A Nurse to Tame the Playboy
Maggie Kingsley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Praise for Maggie Kingsley:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Copyright

MAGGIE KINGSLEY says she can’t remember a time when she didn’t want to be a writer, but she put her dream on hold and decided to ‘be sensible’ and become a teacher instead. Five years at the chalk face was enough to convince her she wasn’t cut out for it, and she ‘escaped’ to work for a major charity. Unfortunately—or fortunately!—a back injury ended her career, and when she and her family moved to a remote cottage in the north of Scotland it was her family who nagged her into attempting to make her dream a reality. Combining a love of romantic fiction with a knowledge of medicine gleaned from the many professionals in her family, Maggie says she can’t now imagine ever being able to have so much fun legally doing anything else!

For my father, who was always my severest critic, and who I very much hope would have enjoyed this book.

Praise for Maggie Kingsley:

A BABY FOR EVE

‘Maggie Kingsley is a superb writer of romantic fiction…Her breathtaking storytelling prowess ensures that all of her books sparkle with terrific characterisation, nail-biting drama and outstanding emotional punch, and A BABY FOR EVE is certainly no exception! I’ve been reading category romances for a very long time, but I’ve never come across a novel that has moved me so much. A BABY FOR EVE is extremely well-written, intelligent, sensitively told, heartwarming and heartbreaking, and destined to become one of the classics of category romance.’

—Cataromance.com

THE PLAYBOY CONSULTANT

‘Maggie Kingsley brings to life a heroine and a hero to cheer for, along with a host of other captivating characters.’

—RT Book Reviews

Chapter One

Monday, 10:05 p.m.

IT WAS a truism known to every woman over the age of twenty-five, Brontë O’Brian thought wryly as she gazed down through the large observation window at the man standing below her in the forecourt of ED7 ambulance station. There were two types of men in the world. There were the dependable men, the reliable men, the men who—if you had any sense—you settled down with, and then there were men like Elijah Munroe.

‘He’s quite something, isn’t he?’ Marcie Gallagher, one of the callers from the Emergency Medical Dispatch Centre, observed wistfully as she joined her.

‘So I’ve heard,’ Brontë replied.

And not just heard. She knew exactly how tall Elijah Munroe was—six feet two—how his thick black hair flopped so endearingly over his forehead, how his startlingly blue eyes could melt ice, and how his smile always started at one corner of his mouth, then spread slowly across his face, until every woman—be she nineteen or ninety—was lost.

‘Unfortunately, Eli doesn’t do long term,’ Marcie continued, and Brontë nodded.

She knew that, too. She knew that for a couple of months every woman Elijah dated walked around on air, completely convinced he was The One, until one morning with a smile—always with that smile—he was gone.

‘I’m surprised one of his ex-girlfriends hasn’t skewered him with a surgical instrument,’ she observed, and Marcie shrugged.

‘What reason could you give? It’s not like he promises he’ll stay. He’s always upfront about not being into commitment.’

‘Very clever.’

‘Honest, surely?’ Marcie protested.

No, clever, Brontë thought firmly, as she noticed that Elijah Munroe had been joined by the head of ED7 ambulance station, George Leslie. Very clever indeed to always be able to get exactly what he wanted by appearing to be upfront and on the level, but then she’d never thought Elijah was a stupid man.

‘Only a leopard who never changes his spots,’ she muttered under her breath, but Marcie heard her.

‘You know him?’ she said, curiosity instantly plain on her lovely face, and Brontë shook her head quickly.

Which wasn’t a lie. Not a complete lie. Elijah having dated three of her ex-flatmates before just as quickly dumping them hardly qualified as knowing him, especially as the one time they’d met in Wendy’s hallway he’d walked straight past her without a word. A fact which still rankled considerably more than it should have done.

‘We’re all eaten up with curiosity, wondering who he’s been dating for the past couple of months,’ Marcie continued. ‘Normally we find out within twenty-four hours, but he’s been remarkably coy about his current girlfriend.’

Coy wasn’t a word Brontë would have used to describe Elijah Munroe. Rat fink, low-life, scumbag…Those were the words she would have used but she had no intention of telling Marcie Gallagher that.

‘It’s quarter past ten,’ she said instead. ‘I’d better get down to the bay.’

‘Can you find your own way there?’ Marcie asked. ‘I’d take you myself, but…’

‘You need to get back to EMDC for the start of your shift.’ Brontë smiled. ‘No problem.’

And Elijah Munroe wouldn’t be a problem either, she told herself as Marcie Gallagher hurried away. So what if she was going to be shadowing him around the Edinburgh streets for the next seven nights, watching his every move? She was thirty-five years old, knew exactly how he operated, how many hearts he’d broken, and that knowledge gave her power.

Oh, who was she kidding? she thought as she turned back to the observation window in time to see Elijah smile at something George Leslie had said and felt her heart give a tiny wobble. Knowing his reputation didn’t make her any less susceptible to his charm, and he had charm by the bucket load.

‘Which means it’s just as well Elijah Munroe only ever dates pretty women,’ she told her reflection in the glass. ‘Pretty women with model-girl figures, and impossibly long legs, and you don’t fit the bill on any of those counts.’

For which she was truly grateful. Or at least she should try to be, she thought with a sigh as she squared her shoulders and walked towards the staircase which would lead her down to the very last man on earth she had ever wanted to work with.

‘Why me?’

Elijah Munroe’s tone was calm, neutral, and if George Leslie hadn’t been his boss for five years he might have been deceived, but George wasn’t deceived.

‘I don’t suppose you’d settle for, “Why not you?‘” he said with a broad, avuncular smile, then sighed as Elijah gave him a hard stare. ‘No, I didn’t think you would. Eli, we both know Frank’s going to be off sick for at least a fortnight. I’ve no one to team you up with, and I can’t send out an ambulance unless it’s two-manned, so unless you’d rather sit on your butt in the office…’

‘I’m stuck with the number cruncher,’ Eli finished for him. ‘You do realise sending her out on the road with me is probably illegal? Okay, so she’s only going to drive, but what if I discover I need help—that I’ve been sent on a two-man job?’

‘Miss O’Brian is a fully qualified nurse. In fact, she was a charge nurse in A and E at the Waverley General until a year ago,’ George Leslie declared triumphantly, and Eli frowned.

ED7 ambulance station might be situated in the heart of Edinburgh’s old town, which meant most of the patients he collected ended up in the Pentland Infirmary, but he’d occasionally had to go to the Waverley and he couldn’t remember any nurse called O’Brian.

‘George—’

‘Eli, if the ambulance service have decided she’s not just qualified enough to drive, but also to assist you if required, that’s good enough for me, and it should be good enough for you.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Seven nights,’ George Leslie said in his best placating tone. ‘Seven night shifts when she’ll drive you around—’

‘Noting down all she considers to be ED7’s inefficiencies—’

‘Which is why it’s vital you keep her sweet,’ George Leslie declared, then his lips twitched. ‘And I know how easy it is for you to keep women sweet.’

‘Anyone ever tell you you’d make an excellent pimp?’ Eli said drily, and his boss’s smile widened.

‘Oh, come on, Eli, it’s common knowledge you’ve a way with the ladies.’

‘And right now I’m on the wagon. And before you ask,’ Eli continued as his boss’s eyebrows rose, ‘it’s not because I’ve contracted a sexually communicable disease. I’ve just decided to take a break from dating for three months.’

‘Eli, I’m not asking you to get inside Miss O’Brian’s knickers,’ George protested. ‘Just to be as pleasant and as winning as I know you can be with women. Look, there’s a lot riding on this government report,’ he continued swiftly as Eli opened his mouth clearly intending to argue. ‘There’s talk of amalgamating stations, job cuts—’

‘But we’re already pared right back to the bone,’ Eli declared angrily, and his boss nodded.

‘Exactly, but in the current economic situation the authorities are looking for ways to save money, and if they can shut down a station they will.’

