скачать книгу бесплатно
Practice Makes Perfect
Caroline Anderson
A DOCTOR IN HER HOUSEWhen Dr Lydia Moore returns from India to visit her grandfather she finds his locks changed and the devastatingly gorgeous, if infuriating, Dr Sam Davenport in his house and running his practice. It’s clear that Sam thinks she’s the prodigal granddaughter returned, but when she crumples at learning that her grandfather has passed away Sam realises he’s made a mistake. And there’s more to come, because Sam has been left the practice and there’s a chemistry between him and Lydia that can’t be denied. Can they overcome their differences and give in to the passion within…?
Practice Makes Perfect
Caroline Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#uaf91f7c6-3cf8-548e-a1ff-6b0f7e741f5a)
Title Page (#u6683bf1b-73a7-510c-8e1f-3ae236ece7e4)
Chapter One (#udd1937db-2795-5c54-9177-d47e78a8788d)
Chapter Two (#ua270ec3f-c6fb-584c-92db-e0613e53fd1f)
Chapter Three (#u7af3f09a-a77c-5931-8dbc-59353f9aeaa6)
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_9d8d32a0-e8ae-5852-9ff8-0ffb62eba12e)
As THE taxi-driver stacked the last of her cases on the step Lydia gave him a weary smile and an excessively generous tip, and then watched him out of sight.
Then, and only then, did she allow her gaze to wander lovingly over the familiar contours of the warm red-brick Georgian house.
Home.
She thought she had never been so glad to be back. In the raw wetness of a blustery February afternoon, after a horrendous flight from Calcutta with a long unscheduled stop in Zurich for emergency engine repairs, Lydia felt the icy blast of the wind clean through to her bones, and welcomed it.
A hot bath and a long sleep were definitely what the doctor ordered, she thought with a wry grin, and, slipping her key into the lock, she turned it and leant against the door. Nothing happened. With a slight frown she tried the key again and heard the lock turn, but still the door held firm.
‘Funny,’ she muttered. ‘It must be bolted. Wonder why?’
Abandoning her luggage, she went round the side of the big house and made her way to the kitchen door, casting a critical eye over the garden as she went. What she saw made her frown again, but a sudden slashing downpour worthy of April dragged her attention from the overrun herbaceous border to the more immediate problem of finding a way in—and fast!
Once again, though, she found herself thwarted, and, shivering down into the inadequate layers of her ancient mac, she glared at the door and worked her way back to the front door again, ignoring the plants that thrashed her legs with drenching regularity.
What was going on?
The surgery was in darkness, and peering in through the windows told her nothing—nothing, that was, that she didn’t already know, in other words, Gramps was nowhere to be seen, there was nobody manning the surgery and she was getting wetter by the minute.
One last hope remained, and, tackling the sodden borders again, she struggled round to the other side and rattled the door of the conservatory.
Joy! It creaked open, and then slammed shut with a crash as a gust of wind caught it and snatched it out of her hand.
Breaking the sudden silence that followed, the sound of the rain pelting down on to the glass roof and gurgling in the gutters only served to soothe away the feeling of uncertainty that Lydia experienced.
The wicker rocker was where she had expected to find it, a little damp because of the time of year but still offering comfort to the travel-weary. Snuggling into its lumpy old cushions, she let her eyes drift shut and settled down to wait for Gramps.
Sam gathered up his bag, slammed the car door and made a run for the house, letting himself in by the side-door. He shed his trench coat on the way up to his fiat, and hung it over the bath to drip while he filled the kettle and hunted in the fridge for something quick and easy to eat before evening surgery.
While the kettle boiled he munched on a cold tandoori chicken leg and replayed the messages on his answer-phone.
Mrs Jacobs was wondering if he could fit her in tonight because her waterworks were giving her trouble again and she didn’t think she should wait until Monday; Judith, the district nurse, had flu and would be off for the next few days; the village shop had his order ready and could he go down and collect it before five-thirty—answer: no, because it was now ten past and he had evening surgery in twenty minutes; and young David Leeming had cut his hand and his mother didn’t know if it needed stitching and should she take him along to the hospital or would Dr Davenport be able to deal with it? Dr Davenport never did find out what she had decided, because she was still procrastinating when the tape ran out.
He rang Judith, told her to stay in bed, drink plenty and take paracetomol QDS, which got him a flea in his ear for waking her up to tell her something so obvious. He apologised meekly, promised to call in the morning and hung up, a frown creasing his brow.
With the practice running at full stretch, half the village in the grip of a vile flu bug and the other half falling over on the slush and sustaining fractures, sprains and other less serious injuries in addition to the usual work-load, the very last thing Sam needed was Judith out of the running.
He went into the bathroom, changed places with his mac and showered briskly, towelling himself roughly dry in the kitchen as he made a coffee and rummaged in the fridge again. Coming up with a yoghurt two weeks past its sell-by date, the curled remains of a quiche and a flaccid lettuce, he opted for safety and put the last two bits of bread into the toaster, hung up the towel and dressed quickly.
