It slowly dawned on her that they were in bed together and that it felt really good—safe. Secure.

She could feel the tension draining out of her body, leaving her limp in his arms. Within minutes she was asleep.

He lay there for ages listening to the even rhythm of her breathing and soaking up her warmth. It felt so good to lie next to her, but he couldn’t stay there, not for the rest of the night—not and retain his sanity.

He eased his arm carefully out from under her neck and tucked the pillow there instead. His thigh was throbbing, his pelvis ached and his lower leg was as heavy as lead. There was no way he was going to get back to sleep, so he went into the kitchen, got a glass of water and shuffled over to the sofa. But all he could think about was how she’d felt snuggled up against his side, and how soft and warm her body had been, and how he wanted to protect her.

That scared the spit out of him.

The right man for Fran?

When nurse Fran Williams reaches a turning point in her life she finds herself being offered work assignments with two very different men—men who will offer Fran more than a job! She doesn’t know it, but they represent her future happiness.

So which is the right man for Fran?

Is it rich, wealthy, energetic Josh Nicholson—injured, impatient but gorgeous hero number one?

Or charming, sensual, tender Dr. Xavier Giraud, the single father who needs a woman to love him and his children?

Or is there more than one Mr. Right?

Find out and explore Fran’s parallel lives with each of these heroes—this month in

Assignment: Single Man, next month in

Assignment: Single Father from Harlequin Romance®.

DOUBLE DESTINY

There is more than one route to happiness.

Like to see Fran’s introduction to Josh Nicholson and Xavier Giraud?

Caroline Anderson’s prequel to this intriguing duet is free to read.

Look for DOUBLE DESTINY at www.eHarlequin.com.

Assignment: Single Man
Caroline Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS the sexy grin that did it. That and those arresting cobalt blue eyes that seemed to spear right through her.

She’d come out of the back office to Reception to tell Jackie she was going for a second interview with Xavier Giraud, but she didn’t get a chance. Jackie was no longer alone, and the man in there with her was a man she recognised, a man with a sexy, lopsided grin and the most arresting blue eyes she’d ever seen.

Josh looked up at her, and his smile widened in recognition.

‘Well, if it isn’t the bodacious Sister Williams,’ he said, and Fran suppressed a smile.

‘Well, if it isn’t the accident-prone Mr Nicholson. It’s good to see you alive.’

‘Do you two know each other?’ Jackie chipped in, clearly agog, and he chuckled.

‘Let’s just say we met over a red-hot needle a little while ago.’

‘Yes. How is the chest?’ Fran asked him, and he gave a short, humourless laugh.

‘Oh, the chest is fine—it’s healed beautifully. Unfortunately, though, the rest of me is lagging behind a little, hence my visit here. I need a nurse.’

His smile challenged her—almost dared her to take the job.

Why it seemed like a dare she couldn’t imagine, but for some inexplicable reason it did and her heart was beating a tattoo against her ribs. She forced herself to ignore it.

‘Why do you need a nurse?’ she asked, ruthlessly sticking to the point. ‘If you’ve been discharged from hospital…’

‘I’ve discharged myself,’ he said dryly. ‘The consultant didn’t quite seem to see eye to eye with me about that, but you can’t please all of the people all of the time.’

Fran kept her expression carefully neutral. ‘You discharged yourself?’

He nodded, the grin kicking up one side of his mouth in a charming, little-boy appeal that had no business affecting her the way it did. She ignored the flutter in her heart—again—and studied him as he sat there in old jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt, one leg stuck out in front of him, his trousers cut up the side to accommodate the paraphernalia of the external fixator.

His right arm—the same side—was in a cast below the elbow, and his hair had been cropped short, perhaps to stitch a scalp wound? It suited him, she thought, sidetracked again by his lazy good looks and those arresting eyes.

Eyes clouded with pain, she realised. His body must have taken a real hammering.

And yet oddly, as mangled as he was, he still exuded power and confidence as well as an undeniable sex appeal. She dragged her mind back into order.

‘So, how long ago exactly did you have this accident?’ she asked, eyeing the cast on his arm and the metalwork protruding through his trouser leg with concern.

‘Twelve days ago.’

Fran blinked. Could it really only have been twelve days? She remembered the news breaking, just as her world was falling apart. He’d been the only bright spot in a hellish week, and when the accident happened it had been all the more shocking because she’d only just treated him. He’d fallen over a cat and landed in a bin bag full of rubbish, cutting his chest. She’d teased him, and then a few days later he’d nearly died.

Was it really only twelve days ago? It seemed forever, but that was her own personal perspective. In terms of this man’s injuries it was probably plenty—unless there was more than his arm and leg involved.

He shrugged, the crooked grin widening. ‘Well, apart from the bruised spleen, the split liver and the right femur which had to be pinned, not a lot really. Well, except for the clot on my brain. They had to make a little borehole to get it out. Oh, and there’s a crack in my pelvis, apparently.’

Fran felt sick. How many young men had she seen like that—and how many of them had lost their tenuous hold on life? Too many, over and over again, day after day, until she thought she’d go mad. She buried the hideous memories and rolled her eyes. ‘You must be out of your mind, discharging yourself,’ she told him flatly.

The grin faded, showing her for the first time just how bad he really felt. His face was etched deeply with lines of pain that added years to his true age, and as he turned his head towards the light a little, she could see the fading greenish-purple remains of some startling bruises round his eyes, shot through with a truly colourful yellow.

‘I was going out of my mind,’ he corrected. ‘What I need now is rest, that’s all, but I’m not so suicidal that I want to go home on my own, and the last thing on God’s earth I need is my mother fluttering around me like a demented hen.’

‘Maybe that’s exactly what you need,’ Fran suggested, suppressing a smile. ‘A bit of home cooking, a little motherly love, all from someone who knows you inside out—’

She was interrupted by a rude snort. ‘You’ve never met my mother,’ he said bluntly. ‘She doesn’t do home cooking, and she certainly doesn’t know me inside out. I’m not even sure about the motherly love, but I do know she’d drive me even crazier than being in hospital. And if I don’t have a nurse, she’ll insist on coming to look after me, and I might just have to kill her.’

The grin surfaced again. ‘You could always look on it as your moral duty as a law-abiding citizen, preventing a murder.’

