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Esme was unfazed by his cranky response. She tipped her head towards the garden shed as she handed him his scarf. ‘A member of your fan club gave me this to give Skye a go at “search”.’
He glanced over at the shed and, sure enough, there were a couple of patients from the oncology ward waving at him. Cheeky so-and-sos. They’d been trying to blow some oxygen onto the all but dead embers of his social life ever since they’d found out the nurses not so discreetly called him The Monk. He rolled his eyes and returned his attention to Esme Ross-Wylde. ‘I presume that means you’re here for the “rescue” part?’
She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘If you’re interested.’
Skye’s tail started waving double time.
If he wasn’t mistaken, the corners of her rather inviting lips were twitching with the hint of a smile.
Something about this whole scenario felt like flirting. He didn’t do flirting. He did A and E medicine in Glasgow’s most financially deprived hospital. Then he slept, woke up and did it all over again. Sometimes he came out here and dug over a veg patch. There definitely wasn’t time for flirting.
When he said nothing she asked, ‘How do you fancy keeping Plants to Paws the way it is?’
His eyes snapped to hers, and something flashed hard and bright in his chest that had nothing to do with gratitude. It ricocheted straight past his belt buckle and all the way up again. By the look on her face, she was feeling exactly the same thing he was. An unwelcome animal attraction.
Oh, hell. If life had taught him anything, it was the old adage that if something seemed too good to be true, it usually was.
The Dictator had taught him that everything came with a price. Best to rip off the plaster and get it over with. ‘What’s the catch?’
‘Charming.’ Esme quirked a brow. ‘Is this how you win all the girls over?’
‘It works for some.’ Dr Kirkpatrick’s shrug was flippantly sexy.
‘Not this girl.’ Her hip jutted out as if to emphasise the point she really shouldn’t be making. That she fancied him something rotten and her body was most definitely flirting without her permission.
‘Suit yourself.’ His full lips twitched into a frown. Something told her it was for the same reason her mouth followed suit. They’d both been burnt somewhere along the line and if she was right, those burns had been slow to heal. If at all.
She sniffed to communicate she would suit herself, thank you very much, but the butterflies in her belly and the glint in his eye told her Max Kirkpatrick knew the ball was very much in his court.
He wasn’t at all what she’d expected when she’d heard about an A and E doctor who’d set up a multi-purpose garden where patients could grow carrots and play with their pets. For some reason she thought he’d be older. Like...granddad old. And not half as sexy as the man arcing rather dubious eyebrows at her.
She called Skye to her and gave her head a little scrub. Here was someone she could rely on. Even as puppies, dogs were completely honest. Constant. Loyal.
Men? Not so much. Something she’d learned the hard way after her entire life had been splashed across the tabloids as a naive twenty-year-old who’d been taken for a fool. These days the Esme Ross-Wylde people met was friendly, businesslike and, despite the inevitable tabloid update on her charitable activities, able to keep her private life exactly that. Private. Which was a good thing because the rate of knots at which she was mentally undressing him would’ve won a gold medal.
‘Are you going to tell me what the catch is or are you going to make me beg for it?’ His frown deepened. As if he was fighting exactly the same onslaught of images she was. Sexy ones that most definitely shouldn’t be drowning out any form of common sense.
Normally sponsoring a struggling charity was incredibly straightforward.
Normally she didn’t feel as though her entire body was being lit up like a Christmas tree. Flickering and shimmering in a way she hadn’t thought possible after years of protecting her broken heart. All of which was tying her insides in knots because feeling like a lusty teenager was not a safe way to feel. And yet...she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
C’mon, Esme. You know the drill. Find a charity. Offer a lifeline in the form of a Christmas ball. Donate a couple of service dogs after two weeks of training up at Heatherglen. Job done.
She forced herself to answer. ‘From what I hear, you might need my help.’
The doctor crossed his arms and squared his six-foot-something form so that she could see nothing else but him. Classic macho male pose. Designed to intimidate.
