paintings caught her eye.
In it a bright and vigorous sun shone cheerfully on a picture-book cottage, and a raggy tortoiseshell cat perched on the wall outside. ‘Dear Dr Rob,’ the straggling inscription read, ‘I’m better now. I love you. Trudy.’
‘Who’s Trudy?’ she asked with a smile.
She had thought he was ugly, has face too rugged for good looks, his heavy brows and battered nose no adornment to the rough-hewn plains and valleys of his cheeks above the jutting jaw. Then he smiled, and the sun lit up his midnight eyes and scattered in a million rays from the corners, and the brackets round his mouth deepened as a slow chuckle rose from his chest. Goodness, she thought, why ever did I think he was ugly? She had to force herself to take a breath.
‘A young fan,’ he admitted gently. ‘A real treasure, bless her.’
He closed the door and moved round behind the vast mahogany desk. ‘Take a seat. What can I do for you?’
She continued to stand, the lingering traces of a smile touching her eyes, and held out her hand. ‘I’m Jamie Cameron—I believe you’re expecting me.’
An expression of puzzlement crossed his face, and then he let out his breath on a harsh rush of disbelief.
‘Who?’
Her smile slipped, and she retrieved her hand from the air over his desk and tucked it into her jacket pocket. ‘Jamie Cameron. You were expecting me?’
‘No—that is, I was expecting a Dr Cameron, but I certainly wasn’t expecting you!’
‘Pardon?’
‘You’re a woman,’ he said accusingly.
She glanced down at herself and blinked. ‘So I am.
How astonishing!’
He glowered at her.
‘Is that a problem?’
‘A problem?’ he growled. ‘Are you joking?’
She lost the last of her smile. ‘Dr Buchanan, I can’t pretend to understand, but I can assure you I have in my bag a letter from you asking me to join you in the practice, initially for a trial period——’
‘Not you,’ he insisted. ‘There must be some mistake. Perhaps there were two candidates—Janie and Jamie are very similar——’
‘So they might be, but I’m Jamie, with an “m”—you know, for monkey?’
‘Not nuts?’ he said with an unexpected touch of humour.
Her lips twitched. ‘Not until I got here!’
His eyes swept her fleetingly, as if to check that she was indeed a woman, and he dropped heavily into his chair with a sigh. He muttered something under his breath that she pretended not to hear, and then he shot back the chair and strode over to the filing cabinet.
Yanking out a file, he returned to the desk and slapped the file down amid the papers that littered its surface. Several of them drifted off the edge of the desk and she bent to retrieve them. His finger traced down the application form to the M/F question, and stabbed the circled F viciously.
‘Oh, God, bloody hell. Why didn’t I see it before?’ he said bitterly.
She straightened up and glanced round at the chaos. ‘Perhaps because you were rushed off your feet and barely able to cope?’ she suggested gently.
‘More than likely,’ he muttered brusquely. ‘That’s why I wasn’t at the interview. Damn! Another wait. Oh, well, it can’t be helped——’
‘Wait? What are you talking about?’
He slapped the file shut and pushed away from the desk, propping his huge feet on the edge. ‘You can’t stay. Surely you can see that?’
She shook her head. Maybe the ten-hour drive had affected her mind, but she didn’t think so. ‘I don’t see that at all. I’m perfectly qualified to do the job!’
He cranked an eyebrow. ‘On paper, maybe.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Tell me, Dr Buchanan, how many suitable applicants did you have?’
He sighed and ran his hand through the tangle of black locks that fell forward over his brow. ‘Only you,’ he admitted reluctantly, but he met her eyes frankly. ‘You were the only suitably qualified applicant stupid enough to want to work out here in the wilds of nowhere who had enough money to invest in the practice and no overriding need to escape from the world. That’s why you were offered the job. That, and because I thought with a name like yours you would be a Scotsman with some understanding of the country.’
‘And would you have put my application forward if you’d realised I was a woman?’ she asked quietly.
He met her eye without a qualm. ‘No way. This is no place for a girl.’
‘Rubbish! Lots of women live out here quite happily!’ She stressed the word ‘women’ slightly but deliberately. His gaze flicked over her, and returned to her eyes.
‘They’re raised to it. You aren’t. You belong in the city, Dr Cameron, not the wilds of Scotland. You aren’t safe here.’
She gave a harsh, bitter laugh. ‘Dr Buchanan, I did my GP trainee year in an inner-city practice. In one month alone my flat was burgled three times and I was mugged and almost raped while I was making a night visit. You call that safe?’
He gave her a level look. There are different types of safety. Up here, you get into difficulties in the snow and good men are going to risk their lives to help you.’
‘And they wouldn’t help you? What if you got stuck in the snow?’
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Superman, eh?’ She snorted. ‘God deliver me from arrogant male chauvinists!’
‘If I have my way, He will,’ Dr Buchanan muttered, reaching for the phone. Two seconds later he slammed the receiver back down and growled something unintelligible.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sunday,’ he said succinctly. ‘There’ll be nobody there.’ He glared at her for a moment or two, and then, as if he had made up his mind about something, he unfolded his long body and stood up. ‘I’ve got two calls to make. You might as well come with me, then you’ll get some idea of what we’re up against. Perhaps it’ll put you off.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she muttered.
His craggy brows shot up. ‘What?’
‘I said that will be very nice.’ Ignoring her pounding head and the crick in her back from the long day behind the wheel, she rose calmly to her feet and followed him. He went into an office that was marginally more chaotic than the surgery, and retrieved two sets of notes from the wall of patient files, then picking up a battered old medical bag in one hand and his
