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Once More, With Feeling
Caroline Anderson
SECOND CHANCE AT LOVE? Dr Emily Thompson’s looking for happiness—and moving to Devon with her stepson Jamie seems like the perfect place to start! But she hasn’t counted on her still-just-as-gorgeous ex-husband Dr David Trevellyan working at the same practice! Emily might have accepted the job, but she certainly isn’t ready to accept the resurfacing of her old feelingsfor her first husband—Jamie is her focus now. Yet one scorching, unforgettable night leads to unexpected consequences…Emily is pregnant! Can David and Emily put the past behind them and give their love one more chance?
Once More, With Feeling
Caroline Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u91db37bb-4917-59eb-b5be-321ae75f2f1a)
Title Page (#u068ee9e8-8828-5f51-b277-1e02113ab5c4)
Chapter One (#u047a8b79-0889-543b-b02b-fc494584dbcf)
Chapter Two (#ud8477adb-1677-509b-93bf-41c84e5e0ebb)
Chapter Three (#u563e832d-6b76-5613-a253-d41b7362e775)
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)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_ac79e83e-c2bb-55a2-a9b3-cf7df8db7ef9)
‘AT LAST!’
Emily turned into the health centre car park and killed the engine, glancing at her watch with a sigh of relief. She still had three minutes to spare, but only by the grace of God.
With a wry grin she recalled the advert for the job.
‘Four-partner practice in rural North Devon urgently needs full-time replacement partner because of unforeseen retirement due to ill health. Must be on obstetric list and do minor surgery, CHS and IUCD. Most important qualification an ability to map-read …’
They weren’t kidding! She had meandered back and forth across Exmoor, which would have been lovely if she’d had time to appreciate the scenery, but she was determined not to be late.
The trouble was, the roads were all so tiny it was hard to tell which were major and which were minor. Assumptions, she had fast discovered, were a foolish luxury. Still, she was wise to their tricks now and read every single sign—hence her arrival with three—no, two now—minutes to go before her interview.
She had spoken on the phone to the senior partner, Dr Allen, who had sounded very welcoming and encouraging—or was that just wishful thinking on Emily’s part? Whatever, she would still have to run the gauntlet of the other two partners.
And she wouldn’t do it sitting in the car.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, dragging a comb through her thick dark hair. It swung neatly back into the bob, the ends curling obediently under, just grazing her shoulders. Her smoky green eyes, wide and incapable of deceit, stared unblinking back at her.
Just for courage, she winked at herself and her reflection winked cheekily back.
Here goes.
She got out of the car, locked it and strode confidently to the door.
The waiting-room was deserted, and the receptionist looked up with a smile. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, I’m Emily Thompson. I’m here for an interview.’
The smile widened. ‘Oh, hello, Dr Thompson. Dr Allen wasn’t expecting you just yet—you can’t have got lost.’
Emily laughed softly. ‘Only a little. The directions were excellent.’
‘I’m glad you thought so. I’m Sue Hooper, by the way—receptionist and general dogsbody. I’ll tell Laurence you’re here. Would you like to take a seat?’
‘Thanks.’
She settled herself in one of the hard, upright chairs and looked around. Tiled floor—practical, but not very welcoming. Neat pile of magazines, but none of your glossies. Farmer’s Weekly, Woman’s Weekly, My Weekly, the odd Reader’s Digest—a far cry from her last practice in Surrey.
There were pictures on the wall, faded and fly-blown, and the paint had seen better days, but the health-promotion posters and clinic details were fresh and up to date.
She glanced towards the door that must lead to the consulting-rooms, and saw an indicator board, with names and coloured lights, clearly used to call the next patient.
She scanned the names, and her heart came to an abrupt and grinding halt.
Dr D Trevellyan.
David.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and she flicked out her tongue and ran it over her lips. It couldn’t be. Surely not? Trevellyan was a common enough Cornish name, and here, only forty miles or so from the Cornish border, it wouldn’t be so very unusual.
And besides, the last she had heard of David he was working in London—probably destined for stardom as a Harley Street surgeon. God knows he had been a brilliant doctor even then, eight years ago. By now, with experience under his belt, he must be superb.
She glanced around the shabby, simple waiting-room. There was no way he would have to settle for this.
No, it couldn’t be him. She hoped it wasn’t, with all her heart, because quite apart from the fact that she wanted this job desperately for Jamie’s sake she wasn’t sure she could bear to see him again.
Sue came back, followed by a tall, stooping man with twinkling blue eyes and a welcoming smile.
‘Dr Thompson—I’m sorry to keep you. You made very good time. I’m Laurence Allen.’
She rose to her feet, praying for calm, and returned his smile and handshake. ‘You did specify an ability to map-read,’ she reminded him.
He laughed. ‘Yes—Robin’s idea. The roads are a bit like that, and the practice is very widespread. Come on through and meet him. I’m afraid David’s not here at the moment, but he shouldn’t be long. He had to go out on a call, but there’ll be plenty of time to meet him.’
David. Oh, God, no, it couldn’t be …
‘Right, you’ll do, Joe. Take it steady, give yourself time to get over this before you get back out there.’
