a tragic waste.’
‘You think so? I’m quite content—–’
‘Content?’ he snorted. ‘Damn, Clare, a woman as beautiful as you should be more than content——’
She fixed him with a withering look. ‘If you’re offering to relieve my sexual frustration, Mr Barrington, you can save yourself the trouble. The answer’s no!’
He threw back his head and laughed, a rich, warm laugh that rolled round her senses and left her feeling even more disorientated. Then he sobered slightly, and shot her a disarming grin. ‘It’s usual to wait until you’re asked, isn’t it? As a matter of fact, I wasn’t offering—yet. Although, to be fair, I might well have got round to it——’
‘You all do, some more quickly than others, but in the end you all make the same moves,’ she said with a touch of bitterness, ‘and the answer’s always the same. Thanks, but no, thanks. Hadn’t you better go?’
‘Yes, I must. I’ll see you later, Clare. Thanks for the ward-round and the coffee.’
And he was gone, leaving her feeling fraught with conflicting emotions. What a way for their professional relationship to get off the ground! Dear God, perhaps she had over-reacted, but there was no mistaking his interest. At twenty-five, Clare was something of an expert at interpreting masculine appraisal, and she was seldom mistaken.
And that man was interested.
Well, he’d soon discover that she wasn’t that sort of girl, and, with his looks, if all he wanted was a little recreation he would soon be overrun with offers.
Sighing a little and not understanding quite why, Clare left the office and went about her duties.
Her peace was short-lived. He was back at one with Mr Mayhew, the orthopaedic consultant, and David Blake, the junior registrar, and he looked even better than her fevered mind had remembered.
Sister O’Brien fell instantly under his spell, the motherly woman welcoming him to the ward like the prodigal son, and Clare watched in helpless fascination as he examined the two patients whose hip replacements he had performed that morning.
‘Good. That looks fine,’ he said with a smile, covering up the second patient, and turning to Clare to hand her the notes. ‘Thank you, Staff,’ he said, then, lowering his voice, he added, ‘What are you doing after you wash your hair?’
Ripping it out in handfuls, she thought, and choked down the laugh. ‘Nothing,’ she admitted quietly.
Then come with me. Just a simple meal—nothing elaborate. Take pity on a stranger, Clare. I don’t know a soul—doesn’t it worry you that I’ll be going home to a strange house all alone tonight, and every night? No one to talk to, to share anything with, except my cat, and his conversational skills are strictly limited. Please?’
‘All right,’ she relented with a laugh. ‘When and where?’
‘Do you live in the hospital?’
She nodded.
‘Main entrance, seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up.’
‘OK. What shall I wear?’
‘Anything—jeans? They do good food in the village pub, and we can sit in the garden. Must go. I’ll see you at seven.’
As he turned, she was conscious of Sister O’Brien’s interested scrutiny. They walked back to her office in silence, and for a moment Clare thought she’d got away with it. She was wrong.
‘Nice young man. You seemed to hit it off very well with him, Clare.’
‘He asked me to spare him some time this evening to tell him about the hospital—routine, things he ought to know, et cetera—you know how it is when you start somewhere new,’ she said, modifying the truth for the sake of convention. Not for the world would she reveal how her heart had soared and spun out of control as he had handed back the notes and his hand had deliberately brushed against hers.
Sister O’Brien smiled to herself. About time, she thought. ‘You’ll enjoy it, dear—do you good to get out. Now, about Pete Sawyer—I believe Mr Mayhew wants Mr Barrington to have a go at refixing that wrist—I think they’re going to try a bone graft now his pelvis is nearly healed and they can take bone from the ilium. Perhaps that’ll do the trick.’
Just so long as he doesn’t amputate for the hell of it, she thought to herself as she recalled their earlier conversation.
The day dragged. Not even to herself would Clare admit the reason, but as she went off-duty and found herself rummaging through her wardrobe for an appropriate alternative to jeans for a pub snack, she was brought up sharply against the realisation that her tingling sense of anticipation had only one cause—and that cause was Michael Barrington.
‘Damn!’ she muttered to herself, and all through her shower and preparation for the evening, she worried about her reaction to him. Because he was quite evidently a womaniser, and she had no intention of surrendering her hard-fought scruples to some trifling playboy just because he made her senses reel!
Her preparations complete, she stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and studied her reflection. Her blonde hair, released form the starched white cap and freshly washed, tumbled in casual layers to brush her collar lightly at the back. Her make-up, slightly heavier than usual, was still restricted to a smudge of soft grey-green shadow over her wide almond-shaped eyes, a touch of soft pink lipstick and the lightest feathering of mascara to tint the pale tips of her lashes. Casual, he had said, so she was wearing a soft cotton sweater the same grey-green as her eyes, and a pair of culottes in a rust and green print. Her legs were bare, her feet comfortably shod in soft cotton canvas slip-ons. She wondered if the whole effect was too casual, but it was too late to worry.
At five to seven, her heart pounding, she let herself out of her flat and made her way down to the main entrance of the hospital.
As she emerged on to the steps she saw Michael in the staff car park, deep in conversation with two of the consultants. She hung back, not quite ready yet to have her name publicly connected to his, but he had seen her and, making his excuses, he strode quickly towards her, a smile on his lips.
‘Clare—you’re on time!’
‘What did you expect?’
He laughed. ‘I expected you to be like most girls—late!’
‘I’m not most girls,’ she said repressively, and he laughed again.
‘So I’m beginning to realise. Come on, I’m starving.’ He took her arm and led her towards the car park. ‘Oh, I have a confession—I rang the pub, and they don’t do food on a Monday night, so before I spring it on you I wondered if you would consider allowing me to cook for you.’
Her heart sank. Here we go, she thought, and she slowed to a halt.
‘In your house?’
‘My cottage. You needn’t worry, I’m a good cook, but apart from the local pub I haven’t found anywhere else yet in the few days since I moved—by all means suggest something else if you’d rather, but I can promise you I have no intention of jumping