‘But—’

George Leslie put out his hand warningly.

‘Miss O’Brian’s just arrived,’ he said in an undertone. ‘I’ll leave you to introduce yourself, but you be nice to her, okay? There’s a hell of a lot riding on her report.’

Which was great, just great, Eli thought as his boss hurried away. He didn’t want to be ‘nice’, he didn’t want to be the poster boy for the station. All he wanted was for this number cruncher to go away and annoy the hell out of someone else but, dutifully, he pasted a smile to his face and turned to face the woman he was going to be sharing his ambulance with for the next seven nights.

At least she wasn’t a looker, he decided as he watched her walk towards him. Having managed to stick to his ‘no dating’ decision for the past two months, it would have been plum awkward if she’d turned out to be a looker, but she was…ordinary. Mid-thirties, he guessed, which was younger than he’d been expecting, scarcely five feet tall, with short brown hair styled into a pixie cut, a pair of clear grey eyes, and her figure…He tilted his head slightly, but it was impossible to tell whether she was buxom or slender when she was wearing the regulation green paramedic cargo trousers, and bulky high-visibility jacket which concealed pretty much everything.

‘Thirty-six, twenty-six, and none of your business.’

His head jerked up. ‘Sorry?’

‘My measurements,’ she replied. ‘You were clearly scoping me out, so I thought I’d save you the trouble.’

Not ordinary after all, he thought, seeing a very definite hint of challenge in her grey eyes. Sassy. He liked sassy. Sassy was always a challenge and, where women were concerned, he liked a challenge.

No, he didn’t, he reminded himself. No dating, no involvement for one more month. He’d made the three-month pledge, he intended to stick to it, and yet, despite himself, a lifetime of pleasing women kicked automatically into place, and he upped his smile a notch.

‘You haven’t,’ he observed. ‘Saved me the trouble, that is,’ he added as her eyebrows rose questioningly. ‘There’s still the unanswered question of, “none of your business.”’

‘Interesting approach,’ she said coolly. ‘Do the staff at this station always assess the physical attributes of government assessors?’

‘Only the pretty ones,’ he replied, upping his smile to maximum, but to his surprise she didn’t blush, or look even remotely confused, as most women did when he complimented them.

Instead, she held up three fingers and promptly counted them off.

‘Number one, I’m not pretty. Number two, charm offensives don’t work on me so save your breath and, number three, I’m here to assess the efficiency of this station so your personal opinion of my looks is completely irrelevant.’

Uh-huh, he thought, wincing slightly. So, Miss O’Brian was no pushover. That would teach him to make assumptions, and it was something he wouldn’t do again.

‘I think we should restart this conversation,’ he said, holding out his hand and rearranging his smile into what he hoped was a suitably contrite one. ‘I’m Elijah Munroe. My friends call me Eli, and I’m very pleased to meet you.’

‘I’m Miss O’Brian, and I’ll let you know in due course whether I can reciprocate the pleasure,’ she replied, shaking his hand briefly, then releasing it just as fast.

Snippy, as well as sassy. Well, two could play that game, he decided.

‘No problem,’ he observed smoothly, ‘but though I fully understand your desire to keep our relationship strictly professional, I feel I should point out that calling you by your full name could prove a little time-consuming in an emergency.’

And that is round three to me, sweetheart, he thought with satisfaction, seeing a faint wash of colour appear on her cheeks.

‘Fair point,’ she conceded, and then, with clear and obvious reluctance, she said, ‘My name is Brontë. Brontë O’Brian.’

A faint bell rang somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, but he couldn’t for the life of him quite grasp it.

‘Brontë. Brontë…’ he repeated with a frown. ‘Could we possibly have met before? Your Christian name…It sounds strangely familiar.’

Damn, damn, and damn, Brontë thought irritably. Why couldn’t her parents have called her something completely forgettable, like Mary, or Jane? If they’d given her an ‘ordinary’ first name she would have remained as forgettable as she’d obviously been that night in Wendy’s hallway, and she most certainly didn’t want to jog his memory.

‘It probably sounds familiar because of the Brontë sisters,’ she said quickly. ‘As in Charlotte—’

‘Emily, and Anne,’ he finished for her, then grinned as she blinked. ‘And there was you thinking the only books I would read would be ones with big, colourful pictures, and three words across the bottom of every page.’

It was so exactly what she’d been thinking that she could feel her cheeks darkening still further, but no way was she going to let him get away with it.

‘Of course I didn’t,’ she lied. ‘I just didn’t take you for a fan of Victorian literature.’

‘Ah, but you see that’s where a lot of people make a mistake,’ he observed. ‘Taking me solely at face value.’

And it was a mistake she wouldn’t make again, she decided. He might still be smiling at her, but all trace of warmth had gone from his blue eyes, and a shiver ran down her back which had nothing to do with the icy November wind blowing across the open forecourt.

‘Which of these vehicles is our ambulance?’ she asked, deliberately changing the subject, but, when he pointed to the one they were standing beside, her mouth fell open. ‘But that’s…’

‘Ancient—clapped out—dilapidated.’ He nodded. ‘Yup.’

‘But…’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. The ambulance I passed my LGV C1 driving test on…It was state of the art, with a hydraulic lift—’

‘We had seven of those,’ he interrupted. ‘Unfortunately, five are currently off the road because the hydraulic taillifts keep jamming and, believe me, the last thing you want on a wet and windy night in Edinburgh is your patient stuck halfway in, and halfway out, of your ambulance.’

‘Right,’ she said faintly, and saw his lips twist into a cynical smile.

‘Welcome to the realities of the ambulance service, Brontë.’

Welcome indeed, she thought, but she point-blank refused to believe all those ambulances could have been faulty. She’d read the documentation, the glowing reports. Not once had the hydraulic system failed on the ambulance she had been given to prepare her for her driving test, which meant either ED7 had received five faulty vehicles—which she didn’t think was likely—or the crews were running them into the ground.

‘Top left, breast pocket.’

‘Sorry?’ she said in confusion, and he pointed at her chest.

‘Your notebook—the notebook you’re just itching to get out to report this station for trashing their ambulances—it’s in your top left, breast pocket. Your pen is, too.’

Damn, he was smart. Too smart.

‘Can I take a look round your cab?’ she said tightly. ‘As I’m going to be driving you, I’d like to see if the layout is any different to what I passed my test on.’

‘Be my guest,’ he said, but, as she put one foot inside the driver’s door, she saw him frown. ‘You’ll need to change those boots.’

‘Why?’ she protested, following his gaze down to her feet. ‘I’m wearing regulation, as supplied, boots.’

‘And they’re rubbish. None of us wear governmentissue boots. These boots,’ he continued, pointing at his own feet, ‘have stepped in stuff you wouldn’t even want to think about, had drunks vomit all over them, been run over by trolleys and, on one memorable occasion, my driver accidentally reversed over my feet, and the boots—and my feet—survived. Take a tip. Buy yourself some boots from Harper & Stolins in Cockburn Street. Their Safari brand is the best.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she replied, but she wouldn’t.

What she would do, however, was make a note of the fact that none of the paramedics at ED7 were obeying health and safety rules if they were all refusing to wear the boots they had been issued with.

‘Your notebook and pen are still in the same pocket,’ he said with a grin which annoyed the hell out of her. ‘Want to note that down, too, while it’s fresh in your mind?’

What she wanted to say was, And how would you like my pen shoved straight up your nose? but she doubted that would be professional. Instead, she clambered into the driving seat of his ambulance, and glanced at the instrument panel.

‘I see you have an MDT—a mobile display terminal—to give you details of each job you’re sent on?’

‘Yup,’ he replied, getting into the passenger seat beside her. ‘It’s a useful bit of kit, when it’s working, but it crashes a lot, which is why this baby—’ he patted the radio on the dashboard fondly ‘—is much more important. Just remember to switch it off when you’ve finished making or receiving a call because it’s an open transmitter which means everything you say is broadcast not only to EMDC but also to every ambulance on the station which can be…interesting.’

