thankfully dumped her case in the hall.
Her own room was immediately to the left of the front door and marked ‘Dr L. Grey’ and she sighed as she noted that they had spelt her name incorrectly. She pulled the card out, intending to change it later, and took the suitcase into her new abode.
The room was small, but perfectly adequate for her needs with a single bed and locker, a bookcase and a narrow desk with an Anglepoise lamp on it, which she would be using a great deal. She intended to be successful in her chosen profession, and to be successful meant lots of hard work.
She quickly unpacked her clothes, her shoes and toiletries, and lined the few textbooks she possessed neatly in the bookcase. When she had finished and closed the wardrobe door, the room looked scarcely different than it had when she had first set foot inside it. The photo of her Aunt Beatrice in its silver frame added the one personal touch. She had once cared passionately about her surroundings, but no more. Mentally and physically she liked to travel light.
The other occupant of the flat seemed to share few of the same characteristics—the sitting-room was a conglomeration of messy disarray, with bright cushions spilling from the sofa on to the floor, and magazines and newspapers jostling for space on the coffee-table. The kitchen looked as though someone had attempted to start World War III in there—two empty wine glasses and an almost empty bottle of Chianti were lined up on a cluttered draining-board, where a pan lightly covered with hardening strands of spaghetti stood next to a saucepan of congealed bolognese sauce.
The general air of chaos reminded Louisa of Megan, her scatty ex-flatmate—the two girls had shared a flat for several years, and Louisa was going to miss her.
She automatically squirted some washing-up liquid into the bowl, filled it with hot water, and began washing the glasses and plates methodically. Glasses first, cups second, plates and crockery next, then pans. Strange how so many of her peers despised housework, she reflected as she rinsed the suds off one of the glasses and placed it carefully on the draining-board. She wouldn’t go so far as to say that she actually loved washing-up and cleaning, but she found the repetition and the mindlessness of it curiously relaxing. And it was in such contrast to the taxing mental nature of her job.
Not that she would ever have dared admit it to anyone, she thought delightedly as she pulled the plug out and dreamily watched the water begin to drain away. The image of career girl and hausfrau did not exactly marry very well together!
She heard the front door slam and footsteps stop as their owner must have paused to notice the light on in the kitchen. She turned around with a welcoming expression as she heard a sound behind her, the smile quickly changing to a gape of astonishment as she found herself staring at a very tall, newly familiar man. It was the driver of the Porsche!
He stood, hands on his hips, his eyes glancing over to the just washed plates and then back again, his height seeming to fill the small kitchen. She had never felt so unwelcome in her entire life.
‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ he demanded in disbelief, looking at her as though she had broken into the place.
‘You’ve got eyes in your head, haven’t you?’ she snapped back at him. ‘What do you think I’m doing? It’s called washing-up!’
There was something about him which was making all her hackles rise. It wasn’t just his earlier rudeness or the way he was regarding her, although that was irritating enough. It went much deeper than that. It was something about being at such close quarters to a man again—and a man who seemed to exude such a raw masculine sensuality from every pore—which made her want to run away from him. As if his very proximity could do her harm.
‘And anyway——’ she stuck her small chin out belligerently ‘—I’d like to know what you’re doing here, if it comes to that.’
A look of intense irritation flashed across his face. ‘I’ll give you three guesses,’ he said silkily.
That was easy enough.
‘I assume,’ she replied tartly, her words measured, trying hard to keep the bitterness out of them, ‘I assume that you are the boyfriend of the occupant of this flat, a contributor to the messy plates I’ve just cleared away, and that you have your own key to come and go as you please.’ Something which will have to stop now that I’m here, she wanted to add—but didn’t quite have the courage to do so.
They stood facing one another and she noticed for the first time what an unusual colour his eyes were—an extraordinary shade of icy turquoise—the colour of a swimming pool on a sunny day. Film star eyes. Again came the niggling thought that she was sure she knew his face.
His words, too, were measured, sounding like those of someone who was holding on to his temper with extreme difficulty. ‘Then your assumption is incorrect.’ His voice was dangerously soft. ‘I am not the occupant’s “boyfriend”, to use your rather schoolgirlish vernacular—this happens to be my flat. Yes, indeed.’ He had noticed her start. ‘And now that we’ve established that my credentials are perfectly bona fide—I’ll repeat my question and ask again what you’re doing here?’
‘I live here, too. Or rather I did from about one hour ago,’ she replied evenly, her mind racing to try to grasp the situation.
Now it was his turn to look surprised.
‘Don’t be ridiculous! What are you talking about? You’ve obviously been given the wrong keys—you’re a nurse, for goodness’ sake!’
She gave him a superior smile. ‘It seems that I’m not the only one to make assumptions, doesn’t it? I am not a nurse, and I never have been.’
‘But you said——’
‘I said nothing,’ she interrupted coldly. ‘I agreed that I was new here and you took that to mean that I was a nurse. Presumably,’ she added, ‘because I’m female.’
The turquoise eyes had narrowed and he was staring at her consideringly, comprehension beginning to dawn.
‘You mean—that you’re a doctor, too?’
‘Ten out of ten for perception,’ she replied sarcastically, pleased to see him at a disadvantage at last.
He didn’t remain at a disadvantage for long, however; he glowered at her and marched out of the kitchen into the hall, where she heard him pick up a telephone. She followed in his wake slowly, drying her hands on the tea-towel, amused to hear what would now transpire.
He glanced up at her briefly, then away, ignoring her completely.
‘Mrs Jefferson, please,’ he said shortly into the receiver. There was a pause. ‘Adam Forrester.’
She looked up in surprise. So that was it! No wonder she had thought she had known him—who, both in and outside the medical profession, hadn’t heard of Dr Adam Forrester?
He’d been considered a prodigy, mainly because he’d written a book while still at medical school which had become required reading for all students—she’d read it herself.
But it had been work done during research for his thesis which had aroused the interest of the general public. He had fed some laboratory mice some of his watercress salad and had discovered that it had made them sexually more active. The tabloid press had had a field-day—the News of the World had run a full-page story with banner headlines