Although...she wasn’t really getting that vibe from Dr Kirkpatrick. It was more protective than aggressive. There was something about the ramrod-straight set of his spine that suggested he’d done some time in the forces. Her brother had had the same solid presence. Unlike everyone else, who was bundled up to the eyeballs, Max Kirkpatrick wore a light fleece top bearing the hospital logo over a set of navy scrubs and nothing else. A normal human would’ve been freezing.
A normal human wouldn’t be messing with her no-men-for-Esme rule. This guy? Mmm... Dark chestnut-brown hair. A bit curly and wild. The type that was begging her fingers to scruff it up a bit more. Espresso brown eyes. The fathomless variety that gleamed with hints of gold when the sun caught them. Everything about him screamed tall, dark and mysterious. And she liked a mystery.
No!
She did not like mysteries. She liked steady and reliable. Although...steady and reliable hadn’t really floated her boat the last few times her brother had presented her with ‘suitable dating material’.
Dr Kirkpatrick broke the silence first. ‘Any chance you’re going to explain this rather timely offer to rescue me?’
Ah. She’d forgotten that part. An oversight she was going to blame on Skye for unearthing the softer side of this impenetrable mountain of man gloom towering over her. Sometimes being short was a real pain.
‘I run the Heatherglen Foundation. I founded it after my brother—an army man—and his service dog were killed in a conflict zone.’
A muscle twitched in his jaw. She’d definitely been right about the military.
She continued with more confidence, ‘I am particularly interested in helping charities that use animals as therapy and who, more to the point, are in danger of closing. It’s relatively straightforward. I select the charity, and in a few weeks the foundation will be hosting a Christmas ball, where the bulk of the funds raised will be donated to said charity, and ongoing support from the Heatherglen Foundation will also be provided.’
‘Sounds great. Have a good time!’ Max said in a ‘count me out’ tone.
‘But—it’ll save Plants to Paws.’ Didn’t he want his charity to survive? ‘The ball’s just before Christmas. It truly is a magical event.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘So...what? Is this your stab at being Scotland’s very own Mrs Claus?’
‘There’s no need to be narky about it. I’m trying to help.’ She didn’t like Christmastime either. Her brother had been killed on Christmas Eve and ever since then her favourite time of year had been shrouded in painful memories, but it didn’t mean she took it out on others. Quite the opposite, in fact. The Christmas ball was her attempt to recapture the love she had for the festive season. Ten years and counting and it still had yet to take.
He opened his hands out wide. ‘How would you feel if the one thing you’d poured three years of hard graft into was going to be paved over for a pay by the minute car park? At Christmas.’
‘I’d do everything in my power to save it.’
‘Trust a stranger I’ve never met to save a charity she’ll most likely never make use of? I don’t think so.’
She was hardly going to tell him to search the internet because, depending on which site he hit, he could definitely get the wrong impression. She took a deep breath and started over. ‘The donors are personally selected by me. People who believe in giving back to communities that have treated them well.’ The look he threw her spoke volumes. He wasn’t biting. She spluttered, ‘Think of it as your first Christmas present.’
‘I don’t trust things that come in pretty wrapping.’
The way he looked at her made it crystal clear he wasn’t talking about ribbons and sparkly paper. He was talking about her.
Now, that was irritating.
She wasn’t some little airhead who bolstered her ego by doing seasonal acts of charity.
He shoved up his sleeve to check his watch. ‘I’ve got patients to see and bad news to dispense, so if you don’t mind...?’
‘I do, actually. I mind very much.’
He rolled his finger with a ‘get on with it’ spin.
What was with the attitude? Founders who believed in their charities tended to drop it. Not this guy. Either he’d been royally screwed around at some point or was just plain old chippy. Even worse, somehow, in a handful of seconds, Max Kirkpatrick had slipped directly under her thick winter coat, beneath her cashmere sweater and burrowed right under her skin, making this interaction feel shockingly personal.
The Heatherglen Foundation wasn’t a platform for her to prance about Scotland, giving away her family’s money. It was the one good thing that had come out of the most painful chapters in her life. As quickly as she’d been unnerved by his attitude, she’d had enough. She wasn’t going to beg this man to take her money. He didn’t want it? He couldn’t have it.
