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He was coldhearted and arrogant…and she loved him to distraction.
Sarah had been happy working at the hospital—until Radolf Nauta interfered and left her jobless. Forced to find other means to support herself, she was totally unprepared when she ran into the domineering Radolf again—and he hadn’t changed one bit! The only problem Sarah had? She soon realized that her heart now belonged to him, and there was nothing she could do to fight it.
She knew at once who it was, for her nose was within an inch of a vast expanse of waistcoat which could belong only to the Professor.
She said crossly, “Oh, no…” and then, aghast at her own rudeness, “Good afternoon, Professor Nauta.”
She detected mockery in his “Good afternoon, Miss Fletcher,” and his slow appraisal of her person. “Well, well, it would be rude to say that I scarcely recognize you, wouldn’t it? Would it be appropriate for me to quote Chaucer? ‘And she was fair as is the rose in May…’”
Sarah eyed him with dislike. “Roses have thorns—Shakespeare said that—and good day to you, Professor. You are not only rude, you are unkind, too.”
She looked up at him with her pansy eyes and met his hard gaze unwaveringly, and then was totally disarmed by his sudden smile. It was kind and friendly and contrite.
“Forgive me, Sarah. I am not sure what prompted me to speak to you like that. I wonder why, when we meet, I feel the urge to annoy you?”
“I have no idea,” said Sarah, trying to ignore the smile….
Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of Betty Neels in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality, and her spirit and genuine talent live on in all her stories.
Roses Have Thorns
The Best of
Betty
Neels
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
SARAH SAT BEHIND her desk and watched the first of the patients for Professor Nauta’s clinic come in through the swing-doors. Led, as usual, by old Colonel Watkins, recovering for the third time from a stroke and eighty if he was a day. The Professor’s clinic started at half-past eight and it had become Sarah’s responsibility, although she wasn’t sure how it had happened, to come on duty early in order to check his patients; the other two receptionists, married ladies with homes, husbands and children to cope with, were adamant about leaving exactly on time and not a minute later, just as they arrived exactly when they should and not a moment sooner. So that Professor Nauta’s clinic, held weekly at eight-thirty, invariably fell to the lot of Sarah, who, being single, living alone and therefore from their point of view without cares, was the obvious one of the trio to come early or stay late.
The Colonel was followed by Mrs Peach, who had been coming for years, and hard on her heels came a pair of teenagers, giving their names with a good deal of giggling, and after them a steady stream of people, most of whom Sarah knew by sight if not by name. She bade each one of them good morning, made sure that the new patients knew what was wanted of them, and ticked off her neat list. There were five minutes to go before the half-hour when the last patient arrived, and exactly on the half-hour the Professor came through the swing-doors, letting in a great deal of chilly March air. Sarah took a quick look at him and decided that he seemed no more impatient and ill-tempered than usual. He was a very big man, tall and broad-shouldered and good-looking, with fair hair already grey at the temples, a high-bridged nose and a thin mouth. His eyes were pale blue which turned to steel when he was annoyed—which was quite often, although it was conceded by those who worked for him at St Cyprian’s that he was invariably kindness itself to his patients, however tiresome they were.
He went past Sarah’s desk with a snappy, ‘Good morning, Miss Fletcher,’ and a glance so brief that he couldn’t have noticed if she had been wearing a blonde wig and spectacles. She would have been very surprised to know that he had taken in her appearance down to the last button as he’d gone past her. Small, a little too thin, pleasant-faced without being pretty, beautiful pansy eyes, a thin, delicate nose, a wide mouth and a crown of hair which took her some considerable time to put up each morning. He had noted her sparkling white blouse, too, and the fact that she wore nothing which jangled, only a sensible wristwatch. A sensible young woman, he reflected briefly, as neat as a new pin and not given to chat. Not all that young—late twenties, perhaps, although she had the freshness of a young girl. He reached his consulting-room, greeting the nurse waiting for him, and sat down at his desk, dismissing Miss Fletcher from his mind without effort, listening to Colonel Watkins’ tetchy old voice complaining about the treatment he was having at the physiotherapy with a patience and sympathy at variance with the cool manner he demonstrated towards the hospital staff.
Sarah, left to herself for a time, got on with the morning’s chores until Mrs Drew and Mrs Pearce arrived, and, hard on their heels, the first patients for the Surgical Outpatients; after that there was no time for anything but the work at hand until, one by one, they went along to the canteen for their coffee-break. As Sarah made her way back to her desk she could see the vast back of Professor Nauta, trailed by his registrar and a houseman, disappearing down the long corridor leading to the main hospital. He was walking fast and she felt a fleeting pity for his companions, who while trying to keep up with him were probably being treated to some of his impatient and caustic remarks.
The day, wet and windy as only March could be, darkened early. The clinics were finishing, Sarah and her companions had gone in turn to their cups of tea and, since there was nothing much to do, she had been left to deal with the telephone or any enquiries while they went to tidy themselves up so that, promptly at five o’clock, they could leave to catch their
