there, where’s the fire?’ a deep male voice protested as she raced out of the door marked STAIRS and cannoned straight into him.
‘I’m sorry—so sorry,’ she gasped, temporarily winded. ‘But I should have been in Obstetrics and Gynaecology ten minutes ago, and—’
‘Hey, calm down,’ the man interrupted, amusement plain in his voice. ‘So you’re late. It’s hardly a hanging offence, is it?’
Which was all very well for him to say, she decided, prising her nose out of his rough tweed jacket and looking up. Nothing and no one would ever frighten this man. He was big—seriously big. OK, so at five feet six she wasn’t exactly a giant herself, but this man had to be six feet five at least.
‘Please—you’ll have to excuse me,’ she exclaimed, trying to sidestep him without success, ‘but it’s my first day on the ward, and I’m supposed to report to a Dr Dunwoody—’
‘You work in Obs and Gynae?’ he interrupted, his forehead pleating into a sudden frown.
‘As from today I do.’ She nodded. ‘I’m the department’s new junior doctor.’
‘Oh, I see.’ His frown cleared. ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about Woody. She might seem a bit brusque on the surface, but underneath she’s a real pussy cat.’
Yeah, right, Annie thought with a sinking heart. In her experience people described as pussy cats invariably turned out to be tigers, and people with nicknames always did. The last specialist registrar she’d worked under had been a classic. Jet-black hair pulled back into a tight bun and a tongue which could blister paint. And Dr Dunwoody sounded exactly the same. Wonderful. Just wonderful.
‘Look, you’ve obviously got yourself in a bit of a state so why don’t I show you the way?’ the man continued, as though he’d read her mind.
‘No, really—there’s no need,’ she protested. ‘Now I’ve found the stairs—’
‘It’s no trouble,’ he insisted. ‘As it happens, I’m going that way myself.’
Probably to visit his wife, she decided as he began taking the stairs two at a time. He wasn’t wearing any hospital identification badge, but he was wearing a wedding ring, so he’d probably come in to visit his wife before he started work. He looked like the kind of man who’d do something like that. A nice man. A kind man. The sort of man you could trust.
Oh, really? her mind whispered as she hurried to catch up with him. And since when did you get to be such an expert on men? You couldn’t tell a louse from a knight in shining armour four years ago so what makes you think you’re any better at it now?
Because a louse would never wear such an ancient tweed jacket, or a shirt with a button missing, she argued back. He’d wear something to impress, and this man clearly didn’t want—or feel the need—to impress anyone.
‘It’s very kind of you to help me,’ she said.
He threw her a smile. ‘Nonsense. The Belfield’s a regular rabbits’ warren, and I’d hate to think of you wandering around it for days.’
She would have done, too, she realised as she followed him through yet another door and up more stairs. The hospital she’d trained in had been brand-new, with colour-coded directions to the various departments, but the Belfield…
‘Where did you do your training?’ the man asked, mirroring her thoughts yet again with uncanny accuracy.
‘At the Manchester Infirmary, but this is my first post since I came back to Glasgow four years ago. That’s why I’m a bit nervous. Four years is a long time to be out of medicine, you see, and I’m just hoping I can cope, and…’
Why am I telling him this? she wondered, biting off the rest of what she’d been about to say. She’d made it her business ever since she’d come home not to make friends, not to let anyone get too close, and yet just because this big man was smiling down at her she was telling him things about herself. Things he had no right—or need—to know.
‘Are we almost there?’ she said quickly. ‘Only—’
‘You’re late. So you keep saying.’ He pushed open the door beside him and stood back. ‘There you go. Obstetrics and Gynaecology.’
It was, too, and she held out her hand with relief. ‘Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.’
‘Hey, rescuing damsels in distress is my speciality.’ He grinned, and when her own lips curved in response he nodded approvingly. ‘That’s better. Now you don’t look quite so much like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car.’
‘It’s how I feel this morning, believe me,’ she admitted, but when she tried to extricate her hand he held onto it, his face suddenly concerned.
‘Look, if you have any problems with your work—want to talk to somebody about it—I’m a very good listener.’
He looked as though he would be. Not a handsome man. No way was he a handsome man. Late thirties, she guessed, with a shock of ordinary brown hair and a pair of equally unremarkable brown eyes, but he had a nice face, and an even nicer smile.
‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ she said.
‘I mean it,’ he insisted. ‘Starting a new job—it’s often very stressful—and if you’re worried about people overhearing us, there’s lots of restaurants and pubs near the hospital where we could go and be quite private.’
Where we could be private.
A wave of disappointment coursed through her as she stared up at him. Nick had known lots of private places, too. He’d taken her to quite a few before he’d finally told her he was married but was getting a divorce. And she’d believed him. Believed every word. Well, she might have been a sap four years ago, but she wasn’t a sap any more.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said coldly, pulling her hand free.
‘It would be no trouble,’ the man declared. ‘In fact, I’d be only too happy to help.’
Nick had said that, too, she remembered, her disappointment giving way to anger.
What was it with married men nowadays? Even this man she’d thought nice, kind. Just because she’d been grateful for his help he’d seen it as an invitation to something else. A quiet lunch for two in some out-of-the-way restaurant. A quiet lunch he undoubtedly hoped would lead to something a whole lot more interesting.
Well, he could go take a running jump. Him with his frank, open face, tatty tweed jacket and shirt with one button missing. He could go take a running jump, preferably right off the top of the Kingston Bridge.
‘Won’t you be too busy, taking care of your wife?’ she snapped.
That rattled him. She could see it from the way his jaw dropped.
‘My wife?’
‘Yes, your wife. Remember her—the poor woman you promised to love and to cherish? Well, I suggest you go practice your listening skills on her, mister, because this