The eyes twinkled in his bruised and battered face, and she crumpled. Let’s face it, she thought to herself, he certainly needs help, and you aren’t in a position to be fussy. Looking after him might even turn out to be fun.

‘This is a live-in post, I take it?’ she asked him, but her eyes were on Jackie, sitting back and watching the byplay between her newest recruit and her even newer client with avid interest.

‘Jackie?’ Fran prompted, wanting her input. It was her nursing agency, after all, and she was the one in charge of who went to which client and under what terms and conditions.

Jackie collected herself visibly and nodded. ‘Oh, yes, it would have to be, wouldn’t it, Mr Nicholson?’

He nodded agreement. ‘Absolutely. The slightest loophole and my mother will be in there quicker than a sniper’s bullet.’

Fran suppressed another smile. ‘And the hours?’

He shrugged. ‘Whatever. Minimal. However long it takes to go to the supermarket and buy some instant food and whack it in the microwave—oh, and I suppose the pins in my leg will need looking at from time to time. The rest of the time you can do what you like, so long as you’re around to take me anywhere I need to go. I take it you can drive?’

‘I can drive,’ she confirmed.

‘Well, that’s fine, then. I just need a token nurse in self-defence.’

Compared to the hell on wheels of her previous job in a busy London A and E department, it sounded like a positive doddle. Her only worry was that it would be so light on the nursing that she’d get bored to death, but maybe it was exactly what she needed. She certainly didn’t feel emotionally strong enough yet to deal with anything more front line.

She glanced at Jackie, who raised an eyebrow in question. ‘May be possible,’ she said quietly.

Jackie smiled bracingly at both of them. ‘I’m sure it will be fine.’ She turned to the man. ‘If you could just give us a few moments to sort out the paperwork, Fran’ll be all yours,’ she assured him, and then fixing Fran with a meaningful look, she led her into the office at the back. The door closed with a definite click and Jackie sagged against it, clutching her chest and sighing theatrically.

‘Oh, my God, he is so gorgeous!’ she said under her breath. ‘I can’t believe you know him. You are going to take this job, aren’t you? You’re not going to be silly?’

Fran shook her head. ‘No. I’m going to see Dr Giraud at eleven, and I’m probably going to take his job—if he offers it to me. And I don’t know Josh, I’ve only met him once.’

‘Well, surely you know who he is? Good grief, he’s famous—’

‘Yes, they talked about him at work. I’d never heard of him,’ Fran confessed. ‘I gather he’s got a bit of money.’

‘A bit? I think the expression is “fabulously wealthy”,’ Jackie said with a chuckle. ‘Anyway, what about the job? He needs looking after. It was a high-speed crash on the A12—something about a horse on the road. It was one of those really dark nights. Judging by the sound of it, he was very lucky to escape with his life. I’d forgotten all about it. Fran, it’s the chance of a lifetime. You have to take the job!’

‘It’s a thought. At least I wouldn’t be slumming it,’ Fran said with a weak attempt at humour, ‘and it might be quite interesting to see how the other half live. I feel a bit guilty about Xavier Giraud, though. I told him on the phone just before Josh came in that I’d go back and see him, and I was thinking about taking the job if he offered it.’

‘So think about it. Do you want to work part time as a practice nurse and look after Xavier’s disabled daughter in the afternoon, or do you want to work for Josh Nicholson? I know which I’d do in your situation.’

She hovered, just for a moment, haunted by the memory of Dr Giraud’s rich, mellow voice with its merest suggestion of a French accent. Then she thought of the sadness in his house—the loss of his wife, the crippling injury his daughter had sustained in the accident—and wondered if she had enough caring left inside her to do the job properly. Probably not.

She shook her head. ‘No. I can’t do him and his daughter justice. I need a rest, Jackie. I’ve had enough.’

And that was it. Five minutes of paperwork, and they were off. She followed his taxi as it wove through the streets of Woodbridge, then they left the town, crossed the river and turned down a track that led through the trees. From time to time she could glimpse the river on her right, then suddenly the trees opened up to reveal his house, and her jaw dropped.

She certainly wouldn’t be slumming it! The house was nestled in amongst the trees, a long, low curve, single storey except at the end nearest them, where the garage and a few rooms beyond it were tucked underneath, taking advantage of the natural slope. The path rose from the drive, curving round towards the front door in a long, graded sweep, and she pulled up beside the taxi and got out, awestruck.

It was huge, and yet oddly it blended in, cut into the landscape by the hand of a genius, and below it the river stretched out into the distance towards the sea. Slightly upstream she could see the distinctive shape of the tide mill on the opposite bank, with all the houses and shops of the old town clustered together around it and up the hill beyond.

Downstream all the little boats bobbed at their moorings, sunlight gleaming off their masts and sparkling on the wind-ruffled water, and she could almost hear the clink of halliards against the masts.

What a fabulous spot! And she was going to be living here for a while, steeped in the silence of the woodland around them. Amazing.

She pulled herself together and helped the taxi driver extract the wheelchair from the boot and ease her patient into it. Josh thanked him and paid him what seemed like an extortionate amount of money, and then suddenly they were alone.

Totally alone. Fran was suddenly aware of how isolated his house was, and how difficult it would be to get help if anything went wrong, but she suppressed the panic.

She was being silly. Nothing was going to go wrong. He wasn’t going to bleed to death, or he would have done it already. He’d be fine, and so would she. He was well on the way to recovery. All she had to do was get him into bed for a rest.

‘Got the keys?’ she asked him, and was met with a blank stare.

He swore softly under his breath. ‘They’re at the garage, with the car.’

‘Is there a spare one here, hidden under a flowerpot or something?’ she suggested hopefully, but he shook his head.

‘Not a chance.’

‘We’ll have to go and get them, then,’ she said pragmatically.

He eyed her car with evident disgust. ‘You want me to get into that?’

Fran felt her anger flare and stamped it down. ‘It may not be what you’re used to—’

He sighed. ‘I wasn’t criticising,’ he said wearily, ‘I was just wondering how on earth I’m going to fold myself up inside it.’

Of course. She hadn’t seen him standing up properly, but there was no mistaking the rangy length of his thighs. He was a big man, and her car was a little city car. Still, it was that or sit on the doorstep until she came back with the keys, and as she didn’t know where the garage was, he might have a very long wait. She pointed this out to him, and with a quiet sigh he resigned himself to the struggle.