She wiped her hands together as if ridding them of something distasteful. ‘I came here with a genuine offer of help and a list of donors as long as my arm. If you’re not interested in stopping Gavin Henshall from paving Plants to Paws over, I’ll be on my way.’
He blinked. Twice.
Ooh. Had she found a chink in the strong, silent man’s armour?
‘I suspect it’ll take more than a few thousand to keep Henshall at bay.’
He was right. She told him how much the last charity she’d sponsored had received.
He blinked again. ‘Can we skip straight to the what do I need to do to get the money part?’
Blunt. But it was a damn sight better than being dismissed as a bit of society fluff.
Her frown must’ve deepened because he suddenly folded into a courtly bow before unleashing an unexpectedly lavish charm offensive. ‘I do humbly ask your forgiveness. Etiquette school clearly failed me. I didn’t mean to be rude, Miss Ross-Wylde. Or is it Mrs?’
‘Ms,’ Esme snipped.
His eyes narrowed. Probably the same way hers had when he’d stiffened at the mention of Gavin Henshall.
He’d found her chink. She’d found his. Normally this would be her cue to run for the hills. But something about him made her want to know what made him tick. Sugar. Why couldn’t Max Kirkpatrick have looked like a troll or been long since married to his childhood sweetheart? She checked his ring finger.
Empty.
Her heart soared so fast she barely knew what to do with herself.
Explain the details. Accept his refusal—because he will refuse—then leave. Problem solved.
She crossed her arms, aiming for nonchalant, not entirely sure if she’d hit her mark. ‘I’ve just been up to speak to the hospital administrator, who has agreed to stall the sale until the new year. If the Christmas ball goes to plan, the hospital is happy to leave Plants to Paws as is.’
‘In perpetuity?’ Max obviously had his own set of conditions.
‘Precisely. The only thing—’
He huffed out a laugh. ‘I knew there was a catch.’
She let her eyebrows take the same haughty position his had earlier. ‘The only thing, Dr Kirkpatrick, is that I require the head of each charity to select two patients whom you think might benefit from a service dog.’
‘Oh. You require it, do you?’
She ignored him and soldiered on. ‘We can offer the patient two weeks of one-to-one training at the canine therapy centre, all expenses included, and a follow-up care package if they have financial difficulties.’
His expression didn’t change, but she could see he was actively considering her offer.
‘What sorts of things do your dogs do, apart from search and rescue?’ Max asked.
She smiled. She might have trouble bragging about herself, but she could big up her dogs until the cows came home. ‘We have service dogs specially trained to work with epileptics, diabetics, people with cancer, people with mobility problems. I imagine you see the full gamut of patients in A and E. I’ll forward you a full list of the services we can provide. We also have emotional support dogs, who work with people suffering from PTSD or anxiety.’
He nodded. ‘Would I have to play any part in this?’
Normally he would, but no way was she inviting Max Kirkpatrick to Heatherglen. He was setting off way too many alarm bells. Before guilt could set in, she reminded herself that she made the rules. She could also bend them.
‘Apart from attend the ball to receive a big fat cheque?’ She shook her head. ‘Not necessary. We’re an all bells and whistles facility, so...’ The lie came a bit too easily. She always invited the charity founder to join the patients and their families up at Heatherglen, but two weeks in close proximity with Max Kirkpatrick at this time of year, when the castle was romantically bedecked for the festive season? Not. Going. To. Happen.
Her mouth continued talking while her brain scrambled to catch up. ‘We run the training sessions at our canine therapy training centre. There’s also a medical rehabilitation clinic my brother runs in the main building. I have a week-long slot from December fifteenth up until the twenty-third of December, when we hold the ball. I understand the timing could be awkward with Christmas and family obligations, but as the developer is so keen to get construction under way, I thought we’d best get cracking. The patients could take the dogs home over the holidays then return for a second week of training sometime in January. If that suits.’
She watched his face go through a rapid-fire range of emotions. All of which he erased before she could nail any of them down.
‘I’m fine with that,’ he said evenly. ‘As long as we make a few of my guidelines clear.’
Esme couldn’t help it. She laughed. ‘Excuse me, Dr Kirkpatrick. If I’m not mistaken, I’m the one helping you here and as such—’
‘As such,’ he cut in, ‘I don’t want you steamrolling my charity into something it isn’t.’
