and Dr Glover flipped it across the table to his colleague.
‘Here, perhaps you could skim your eyes over that while we get to know each other.’ He smiled at Cathy. ‘So, Dr Harris, tell us about yourself.’
‘Of course.’ Lord, she hated those sorts of questions! She cleared her throat and sat up straighter. ‘Well, until recently I’ve been working part-time in an inner-city practice, but the practice has expanded due to redevelopment, and they want a full-time partner so I’ve been filling in, but I didn’t think I wanted to work there full-time permanently, so I thought I’d have a look and see if there was anything more suitable.’
Oh, lord, I’m gabbling, she thought, and paused for breath. Dr Armstrong looked up from her application, those blue eyes sweeping her with blatant curiosity. ‘You’re thirty-five? You don’t look it.’
She gave him a sugary smile. ‘I dye the grey.’
‘Amazing, it looks so—natural …’ He seemed to inspect her hair for a second, and then glanced back, his eyes sharp behind the friendly twinkle. ‘And yet, despite your—’ one eyebrow arched provocatively ‘—advanced years, you’ve only been working part-time?’
‘Until recently, yes,’ she confirmed.
‘You do know this is a full-time post?’
‘Yes, I do. I want full-time now.’
‘So why not stay on where you are? Personality problems?’
Not until I met you, she wanted to say, but bit her tongue. ‘I don’t want to work in an inner-city practice.’
‘Too much for you?’ he asked, and she sensed rather than saw the sudden shift in his attitude. Gone was the friendly smile, the mild flirting, and she felt oddly threatened.
‘I thought the country air and the simpler lifestyle would benefit my son. He’s just started school, and frankly I’m not happy about it. I thought a country school would suit him better.’
The atmosphere chilled even further. ‘Son?’
‘Dr Harris has a son of five,’ Dr Glover put in. ‘Stephen, isn’t it?’ His smile was encouraging.
‘That’s right.’
‘Just the one?’ Dr Armstrong asked, and she nodded.
‘Why on earth do you want to work full-time?’ he asked, his voice deceptively lazy. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be at home tweaking the curtains and patting the cushions?’
Cathy controlled her temper with difficulty. ‘As a matter of fact I wouldn’t, but even if I would I don’t have the choice. If I want any kind of a lifestyle, I have to earn it.’
‘Ambitious, eh?’
‘No more than any other caring parent,’ she said quietly.
He eyed her dispassionately. ‘I would have thought you’d be more than happy to allow your husband to make all the pushy career moves. How does he feel about a move to the country—or do you support him, too?’
A long-ago sadness touched her gently. She was dimly aware of Dr Glover’s sharply indrawn breath, but she ignored it. ‘Not any more—Michael died three years ago. He had multiple sclerosis.’
She looked down at her hands, but not before she saw the swift shock on Dr Armstong’s face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, and his rich, deep voice was tinged with remorse. ‘I had no idea. I haven’t really had time to study the applications.’
She lifted her eyes to his, unwilling to use her late husband as a defence against Dr Armstrong’s blistering interview technique. ‘Please—forget it. It really doesn’t matter.’
‘But it does—in many ways, in fact, I think it’s even worse than if you were married,’ he argued, and she could see now there was no light-hearted twinkle or mocking humour. He was deadly serious. ‘You’ll have no back up, no emotional support—it’s a hard life, demanding, the hours are long and antisocial, they don’t coincide with school holidays—there are endless insurmountable problems.’
‘Not entirely insurmountable,’ she corrected quietly, ‘and believe me, I am aware of the problems.’
‘What about night duty? What about the times you’ll be on duty at Christmas? What will happen to your son then?’
‘Max, I’m sure Dr Harris has considered all these points before making her application. She is, after all, facing all those very problems at the moment and apparently successfully.’ Dr Glover leant back in his chair, peering at his colleague over the rim of his specs. ‘Her references are excellent, her current practice will be extremely sorry to lose her, and I think you’re being rather harshly judgemental. She has, after all, been working in the field for some time and has a great deal to offer.’
‘She’s only been working part-time.’