Josh ached. Things ached that he didn’t even know he had. Her car was a nightmare, one of those cute little city cars that suited cute little city women, but it hadn’t been designed with a man of his size in mind, and most particularly not one with an external fixator on his leg and umpteen other broken bones. He could kick himself for not having thought about the keys before, but all he’d cared about had been getting home and the keys hadn’t really seemed a high priority then.

He shifted awkwardly in the seat so he could see her face, and he watched her as she drove. It put her off. Interesting. Her face was more interesting than he remembered, too, not classically beautiful but fine in a very English way. Her skin was a beautiful clear ivory, her hair dark and worn loose, falling in a waving, glossy curtain to well below her shoulders. He had an urge to reach out and touch it, but he thought she’d probably dump him on the road if he tried it.

She had wonderful cheekbones, and her eyes, a lovely soft grey-blue touched with lilac, spoke volumes. He wondered what had gone wrong and why a woman of her age was taking live-in jobs when she should have been at home with her husband and children or forging a dynamic career in her A and E department.

‘Turn left here,’ he said, and reminded himself that her reasons for working for him were none of his business. He should just be grateful that somebody suitable had been available with absolutely no notice. At least, he supposed she was suitable and hadn’t been dismissed for some flagrant conduct. He imagined that she’d been vetted by the agency, but he hadn’t checked. Yet another thing he’d overlooked. That wasn’t like him. It must be the bang on the head.

‘That’s it, up ahead on the right.’

She slowed and turned onto the garage forecourt, and came to a halt. ‘You stay here, I’ll go and ask,’ she suggested, but he shook his head.

‘I want to see the car.’

‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ she said firmly.

She was probably right but, nevertheless, he wanted to see it and even if he hadn’t, her vetoing it was enough to get him out of the car, with or without her help.

‘I don’t employ you to have opinions,’ he told her bluntly. ‘I need a nurse, not a nanny. Get the chair.’

She opened her mouth to say something, then snapped it shut, got out of the car and slammed the door, then yanked it open again, muttering something under her breath that he couldn’t quite hear. Tipping her seat forwards with a thump, she yanked his wheelchair out of the tiny space behind it and hurled the door shut again with force.

He suppressed a grim smile. So she had a temper. Even more interesting. It would make his convalescence much less tedious.

His door was yanked open and she thrust his wheelchair up against the side of the car. ‘I think you’re mad,’ she told him with a directness that bordered on insolence, but he didn’t bother to argue.

It had occurred to him while she’d been banging about in a temper that, before he struggled out of the car, it would be an idea to check that his own car was actually here on the premises, but now didn’t seem the time to raise that. Anyway, George was coming over, thank goodness, a beaming smile splitting his face.

‘Mr Nicholson! Good to see you, sir.’

‘Hello, George. I’ve come to pick up some stuff from the car. I take it it’s here?’

‘Oh, yes, it’s here. We’ve collected all your things together—they’re in the office. I’ll get one of the lads to find them for you. It’s best if you stay here.’

Why were they all being so damned protective? ‘I’d like to see it,’ he said firmly, and he saw doubt flicker in George’s eyes.

‘Well, of course, if you must, it’s your car after all, but I really—’

‘I’d like to see it,’ he repeated in a voice that brooked no argument, and with a slight shrug George gave in.

‘Let me give you a hand into the chair, sir,’ George said, scrubbing his oily hands on a bit of rag, and Fran moved the wheelchair back a little to give them room. Once he was settled George wheeled him through into the back of the workshop, and there, with the top missing and every panel battered almost beyond recognition, was his car.

Josh took a steadying breath and steeled himself. ‘It looks a tad mangled,’ he said mildly, ignoring the pounding of his heart and the nausea that had come up out of nowhere. He could see blood all over the leather seats and in the footwell, and he suddenly wondered how the hell he’d got out of it alive. He looked away.

‘Um, I need the keys and the garage door remote—and any of the CDs that aren’t broken. I assume it’s a write-off?’

George made a smothered sound and smiled grimly. ‘I think we can safely assume that, sir. The keys and the garage remote are in the office with a few other bits and pieces, but we haven’t got the boot open yet and the CD player’s in there. I’ll drop them round to you just as soon as we’ve forced the lock. To be honest, sir, we weren’t expecting to see you quite so soon. In fact, to be truthful, we were all pretty amazed to know you’d survived.’

Seeing the car, Josh could only agree. He nodded slightly, acknowledging George’s remark, and looked up at Fran. Suddenly he’d seen enough. ‘Why don’t we go back to the car while George finds my things?’ he suggested, hoping that for once she wouldn’t challenge him.

To his amazement she didn’t, just took the wheelchair from George, turned it around so he was no longer facing the mangled evidence of his close encounter with death, and pushed him back out into the sunshine. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and he felt his shoulders drop inches.

To her eternal credit she didn’t say, I told you so, but merely helped him back into the car without a word and put away the wheelchair, while George handed him the keys and the remote and wished him well.

‘You were quite right,’ he said quietly as she drove off. ‘I really didn’t need to see that.’

Fran’s shoulders lifted in a little shrug. ‘I just knew how it would look,’ she told him. ‘I’ve worked in A and E for years, and I’ve attended lots of road traffic accidents. It often seems quite amazing that people survive them.’

‘It all rather puts it in perspective,’ he said. ‘I imagine any one of the injuries might have been enough to kill me.’

‘I think it’s unlikely that a broken wrist would do it,’ she teased, and he laughed, a little gusting laugh that took more of the tension out of his shoulders.

He leant his head back against the headrest and sighed, and she shot him a quick look, too quick for him to be sure that it really was concern in her eyes.

‘We’ll soon be home,’ she said gently. ‘You can have a rest and—’

‘I haven’t had a rest in the afternoon for years,’ he told her in disgust. ‘Not since I was about three.’

‘I expect there are lots of things that you’ve had to do in the last two weeks that you haven’t done since you were about three, but it’s no good crying over spilt milk. And while you’re sleeping,’ she went on relentlessly, ‘I’ll turn out the fridge, go through your cupboards and the freezer, and then go shopping. OK?’