It could get a lot more interesting if he didn’t back off, and back off soon, she thought grimly.

‘All your calls come from the Emergency Medical Dispatch Centre at Oxgangs, don’t they?’ she said, trying and failing to keep the edge out of her voice.

He nodded. ‘Seven years ago the powers that be decided to close all the operations rooms, and replace them with one centralised, coordinating organisation.’

‘Which makes sense,’ she said. ‘Why scatter your controllers about Edinburgh when they can all be in one central place, ensuring the ambulance resources are deployed effectively and efficiently while also maintaining the highest standards of patient care.’

‘Well done,’ he said, his lips curving into what even the most charitable would have described as a patronising smile. ‘That must be word for word from the press cuttings.’

‘Which doesn’t make it any the less true,’ she retorted, and saw his patronising smile deepen.

‘Unless, of course, you happened to be one of the unfortunate callers they decided were surplus to requirement,’ he observed, and she gritted her teeth until they hurt.

So much for her being worried she would fall for his charm. The only thing worrying her at the moment was how long she was going to be able to remain in his company without slapping him.

‘What’s our call sign?’ she asked, determinedly changing the conversation.

‘A38.’ He smiled. ‘My age, actually.’

‘Really?’ she said sweetly. ‘I would have said you were much younger.’ Like around twelve, given the way you’re behaving. ‘According to government guidelines, you should reach a code red patient in eight minutes, an amber patient in fourteen minutes and a code green in just under an hour. How often—on average—would you say you hit that target?’

‘How on earth should I know?’ he retorted, then bit his lip as though he had suddenly remembered something. ‘Look, can we talk frankly? I mean, not as an employee of the ambulance service and an employee of a government body,’ he continued, ‘but as two ordinary people?’

She was pretty sure there was an unexploded bomb in his question. In fact, she was one hundred per cent certain there was but, having got off to such a bad start, the next seven nights were going to seem like an eternity if they didn’t at least try to come to some sort of understanding.

‘Okay,’ she said.

He let out a huff of air.

‘I don’t want you in my cab. I don’t mean you, as in you personally,’ he added as she frowned. ‘I don’t want any time-and-motion expert sitting beside me, noting down a load of old hogwash. There are things wrong with the ambulance service—we all know that—but what it needs can’t be fixed by number crunching. We need more money, more personnel, and more awareness from a small—but unfortunately rather active—sector of the public that we’re not a glorified taxi service for minor ailments.’

‘And what makes you think I’m going to be noting down nothing but a load of old hogwash?’ she asked, and heard him give a hollow laugh.

‘Because it’s what you bureaucratic time-and-motion people do, what you’re paid for, to compare people and how they perform in given situations, and then find fault with them.’

She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again, and stared at him indecisively. How honest could she be with him? She supposed he’d been honest with her, so maybe it was time for her to be honest with him. At least up to a point.

‘Would it reassure you to know this is the first time I’ve been sent out on an assessment?’ she said. ‘I’ve done all of the training, of course, but you’re my first case, so the one thing I can promise is I won’t be comparing you to anyone.’

He met her gaze in silence for a full five seconds and then, to her dismay, he suddenly burst out laughing.

‘Dear heavens, if it’s not bad enough to be stuck with a number cruncher, I have to get stuck with a rookie number cruncher!’

‘Now, just a minute,’ she protested, two spots of angry colour appearing on her cheeks, ‘you were the one who said we should be honest with each other, and now you’re laughing at me, and it’s not funny.’

He let out a snort, swallowed deeply, and said in a voice that shook only slightly, ‘You’re right. Not funny. Definitely not funny.’

‘Thank you,’ she said with feeling, and he nodded, then his lips twitched.

‘Actually—when you think about it—you’ve got to admit it is a little bit funny.’

She met his eyes with outrage, and it was her undoing. If the laughter in his eyes had been smug, and patronising, she really would have slapped him, but there was such genuine warmth and amusement in his gaze that a tiny choke of laughter broke from her.

‘Did you just laugh?’ he said, tilting his head quizzically at her. ‘Could I possibly have just heard the smallest chuckle from you?’

Brontë’s choke of laughter became a peal. ‘Okay, all right,’ she conceded, ‘it is funny, but it’s not my fault you’re my first victim. Someone has to be, but I promise I won’t bring out any manacles or chains.’

‘Actually, I think I might rather like that.’

His voice was liquid and warm and, as her eyes met his, she saw something deep and dark flicker there, and a hundred alarm bells went off in her head.

No, Brontë, no, she told herself as her heart rate accelerated. Just a moment ago you wanted to hit him, and now he’s most definitely flirting with you, and any woman who responds to an invitation to flirt with Elijah Munroe has to be one sandwich short of a picnic.

‘Shouldn’t…’ She moistened her lips and started again. ‘Shouldn’t we be hitting the road? Our shift started at ten-thirty, and—’ she glanced desperately at her watch ‘—it’s already ten-forty.’

‘We can certainly go out,’ he agreed. ‘But, strange as it might seem, we don’t normally go looking for patients. Normally we wait for them to phone us, but if you want to go kerb crawling with me…’

Oh, hell, she thought, feeling a deep wash of colour stain her cheeks. Of course they had to wait for calls, she knew that, but did he have to keep on looking at her with those sun-kissed, Mediterranean-blue eyes of his? They flustered her, unsettled her, and the last thing she needed to feel in Elijah Munroe’s company was flustered so, when the radio on the dashboard crackled into life, she grabbed the receiver gratefully.

‘ED7 here,’ she declared, only to glance across at Eli, bewildered, when she heard a snicker of feminine laughter in reply. ‘What did I do wrong?’

‘This station is ED7,’ he said gently. ‘We’re A38, remember?’

Great start, Brontë, she thought, biting her lip. Really tremendous, professional start. Not.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘A38 here.’

‘Pregnant woman,’ the disembodied voice declared. ‘Laura Thomson, experiencing contractions every twenty minutes. Number 12, Queen Anne’s Gate.’

Brontë had the ambulance swinging out of the forecourt and onto the dark city street before the dispatcher had even finished the call.

‘Should I hit the siren?’ she asked, and Eli shook his head.

‘No need. We’ll be there in under five minutes despite the roads being frosty but, with contractions so close, I wonder why she’s waited so long to call us?’

Brontë wondered the same thing when they arrived at the house to discover the tearful mother-to-be’s contractions were coming considerably closer than every twenty minutes.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of my husband,’ Laura Thomson explained. ‘He’s working nights at the supermarket to earn us some extra money, and this is our first baby, and he’s my birthing partner.’

‘I’m afraid he’s going to miss out on that unless he arrives in the next five minutes,’ Eli replied ruefully as the young woman doubled up with a sharp cry of pain. ‘In fact, I’d be happier if you were in Maternity right now.’

‘But my husband won’t know where I am,’ the young woman protested. ‘He’ll come home, and I won’t be here, and he’ll be so worried.’

Brontë could see the concern on Eli’s face, and she felt it, too. A quick examination had revealed Laura Thomson’s cervix to be well dilated and, if they didn’t go, there was a very strong possibility she was going to have her baby in the ambulance.

Quickly, she picked up a discarded envelope from the table, scrawled, ‘Gone to the Pentland Maternity’ on it, then placed the envelope on the mantelpiece.

‘He’ll see that, Laura,’ she declared, and the woman nodded, then doubled up again with another cry of pain.

‘Okay, no debate, no argument, we go now,’ Eli declared, and before Brontë, or Laura Thomson, had realised what he was going to do he had swept Laura up into his arms as though she weighed no more than a bag of flour. ‘Drive fast, Brontë,’ he added over his shoulder as he strode out the door, ‘drive very fast!’

She didn’t get the chance to. She had barely turned the corner at the bottom of Queen Anne’s Gate when Eli yelled for her to stop.