Unfortunately the toast got stuck. Cursing fluently and sucking his burned fingertips, he opened the window and chucked the burnt offerings out into the rain-swept night, and slammed the window back down unnecessarily hard. It had probably been mouldy, anyway, he thought with weary resignation.
The phone rang—Mrs Leeming had decided that Dr Davenport should be given the dubious privilege of sewing up young David, and she would be bringing him in to the surgery. Would that be all right?
‘Fine. I’ll see when I can fit you in,’ he said a trifle abruptly, and hung up, eyes scanning the kitchen for anything else to eat. He really should have remembered about the village shop. There was nothing fit for human consumption in the entire place—in fact, he doubted that the mice would bother with half of what was left. He hoped it wasn’t an omen—it was his weekend on call.
Giving food up as a bad job, he downed his coffee, made another one and took it downstairs with him.
As usual, going into the consulting-room restored his sense of balance, and he sat in the old leather chair, propped his feet on the edge of Harry Moore’s desk and sighed contentedly.
He had never meant to be a country GP. Hospital medicine—probably cardiology, or neurology, or one of the other prestigious branches—had beckoned, until a chance comment by his father one day had prompted him to investigate the possibilities.
They had been arguing, as usual, about the benefits of education and informed opinion, and his father, one of the old school, who felt that the patient should be kept as ignorant as was humanly possible of the workings of his own body, had turned to Sam with a disgusted snort and told him that the next thing would be that he’d be going into general practice.
Sam had smiled grimly, congratulated his father on an accurate character assessment for once in his life, and stormed out of the prestigious Harley Street consulting-rooms with his pride intact and the seeds of revenge burning in his mind.
By the following day the anger had gone, but the idea remained, and Sam had found, at last, what he had been looking for.
That had been five years before, and now, thanks in part to his father and thanks also to Harry Moore, an old-timer from the other side of the coin, he was here, a country doctor in the best tradition of Richard Gordon, with nearly two and a half thousand patients all dependent on him for their health and welfare. It was a huge practice for one man, covering two villages and their outlying farms, and Harry had talked originally of taking Sam on as a junior partner when he recovered from his illness, but the best-laid plans and all that …
Sam knew it would make sense to take on another partner—had even made noises on the subject to George Hastings, another one-man outfit three miles away, with whom he had set up an on-call rota—but his previous experience had made him very wary. Working alone was best, for him at least, for as long as he could manage it. When he couldn’t—well then, there would be time to think again.
Sam broke from his reverie and went out into the waiting-room to greet the first of the patients.
Almost two hours and fifteen patients later, he locked up the surgery and dispensary, ran upstairs for a warm, dry coat and let himself out into the night.
The rain had stopped a short while before, but the trees were dripping steadily and he turned up his coat collar and shrugged down into its depths. At least the rain had washed away the last of the slush.
His breath misting on the cold air, he headed off down the main street towards the pub, where he bought a portion of hot stew and a jacket potato to take away, declining the offer of a swift half with the old boys in the corner. He really was too tired tonight to do anything but crawl home and go to bed.
As he turned back into the drive he noticed the luggage stacked neatly in the front porch by the main door. Frowning, he crossed the gravel and flicked his torch curiously over the battered cases.
A luggage label caught his eye; juggling the stew, he flipped the label and scanned it with the torch.
‘Dr Lydia Moore.’
That meant only one thing to Sam—trouble, with a capital T.
Sighing heavily, he let himself back in, put the cases in the surgery, stashed the stew and potato in the oven, turned it on low and set about finding the missing woman.
When he had checked all the downstairs rooms he shone the torch through the glass door that led to the conservatory, and blinked in surprise. Snuggled up on Harry’s favourite old chair, with her long dark hair falling like spun silk across her face, was a tall, slender girl, her tanned legs curled up under her, her hand tucked beneath the soft curve of her cheek like a child. Her lashes lay like black crescents against her fine cheekbones, emphasising the delicate structure of her face, and where her coat had fallen open he could see the soft thrust of her breast against the thin fabric of her blouse.
As he watched she shivered and shifted slightly in the chair, murmuring in her sleep.
Squashing the sudden protective urge that arose in him, Sam pushed open the door and ruthlessly shone the torch in her eyes.
Lydia was woken by a fierce light against her eyelids. Blinking and turning her head away, she straightened her stiff neck and sat up slowly, trying to see beyond the beam of light to the person holding the torch.
‘Gramps?’ she murmured.
The torch-bearer lowered the light so that it formed a pool around his feet. She knew he was a man because of the tan leather brogues and the soft greeny-grey of the fine wool trousers, but other than that she could tell nothing—not his height, hair colour, age—nothing.
However, she didn’t think a rapist would be likely to wear brogues, so she rose to her feet, straightened her clothes and held out her hand.
‘I’m Lydia Moore——’
‘I know,’ he said brusquely, and turned away. ‘You’d better come in.’
He led her through the dining-room, out into the hall and through the door at the end into the practice premises.
There he switched off his torch and turned, and she got her first look at this stranger in her grandfather’s house.