‘For six years,’ Cathy replied tightly, ‘and the last six months have been full-time.’
‘Why didn’t you just buy some nice little house somewhere with the insurance money and settle down to raising your son properly?’ he asked curiously.
Cathy’s temper frayed a little further. ‘What insurance money?’ she snapped. ‘You don’t expect a young, fit man of thirty to become terminally ill! We were going to take out life policies when we bought a house—we were looking for one when he was diagnosed. One of the drawbacks of knowing you’re going to die is that you can’t very easily get life insurance!’ she finished sarcastically, and then let out her breath with a harsh sigh. It wouldn’t do to lose her temper with him, however infuriating he might be.
She tried again. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, but I can’t help feeling this has no bearing whatsoever on my application. I have domestic arrangements which take into account my hours, and my reasons for needing or wanting to work are entirely my own, beyond satsifying you that I am dedicated to my profession. Perhaps some questions along the lines of vocational training and current techniques might be more relevant, particularly where your patients are concerned!’
Dr Armstrong’s firm, full mouth clamped shut as if he was controlling himself with difficulty. Dr Glover, glancing between them, steepled his fingers and regarded her thoughtfully over the top.
Oh, lord, she thought, I’ve blown it now. He’s going to tell me I’m not suitable, and that will be it, and we’ll have to stay in Bristol and Stephen will have to go to that awful school and——
‘What do you know about gambling?’ he asked her.
‘Gambling?’ The question was so unexpected that she faltered for a second, but then she recovered her poise and drew a calming breath. ‘It can become an addiction, like alcoholism or drug-taking. The gambler finds it impossible to stop, even when losing, and the lies and secrecy and the resultant financial consequences can cause havoc in the family. Why?’
He smiled his encouragement. ‘We have a gambler on our books—I just wondered how you would deal with him.’
‘I’d read his notes before I did anything,’ she said, shooting a sharp glance at Dr Armstrong. ‘I don’t believe in making snap judgements; they are often unreliable.’
‘So you wouldn’t say you’re intuitive?’ Dr Armstrong asked, and she had the crazy feeling it was a trick question.
‘Not when there are other, more reliable methods of divining information—like reading the notes,’ she retorted, with a speaking glance at her application. He had the grace to flush slightly, and his lips curved in a parody of a smile.
‘Touché,’ he said softly.
‘So, having read the notes and established that the condition is pathological in nature and causing havoc in the family, as you so accurately put it, what would you suggest then?’ Dr Glover asked.
They discussed the psychiatric aspects of the illness and the pros and cons of various approaches for a while, then moved on to talk about the clinics run in the surgery, health-care screening and preventative medicine.
Then, while Dr Armstrong went out on a call, Dr Glover showed her round the practice premises briefly before showing her to the door.
‘We’ll be in touch, my dear,’ he said with a reassuring smile. ‘And may I apologise for my colleague? He’s inclined to be a little blunt. He also finds it rather difficult to come to terms with the idea that some women have to work for a living.’
He patted her hand, and her mouth curved automatically at the avuncular twinkle in his eye.
‘Please don’t worry,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’
Summoning a confident smile, she turned towards her car, just as a young lad came running up the path clutching a blood-soaked rag round his hand.
‘Martin—what’s the problem?’ Dr Glover asked.
‘Bloody band-saw—my hand slipped. It’s gone up between my fingers …’
He swayed, and Cathy grabbed him, propping him against her and wrapping her arm firmly round his waist. ‘In you come—don’t worry, we’ll soon have you sorted out,’ she reassured automatically.
She supported him into the treatment-room off the hallway, and while Dr Glover scrubbed his hands she took away the rag and replaced it with a sterile pad. ‘It’s still welling slightly, but it seems to be slowing,’ she told the other doctor.
He lifted off the pad, turned the hand this way and that and then smiled at the patient.
‘Just a few stitches and a week or so off work, and you’ll be right as rain. You were lucky, Martin.’
He swallowed. ‘Doesn’t feel all that lucky,’ he said with a weak attempt at a laugh.