‘This baby isn’t waiting,’ he said after she’d parked, then raced round to the back of the ambulance and climbed in. ‘How much maternity experience do you have?’

‘Not much,’ Brontë admitted. ‘We didn’t tend to get mums-to-be arriving in A and E.’

‘Well, welcome to the stork club,’ he replied. ‘The baby’s head is already crowning, and the contractions are coming every minute.’

‘I want…my husband,’ Laura Thomson gasped. ‘I want him here immediately.’

‘Just concentrate on your breathing,’ Eli urged. ‘Believe me, you can do this on your own.’

‘I know,’ Laura exclaimed, turning bright red as she bore down again. ‘I just want him here so I can kill him because, believe me, if this is what giving birth is like, this baby is never going to have any brothers and sisters!’

A small muscle twitched near the corner of Eli’s mouth.

‘Okay, when your son or daughter is born, you have my full permission to kill your husband,’ he replied, carefully using his hand to control the rate of escape of the baby’s head, ‘but right now work with the contractions, don’t try to fight against them.’

‘That’s…easy…for you to say,’ Laura said with difficulty. ‘And…I…can…tell…you…this. If there is such a thing as reincarnation…’ She gritted her teeth and groaned. ‘Next time I’m coming back as a man!’

‘You and me both, Laura,’ Brontë declared, seeing Eli slip the baby’s umbilical cord over its head, then gently ease one of its shoulders free, ‘but if you could just give one more push I think your son or daughter will be here.’

Laura screwed up her face, turned almost scarlet again and, with a cry that was halfway between a groan and a scream, she bore down hard, and with a slide and a rush the baby shot out into Eli’s hands.

‘Is it all right?’ Laura asked, panic plain in her voice as she tried to lever herself upright. ‘Is my baby all right?’

‘You have a beautiful baby girl, Laura,’ Eli replied, wincing slightly as the baby let out a deafening wail. ‘With a singularly good pair of lungs. Are there two arteries present in the cord?’ he added under his breath, and Brontë nodded as she clamped it.

‘What about the placenta?’ she murmured back.

‘Hospital. Let’s get them both to the hospital,’ he replied, wrapping the baby in one of the ambulance’s blankets. ‘Giving birth in the back of an ambulance isn’t ideal, and I’ll be a lot happier when both mum and baby are in Maternity.’

Brontë couldn’t have agreed more and, by the time they had delivered Laura and her daughter to Maternity, the young mother seemed to have completely forgotten her pledge to kill her husband if her beaming smile when he arrived, looking distinctly harassed, was anything to go by.

‘That’s one we won tonight,’ Eli observed when he and Brontë had returned to the ambulance.

She smiled, and nodded, but his good humour didn’t last. Not when they then had several call-outs for patients who could quite easily have gone to their GPs in the morning instead of calling 999. She knew what Eli was thinking as she watched his face grow grimmer and grimmer. That as a government assessor she must be noting down all of these nonemergency calls, would be putting them in her report as proof positive that ED7’s services could be cut and, though part of her wanted to reassure him, she knew she couldn’t. Assessing, and criticising, was supposed to be what she was here for, but she felt for him, and the depth of her sympathy surprised her.

‘Coffee,’ Eli announced tightly when he and Brontë strode through the A and E waiting room of the Pentland Infirmary after they’d delivered a city banker who confessed in the ambulance to having twisted his ankle two weeks before, but had been ‘too busy’ to go to his GP. ‘I need a coffee, and I need it now.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Brontë agreed, but, as she began walking towards the hospital canteen, she suddenly realised Eli was heading towards the hospital exit. ‘I thought you said you wanted a coffee?’ she protested when she caught up with him.

‘Not here,’ he said. ‘The coffee they serve here would rot your stomach. Tony’s serves the best coffee in Edinburgh, and it’s where all the ambulance crews go.’

‘But—’

‘Look, just drive, will you?’ he exclaimed. ‘Buccleuch Street, top of The Meadows, you can’t miss it.’

Just drive, will you. Well, that was well and truly putting her in her place, she thought angrily, and for a second she debated pointing out that she was a government assessor, not a taxi driver, but she didn’t. Instead, she silently drove to Buccleuch Street, but, when she pulled the ambulance up outside a small building with a blinking neon sign which proclaimed it to be Tony’s Twenty-four Hours Café, she kept the engine running.

‘Eli, what if we get a call?’ she said as he jumped down from the cab.

‘Hit the horn, and I’ll come running. Black coffee, café au lait, latte or cappuccino?’

‘Cappuccino, no sugar, lots of chocolate sprinkles, but—’

‘Do you want anything to eat?’ Eli interrupted.

‘No, but—’

‘You’ll be sorry later,’ he continued. ‘Tony’s makes the best take-away snacks, and meals, in Edinburgh.’

He probably did, she thought, as Eli disappeared into the café. Just as she was equally certain Eli would instantly come running if she had to hit the horn, but did he have to make life so difficult for himself? Of course he was legally entitled to a break, and he could take it wherever he chose, but biting her head off was not a smart move. One word from her and he could be out of a job.

And you’re going to say that one word? a little voice whispered in the back of her head, and she blew out a huff of impatience. Of course she wouldn’t. She’d felt as frustrated as he had by some of the calls, and from what she’d seen he possessed excellent medical skills. He just also very clearly detested bureaucracy and, to him, she was the living embodiment of that bureaucracy. If only he would meet her halfway. If only he would accept she was finding this as difficult as he was. And if only he hadn’t brought a hamburger back along with their two coffees, she thought with dismay when Eli opened the ambulance door and the pungent aroma of fried onions filled the air.

‘You’re not actually going to eat that, are you?’ she said, wrinkling her nose as he got into the passenger seat, and the smell of onions became even stronger.

‘You have something against hamburgers?’ he replied, taking a bite out of his and swallowing with clear relish.

‘Not at the proper time,’ she declared, ‘but at half past three in the morning…?’

‘Well, the way I figure it,’ he observed, ‘if we worked a nine-to-five job like regular people, this would be lunchtime.’

‘Right,’ she said without conviction. She took a sip of her coffee, then another. ‘Actually, this is very good.’

‘Told you Tony’s made the best coffee in Edinburgh,’ he said, stretching out his long legs and leaning his head back against the headrest. ‘And nothing beats a good dose of caffeine on a night when you seem to have picked up so many patients who aren’t even code greens.’

She shot him a sideways glance. All too clearly she remembered the instructions she had been given. Don’t ever become personally involved with a station you have been sent out to assess. Remain coldly objective, and clinical, at all times.

Oh, blow the instructions, she decided.

‘Look, Eli, I can completely understand your frustration with some of the people we’ve picked up tonight,’ she declared, ‘but the trouble is, though the vast majority of the population realise, and accept, they should only call 999 in an emergency, there’s a very small number who seem to think if they arrive in A and E by ambulance they’ll be seen a lot faster even if there’s nothing very much wrong with them.’

‘Yeah, well, one visit to A and E would soon disabuse them of that,’ he replied. ‘In my day, if there was any indication that a patient was simply trying to queue jump, we made them wait even longer.’

‘You used to work in A and E?’ she said, considerably surprised.

Eli finished the last of his hamburger, crumpled the paper which had been surrounding it into a ball and dropped it into the glove compartment.

‘Ten years at the Southern General in Glasgow for my sins. I was charge nurse until I packed it in.’

‘Why?’ she asked curiously. ‘Why did you give it up?’

He took a large gulp of his coffee, and shrugged.

‘Too much paperwork, too much time spent chasing big-shot consultants who couldn’t be bothered to come down to A and E to see a patient.’ He glanced across at her, his blue eyes dark in the street lamp’s glow. ‘I hear you were a charge nurse in A and E at the Waverley before you became a number cruncher. What made you give it up?’

‘Much the same reasons,’ she said evasively, and his gaze became appraising.

‘Nope. There was something else.’

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. He was right, there was, but she had no intention of confirming it. Her private life was her own.

‘Would you settle for, it’s none of your business?’ she said.