What was there to say? Apparently nothing. Josh shrugged slightly, turned his head away and stared sightlessly out of the window. He was obviously going to have to resign himself to being fussed and mothered by this woman, but at least she was better-looking than his real mother, so he supposed that was a bonus. No less opinionated, though, he realised with a sinking feeling. They’d probably get on together like a house on fire. Oh, hell.

They turned onto the track leading to the house, and he felt every last pebble. He’d refused to take any of the painkillers they’d given him, but maybe that had been a little rash. Perhaps he’d have one when they got home. In the meantime, he gritted his teeth and said nothing.

He looked awful. The sight of the car, as she’d known it would be, had been a real shock to him. Experienced as she was, it had been a real shock to her, as well, and she still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed to escape with his life. Fran had no idea what make it was. There hadn’t been a recognisable panel on it, but she knew instinctively that it would have been almost new and hideously expensive. Not that that mattered, not compared to his life.

He was struggling now, she realised, and she wondered if he’d had any painkillers before he left the hospital. Probably not. He was stubborn enough for an entire army. Oh, well, he wouldn’t die of it, he’d just feel wretched, and if that was how he wanted to play it, who was she to interfere?

The track turned into his drive, and she pulled up in front of the garage and cut the engine.

‘Right,’ she said, turning to him with a smile, ‘all we have to do now is get you out of the car and into the house.’

Josh’s answering smile was a little tight, and she thought her guess about the painkillers had probably been correct. She manoeuvred him into the wheelchair, pushed him up the grass beside the path to save having to negotiate the steps, and then once the path flattened out she pushed him quickly up to the front door and opened it with his key.

Immediately something started to beep, and he pointed across the hall towards a door. ‘In there—the burglar-alarm control. Key in “5836”, then “Part Set”, then “No”.’

She did, and the beeping stopped, to her relief. ‘Right, let’s get you in,’ she said, and turned him round.

Hitching the wheelchair over the step was a problem, but with a little huffing and puffing she managed, and finally he was in. In fact, it wasn’t until she’d retrieved his case from the car and closed the front door behind herself that she actually noticed the house, and then her jaw sagged.

There was nothing ostentatious about it, not overtly, but everything screamed quality. The solid, light oak floor, the heavy timber doors in the same pale wood as the floor, the clean, simple lines were stunning. So, too, were the original works of art on all the walls, the value of which she didn’t even dare to guess at, and this was just the hall!

She shut her mouth firmly and followed his directions along the hall and into a wonderful room with a high, vaulted ceiling and a spectacular view of the river. It was a multi-purpose room, part kitchen, part breakfast area, part informal sitting room, full of rich colour and texture, and she guessed it was his favourite place in the house.

‘Right, if you show me where your bedroom is I’ll change your sheets and get it ready for you.’

‘You don’t need to change the sheets—the cleaning agency I use will have seen to it,’ he told her tiredly.

‘OK, in that case I’ll just help you change into something more comfortable and settle you down for a while. Where is it?’

Josh waved in the direction of the door on the other side of the room, and she pushed him through it, past a glass-walled study overlooking the river, past another few doors and through the one at the end.

They must be in the room over the garage, she realised, because in the end wall there were French doors opening onto the balcony above the drive, and there was another window on the front wall with the same spectacular view as from the kitchen and study.

‘Well, at least you’ll have a lovely place to lie and convalesce,’ she said, trying not to sound like a thunderstruck adolescent.

He grunted. ‘I have no intention of lying anywhere and convalescing,’ he pointed out bluntly. ‘From tomorrow onwards, I have every intention of getting back to work.’

She stifled the snort of disgust, and set the brakes on the wheelchair with a decisive jab. ‘We’ll see,’ she said crisply. ‘Right, let’s get you into bed.’

She leant forward, ready to tuck her right arm under his to help him up, but he just looked at her, his jaw set defiantly. ‘I thought I’d already told you that I don’t need a nanny,’ he said, his voice deathly quiet.

She felt her eyebrows go up but was helpless to prevent it. ‘So you did,’ she said calmly. ‘You also told me that you needed a nurse, but if you’re going to be difficult and uncooperative the entire time, I’m going to have to leave. I shouldn’t worry, though, because I expect your mother will be only too happy to come and look after you.’

He opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut, linked his arm through hers and pulled himself up out of the chair without another word. So he didn’t like being threatened with his mother, she thought with a smile. How useful to know that.

Storing the little snippet for later, Fran set about undressing him, exposing yet more of the colourful bruises as well as the livid lines of his recent surgery. Under other circumstances she’d found the powerful planes and angles of his body fascinating. As it was, she ignored them, more concerned with getting him comfortably settled in bed before he keeled over. It seemed more likely with every passing second.

Josh told her where she could find soft jersey boxer shorts and a T-shirt, and she helped him into them, only too glad when he was finally lying flat on the bed and able to relax.

‘Bliss,’ he said with a low grunt of relief.

She eyed him thoughtfully. It would take more than simply lying down to get him truly comfortable, but how to talk him into it? Easy. Instead of asking him if he wanted a painkiller, she’d tell him it was time. She tucked a pillow in beside his leg and arranged the quilt so it didn’t pull on his foot, then straightened up.

‘Now, where are all the drugs they gave you when you left the hospital?’ she asked him. ‘It must be time for a painkiller by now.’

For a moment he hesitated, and then he surrendered, as she’d hoped he would. ‘In the case,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t know what else there is. Antibiotics, possibly. I haven’t got a damn clue.’

‘That’s why I’m here, so you don’t have to think about it,’ she said calmly. She fetched him a glass of water from the sumptuous kitchen and held it while he took the pills, then he settled back onto the pillows with a sigh.

‘Thank you,’ he said in a low voice.

Thank you? Good heavens. She schooled her face. ‘My pleasure. Right, now I’m going to turn out the fridge so we don’t get food poisoning, and if you’re feeling OK I’ll go to the supermarket. I’ve got a mobile, I’ll give you the number and you can call me if you have a problem.’

She went out, leaving the door ajar, and by the time she’d emptied the fridge and made a shopping list, he was fast asleep. She wrote her mobile number on a piece of paper and tucked it under the edge of the phone on his bedside table then, taking his keys with her, she let herself out and headed back into town.

