‘I know.’
His steel-grey eyes narrowed. She knew, and she was leaving all the work to others? ‘And you’re playing with Amy Simcox.’
She nodded, seemingly unconcerned. ‘Apart from the fact that plenty of studies show how play helps children to recover faster, it’s my day off.’
Sam flushed at the double rebuke. ‘I see. Well, I’m sorry, Dr Price. Though if you wore a white coat like the rest of us,’ he continued, his voice very soft and very dangerous, ‘maybe it would be easier to tell when you’re off duty.’
It was her turn to redden now; with her fair skin, she flushed spectacularly. Literally to the roots of her hair. ‘In my experience, small children are scared enough when they come into hospital. A white coat’s just another barrier for the kids and their parents to overcome.’
‘And how do the parents know you’re who you say you are?’ he countered silkily. ‘Anyone could walk around here with a stethoscope slung round their neck and a clipboard under one arm—’ just as she casually floated round the ward ‘—and say they’re a doctor.’
‘True.’ She gave him an impish grin that riled him even more. ‘But they don’t have one of these.’ She fished her hospital ID badge out of the pocket of her trousers.
He ought to remind her of her position as a junior doctor, Sam knew, but a glint in her eyes warned him she was expecting something of the sort. He couldn’t be more than six or seven years older than she was, but she made him feel as if there were a whole generation between them.
‘So what are you doing here on your day off?’ he asked. ‘Showing your dedication to the ward?’ Hoping for a quick promotion, perhaps? Though that was unfair. She didn’t seem the type to trample on others on her way to the top. Her dedication and enthusiasm were above question, yet Jodie Price always had time for people.
‘Actually, I’m just playing with little Amy.’ She bit her lip. ‘Poor kid. As if it isn’t bad enough being in traction at the age of eighteen months, just when she’s getting used to walking, it’s made worse by her father being “too busy” to visit her and her mother bursting into tears every time she sees the little one.’
‘And?’ he prompted, seeing the glint of tears rather than defiance in her eyes. Doctors were taught from the word go not to let themselves get so emotionally involved that it affected their judgement—but sometimes a case really tugged at your heartstrings and you forgot to be sensible.
‘Her mother’s convinced it’s all her fault that Amy’s hip joints haven’t formed properly. She had three glasses of champagne on her wedding anniversary, when she was pregnant.’ Jodie grimaced. ‘I’ve told her it’s not her fault, that clicky hip’s fairly common in babies who were breech presentation, particularly girls. It should have been picked up even before Amy’s six-week check, anyway, rather than Mrs Simcox asking her health visitor why Amy wasn’t walking at sixteen months when all her peers were, then us finding out at referral that the baby had clicky hip. But she still blames herself, so little Amy doesn’t get many visitors.
‘I’m not saying her parents should live here,’ she went on, lifting a hand to forestall any comment he might make. ‘Parents who stay during the day need to go home at night for a proper rest—which they wouldn’t get here, with monitors beeping all over the place. But I do think that a child who’s stuck in one place and is old enough to talk needs a bit of company. The nurses are brilliant with her but they’re overstretched.’ The generous mouth thinned. ‘So I’ve just been spending a few minutes talking to her and playing with her in my lunch-hour or before I go on duty.’
‘And you do that for all your patients?’
Jodie lifted her chin, and Sam realised for the first time that she was only a couple of inches shorter than he was. Around five feet ten in the flat shoes she was wearing.
‘For the ones in need, yes,’ she stated defiantly.
‘It can’t go down very well with your boyfriend.’ Why on earth had he said that?
She coloured. ‘No. It didn’t. Still, you have your round to finish, Mr Taylor. I won’t hold you up any longer.’
It didn’t. Meaning the boyfriend was history? He suddenly realised she was staring at him, expecting an answer. ‘Oh. Yes. Goodnight, Dr Price.’
Sam continued on his rounds, carefully writing up his notes on each case, but he couldn’t shake the image of the fair-haired junior doctor from his mind. Crazy. Even if he had been interested in another relationship—and his marriage to Angela had put him off that idea for good—it wouldn’t be with Jodie. Being the subject of the hospital grapevine wasn’t something he wanted to repeat. He’d been there, done that and worn the T-shirt when Angela had left him for another man.
Besides, Jodie really wasn’t his type. Casual, breezy, and way too confident for a young doctor in her position. She still had a lot to learn, about life as well as medicine.
But…
No buts, he told himself firmly. He didn’t even want to be her friend, let alone anything else.
So why ask her about her boyfriend, then? a little voice in his head queried wickedly.
Slip of the tongue.
Freudian slip, more like, the voice continued. She’s beautiful, clever, fun. And you want to—
Shut up. I’ve got a job to do.
He forced himself to concentrate on his rounds; then, just as he was about to leave the ward, he heard her laugh. A laugh that made him yearn, for a brief second, to have been the one who’d put a smile on her face.
‘See you tonight at Mario’s, Jodie,’ Fiona Ferguson, the ward sister, said. ‘Eight o’clock sharp.’
‘I’ll be on time,’ Jodie promised with a grin as she sat on the edge of the desk, swinging her long legs.
‘As if. You doctors are all the same, thinking that time and tide and pizza will wait for you,’ Fiona teased. ‘Well, if you’re late, we’ll just eat your share of the dough balls.’
‘You wouldn’t do that to a poor, starving junior doctor,’ Jodie retorted, wringing her hands theatrically and laughing. ‘Not where Mario’s dough balls are concerned…’
‘Want to bet?’ Fiona threatened, laughing back.
‘Still here, Dr Price?’ Sam asked, sauntering up to the nurses’ station.
‘Oh—Mr Taylor.’ Jodie’s smile dimmed at the implied rebuke. ‘I’m sorry. I was just…’ Her voice tailed off. What was it about Sam Taylor that unsettled her so much? She’d never had a problem with her seniors before. But he was reserved to the point of being unreachable. In the six months he’d worked with them he hadn’t once yet socialised with the staff on the ward. No wonder they’d nicknamed him Mr Frosty. She didn’t think it was just professional distance either.
The man, she decided, needed bringing out of himself. ‘Why don’t you come with us tonight?’ she suggested on impulse.
‘With you?’ He looked blank.
‘To