‘Not fair,’ he protested. ‘I gave you a straight answer.’

‘No one ever tell you life isn’t fair?’ she countered, wishing he would just drop the subject. ‘Look, my reasons are my own, okay?’

He gazed at her over the rim of his polystyrene coffee cup.

‘I’ll find out,’ he observed. ‘I always do.’

‘Omnipotent now, are you?’ she said, not bothering to hide her irritation, and he grinned.

‘Nah. Just good at wheedling stuff out of people. In fact…’

‘In fact, what?’ she asked as he came to a sudden halt and stared at her as though he wasn’t actually seeing her, but something a million miles away. ‘Eli—’

‘Of course!’ he exclaimed, slapping the heel of his hand against his forehead with triumph. ‘Now I remember why your name sounded so familiar. Wendy Littleton, sister in Obs and Gynae at the Pentland. She and I dated a couple of years back, and she shared a flat with someone called Brontë. Don’t tell me it was you?’

She sighed inwardly. She supposed she could try to deny it, but how many Brontës were there likely to be in Edinburgh, and what did it matter anyway?

‘Yes, that was me,’ she said with resignation.

‘Talk about a small world,’ he declared. ‘Wendy Littleton. Gorgeous black hair, and big brown eyes, as I recall.’

‘Actually, her hair was brown, and her eyes were blue,’ Brontë replied drily.

‘Oh. Right,’ he muttered. ‘But you and I never actually met, though, did we?’

Should she be nice, or should she make him squirm? No contest, she decided.

‘Yes, we’ve met,’ she replied. ‘Just the once, but I obviously didn’t make much of an impression. Neither did Wendy, come to think of it,’ she continued, ‘considering you dumped her.’

‘I didn’t dum—’

‘Dumped—walked out on—call it whatever you like,’ she declared. ‘The bottom line is she was so miserable after you left she emigrated to Australia. She actually got married a couple of months ago.’

‘Well, that’s good news,’ he said with clear relief but, having started, Brontë wasn’t about to stop.

‘Not for me, it wasn’t,’ she said. ‘Wendy’s father owned the flat we lived in so when she emigrated he sold it to give her some stake money which left me homeless.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes, oh.’ She nodded. ‘Luckily, I managed to get a room in a flat with one of the Sisters in Men’s Surgical at the Pentland. Anna Browning. Name ring any bells?’

To her surprise a dark tide of colour crept up the back of his neck.

‘Yes,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Look, Brontë—’

‘Unfortunately, Anna went back to Wales after you dumped her,’ Brontë continued determinedly, ‘so I had to go flat hunting again. Which was how I met Sue Davey of Paediatrics. She was the one with the gorgeous black hair, and big brown eyes.’

‘Okay—all right—so you’ve roomed with some of my ex-girlfriends!’ Eli exclaimed with obvious annoyance. ‘Dating is hardly a crime, is it?’

No, but making women fall in love with you, and then leaving them, sure is, she wanted to retort, but before she got a chance to say anything their radio bleeped and Eli reached for the receiver.

‘A38,’ he all but barked.

‘Hey, Eli, don’t shoot the messenger,’ a female voice protested. ‘Code amber. Twenty-six-year-old female, Rose Gordon, apparently unable to walk or talk properly. Number 56, Bank Street. Her family’s with her.’

‘Possible CVA?’ Brontë said, quickly emptying the remains of her coffee into the gutter, and putting the ambulance in gear.

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Eli declared, clearly still irritated. ‘While those symptoms would certainly suggest a stroke, it’s better not to go in with any preconceived idea because we could miss something. Luckily, her family are with her so hopefully we’ll be able to get more information.’

They did. Though Mr and Mrs Gordon were clearly very upset, they weren’t hysterical.

‘She’s never been like this before,’ Mrs Gordon said, looking quickly across at her husband for confirmation. ‘She can’t walk, or talk, and—’ a small sob escaped from her as she glanced back to her daughter who was slumped motionless in a seat ‘—she seems so confused. It’s almost as though she’s drunk, but Rose never drinks.’

‘Any underlying medical condition we should know about?’ Eli asked, kneeling down beside the young woman to take her pulse.

‘Rose is a type 1 diabetic,’ Mr Gordon replied, his face white and drawn, ‘but she tests herself regularly, never misses an insulin dose, so I don’t think it can be linked to that.’

Brontë exchanged glances with Eli. Actually, there was a very good chance it could be. Rose Gordon’s face was pale and clammy, her eyes unfocused, and when a type 1 diabetic’s sugar level became very low they could all too quickly develop hypoglycaemia which made them appear confused, and agitated, and unable to speak or stand properly.

‘Has she been working under a lot of pressure recently?’ Brontë asked as she handed Eli one of their medi-bags. ‘Changed her routine at all?’

Mrs Gordon shook her head. ‘She’s a schoolteacher—has been for the past four years—and the pressure’s just the same as it always was. As for her routine…I can’t think of anything she’s doing she hasn’t done before.’

‘She’s going to the gym now before she comes home,’ a small voice observed. ‘She said it was good for anger management.’

Eli and Brontë turned to see a young boy of about eight hovering by the door, his eyes wide and fearful, and Mrs Gordon reached out and put a comforting arm around his shoulders.

‘This is Rose’s brother, Tom,’ she said. ‘Rose will be all right, sweetheart. These nice people will make her all right.’

She sounded as though she was trying to convince herself as much as her young son, but Brontë’s mind was already working overtime and, judging by the speed with which she saw Eli take a blood sample from Rose Gordon, his was, too. Exercise could all too easily affect blood sugar. Particularly if the diabetic hadn’t eaten enough beforehand to ensure their blood sugar stayed high.

‘1.6 mmols,’ Eli murmured, handing the sample to Brontë, and she sucked in her breath sharply.

The normal range for a diabetic was between 4.5 and 12.0 mmols so this was dangerously low, and swiftly she handed him some glucagon.

‘What’s wrong—what’s the matter with Rose?’ Mrs Gordon asked, panic plain in her voice, as Eli searched for a vein in her daughter’s arm.

‘She’s hypoglycaemic,’ Brontë explained. ‘My guess is she’s forgotten to take a snack before going to the gym and all the energy she’s expended has really leached the sugar from her body. Don’t worry,’ she continued, seeing the concern on the woman’s face, ‘she’ll be fine. Give her fifteen minutes, and she’ll be as good as new.’

That the Gordons didn’t believe her was plain, but, within fifteen minutes, Rose was standing upright, albeit a little unsteadily, and able to apologise profusely to everyone. Eli gave her some sugar jelly to raise her blood sugar still further and, when Rose’s blood sugar reading reached 4.6 mmols, he asked Mrs Gordon to make her some pasta.

‘Rose needs carbohydrate,’ he explained. ‘What I’ve administered given her a quick boost, but what she needs now is something to give her slow-burning energy.’

Quickly, Mrs Gordon bustled away to the kitchen, and, after reassuring Rose’s father that Rose was unlikely to become hypoglycaemic again if she kept her food intake high before she took any exercise, Brontë followed Eli out to the ambulance with a smile.

‘It’s nice when you can get someone back to normal in such a short time, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘One of the pluses of the job, that’s for sure,’ Eli replied.

He didn’t look as though it was a plus. In fact, as the night wore on, he became more and more morose and, when they eventually returned to ED7, just as dawn was breaking over Edinburgh, Brontë decided enough was enough.

‘Look, Eli,’ she said after he had handed in his report and she walked with him across the ambulance forecourt towards the street, ‘I may be new to this job, but I worked in A and E for seven years. I know all about the people who could quite easily have gone to their GP instead of the hospital and, believe me, I’m not going to be marking either you, or ED7, down because so many of tonight’s calls weren’t even code greens.’

‘I’m not thinking about the people we picked up tonight,’ he said impatiently.

‘Then what’s with the moodiness?’ she demanded. ‘I know you don’t like number crunchers—’

‘It’s got nothing to do with your job,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s…’ He shook his head. ‘Personal.’

