‘Yes, that’s right.’
Drusilla was looking a bit uncomfortable and Kat cursed her own insensitivity at referring to the accident.
‘You’d probably be better off getting someone else,’ she felt impelled to point out. ‘You know I’ve specialised in working with children for several years now.’
‘That might come in very handy when dealing with Matthew,’ Matthew’s mother reflected drily. ‘At heart most men are little boys.’
Kat’s fuzzy mental image of an over-indulged mummy’s boy intensified.
‘The problem is he’s never had a day’s illness in his life and he’s not making the most patient patient, poor dear. He needs cheering up, and small wonder! That terrible accident was bad enough, but then that awful girl proceeded to dump him.’ The blue eyes flashed with maternal ire. ‘I suppose we ought to be grateful she waited for him to be taken off the critical list before she went ranting on hysterically to those awful newspapers about him never walking again! “Horribly disfigured,” I ask you…!’
Kat’s grey eyes softened with sympathy. ‘I didn’t know… They can do marvellous things with facial reconstruction.’
‘Heavens, no; there was hardly a mark on his face. Obviously you don’t escape such a horrific accident with no scars,’ Drusilla conceded. ‘But the main problem was being forced to lie flat on his back with the spinal injury for so long; he’s had far too much time to brood. I knew the moment I saw you that you were just the girl for the job!’
‘Let’s hope your son thinks the same.’
It seemed strange to Kat that her new patient wasn’t having any say in the choice of his physio, but then for all she knew he might be the sort of man who let Mummy buy his socks for him!
There were a lot of men out there who still relied heavily on their mothers well into their thirties—she’d met one or two herself. She sometimes wondered if something about her screamed ‘substitute mother’ they certainly seemed to gravitate towards her.
‘Oh, I’m sure Matthew will love you.’
Nothing could have been more heartily confident than Drusilla’s firm tone… So why was Kat getting the distinct impression things weren’t quite as straightforward as the older woman was implying?
‘He does know that you’re…?’
‘You might find Matthew a little…erm…resistant…’ Drusilla was obviously choosing her words with care. ‘But you must promise me one thing.’ Her blue eyes gleamed with urgency as she caught hold of Kat’s hand. ‘Don’t listen to him if he tells you he doesn’t need you. Promise me, Kathleen!’
Kat felt slightly uneasy and a little embarrassed by the older woman’s intensity. ‘You’re the boss,’ she agreed, a shade of unease in her voice.
Kat had appreciated that her mother’s childhood friend had married money, but she hadn’t appreciated how much money until she arrived at that lady’s country cottage. A shooting box for some titled lord originally, its rooms were all on a grand scale and the opulent decor which was sympathetic to the period was out of this world. She just knew she’d live in constant fear of breaking some priceless ornament.
After the housekeeper—Kat’s idea that her ill-defined duties might need to stretch as far as the kitchen and the odd bit of light housework were fast fading—had shown her to her room, where she’d found a large bouquet of flowers and a warm letter from Drusilla apologising for her absence, Kat had explored the neatly kept grounds.
She was repelling the over-friendly advances of a large bee which had detached itself from the low lavender hedge that ran the entire length of the neatly trimmed lawn when a gleaming black Jag drew up on the gravelled forecourt.
The opportunist bee took advantage of Kat’s lapse in concentration and stung her on the inner part of her exposed forearm—great timing! She was vaguely aware that a good deal of door-slamming and gravel-crunching was going on whilst she was hopping around biting her lips stoically.
Kat was just getting on top of the pain when she heard a deep gravelly voice bad-temperedly demand, ‘Well, don’t just stand there, Joe, get rid of her!’
The strong clipped tones didn’t fit with the firm image in her mind of a wan, pain-ravaged invalid. She opened her eyes and blinked back the tears of pain to find a tall gangly chap of about thirty looking anxiously down at her. He looked nice, but a picture of health.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I was stung by a bee.’ She peered towards the area of her arm which was already puffy and inflamed.
‘You poor thing. Let me have a look…’
So much for all the elaborate subterfuge to ensure his privacy! Someone at the hospital must have passed on the information to the press. Matt Devlin quickly got tired of waiting for Joe to get rid of the unwanted visitor and eased himself slowly from the low-slung vehicle. By the time he was standing on the gravelled forecourt beads of sweat stood out on his brow.
Matt propelled himself with the assistance of the much-despised crutches to find out what was taking so long. Once he was in a position to get his first proper view of the girl he stopped wondering.
Honey-blonde hair pulled back into a cute ponytail to reveal a simpering smile—that was no way genuine—pinned on a face that was all scrubbed cheeks, innocent big eyes and sexy lips. Then, last but not least—definitely not least—there was the body. No anorexic waif, this one; Lara Croft meets the girl next door! In short, the babe of dopes like Joe’s collective dreams.
Joe had a vacuous grin on his face. It made Matt feel embarrassed just to look at it; he’d seen sheep that looked more intelligent than his best friend did at this moment! A superior sneer tugged at the corners of his lips. The women in his dreams had more going for them than insipid prettiness.
‘Matt,’ Joe hailed him. ‘Kat here has been stung by a wasp.’
Matt watched sourly as he held the babe’s slim arm out for his inspection.
‘Bee,’ the babe said in a brisk, un-babe-like voice.
Matt found she was looking critically at himself, not Joe. Her eyes were large, clear grey, lushly fringed by dark curling lashes and tilted ever so slightly at the outer corners.
Bimbo, yes…brainless, no… No amount of mascara or cheesy grins could disguise the intelligence lurking in those crystal-clear depths.
‘Are you another one from that damned woman’s magazine? I’ve already told your editor where she can stick her story!’ He felt a surge of grim satisfaction as he watched her high-voltage smile gutter.
The reference meant nothing to Kat, so she could shake her head in vigorous denial with a clear conscience.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ His silence oozed disbelief. ‘You are Matthew Devlin…?’ A case of mistaken identity…? The optimist in her soared before his abrasive response brought her crashing down to earth with a thud.
‘I know who I am. Who are you?’
