conscious of the pressure of his thigh against hers. She wondered what tomorrow would bring.
Time for bed,’ she heard him say, and her eyes flew open in alarm.
He caught her surprised look before she could cover it, and smiled teasingly. ‘I’ll walk you to your room. Goodnight, Jane, Michael.’
He held her chair, and placed a warm and comfortable arm around her shoulders as they walked towards the stairs. Her arm slipped naturally around his waist and she felt the hard nudge of his hip against her side as they crossed the hallway and went up the stairs.
At the door to her room, she stopped in confusion. Did he expect her to let him in? She really felt as if she would, if he made the slightest move towards her, and yet it went so against her normal character that she felt a wild flutter of panic.
He turned her into his arms and tucked her head under his chin, the steady, even beat of his heart reassuring under her ear. His voice rumbled gently above her.
‘I don’t want to let you go, but I must. You’re tired and so am I, and so much has happened. I want some time to absorb it, and I really ought to write up my notes on this evening’s lecture.’
‘Notes?’ she whispered vaguely, and wondered how he could think of anything so totally prosaic while she was floating on a cloud of cotton-wool.
‘Notes,’ he said, more firmly. ‘It’s probably more effective than a cold shower.’
He released her gently, and, with a slow smile and the gentle pressure of his lips fleetingly on her forehead, he was gone, striding quietly down the landing. Bron watched the empty hall for minutes afterwards, hugging herself and smiling softly, then with a little laugh she let herself into her room and prepared for bed.
Oliver. She lay in bed turning over the events of the evening in her mind, hearing his voice again and seeing the way his cheek dimpled when he smiled, and the twitch of his firmly sculpted mouth.
It’s all genetic, she told herself. He can’t take any credit for the way he looks. Oh, lord, what have I promised him? With her thoughts in turmoil, and a mingled feeling of panic and trembling anticipation, she fell asleep.
‘What we are talking about here is the Golden Hour, the time between admission and stabilisation for surgery in victims of severe trauma—for example, road-traffic accidents, burns, chemical leaks, explosions, et cetera.
‘In the USA, and now in some fortunate areas of Britain, specialist Trauma Units exist, and they are specifically set up as emergency treatment centres for victims of such incidents. They have highly skilled staff available twenty-four hours a day, to provide specialist care instantly on admission. No fudging around wondering what the hell to do until the consultant has come back from lunch, or trying to phone another hospital to find out what the current treatment for chemical burns is—instant, immediate, accurate treatment within the first hour—the Golden Hour.’
The lecturer paused, and papers were handed out down the rows. These are the statistics. I think you’ll be as impressed as I was when I saw them. They outline quite clearly the importance of getting the right treatment within those crucial early minutes. OK, let’s break for coffee to give you time to look at the figures. We’ll meet back here in an hour to discuss anything you want to raise, so please don’t waste your time—you aren’t here to have fun!’
A laugh rippled round the conference, and the delegates stood and shuffled towards the coffee-lounge. Beside Bronwen, Oliver stretched and grinned. ‘Hear that, little lady? We aren’t here to have fun! Let’s go and find a corner and look at his figures—although I’d much rather look at yours.’
‘Oliver!’ Bron blushed and laughed, and he grinned again.
‘I’ll be good,’ he promised.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ she muttered under her breath, and his startled grunt of laughter made her blush again. ‘You weren’t meant to hear that.’
‘I’ll bet! Come on, let’s go and lie on the grass by the lake and study this lot.’
‘I think we ought to stay here and concentrate.’
He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘If you insist. Let’s go over the top. Michael! Grab two more coffees, there’s a good lad. I’ll find a space outside.’
Michael waved acknowledgement and turned back to Jane.
‘Those two seem to have scored a hit with each other,’ Bron commented, and Oliver shook his head.
‘Just a holiday flirtation. I don’t think either of them is taking it seriously.’
Their eyes met, and for a long moment Bron felt herself drowning in the depths of those endlessly blue eyes, but then Oliver looked away and swore softly under his breath.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Wrong? Nothing. Everything’s in perfect working order—it’s just a little public to react quite so strongly to you, and when you look at me like that my body gets a mind of its own. Come on, let’s go over there on the grass and sit down.’
He grabbed her arm and steered her quickly through the crowd, then they sank down on to the cool grass in the shade of a tree. He leaned against the trunk and studied her flushed cheeks with a reluctant smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s OK for girls, it doesn’t show. You don’t know how lucky you are. Hell, I thought by now I could control my reactions, but no one’s ever got to me the way you do.’
‘Oh, Oliver, don’t apologise. You aren’t the only one.’
Bron wrapped her arms around her knees to hide the hard jut of her nipples against the thin fabric of her dress, and looked out over the lake. ‘Why is this happening to us?’ she asked in a strained voice, and she felt his hand reach out and trace the line of her shoulder under the strap of her dress.
‘I don’t know. I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done to deserve you, but I can’t tell you how glad I am—hi, Michael. Drag up a blade of grass and join us.’
Bronwen looked up to find Jane watching her curiously. ‘What did you think of the lecture?’
Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘Excellent. Have you seen the figures?’
‘We were just getting round to that,’ Oliver put in, and Michael snorted with laughter.
‘Bull! Right, grab a coffee and let’s confer.’
Bron listened, putting in the odd comment, but content by and large to listen to Oliver’s voice and to learn from his remarks. He was obviously very aware of current trends, and Bron was willing to bet that he was an excellent and conscientious doctor.
The conversation became more general, and she gathered that Michael was a senior registrar in the A and E department of Guy’s, where Oliver was a surgical SR. She also learned that Oliver was waiting for the results of his FRCS exams, which he had completed recently.
‘Hard?’ she asked, and he raised his eyes to the sky.
‘I’ll say! I’ve never worked so hard