Personal? She stopped dead on the pavement outside the station, and gulped. He wanted to talk to her about something personal? She didn’t think she was ready for ‘personal,’ not when his deep blue eyes were fixed on her, making her feel warm and tingly all over, but he was waiting for her to answer so she nodded.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Spill it.’

‘What you were saying earlier about your flatmates…I think you should know I’m taking a break from dating.’

Of all the things she had been expecting him to say, that wasn’t it, and she stared at him, bewildered.

‘And you’re telling me this because…?’ she said in confusion, and for a moment he looked a little shamefaced, then a slightly crooked smile appeared on his lips.

‘I just thought you should know, in case you were concerned I might hit on you, or were hoping…well…you know.’

She straightened up to her full five feet.

‘I was hoping what?’ she said dangerously.

‘Oh, come on, Brontë,’ he declared, ‘it’s common knowledge I like women, and they like me.’

She opened her mouth, closed it again, then shook her head in outraged disbelief. ‘So you’re saying I…You think that I…Sheesh, when they were handing out modesty, you sure were right at the back of the queue, weren’t you?’

‘Brontë—’

‘Believe it or not, Mr Munroe,’ she continued furiously. ‘Whatever charms you supposedly possess leave me completely cold, and if you had attempted—as you so poetically phrased it—to hit on me, you would have required the immediate services of a dentist. You are not my type. You never were, never will be. And even if you were my type,’ she could not stop herself from adding, ‘I’m taking a break from dating myself.’

‘Why?’

Damn, but she’d said too much as she always did when she was angry, but she had no intention of revealing any more, and she swung her tote bag high on her shoulder, only narrowly missing his chin.

‘I,’ she said, her voice as cold as ice, ‘am going home to get some sleep, and you…As far as I’m concerned, you can go take a running jump off Arthur’s Seat as long as you’re back here this evening to do your job.’

‘Brontë, listen—’

She didn’t. She turned on her heel, and strode off down the street, because she knew if she didn’t she would hit him.

The nerve of the man. The sheer unmitigated gall. Implying she might be interested in him, suggesting she might have difficulty keeping her hands off him.

He’s right, though, isn’t he? a little voice laughed in her head, and she swore under her breath. No, he wasn’t. He was smug, and arrogant, and opinionated.

But he has gorgeous eyes, hasn’t he?

He did. He had the kind of eyes to die for, and thick black hair which just screamed out to be touched, and as for his broad shoulders…

Hell, but having to work along side Elijah was like being on a diet in a cake shop. You knew he was bad for you, you knew you would deeply regret it, and yet, despite all of that, you were still tempted.

Which didn’t mean she was going to give in to temptation. She only had to work with him for another six nights, and not even she could make a fool of herself in that amount of time. And she had no intention of making a fool of herself. She’d done it far too often in the past, and to even consider it with a man who had a reputation like Elijah Munroe’s…

‘No way, not ever,’ she said out loud to the empty Edinburgh street.

Chapter Two

Tuesday, 10:07 p.m.

‘I DON’T care how you do it, or who you have to upset, but I am not going out with Brontë O’Brian again!’

‘Eli, we went through all this yesterday,’ George Leslie protested. ‘There is no one else I can put her with, and if I pull out one of the other guys just to accommodate you, there will be hell to pay.’

‘Why can’t she work days?’ Eli argued. ‘She could work days with Luke. He’s a trauma magnet, can’t leave the station without falling over multiple pile-ups, and I’m sure that would keep Ms O’Brian’s employers happy.’

‘I suggested she work days when I first heard she was coming,’ his boss replied, ‘but her employers were insistent she did nights.’

‘And we all know what that means,’ Eli said irritably. ‘They think the worthy Edinburgh folk will be all tucked up tight in their beds at night, so we’ll have minimal callouts, and they can use that as an excuse to make some of us redundant.’

‘That’s my guess.’ George nodded.

‘Charlie Woods,’ Eli said. ‘He owes me a favour. I’m sure he’d be prepared to swap—’

‘Except his wife is due to give birth any day now,’ George interrupted. ‘Eli, can’t you just live with it? Ye gods, you’ve already done one night, you only have another six to go.’

‘You don’t know what she’s like,’ Eli declared. ‘She’s pig-headed, opinionated, always thinks she’s right—’

‘Sounds a bit like you.’ George grinned.

‘I am nothing like her,’ Eli snapped. ‘George, I want out. There has to be a way for you to get me out of this, or I swear…’

‘You’ll do what?’ his boss demanded with clear exasperation. ‘Walk out on me? Throw your career down the toilet? For heaven’s sake, man, I am not asking you to bond with her, be her best friend forever. All I’m asking is for you to be civil, pleasant, and do the job you’re paid for.’

‘But—’

‘And can I point out it’s not just your job on the line if we get a lousy report,’ George continued, his normally placid face bright red. ‘It’s everyone’s job, so get a grip of yourself, a smile on your face, and be nice.’

Which was easy for George to say, Eli thought as his boss strode away. He didn’t have to work with the damn woman. He didn’t have to sit beside an interfering know-it-all who was constantly sticking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted, and making snide comments about his dating habits.

And that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? a small voice whispered in his head. It’s got nothing to do with her as a person. It’s because of what she said about her flatmates, implying you were some sort of low-life.

With a muttered oath he kicked out at one of his ambulance wheels angrily. Hell’s teeth, but what right did she have to judge his dating habits? It wasn’t as though he had ever deceived anyone. It wasn’t as though he had ever lied. He had always been upfront, made it clear he wouldn’t be sticking around forever, so what was her problem?

She still had it, he thought, as he heard the sound of slow footsteps crossing the forecourt, and turned to see Brontë walking towards him, her face set and tight. Well, I’m not any happier with the situation than you are, sweetheart, he thought, except…

George was right. No matter what his private feelings were, it wasn’t just his neck on the line here. If Brontë O’Brian gave ED7 a damning report, a lot of heads would roll. Heads belonging to people he knew. People who had families, commitments, mortgages, so somehow he had to placate this woman, get her onside, and he squared his chin.

‘Brontë, can we talk?’ he said when she drew level with him.

‘It’s a free country,’ she replied.

Which wasn’t exactly the most encouraging of answers and he gritted his teeth. He didn’t ‘do’ apologies—had never in his life felt the need to apologise for anything he’d done—but he was going to apologise now if it killed him.

‘About this morning…What I said…’ He gritted his teeth even harder. ‘I probably seemed a bit arrogant to you, a bit of a prat.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ she said, and he clenched his fists until the knuckles gleamed white.

She was enjoying this. He would bet money she was enjoying it, and if it hadn’t been for George he would have told her to take a hike.

‘What I said this morning,’ he continued determinedly, ‘I shouldn’t have said it.’

‘No, you shouldn’t.’

‘Look, I’m apologising here,’ he exclaimed, ‘so couldn’t you at least give me a break, and meet me halfway?’

She tilted her head thoughtfully to one side.

‘You’ve said you were arrogant, and you’ve said you were a prat,’ she observed, ‘but I’m not hearing any apology.’

‘Okay, all right,’ he snapped. ‘I’m sorry. I was wrong, okay? I shouldn’t have said what I did, and I’m sorry.’

For a second she said nothing, then, to his surprise, the corners of her mouth tilted slightly upwards.

‘Why do I get the feeling you’d rather have your fingernails pulled out one by one than apologise to anyone about anything?’ she said.

A reluctant answering smile was drawn from him. Damn, she was smart, though not for the world would he ever have said so.

‘Can we call a truce and start again?’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t open my big mouth if—’

‘I don’t refer to your ex-girlfriends,’ she finished for him, and he nodded.

‘So, do we have a deal?’ he asked, holding out his hand.