‘And what makes you think I plan on doing that?’
‘Bitter experience.’
The second the words were out of his mouth Max regretted them. Hearing Gavin Henshall’s name had a way of catapulting him straight back into the scrawny fourteen-year-old kid who’d mown lawns, taken out rubbish and thrown himself at all the rest of the chores his stepfather had set him as if his life had depended on it, only to discover he’d changed the goalposts. Again.
Military academy, apprenticeships over the summer holidays, boot camp. No matter what he’d done or how hard he’d worked, he had never been permitted into the house to shield his mum from the emotionally abusive relationship she’d unwittingly married into.
Not that he blamed her. They’d both fallen for Gavin’s smooth lines. He’d promised her love, respect, a house with a big garden on the right side of town. A proper education for her ‘shockingly bright boy’, the son he’d always hoped to have.
How the hell Gavin had convincingly passed off the lies still astounded him. The only plus side of the cancer that had taken his mother’s life was that it had freed her, at long last, from Gavin. It was more than he’d been able to do.
He shook his head and forced himself to focus on the here and now.
Esme Ross-Wylde didn’t strike him as a steamroller socialite. The type of do-gooder who blithely floated round the city flinging gold coins for the ‘have nots’ to do her bidding. Sour memories teased at his throat. Money brought power and no one had made that clearer to him than Gavin. ‘You earn your keep? You’re in. You don’t? You’ll have to learn how to make a real man of yourself.’
‘What’s your role in all of this?’ Max had already been hit by one bombshell today. This one—the Henshall H-bomb—was making it harder to harness any charm. If he was going to tell everyone who cared about Plants to Paws it was going to survive, he needed to trust it was a genuine offer. Trusting a woman who could clearly cut and run from any scenario that didn’t suit her was a tall order.
‘Apart from being Mrs Claus, you mean?’ She pursed her lips in a way that suggested he’d definitely hit a sore spot then said, ‘As well as running the foundation, I’m a vet and an animal behaviour specialist. I also pick up poo, in case that’s what you’re really asking.’
It was all he could do not to laugh. Brilliant. Esme Double-Barrelled-Fancy-Boots picked up poo. It was a skilful way to tell him there was a vital, active brain behind the porcelain doll good looks. A woman who wanted to be mistress of her own destiny as much as he’d worked to be master of his.
‘That it?’ He knew he was winding her up, but...his flirting skills were rusty. Rusted and covered in a thick layer of dust if he was being honest.
Her smile came naturally, clearly more relaxed when talking about her work. ‘The vet clinic is the only one in our area and the therapy centre’s busy pretty much round the clock. The service dogs are trained to aid patients with specific tasks they are unable to do themselves. Like press an alert button for someone having an epileptic seizure, for example. Much like a dog who works on a bomb squad or for drug detection, they are not for the general public to cuddle and coo over.’
‘That’s the therapy dog’s job?’ Max liked hearing the pride in her voice as she explained.
‘A therapy dog’s main role is to relieve stress and, hopefully, bring joy—but often on a bigger scale. Retirement homes, hospital wards, disaster areas. An emotional support dog tends to provide companionship and stress relief for an individual. People with autism, anyone suffering from PTSD. Social anxiety. That sort of thing.’
Max nodded. The smiles on the faces of patients when they were reunited with their pets out here in the garden spoke volumes. Pets brought joy. Too bad people couldn’t be counted on to do the same.
She continued, ‘We’re obviously highly selective, but find that dogs who come from animal rescue centres are particularly good for emotional support, learning and PTSD. The bigger dogs are wonderful with ex-soldiers who might need a service and emotional support dog all in one big furry package.’
He gave a brisk nod at that one. A few guys from his platoon could probably do with a four-legged friend. He still didn’t know how he’d managed four tours in the Middle East without as much as a scratch. Physically, anyway. Emotionally? That was a whole mess he’d probably never untangle. ‘And your brother? The one with the medical clinic?’ Max crossed his arms again. ‘How much of a say does he have in who I choose?’