She didn’t want to do a big shop, just a few basic provisions and something for tonight. After all the jostling about, she didn’t really like leaving him, but all she’d found in the fridge had been a few curls of dried-up smoked salmon and a bit of cheese that had seen better days. The milk was solid in the bottle, and what few vegetables there were were well past their sell-by date. There was precious little in the cupboards either, and the freezer contained nothing more than a few ready meals that left her cold.

He obviously took after his mother on the home-cooking front, she thought dryly. Well, not any more. Fresh vegetables, lean meat, chicken and fish and plenty of fruit.

Her phone rang and she rummaged for it in her bag, halfway between the carrots and the broccoli.

‘Get coffee,’ he said. ‘Not instant—the real stuff.’

‘OK. If they have it, do you want me to get some with a Fairtrade label on it—or bird-friendly or organic or anything?’

The snort nearly split her eardrum. ‘Just coffee, Fran. Nothing clever.’

So her ultra-rich and spoilt client was a coffee addict, was he? She might have guessed. ‘What sort of beans, and what country?’

‘Arabica. Don’t care what country. Medium to rich roast—and don’t be long.’

‘Do you miss me?’ she teased.

Was that a little growl of frustration, or poor reception?

‘Don’t get witty—I just want the damn coffee,’ he grunted, and hung up.

Fran let the smile out, grabbed a head of broccoli and moved on to the fruit, the chiller section and finally the coffee. It was a tiny supermarket with a limited selection, and she couldn’t be bothered to go into town and look in a specialist shop. No Fairtrade, no bird-friendly, not even any organic, although Josh hadn’t wanted it, but they did have Arabica in a medium roast and she decided that would have to do. She’d sacrifice her principles on this one occasion, although she only picked up one packet. The last thing he needed was too much caffeine.

She toyed with the idea of decaff, but thought better of it. He didn’t need a temper tantrum either, and caffeine enhanced the action of some painkillers, so caffeine it was.

She threw it into the trolley with all the healthy goodies she’d bought, added a packet of chocolate biscuits to satisfy his sweet tooth and headed for the checkout. Five minutes later she was on the way back to his house, and as she turned the corner of the track and pulled onto the drive, she saw him standing above her on the balcony, dressed only in his boxer shorts and T-shirt.

She got out of the car and tipped her head back, looking up at him with a mock-stern expression on her face.

‘Why are you out of bed? You’re standing again, and you’ll catch your death. It’s October.’

‘I’m fine. I’m just looking at the view, breathing air that doesn’t taste of disinfectant and being glad to be alive.’

Most particularly the latter, she guessed, after seeing the remains of his car. She brandished the carrier bags. ‘I’ve got coffee,’ she said with a smile, and he gave her a cock-eyed grin in return.

‘Thank heavens for that. I don’t suppose you got any chocolate biscuits?’

‘Just a walking miracle, me,’ she said cheerfully, and headed for the front door, humming softly under her breath. Maybe working for Josh Nicholson might not be so bad after all.

CHAPTER TWO

FRAN hurried up the path, let herself in through the front door and took all the bags through to the kitchen, setting them down on the breakfast bar. By the time she’d done that, Josh was there, hobbling on his damaged leg, putting far too much weight through the external fixator and wincing with every step.

‘For heaven’s sake, sit down, you idiot,’ Fran said crossly. ‘What are you trying to do, put yourself back in hospital?’

She went over to him, taking his arm and helping him down onto the soft, squashy sofa. How she would ever get him out of it she didn’t know, but she’d cross that bridge when she got to it. In the meantime, he was eyeing the shopping bags like an addict waiting for his fix.

‘Coffee?’ he suggested hopefully.

‘Patience is a virtue,’ she said, probably sounding exactly like his mother, but she didn’t care. She pulled all the shopping out onto the worktop, found the coffee and the coffee-maker and put them together. Within moments the kitchen was filled with the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee, and Josh was sighing with relief. While it slowly dripped through the filter, she stuffed the shopping into the fridge and cupboards, found the mugs and opened the milk, just as the front doorbell rang.

Josh groaned gently. ‘Oh, hell, it’s my mother,’ he said under his breath.

‘Shall I tell her you’re in bed?’ Fran offered, but he shook his head.

‘Too late. She’s seen me. Just let her in,’ he said tiredly.

Mentally girding her loins, Fran walked calmly to the front door and opened it. A tall, elegantly dressed grey-haired woman stood there, and without a glance at Fran she swept through the door and went into the kitchen.

‘Joshua, what on earth are you thinking about! You should be in hospital, you silly creature.’

She buzzed his cheek with a kiss and perched on the edge of the sofa beside him, no mean achievement considering its squashiness. Then she turned and looked at Fran, eyeing her with only slight curiosity. ‘Have we met?’ she asked.

Fran opened her mouth to reply, but Josh got there first.

‘Mother, this is Francesca Williams, my new nurse. Fran, this is my mother, Isabel Hardy.’

Fran smiled and held out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation the woman extended her hand and took Fran’s, her fingers cool and slender and beautifully manicured, quite unlike Fran’s workmanlike hands. Mrs Hardy, she decided, was one of those ‘ladies who lunch’.

‘How nice to meet you, Mrs Hardy,’ she said innocently. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Mrs Hardy said, eyeing her son thoughtfully. ‘Where did you say you came from, my dear?’

‘She didn’t. The nursing agency in town—and don’t patronise her, Mother. She’s an intelligent woman.’

Mrs Hardy opened her mouth a fraction, but Fran just smiled and went back into the kitchen area. So he thought she was intelligent? Smart man. ‘I’ve just put the coffee-machine on, Mrs Hardy. Can I get you a cup?’

Her elegant brow pleated. ‘Are you making him coffee? Is that wise?’

‘It’s fine,’ Fran assured her. ‘A little caffeine enhances the action of painkillers, and he’s had quite a difficult day, I think, what with one thing and another.’

Mrs Hardy was all ready to protest, but then Josh, obviously used to her, chipped in.

‘I knew you’d worry, Mother, which is why I engaged a professional, to set your mind at rest. She’s fully qualified, highly recommended, and she nags nearly as much as you do.’

Fran stifled a snort and poured the coffee. He thought she was a nag? She hadn’t even started yet! ‘Black or white and with or without?’ she asked blithely.

