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Just
One Last Night…
Amy Andrews
Table of Contents
About the Author
AMY ANDREWS has always loved writing, and still can’t quite believe that she gets to do it for a living. Creating wonderful heroines and gorgeous heroes and telling their stories is an amazing way to pass the day. Sometimes they don’t always act as she’d like them to—but then neither do her kids, so she’s kind of used to it. Amy lives in the very beautiful Sam-ford Valley, with her husband and aforementioned children, along with six brown chooks and two black dogs. She loves to hear from her readers. Drop her a line at www.amyandrews.com.au
For Olwyn Deane and Lillias Jensen—
two wonderful women who have enriched the fabric of my life since the day I was born
CHAPTER ONE
DR GRACE PERRY hated feeling unprepared. She’d happily lived her entire adult life totally prepared for all situations. She liked being prepared. Loved it, actually. It gave her power and a sense of control.
She loved control.
And order. And predictability.
Otherwise there was just chaos. And Grace hated chaos.
Unfortunately there’d been precious little order and too much chaos in the last eighteen months.
So today she planned to take back control.
All she had to do was get the job.
An interview she was feeling totally unprepared for after her early-morning flight from Brisbane and Tash’s door slamming condemnation from last night still ringing in her ears.
Grace sighed as she pushed the lift button. How could a sullen fifteen-year-old girl have defeated her—broken her—so utterly? Taken her nice, neat, ordered, controlled world and turned it totally on its ear.
Grace hated defeat.
The lift arrived and Grace put the rare moment of self-pity aside as she strode into it and pushed the button for the eighth floor.
Such negative thoughts did not bode well going into the interview of her life. And however hard it had been on her to become guardian to her niece and nephew, it had been a thousand times worse for Tash and Benji.
The doors opened at her destination and Grace took a moment to straighten the dark grey skirt that flared around her knees, balancing out the flare of very feminine hips. She did up the large buttons on her matching jacket.
You can do this, she lectured herself as her strappy pumps sank into plush carpet. You are a fantastic emergency physician with fifteen years’ experience and a respected manager.
You are outstandingly qualified.
Opposite the lifts was a large reception desk and she made her way to it.
‘Dr Grace Perry to see Dr John Wilkie,’ she said, injecting a note of calm assurance as if the interview was no more trifling than a sutured finger or a strep throat.
The starched-looking receptionist peered at her over half-moon glasses and frowned. She consulted her watch and then some paperwork. ‘You’re early.’
Grace blinked, feeling as if she’d committed some horrible transgression. ‘Yes. It’s a terrible habit of mine.’
Or it used to be anyway before chaos had taken over.
‘Sorry,’ she added, feeling the need to apologise to the un-amused woman in front of her. Then she smiled to reassure the receptionist it wouldn’t happen again and to vanquish the horrible feeling of being caught on the back foot.
The receptionist sniffed then stood. ‘Please follow me.’
Grace did as she was instructed—she didn’t dare not to—following the woman’s brisk march through a series of corridors until they reached a door and entered a lounge area.