The old man’s wife gave a wheezy laugh. ‘Might as well save your breath, Doctor—you know well as I do soon’s your back’s turned he’ll be out there on the hills again.’
‘Just give him the antibiotics and make sure he takes them regularly, Mrs Hardwill. Nothing you can do to help those that won’t help themselves, eh, Joe?’ David fixed the old man with his best steely glare. ‘You help me, and I’ll help you. I can’t fix you without co-operation.’
Joe’s racking cough filled the dingy, smoky room. He reached for a cigarette and David calmly removed them from him and put them on the mantelpiece.
‘No—absolutely not.’
‘Evil bugger, you are.’
‘And I love you, too,’ David said affectionately. ‘Just be sensible, eh? Give your lungs a day or two to shake off this latest bout of bronchitis before you start poisoning them again.’
‘Cough worse without,’ he grumbled.
‘Yes—because all the little hairs inside your tubes come back to life and start trying to sweep the rubbish out of your lungs—’
‘Little hairs—load of old—’
David tutted and shook his head. ‘Some people just don’t want to be helped.’ He snapped his bag shut and straightened up. ‘Right, I have to get back; we’re interviewing for the new partner.’
‘Woman again?’
He nodded. ‘Hope so.’
‘Why any sane woman’d want to live in this Godforsaken part of the world beats me,’ Mrs Hardwill said. ‘Bain’t nothin’ here—no shoppin', no dancin'—or is she old, this one?’
‘My age.’
‘Spring chicken, then—bit of love interest, eh?’ Joe ribbed wheezily.
David smiled dutifully. ‘I doubt it, Joe. Don’t hold your breath. Anyway, she’s only recently widowed—and that’s if we even appoint her. She’s one of several we’ve seen. Now, remember, no smoking for a couple of days at least.’
He left the house to the sound of Joe’s hacking cough, followed by his voice, wheezy and cracked, demanding his cigarettes.
‘Damn quack—give me them down, woman.’
‘No, I shan’t, Joe Hardwill. You heard the doctor …’
He smiled and pulled the door to, and climbed back into his car.
Love interest, he thought as he headed back to the health centre. That was a joke. Since the disastrous demise of his marriage there had been no ‘love interest'. One or two abortive attempts at rebuilding his life, but no relationship that offered any permanence or hope for the future.
No, there was only one woman—had only ever been one—and like a bloody fool he’d sent her away.
As he turned into the car park he noticed a strange car, and the number-plate had the name of a Surrey dealership on it.
So, the interviewee had made it. Their merry widow, as Laurence called her. Dr Emily Thompson. Even the name hurt him, he thought. Emily. Not his Emily, of course, but the name dragged up so many thoughts and feelings. Night after night he woke reaching for her, only to find his arms empty—as empty as his heart. Emily …
He squared his shoulders, threw a slightly off-centre smile at Sue and headed for the common-room. The sound of masculine laughter drifted to him down the corridor.
The interview was obviously going well. Thank God for that, because the other candidates had been decidedly weak. He could always call her Dr Thompson if he found the name too much.
He pushed the door open, and froze on the threshold. His heart crashed against his ribs, his mouth felt filled with cotton wool. From somewhere far away, he dredged up his voice.
‘Emily …’
Like an old movie, frame by frame, heartbeat by heartbeat, she lifted her head and met his eyes.
‘David …’
His name was a prayer on parched lips, and her eyes drank in her first sight of him in eight long, lonely years.
He hadn’t changed at all—not in ways that mattered. His hair, thick and dark, like polished mahogany, tousled by his impatient fingers, as always threatening to fall across those same incredible, clear grey eyes, the colour of morning mist; that full, sensuous mouth that had known her so intimately; the broad, square set of his shoulders set off by the soft lovat-green of his sports coat; the deep bottle-green polo neck that hugged his solid chest and smoothed over the flat, taut abdomen above lean, narrow hips and long, straight legs in well-cut cavalry twill; feet planted squarely on the floor, the tan brogues well-polished but worn and comfortable.
Only the smile was missing, and she found her own had gone the same way, together with her voice.
In silence she stared at him, absorbing the wonder of seeing him again at the same time as she registered regret, because now this job couldn’t be hers, working with these wonderful, warm, friendly people in this beautiful part of the world.
‘You two know each other, I take it?’ Laurence said into the stretching silence.
Emily opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. She looked pleadingly at David.
‘You could say that,’ he murmured. ‘We were married for five years.’
‘Ah …’
Robin rose to his feet first. ‘Um, Laurence, why don’t we give these two a few minutes together?’
‘Good idea.’ Laurence scraped back his chair and stood up. ‘We’ll be in my office, David.’
David nodded. ‘Fine. Thanks.’
The door closed softly behind them, but the two hardly noticed. Their eyes were locked, trapped like flies in amber, unable to escape.
Then finally David dragged his eyes away and moved across the room, freeing her.
Ts the coffee still hot?’
His voice sounded strained—as well it might. Eight years was a long time.