Josh, as she’d remembered, took his strong, straight and black, his mother white. Predictably, she produced a little packet of sweeteners from her bag and clicked one into her mug. Not for her the unnecessary calories of a spoonful of sugar, Fran thought with a suppressed smile.

She wondered what she was supposed to do with her own coffee. Take it below stairs to the servants’ quarters? She had no idea, but the sofa seemed rather full at the moment. She propped herself up against the worktop instead, cradled her mug in her hands and blew gently onto the top of it.

‘Don’t nurses wear uniforms?’ Mrs Hardy said after a moment, shooting Fran a suspicious look.

‘Only in fantasies,’ Josh said with a soft laugh, and his mother blushed furiously and swatted at his good arm.

‘You’re incorrigible!’

‘And you love me for it.’ He glanced up at Fran and smiled. ‘Biscuits?’ he murmured hopefully, and she put her coffee down and took out the packet, neatly slitting the end of it with a sharp knife. Now what? Hand him the packet, or put a few out onto a pretty little plate?

Plate, she thought, in view of the mother. She opened cupboards until she found the side plates, placed a few biscuits onto one and set them down on the coffee-table in front of them.

‘Aren’t you having one?’ Josh asked her.

She shook her head. Once she started on the chocolate biscuits, she couldn’t stop, so it was easier not to start. ‘No, thanks,’ she said, deadpan. ‘I might outgrow my uniform. Anyway, I’m busy,’ she added, deciding she may as well begin preparing the supper as stand there and watch them.

Something reasonably light, she thought, considering his recent surgery, but on the other hand it needed to be tasty. A nice chicken casserole, perhaps. If she could find some, she’d sling in a bit of sherry or wine or something. She poked about the cupboards, looking for some herbs or even a bouquet garni, if she was extremely lucky, but she drew a blank. Ah, well, she’d stick them on her shopping list. She hadn’t expected to find them. Josh didn’t really need a bouquet garni to heat a ready meal in the microwave, she thought with a little smile.

‘Are you looking for something?’ he asked her.

‘Herbs,’ she said.

‘Not a chance,’ he grunted. ‘I told you, I don’t cook.’

No, she thought, you told me your mother didn’t cook. You never mentioned yourself, but it was no surprise.

‘No problem,’ she said lightly. ‘I’ll work round it for tonight.’

She would have been fine, of course, if he’d had stock cubes, but all she could find was ketchup and soy sauce. The casserole was going to be a strange one, she thought, but they’d live. While she chopped and peeled and sliced the vegetables, she kept an eye on Josh, and after a few minutes she noticed him starting to flag.

His mother was recounting some story from a bridge party, and his eyes were glazing. He glanced up and caught her eye, and his look spoke volumes. She put her knife down, washed her hands, dried them and walked over to Mrs Hardy, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

‘Mrs Hardy, I think it’s time for Josh to have a rest now, if you don’t mind,’ she said quietly but firmly.

Josh’s mother opened her mouth to protest, but Fran just smiled, and Josh, right on cue, leant back against the sofa and sighed only slightly theatrically.

Mrs Hardy stood up, leant over him and kissed his cheek. ‘You should have said, you silly boy. I didn’t realise you were tired. I’ll go now.’

Fran showed her to the door, closed it behind her and chuckled softly.

As she went back into the kitchen, Josh was laughing. ‘Very neatly done. I owe you one for that.’

Fran picked up her coffee, went over to the sofa and perched on the other end of it.

‘I meant it, really. You ought to have a rest.’

Josh shook his head. ‘I really don’t want to go to bed. I can’t sleep at night at the best of times. The last thing I need is to sleep so much during the day that the nights are completely endless.’

‘OK,’ she agreed, ‘but you really need to put that leg up.’

Fran stood up, took his coffee from him and, lifting both legs at the ankle, swivelled him round. He winced a little, but then sighed with relief and dropped his head back against the arm.

‘Thanks,’ he murmured. ‘Any chance of another coffee?’

‘OK, but it’s the last one. If you have any more you certainly won’t sleep tonight, and I really think you need to. Which reminds me, where am I sleeping?’

‘The guest room’s through there,’ he said, gesturing towards the hall.

Fran arched a brow. ‘I don’t think so. That’s miles from you. How will I know if you get into difficulties in the night?’

‘What kind of difficulties am I going to get into?’ he asked with a chuckle. ‘The mind boggles. Anyway, I thought I was going to sleep?’

‘You are,’ she said firmly, ‘and if I have anything at all to say about it, so am I, which means I can’t lie at the other end of the house straining my ears down the corridor in case you call for help. So, is there a closer room?’

He shrugged. ‘Not with its own bathroom, but the room next to me has a shower opposite.’

‘That’ll do fine,’ she said, and stood up. ‘Now, you settle back and rest and I’ll finish the supper.’

She went back into the kitchen and put all the ingredients together. At first he watched her, but then his eyelids started to droop and, as she’d anticipated, within moments he was asleep.

She put the casserole into the oven, and then went quietly down the corridor to the room next to his. It shared the same beautiful view, the king-size bed placed opposite the window to take full advantage of it, and she thought longingly of early mornings lying with a cup of tea, staring out across the river. What a fabulous way to start the day.

She turned down the bedspread and found the bed made up with soft, pure linen. Not for Josh’s guests the polycotton sheets of normal mortals, she thought with gentle irony, and the pillows and quilt felt like goose down.

She went back through the kitchen, checking on him as she went, but he hadn’t stirred and so, letting herself out of the front door, she went down to her car and retrieved her bag.

There were all sorts of things in her car, stuffed into the boot where she’d thrown them last night as she’d left London, but all she really needed was the bag. She looked down into her boot, at the carrier bags and boxes that were all she owned in the world, and with a little sigh she closed the boot lid, locked the car and went back into the house. She’d sort the rest out tomorrow.

She put the case in her room and unpacked it, and then went back to the kitchen. Josh was still sleeping, his lashes dark against his bruised cheeks, and she had a crazy urge to run her fingers over the short, dark hair. He looked vulnerable, younger with the lines of strain missing, and his mouth without the crooked grin looked soft and full and generous.

She looked down at his leg, at the pins locked to the metal bar that held the bone steady, the pins penetrating the skin and holding all the fragments in line. Judging by the number of pins, he’d been lucky not to lose it. It all looked healthy, though, she was relieved to see. The last thing he needed was a nasty infection.