Oh, shoot, she thought, as she took his hand and felt a jolt of electricity run right up her arm. She’d come into work tonight still angry with him, still furious, and yet now she was all too aware that a lean, muscular, highly desirable man was holding her hand, and it felt so good, much too good. How had he done that? How had he managed to turn her emotions upside down in an instant?

Practice, Brontë. Years and years of practice, so watch your step, or you’ll end up like all the other girls he’s dumped.

‘You’re frowning at me,’ Eli continued, irritation replacing the smile on his face. ‘Does that mean you’re planning on making me apologise some more, or…?’

‘We have a deal,’ she agreed, releasing his hand quickly. ‘Except…’

His dark eyebrows snapped together. ‘Except what?’

‘Can I ask you something?’ she replied. ‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,’ she added quickly as his eyebrows lowered still further, ‘but do you ever plan on settling down with just one woman?’

‘Heck, no,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never been married, or engaged, and I don’t intend to be. No ties, no responsibilities, that’s my idea of perfection.’

‘Sounds to me like someone hurt you pretty badly at some point,’ she observed, and he rolled his eyes impatiently.

‘Why does there have to be some deep-seated psychological reason for the fact I don’t want to be tied down, trapped?’

‘There doesn’t, I suppose,’ she replied, ‘but I’m just curious as to what makes a serial dater like you tick.’

One corner of his mouth turned up. ‘Sex.’

‘And that’s it?’ she protested.

He grinned. ‘Pretty much.’

It was her turn to roll her eyes. ‘You’re impossible.’

‘Look, what you call “serial dating,” I call fun,’ he declared. ‘If more people would only realise—accept—nothing lasts, and you should just enjoy the moment, the happier everyone would be.’

Her grey eyes searched his face curiously. ‘And are you happy?’

Of all the dumb questions she could have asked, that had to be the dumbest, he decided.

‘Of course I’m happy,’ he declared. ‘I have a job I love, a nice flat, a good circle of friends—why wouldn’t I be happy?’

‘I’m pleased for you. No, I mean it,’ she added as he raised a right eyebrow, clearly challenging her remark. ‘To be content with your life, to want nothing more, feel you need nothing more…You’re very lucky.’

It wasn’t luck, he thought, as they both heard their MDT bleep, and Brontë hurried to read the message. It was being realistic, seeing the world for what it was. And he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was happy. Of course he was happy. Okay, so his three months’ self-imposed celibacy was beginning to irk big time, and his flat felt empty, lonely, with just himself rattling around it, but the celibacy had been essential after what happened with Zoe. That was a mistake he most definitely didn’t want to make again.

‘Middle-aged man collapsed in supermarket,’ Brontë announced. ‘Seems to be unconscious, no family with him, but the supermarket first-aider is in attendance.’

‘Could be anything,’ Eli replied. ‘Heart attack, drunk, or faker.’

The first-aider clearly didn’t think the middle-aged man was faking. She was flapping around in panic when they arrived, and her relief at seeing them was palpable.

‘He was standing at the checkout, and just keeled over,’ she declared. ‘I’ve put him in the recovery position, but I’m not qualified to do anything else. The first-aid course I went on—it only lasted four weekends—and—’

‘You’ve done exactly the right thing,’ Eli interrupted, smiling widely at her. ‘We’ll take over now.’

Brontë shook her head as the young first-aider turned bright red and walked away in a clear daze.

‘Not fair. That poor girl was in a big enough spin before, but now you’ve got her practically hyperventilating.’

‘Can I help it if I’m charming?’ Eli protested, his blue eyes dancing, and Brontë only just restrained herself from sticking out her tongue at him.

Except he was probably right, she thought as she watched him begin the standard Glasgow coma scale assessment tests to check the man’s overall physical condition. Being charming was undoubtedly as natural to Eli as breathing. So, unfortunately, was the fact he was as unreliable as the weather forecast.

But you like him.

Oh, I could, she thought, as she stared at his long, slender fingers, and, unbidden, and unwanted, an image came into her mind of those fingers touching her, caressing her. I could so easily like him very much indeed, but never in a million years would she allow herself to get involved with him. At least with the other men she’d dated she’d been completely unaware of what lay ahead, but with Eli Munroe she knew only too well.

‘I’m not sure about this one,’ Eli observed, sitting back on his heels. ‘What do you think, Ms O’Brian?’

His expression was solemn but his eyes, Brontë noticed, were gleaming, and she knew why. He might only have performed two of the GCS tests on their patient so far but the man having achieved the lowest possible result both on the ability to open and close his eyes on command, and on responding verbally to questions, indicated he must be nearly at death’s door but he had to be the healthiest-looking sick person she had ever seen.

‘I’d recommend the reflexes test next, Mr Munroe,’ she replied, and a suspicion of a smile appeared on Eli’s lips.

Gently, he lifted the man’s hand, positioned in directly over the man’s nose, then let it drop. Magically, it didn’t hit the man on his nose as it should have done if he really was unconscious, but landed neatly at his side, and Eli let out a deep, heartfelt sigh.

‘I’m afraid it looks a lot more serious than I thought,’ he declared, and Brontë had to bite down hard on her lip to quell the chuckle she could feel bubbling inside her.

She’d come across cases like this before in A and E. Sometimes the patients were mentally ill, or drunk, but most often they faked unconsciousness to get themselves out of a sticky situation and, judging by the amount of alcohol the man had in his shopping trolley, she strongly suspected he was trying to get away without paying for it.

‘Eye socket test?’ she suggested, and Eli winked across at her.

If the man truly was deeply unconscious he would scarcely react, but if he wasn’t…Pushing hard against the upper part of his eye socket with your finger wouldn’t damage his sight but, by heavens, he would certainly feel it.

He did. At the first push, the man’s eyes flew open, and he sat up angrily, only to put his hand to his head with an unconvincing groan when he saw Brontë and Eli.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ he murmured in a faltering voice. ‘One minute I was about to pay for my groceries, and the next…I just came over all queer.’

‘It can happen,’ Eli agreed as he solicitously helped the man to his feet, ‘which is why I think you should go straight home to bed. Forget all about your shopping, you can do it tomorrow.’

‘But—’

‘No, please, don’t thank us,’ Eli continued, steering the man towards the supermarket door. ‘It’s all in a day’s—or should I say night’s—work for us.’

That the man wanted to do anything but thank them was clear, but that he also didn’t want to take on six feet two of muscular male was also apparent and, with a face like thunder, he walked out of the supermarket door and disappeared into the night.

‘You know, it never ceases to amaze me how far some people will go to fake illness,’ Brontë declared as she followed Eli back to their ambulance. ‘I mean, if it was me, the last thing I’d want is someone performing a whole battery of tests on me if I knew I was perfectly okay.’

‘Yeah, well, when you’ve been in this game as long as I have, nothing seems strange any more,’ Eli replied. ‘I’m just surprised you’re surprised after seven years of A and E.’

She glanced across at him sharply. ‘If this is your not very subtle way of wanting to know why I left, forget it.’

‘Can’t blame a bloke for trying,’ he said with a broad smile, and she shook her head at him.

‘You know, I don’t think you actually do dump all your ex-girlfriends,’ she observed. ‘I think they dump you because you keep on asking the same old questions, and eventually they can’t stand it any more.’

‘Oh, very witty, very droll,’ he said drily. ‘And will you stop saying I dump women. I do not dump women. We just mutually decide when it’s over.’

‘Yeah, right,’ she said, not even bothering to try to look as though she believed him. ‘Do you want to know my theory as to why you’re taking a three-month dating sabbatical?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘I think you got careless,’ Brontë declared, ignoring the irritation in his voice. ‘I think your last girlfriend got too close, and started bringing home wedding magazines, and stopping outside jewellers’ windows to point out engagement rings, and that freaked you good and proper, and now you’re trying to figure out where you went wrong.’

Eli’s lips twitched into not quite a smile.

‘That’s not a bad guess.’

‘And have you figured out where you went wrong?’ she asked, and his smile became rueful.

‘Not exactly. How long have you given up dating for?’

