‘Are you being nice, or do you mean that?’
He couldn’t help smiling. ‘You’re right. You do believe in straight talking.’
‘And?’
It took him a bit by surprise, but… ‘I meant it.’
‘Good. You can tell me what not to pick in the canteen. And, as it’s my first day, it’ll be my shout.’
‘You’re on.’
Miranda sneaked a glance at Jack as she drank her coffee. Now they’d cleared the air, there was a good chance they’d have a decent working relationship.
And that’s working, Miranda Turner, she emphasised to herself. Yes, Jack Sawyer was attractive, with intense dark eyes, dark hair, pale olive skin and the kind of smile that made her heart beat a little bit faster. Yes, he had a beautiful mouth, generous and soft. Yes, he had nice hands—clean, well-shaped fingernails, the kind of hands she could only too easily imagine stroking her skin and playing with her hair.
But imagination was as far as it could go. He was her colleague—her junior, to boot—and that made him off limits. Particularly as she was working in her father’s hospital. Ralph Turner would be less than pleased to hear she was seeing one of her staff. It simply wasn’t done. Besides, she’d already learned the hard way that relationships weren’t for her. She was focused on her career. Completely.
Jack kept both hands wrapped round his mug of coffee. This was crazy. He wasn’t in the market for a relationship. Even if he had been, his boss was the last person he should be thinking about.
And yet…Oh, hell. Behave, he told his libido. So what if her eyes are the colour of the sea on a winter’s day? So what if her mouth is a perfect Cupid’s bow? And don’t even think about reaching over to unpin her hair and letting it fall over her shoulders like rippling oiled silk. Just concentrate on the fact that she’s your boss. She may be efficient, straight-talking and think on her feet—everything you like in a woman—but laying so much as a finger on her would be professional suicide. You’ve worked hard to get as far as you have—don’t blow it now just because you fancy her. Stay away, he warned himself. Hands off.
BY THE start of her shift on Wednesday, Miranda felt as if she’d always worked at Calderford General. All the staff on the coronary care unit seemed to accept her as part of the team—including Jack, she thought with relief—and she’d settled into the ward routine.
Wednesday morning’s angina clinic flew by and Miranda kept her lunch-break short, to make sure she was on time for her theatre appointment with Imogen Parker. But just before Imogen was due to have her pre-med, the phone rang in Miranda’s office.
‘Miranda Turner.’
‘Hi, Miranda, it’s Jordan Francis.’
There was only one reason she could think of why the theatre manager would call her. ‘Hi, Jordan. I hope you’re not going to tell me there’s a problem with my two o’clock,’ she said, keeping her voice light.
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Majax?’ she asked, using the hospital’s shorthand term for ‘major accident’ or ‘major incident’—meaning that the A and E department needed all the theatre slots to deal with surgical emergencies.
‘Um, no.’
She picked up on the slight trace of guilt in his voice. ‘Jordan, I know it’s not your fault, but CCU booked that slot for a reason. If there isn’t a major emergency, why are you pulling the slot?’
‘The prof needs it.’
‘Why?’ she asked, knowing that she was putting the theatre manager on the spot but unable to stop herself.
Jordan sounded uncomfortable. ‘He’s booked a demonstration.’
‘Oh, has he?’ she said crossly. ‘Don’t tell me—he said I wouldn’t mind.’ She scowled. She should have guessed her father would pull a stunt like this. Well, he’d soon find that she wasn’t a pushover any more. ‘Jordan, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you. Thanks for letting me know. When’s the next available two-hour slot?’
‘Friday morning, half-past nine. Do you want me to book you in?’
‘Yes, please. And, Jordan?’
‘Yes?’
‘If anyone tries to override it—unless it’s a majax—can you refer them to me, please?’
‘Sure.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Um, Miranda, I was wondering…would you like to come out for a drink with me? Or dinner, or something?’
‘Yes, that’d be nice.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Sorry. I’m on a late. How about Monday?’
‘Great. I’ll book somewhere…say, for seven? And do you like Italian?’
‘Seven’s fine and I love Italian—thanks. Talk to you soon.’
She cut the connection, rang the professor’s secretary and asked to speak to him.
‘I’m afraid he’s with someone, Miranda. He’s on his way to a demonstration.’
‘It’ll only take ten seconds, Ally. Promise. And it’s urgent. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.’
‘All right. As it’s you.’
A second later, a testy voice informed her, ‘Miranda, I don’t have time to talk to you right now. I’m about to do a demonstration.’
‘I know. In my theatre slot.’
‘For heaven’s sake, you were only doing an angioplasty. It’s a routine operation. You can reschedule.’
‘My patient has unstable angina.’ Didn’t that mean anything to him? Had he forgotten May so easily? ‘If she has an MI before I can do the angioplasty, I’ll have to do an emergency bypass and I don’t want to put her through that.’
‘It’s not that likely, and you’re making a fuss.’
‘Too right I am, Professor.’
His voice hardened. ‘Don’t you take that tone with me. I’m your father.’
‘We’re at work. Which means I’m a doctor first and your daughter second.’
‘Miranda, I don’t have time for this!’
She knew exactly what that meant. ‘Don’t tell me you discussed it over lunch, thought it was a good idea,
