Knave of Hearts. Caroline Anderson

       CHAPTER ONE

      WHAT a way to spend Valentine’s Day, Anne thought wearily as she stripped off her gloves. The most romantic day of the year, and what am I doing? Inserting perineal sutures!

      ‘Congratulations.’ Smiling tiredly at the happy parents of a brand-new baby boy, she left them in the care of the midwife, her suturing finished.

      It had been a tricky labour and she’d had to use Keilland’s forceps to turn the baby before she could deliver him safely.

      Theatre had been alerted, and the locum covering for Jo Carter, Anne’s senior registrar and boss, had been contacted in case he was required.

      In the event Anne had managed without any problems, and she imagined the locum had gone home.

      She was wrong.

      The new guy’s waiting for you in Sister’s office,’ one of the junior midwives told her.

      ‘Lucky you,’ her colleague said with a laugh. ‘I wish he was waiting for me!’

      Anne smiled wryly. ‘Not another Casanova,’ she sighed theatrically.

      The nurses tittered.

      ‘He’s like a cross between Superman and Dirty Harry,’ the second girl told her. ‘Just point him in my direction if you’ve got no use for him!’

      Just then Sister walked out of her office and the two trainee midwives snapped to attention and faded out of the corridor like magic.

      ‘Ah, Dr Gabriel,’ she said. ‘All finished? Come and meet Dr Carter’s locum. I have to go and see someone in the other delivery-room, but I think it’s straightforward. I’ll call you if I need you.’ She smiled conspiratorially and lowered her voice. ‘Take your time—I gather you’re old friends.’

      Anne frowned in puzzlement after the woman as she walked briskly down the corridor.

      ‘Old friends?’

      With a shake of her head, Anne walked through the door and stopped dead in her tracks.

      It couldn’t be … could it?

      ‘Jake …?’

      ‘Hello, Annie. Happy Valentine’s Day.’

      The man was lounging against the window, and as she stood there he shouldered himself away from the glass and moved towards her.

      He was tallish, perhaps not quite six feet, but broad and well muscled, heavier than she remembered him but with the sleek heaviness of a big cat, all controlled power and rippling masculinity. His hair was dark, almost black, and fell forwards over his brow. It was shorter than it had been—it always used to fall over his eyes, but nearly eight years could bring a lot of changes.

      There were other changes, too—lines around his eyes and mouth, not just the laughter lines that had always been there but the others that came with maturity, although in his case more likely just with age. His jaw was heavily shadowed but then it always was, even when he had just shaved. It was typical of his blatant sexuality that he had always needed to shave twice a day, she remembered with painful clarity.

      He reached her then, his brooding, sensual face softened by a smile that cut deep grooves into his cheeks and set his eyes alight, those warm, deep brown eyes that could see right through you and could melt the deepest recesses of your heart—if you let them.

      Annie had, once—long, long ago—but never again. She turned away.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, her voice rough with shock.

      ‘I thought you’d know all about it—Jo asked me.’

      Jo—of

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