together, woman. ‘I’m sorry, but what were you talking about?’
He rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘You wouldn’t make a very good undercover agent.’
‘I’ve never needed to,’ she replied, stung. ‘But Doris—’
‘KGB-trained.’ He nodded as she tried to smother a laugh and failed. ‘Leastways, that’s what most of us reckon.’
He had a sense of humour. Now, that was a surprise. It was also disconcerting, it was…
Sexy?
No, of course it wasn’t sexy. Gabriel Dalgleish was not sexy. Just because he was actually smiling at her, an oddly crooked and strangely appealing smile, and he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal a pair of muscular arms covered with a light down of dark hair, it didn’t mean he was sexy. He was stiff and starchy and probably performed sex exactly as he did everything else. Coolly, efficiently, mechanically, and yet…
‘You can relax now,’ he said. ‘Doris has just left. Not that you’ll be able to avoid her permanently, but at least you’ve postponed the evil hour today.’
‘Oh. Right. Thank you.’ She got to her feet awkwardly. ‘I’ll leave you in peace now.’
‘No, stay. Talk to me.’
Talk to him? What did you talk to your boss about? The latest patient admissions, the crisis in the health service?
‘I—’
‘Annie was right—your name does suit you.’
‘You mean, I’m a sandwich short of a picnic,’ she said ruefully. ‘I know I must seem like that to you, running away from Doris, but—’
‘Not a sandwich short of a picnic, more…madcap.’
‘That’s an improvement?’ she protested, and he laughed.
He actually laughed, and then she noticed something else. He looked exhausted. Sitting so close to him like this she could see that his eyes were bloodshot with fatigue, there was a very definite trace of five o’clock shadow on his jaw, and his normally immaculate black hair was rumpled and untidy.
How many hours had he worked this week? According to his roster he was supposed to work a ten-hour day but Nell had been complaining only yesterday that he was hounding the night shift.
‘You work too hard,’ she said.
‘Jonah keeps telling me that.’
‘Jonah’s right.’
‘Jonah worries too much,’ he said dismissively.
What else had Jonah said? ‘There’s no room for failure in his life.’
Surely Gabriel wasn’t insecure enough to think his whole department would collapse unless he was there? No, of course, he wasn’t. He just arrogantly believed nobody could do the job as well as he could, and yet…
‘Let’s just say his family has a lot to answer for,’ Jonah had said.
Had something happened to Gabriel in his youth, something that had scarred him, making him the man he was today? It would certainly explain a lot, and perhaps she should be feeling sorry for him rather than always angry with him. Perhaps she should…
This is how you became involved with Andrew, her mind warned. First you felt sorry for him, then you made all kinds of allowances for him, and it was only after a lot of pain and heartache that you discovered there was nothing about Andrew to feel sorry for. He was just a rat fink.
‘Can I ask you something, Mr Dalgleish?’ she said as he reached for the carafe of water on the table next to them. ‘It’s nothing earth-shattering,’ she added, seeing his hand hesitate and his eyes grow wary. ‘It’s just…Call it curiosity—call it downright nosiness—but what makes you happy?’
‘I think you calling me Gabriel might be a start,’ he observed, and to her annoyance she felt her cheeks redden.
What the heck was she blushing for? He was simply asking her to call him by his first name, as any boss might do.
‘OK, I’ll call you Gabriel if you’ll call me Maddie,’ she said. ‘And you haven’t answered my question.’
‘What makes me happy?’ He thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘Seeing a tiny preemie pull through against all the odds and eventually go home with his or her parents.’
‘I can understand that.’ She nodded. ‘What else?’
‘The neonatal unit,’ he said, his eyes no longer wary but enthusiastic. ‘When I was first appointed the staff weren’t motivated, the equipment was ancient, and we were constantly having to transfer babies down south because there was no way we could treat them properly. Now we can keep them here, give them the best care available.’
‘I can see how that would give you a sense of personal achievement,’ she said slowly, ‘but when I asked what made you happy I meant—well, I mean on a more personal level.’
‘But that is a personal level,’ he protested. ‘There’s nothing more important to me than my work.’
‘And a cow is a ruminating quadruped,’ she murmured, and he gazed at her blankly.
‘A cow is a what?’
‘It’s a quotation from Hard Times by Charles Dickens. A little boy who has been brought up never to think of fun or fantasy is asked to describe a cow and he says, “A cow is a ruminating quadruped.”’
He frowned. ‘And your point is?’
‘That just as cows are more than simply creatures with four legs who eat grass, life should be more than just work. It should be fun and laughter and dreams and…’ She shook her head as he gazed at her, clearly bemused. ‘You’re right. There is no point, and I must go. My lunch hour is over and I have a stack of work to do.’
He nodded, but when she reached the canteen door she stopped and gazed back at him. He was still sitting at his table, and the frown on his forehead had deepened. He was a strange man, such a strange man. All arrogance and efficiency on the surface, and yet underneath…
A small chuckle broke from her. Unless she could go back in time and come back as a preemie, she was never going to find out what he was like underneath.
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