Fran checked the casserole, but it was fine and didn’t need her attention. Suddenly at a loose end, she wandered out into the hall and studied the paintings which until now she’d only had time to walk past. They were beautiful, full of energy, very simple and yet astonishingly lively. They were obviously by the same person, and they were signed, but she couldn’t read the signature and even if she had been able to, it wouldn’t have meant anything to her. She’d never studied art, she simply knew what she liked—and she liked these.

She looked at the other doors in the hall and hesitated. She didn’t want to be nosy but on the other hand, it might not hurt to be familiar with the layout. At least, that was what she told herself as she turned the knob on the nearest door and entered the room.

It was the guest bedroom, of course, that he’d pointed out, more lavishly appointed than the one she’d chosen, but probably no more comfortable and without the fabulous view. She’d trade the luxury of the bathroom just for the view alone.

The next room was a library, stuffed with books, the shelves groaning. They were all real books, as well, battered old favourites as well as classics old and modern, some leather-bound, others tatty old paperbacks.

Eclectic taste, she decided, and wasn’t surprised.

Then there was the dining room, and finally, after the cloakroom, the last room off the hall, furthest from the kitchen and presumably the sitting room.

She turned the knob and went in, hesitating in the doorway. She reached for the light switch, because it was growing dark now and the curtains were all closed in here, but instead of the switch there was some strange panel.

‘It’s electronic,’ Josh said quietly behind her.

She spun round, her hand pressed her chest, guilty colour flooding her cheeks. ‘You gave me such a fright!’ she said with a breathless little laugh. ‘How did you creep up on me?’

He gave her his crooked grin. ‘Years of practice. Sorry. Here, let me.’

He hobbled towards her, wincing as he did so.

‘You should be in your wheelchair,’ she said in concern, ‘not walking around like this. It’s all right to hop from the chair to the loo, or even from the bed to the loo, but you really shouldn’t be wandering around unnecessarily.’

‘Are you going to nag me all the time?’ he asked her mildly, and she smiled.

‘Only if you make me,’ she told him. ‘Wait here while I get your chair.’

She hurried down to his bedroom, grabbed the chair and pushed it swiftly back into the hall. He sat down with a little grunt, and she propped his leg up on the sliding board and pushed him into the sitting room.

He reached up and tapped the keypad, and soft lights came out of nowhere and lit the room. Like the kitchen, it was vaulted, with windows on all sides to take advantage of the setting, but, unlike the warm and sunny-coloured kitchen, everything in there was very neutral and calm.

Like the hall, there was artwork everywhere, but not just paintings and drawings. In here, in addition to the pictures, there were bronzes on shelves, strangely tortured bits of twisted iron standing at one end, a plinth with a marble bust on it in the far corner—security here must be an absolute nightmare unless they were all copies, which she somehow doubted.

She said nothing, and neither did he, just watched her for her reaction and waited.

He was going to have a long wait. She felt rendered speechless, totally overawed by the astonishing investment that must have gone into this room, at the size and scale and scope of his collection, not to mention the beauty of each individual piece. Or most of them, anyway.

‘Well?’

Fran shrugged, a helpless lift of her shoulders. ‘What can I say? I know nothing about art, but I’m not stupid. How much do you pay a year in insurance?’

He gave a low chuckle. ‘You don’t want to know. Anyway, that’s beside the point. What you think of them?’

‘The pictures? They’re lovely, all of them, and I love the bronze sculptures and the marble bust. I’m not sure about the twisted iron.’

His mouth kicked up in a smile. ‘Nor am I. They’re by a college student I’ve been sponsoring. I said I’d display them for her.’ He pointed to the shelves in the alcove beside the fireplace. ‘That’s probably my favourite, the girl sitting on the edge of the shelf with her leg hanging down. She’s a limited edition, and I was lucky to get her. She’s by an artist-cum-farmer from Devon, a guy called Tom Greenshields. Unfortunately he’s dead now, but he had an amazing talent—so tactile. Touch her, see what I mean.’

Fran did, running her fingers down the cool bronze, over the fine slope of the figure’s shoulders and the gentle swell of her hips. She had one knee drawn up and her chin rested on it, and she was beautiful. Even her toes seemed real and solid and in proportion. Fran sighed softly under her breath. How wonderful, to have such talent, and how lucky to be in a position to collect such beautiful works of art.

‘You’re a very lucky man,’ she murmured, and dropped her hand to her side.

‘I know. I’ve worked hard but I’ve had some good breaks, although I must say the last few don’t quite qualify.’

His grin was self-deprecating, and infectious. She stopped feeling jealous of him and decided to content herself with enjoying his lovely surroundings while she could. That in itself was a privilege.

‘Come on, let’s take you back into the kitchen and check the casserole,’ she said, with a return to her usual briskness. Without waiting for Josh to comment, she turned him round and wheeled him up to the light switch, watched as he tapped it and the lights faded away, and then took him through into the kitchen.

‘I hope that’s going to taste as good as it smells,’ Josh said, sniffing appreciatively.

‘I shouldn’t think there’s the slightest chance,’ Fran said with a laugh. ‘I had to make do with only about half the ingredients. Still, it won’t kill us.’

He tipped his head round and grinned up at her. ‘I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance of a glass of wine, is there?’

She shook her head. ‘Sorry, I didn’t buy any.’

His grin widened. ‘If that’s the only objection, I can easily overcome it. There’s a cellar downstairs full of bottles of wine.’

‘You probably shouldn’t have more than one,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘Is that glass or bottle?’ His eyes twinkled mischievously and she stifled a smile.

‘Glass.’

‘You’re such a killjoy,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘Still, one’s better than nothing. You’d better go down and choose one.’

She threw up her hands in horror. ‘Not a chance! I know even less about wine than I do about art.’

‘Well, I can’t go down there like this, so it’s you or nobody, blossom. You could always take it back and bring up another one if it’s not a good choice.’

And that was that. He pointed to the door at the end of the kitchen, and she wheeled him over, set the brakes and went down the stairs to the lower floor.

‘Turn right,’ he instructed, ‘and open that door. Now, red or white?’

She went back to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him. ‘Pass. It’s got chicken, carrots, potatoes, onions, ketchup and soy sauce. You tell me.’