‘Permanently.’

‘Permanently?’ he exclaimed. ‘Hell, but someone sure did a number on you, didn’t they?’

She was saved from answering by the bleep of their radio, but when she lifted the receiver, the caller sounded uncharacteristically nervous.

‘I have a message for Eli,’ the anonymous voice announced. ‘Could you tell him Peg would like to see him asap.’

Brontë sighed with resignation as she switched off the receiver.

‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, turning to Eli. ‘Peg is yet another of your ex-girlfriends.’

He cleared his throat.

‘Actually, she’s a heroin addict. Turns tricks for a living. Male—female—doesn’t matter to her so long as the punter will pay enough to fund her habit.’

Brontë blinked.

‘And how do you know her?’ she asked without thinking, then flushed scarlet when she realised how that might sound. ‘Sorry—forget it—none of my business.’

‘No, it’s not,’ he agreed. ‘But Peg…’ He chewed his lip, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘She caught pneumonia two winters back. My partner, Frank, and I saw her lying in the street so we picked her up and took her to hospital. Ever since then…’ Eli shrugged. ‘She seems to feel she owes me something, so if a youngster tries to tag along with her, and her friends, she let’s me know, and sometimes I’m able to help, to turn them around before it’s too late.’

And I feel like the lowest form of pond life, Brontë thought as she stared at him awkwardly. She wished she hadn’t jumped to conclusions. She wished even more she could figure out the man sitting next to her. One minute he was a completely shameless flirt, a serial dumper of women, then he unexpectedly turned into the Good Samaritan. It didn’t make any sense. He didn’t make any sense.

‘Do you want to go and see her now?’ she asked hesitantly.

‘It’s not a logged case, Brontë,’ he replied. ‘We’re only supposed to answer logged calls, not personal ones.’

‘And I didn’t hear that,’ she said. ‘Where does Peg live?’

‘Are you serious?’ he said, and Brontë huffed impatiently.

‘Just give me the address, Eli.’

‘She…’ He rubbed his chin awkwardly. ‘She doesn’t exactly “live” anywhere. She—and her friends—camp out most nights by Greyfriars Church.’

Greyfriars Church. It was hardly the most hospitable of places in the daytime but, on a freezing-cold November night, Brontë couldn’t think of a more miserable place to be, and her opinion didn’t change when they reached the church and she saw the black, locked gates.

‘Where’s your friend?’ she asked as she and Eli got out of the ambulance.

‘Inside.’

‘Inside?’ she repeated as he retrieved a medi-bag. ‘You mean, she sleeps amongst the tombstones?’

‘Yup.’ Eli nodded, then his teeth gleamed white in the darkness. ‘Not afraid of ghosts, I hope?’

Only my own, Brontë thought, but she didn’t say it.

‘I’ve always liked that statue of Greyfriars Bobby,’ she said instead, pointing at the life-size figure of the little dog on a plinth in front of the church. ‘My parents used to bring my brother, sister and I to see it when we were small, and tell us how Bobby came back every night for fourteen years to sleep on his owner’s grave until he eventually died.’

‘Yeah, well, putting up a statue to anyone—be it a person or a dog—is a lot easier than trying to help real, living people.’

Eli’s voice sounded uncharacteristically hard, and bitter, and she glanced across at him curiously, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were scanning the graveyard, and then he nodded.

‘There she is,’ he said.

Following the direction of his gaze, Brontë saw a slim form flitting amongst the tombstones.

‘How do we get in?’ she asked. ‘Do we have to climb over the railings, or…?’

‘I know another way in.’

He did, and Brontë very soon wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t just the way the church seemed so much bigger and more ominous in the dark, nor the way the tombstones leant towards her like grasping, clutching fingers. It wasn’t even the mort-safe coverings which had been installed over some of the graves by her Edinburgh forebears to prevent grave-robbers. It was the smell.

Sharp, acrid, and overpowering, it didn’t matter how much she tried to hold her breath she couldn’t escape the smell of unwashed bodies, and stale alcohol. It’s just a smell, she told herself. Smells can’t harm you, they can’t hurt you, but, unbidden and unwanted, she felt her heart beginning to beat faster, could feel the all too familiar wave of panic rising within her, and she wrapped her arms around herself tightly.

‘Must be well below zero tonight,’ Eli observed, clearly misunderstanding her gesture.

She nodded.

‘How many…’ She swallowed hard. ‘How many people sleep here every night?’

‘It depends,’ Eli replied. ‘Sometimes ten—sometimes twenty.’

‘How do they survive?’ she exclaimed. ‘How can they keep alive on nights like this? I would have thought—’ She came to a sudden halt. Something warm, wet, and slimy was seeping through her left boot, encircling her toes, and she let out a small yelp. ‘Oh, yuck! What have I just stood in?’

‘Do you really want me to tell you?’ Eli asked, and she shook her head quickly.

She didn’t, especially as she already had a very strong suspicion what it was.

‘Take my advice—’

‘Buy some boots from Harper & Stolins in Cockburn Street,’ she finished for him. ‘I know, you said.’

‘Yes, but this time listen,’ he declared. ‘We don’t refuse to wear the regulation boots because we’re picky. We don’t wear them because they’re rubbish, so get yourself a decent pair.’

She would, she thought, as she flexed her wet toes and grimaced. She would go to the shop at the end of this shift, but not until she’d had a very long, and very hot, shower.

‘Okay, wait here,’ Eli ordered. ‘Peg and her friends…they know me, but you’re a stranger, so it’s best if I explain who you are.’

He was gone before she could argue, could tell him she didn’t want to wait in this place on her own. Figures were emerging from behind the tombstones now, some of them coughing, all of them staggering, and though they looked merely curious, puzzled, she didn’t know how long that would last, nor did she want to find out.

Anxiously, she searched the moonlit cemetery for Eli, but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the newcomer had taken off, which would mean they could leave, too. She fervently hoped so. It was so cold here, so very cold. Dark, too, despite the moon. Dark and creepy, and she almost jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand clasp her shoulder.

‘I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ Eli murmured, as she swore under her breath.

‘Yeah, well, next time warn me, okay?’ she said, trying to calm her thudding heart. ‘What’s the situation?’

‘According to Peg, the newcomer’s just a boy. He left his home in Aberdeenshire about a year ago—won’t say why, but Peg reckons something bad happened. He got robbed of what little savings he had on his first night in Edinburgh, and with no money he couldn’t pay for anywhere to live, and with no home address he couldn’t get any benefits, so he’s been living rough ever since.’

‘What does Peg want us to do?’

‘When did “I” become “us”?’ Eli asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

‘When I broke every rule in the EMDC manual by allowing this visit,’ she replied, ‘so quit stalling.’

‘Basically she wants us to get him out of here. She thinks he has a bad cold, which is not good news. Pneumonia, or a severe chest infection, would mean we could take him to the Pentland which would get him off the streets for a while, but a cold…’ He sighed. ‘Peg’s gone to ask if he’ll let me examine him.’

The boy must have agreed because, out of the gloom, Brontë could see a white hand beckoning to them, and quickly she followed Eli as he picked his way through the tombstones, keeping as close to him as she could, so she almost collided into his back when he came to a sudden halt by one of the bigger mausoleums.

‘Is this him?’ she whispered, only to instantly feel stupid because, of course, it had to be, and yet…

She had expected to see a young man but the person sitting hunched on the ground in front of them, dressed in threadbare trainers, thin denim trousers, and a tattered wine-coloured jacket, didn’t even look old enough to have left school. How on earth had he survived if he’d been sleeping rough for a year?

‘What’s your name, son?’ Eli murmured as he crouched down in front of the boy, seemingly heedless of the broken glass, and discarded syringes, glinting in the moonlight.

With an effort, the boy raised his head. His skin was stretched tightly across his cheekbones, and there were dark shadows under his eyes, but though those eyes looked tired and scared, Brontë didn’t think he was taking drugs. At least, not yet.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.