He was fairly tall, perhaps six feet, well-built but not heavy, and his thick hair was the colour of polished chestnuts, short and well cut, but rumpled as if he had run his hands through it. One heavy lock had escaped and fallen forward over his eyes, and as she watched he thrust it back with impatient fingers and she was able to see his face clearly.
His mouth was drawn into a tight line, his full lips compressed with … anger? And the hazel eyes, which she guessed were more usually softened with sympathy and humour, were glittering with irritation and—yes, it was anger, and, unless she was mistaken, directed at her.
‘May I ask who you are and why you’re here?’ she enquired coolly, and he gave a short, humourless laugh.
‘Didn’t your grandfather tell you?’
Realisation came with a flash. ‘You’re the locum,’ she said stupidly, and added, ‘I’m sorry, I should have realised, but it’s been a horrendous flight and I was exhausted. Of course, Gramps has talked about you. I hope I didn’t startle you, turning up like this without any warning.’
Oh, I knew you were coming,’ he said enigmatically, and his voice was tinged with bitterness. ‘As for why I’m here, someone had to be, and you were too busy chasing rainbows and playing God to do your duty by a feeble old man——’
‘Feeble? Gramps? Don’t be ridiculous! There never was such a tough old bird——’
Once, maybe, but not recently. Recently he needed you, but where were you? Gadding about in some God-forsaken little mission hospital, saving souls when you should have been here by his side, holding his hand, washing him, changing his sheets, sitting with him through the long hours of the night when the pain became too much, but no, you had to play God in your paddy fields with the natives and let him rot here all alone! Charity begins at home, Lydia—didn’t anyone ever tell you that?’ His voice was shaking with anger, all the more forceful for being held so firmly in check.
‘I’m here now,’ she said furiously, stung by his attitude and shocked by his words, ‘and I’ll thank you to mind your own business!’
‘It is my business!’ he shouted, his iron control slipping. ‘When there’s no one else here that makes it my business! I was here when he needed me—and where the hell were you?’
She drew herself up, and looked him in the eye. ‘Playing God—you’ve said so yourself, at least twice. Well, thank you for your help. I’ll take over now. I’m back for good, so I can run the practice——’
‘Over my dead body will you run my practice!’
They glared at each other across the waiting-room, and slowly his words sank in.
‘Your practice? Since when has it been your practice?’
He let out his breath on a long sigh. ‘Since December. Didn’t your grandfather tell you?’
She shook her head. ‘No. No, he always calls you the locum. Well, recently he’s called you Sam, but he never said anything about your taking over the practice.’
Sam gave a snort of derision. ‘I don’t suppose he thought you’d be interested. After all, you were out there in India with your lover——’
‘He wasn’t my lover!’ she protested, almost amused by the preposterous suggestion.
‘No? What’s the matter, wasn’t he taken in by the innocent-little-girl act?’
Lydia thought of Jim Holden, the doctor whom she had gone to India to help, and she could barely suppress a smile. In his late fifties, widowed for ten years, he was a gentle father-figure, and when he had come back from his leave with the lovely, sweet-natured Anne as his wife Lydia had been only too pleased for him—pleased, and relieved, because Anne was a doctor and so Lydia was superfluous and could terminate her contract three months early and come home to Gramps—because, reading between the lines, all was not well and he needed her. But Jim? She let the smile show.
‘On the contrary, he took it very seriously. He was very protective towards me—not to mention unfailingly polite!’
Sam gave a nasty little smile. ‘You’ll forgive me if I’m not so polite, but, you see, I happen to find your sort particularly odious. Still, I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies. At least you didn’t make the mistake of turning up in time for the funeral and feigning distress.’
Lydia all but stamped her foot. ‘How dare you? I’ll have you know that, when my grandfather dies, not only will I be at his funeral, but my “distress” will be totally genuine!’
‘Very touching, but a trifle misplaced. The funeral was last week. I’m afraid you’ve missed your chance to put on this devastating display of genuine emotion, but never mind. At least you’ve got the house. I imagine that’s what you wanted? Oh, and the practice, but I’m afraid you can’t have that. It’s mine, and, furthermore, so are the premises. He willed them to me. You can contest it, of course, but I doubt if it will get you anywhere.’
He had turned away, straightening a stack of magazines on the table in the corner with an angry thump, and so he failed to see the colour drain slowly from her face. As the meaning of his words penetrated through the fog of her tiredness and confusion she felt shock like cold hands race over her skin, and she started to tremble.
‘What?’ she tried to say, but her voice deserted her and all she managed was a croak.
He turned back to her, a savage retort on his lips, but it died a death as he saw her face, pale with shock, and her wide, sightless eyes that tried to focus on him. Oh, my God,’ he murmured, ‘you mean you really didn’t know?’
At his words she gave a little whimper of distress, and with a startled exclamation he crossed to her and caught her against his chest as her legs buckled.
Her eyelids fluttered closed, and he could see her lips moving, forming the word ‘no’, over and over again. Cursing himself fluently, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her up to his flat, putting her down gently on the sofa.