He muttered something that she didn’t hear, and grinned. ‘Try the red—on the right as you go in, about three or four along and the same up from the bottom. It should be a burgundy.’

She pulled a bottle out and peered at the dusty label.

‘Côte du Rhone,’ she called up to him.

‘That’ll do,’ he replied, and she closed the door behind her and went back upstairs, handing it to him.

‘OK?’

‘Should be fine. Perhaps I ought to educate you while you’re here,’ he said with a conniving grin, but it didn’t fool her.

‘Nice try. Right, let’s get you away from the top of the stairs before you fall down and break your neck.’

He sighed, cradling the wine on his lap as she turned him away from the top of the stairs and closed the door, then he handed it to her. ‘You’d better open it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’d be much use with one hand.’

She smiled cheekily. ‘I don’t know, what with not being able to get down the stairs to your wine cellar and not being able to take the cork out of the bottle, you’re a bit stuffed really without my goodwill, aren’t you?’

‘Just don’t shake it around,’ he advised, eyeing the wine like an anxious parent. ‘I know it’s pretty much plonk, but it’s quite decent plonk and it deserves to be treated better than lemonade.’

She rolled her eyes, but set the bottle down carefully, found the corkscrew and opened it.

‘Well, you managed that all right for somebody who doesn’t know anything about wine,’ he said, watching her with the corkscrew.

Fran laughed. ‘Just because I don’t know anything about wine doesn’t mean I can’t open the bottle. What now?’

‘Now you leave it to breathe, until we’re ready to eat. Let me smell the cork.’

She put the bottle down and turned and studied him. ‘Are you really that desperate?’ she said with a grin.

‘Cheeky. I’m just making sure it’s not corked.’

‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. You look a bit better for your rest,’ she said, remembering her role. ‘Maybe you should go back on the sofa with your legs up and take it easy until supper’s ready. Have you got a telly you can watch to help you chill?’

Josh nodded. ‘There’s one in that cupboard,’ he said, pointing at the corner by the table. ‘I’d rather listen to music, though.’

‘Whatever,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Just so long as you rest.’

Needless to say, his choice in music was interesting. She handed him a remote control, and he aimed it at a little keypad on the wall. Moments later music flooded the room. He chose something modern and instrumental by nobody she’d ever heard of, but the beat was compelling and she found her foot tapping to the music as she prodded the casserole and prepared the vegetables.

Every now and again she glanced his way, but he was lying back on the sofa with his eyes closed, his left leg bent up and his foot tapping in time with hers, and he didn’t notice her.

It gave her a chance to study him while the vegetables were cooking, and she had to admit he was a fine specimen, easily as good as she’d remembered. Broad shoulders, lean hips, well-muscled legs—at least, the left one was. The right one was suffering a bit at the moment, but no doubt it would recover. She glanced back to his face, and found him looking at her. Soft colour flooded her cheeks and she turned back to her vegetables.

‘You’re still alive, then?’ she teased.

‘Ten out of ten,’ he replied, turning the music down. ‘How’s supper?’

‘Done. Where do you want to eat?’

‘Here?’

So she boned the chicken and cut it into little chunks, poured him a glass of wine and propped him up a bit, then handed him the plate on a tray. ‘Heaven knows what it will be like, I make no guarantees.’

‘Very wise. I never guarantee anything—that way nobody is ever disappointed.’

Fran didn’t believe him for a moment. For instance, there was the art student he’d sponsored and her strange, tortured sculpture in the other room. She thought about that as she ate her supper—astonishingly palatable, considering—and thought there was a great deal more to this man than met the eye.

She sipped the wine and wondered if it was hideously expensive or if it was just Josh’s company and the fact that she had found herself somewhere to live and an income for the short term at least that made everything seem better.

He swirled his glass, sniffed the wine and sipped it, and set it down with a nod of satisfaction. ‘Good choice, for a self-confessed philistine,’ he said with a grin. ‘The casserole’s good, too. If you didn’t nag so much, you’d be perfect.’

High praise, indeed. She bent over her plate so that her hair fell forward and disguised the colour in her cheeks, horribly conscious of his eyes on her.

‘You need to learn to take a compliment,’ he said softly.

‘Lack of practice,’ she told him.

‘Now you’re fishing.’

She didn’t bother to follow that one up. There was no point. It had been so long since anybody had paid her a compliment of any sort that she couldn’t remember it.

‘Fran?’

‘Leave it, Josh, it’s not important.’

She kept her eyes fixed on her supper, and after a moment she heard the scrape of his fork against the plate again. It wasn’t over, though. Even on such short acquaintance, she knew him better than that, and he would return to the subject, she’d stake her life on it.

Thank goodness it would soon be time to settle him down for the night, and she could go into that lovely room with a book from the groaning shelves in his library and just be herself. She needed the job, but more than that she needed time to recover, time to put herself back together and let herself heal.

Maybe then she’d be able to take a compliment and dare to believe it.

CHAPTER THREE

THE bed was gloriously comfortable. Fran didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, but she went out like a light, even though her door was open so she could listen for Josh. In fact, she didn’t wake until the first grey light of dawn teased at the edge of the curtains, and then she jumped guiltily out of bed, pulled on her dressing-gown and went into his room on tiptoe.

He was fast asleep still, his left arm flung above his head, his right arm in its cast resting across his waist. He must have been restless in the night because the pillow she’d put beside his leg to hold the quilt off it had ended up on the floor, and the quilt had slipped sideways and was pulling on his foot, turning it outwards.

Rats. She should have checked him earlier, because she didn’t want the pulling of the quilt to twist his femur before it had healed. Creeping quietly across the room, she tucked the pillow in beside his leg again and eased the quilt up to relieve the pressure.

He stirred, murmuring something unintelligible, and then his lids fluttered open and he looked at her with sleep-glazed eyes.

‘Morning,’ she said softly. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you, but the quilt was pulling on your foot.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, his voice gruff. ‘It keeps slipping. I must have kicked the pillow out of the way. How did you sleep?’

She gave a sheepish smile. ‘Rather too well. I meant to keep an eye on you, but I just didn’t wake up. How about you?’

He shrugged. ‘Not too bad. Better than usual. There’s nothing quite like being in your own bed in your own home.’