# Just What the Doctor Ordered

Caroline Anderson

FROM BROODING DOC—TO DADDY? Dr Cathy Harris, busy GP and single mum, wants to bring her little boy up in the country and the Cotswolds seems the ideal choice. Until she meets brooding but gorgeous Dr Max Armstrong. He’d rather be working in the city, and the last thing he needs is a time-constrained mum with an adorable child. But his attraction to Cathy is obvious, and however much he protests that he has no desire to marry he can’t help but get involved with Cathy and her boy. They certainly put a smile on this brooding doc’s face, and with a matchmaker in their midst too there’s more than a chance that they could give Max the one thing he’s never thought about—a loving family…

## Just What the Doctor Ordered. Caroline Anderson


www.millsandboon.co.uk

## Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

## CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS a typical little Cotswold town, the broad main street lined with pretty little houses and shops of pale honey-coloured stone, liberally sprinkled with tearooms and antiques shops, with here and there a timber-framed Tudor house jutting out precariously over the pavement.

Following the directions in the letter, Cathy drove past the old stone market hall with its broad open arches and then turned right over the river.

There, just where she had expected to find it, was a sprawling stone-built house with a car park beside it, and a large sign that read, ‘Barton-Under-Edge Surgery’. As Cathy turned the car into the surgery car park and switched off the engine, she felt a sudden, unexpected rush of nerves.

Ridiculous! She chided herself. Either you get the job, or you don’t. It’s not as if you’re out of work! It really doesn’t matter at all…

But it did, because in driving through the little town she had fallen irrevocably in love, and her bruised and saddened heart had felt suddenly at home. And so it did matter, quite enormously, that she should succeed.

She swivelled the rear-view mirror round and peered at her reflection, checking that her wild tangle of red-gold hair was still confined in the rather severe bun at the nape of her neck, that the soft green shadow which so exactly matched her eyes hadn’t creased, that the heat of the day and the effect of her suddenly rebellious nerves hadn’t smudged her mascara or made her ridiculously tip-tilted nose shine, although nothing in the world could rid it of the hated freckles.

Her lips still bore the trace of the soft pink lipstick she had applied earlier, and she was torn between appearing over-casual or touching it up, risking giving the impression of being over-glamorous. She settled for a quick swipe and a dab with a tissue, then, wiping her suddenly damp palms on the tissue, she stepped out of the car and pulled on her lightweight jacket. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she made her way into the surgery.

The reception area was deserted except for a few escapee toys. She rang the bell, and, while she waited, she picked the toys up out of habit to return them to the box in the corner. As well as half an armful of bricks and blocks, there was a squeaky rabbit, grubby with much use, and a frayed old rag doll that must have been dearly loved in her past. Cathy smoothed back the tangled woollen hair with a wistful smile.

‘Can I help you?’

The deep voice, so unexpected in the silence, made her jump and she squashed the rabbit, making it squeak.

‘Sorry, you startled me!’ she said breathlessly, and turned, flustered, to find herself face to face with a tall, fair-haired man. His physique was impressive, his shoulders filling the doorway, but it was his eyes that drew her, eyes that seen against the golden bronze of his tan were the most astonishing blue she had ever seen.

‘I—I’m Dr Harris—I have an interview with Dr Glover at three o’clock.’

He held out his hand. ‘Max Armstrong—I’m his partner.’

She hesitated, juggled the toys into one arm and extended her own hand. His handshake was firm, brief and positively electric. Startled by the sudden warmth that flooded up her arm, Cathy loosened her grip on the bricks and they cascaded to the floor again.

‘If you’ve finished with the toys, perhaps we should put them back in the box and proceed with your interview?’ he said with a laughing smile, and the smile transformed him from plain old attractive into the most devastatingly good-looking man she had ever seen. Her heart kicked against her ribs, and she frantically put it down to interview nerves.

‘We’re on the run this afternoon, I’m afraid,’ he explained as he straightened, his hands full of blocks, and tossed them into the toy-box. ‘I’ve been on holiday and there’s a hell of a backlog as usual—here, let me help you.’

He scooped the remaining toys out of her arms, and she drew in her breath sharply as his hands brushed casually against the fullness of her breasts. Her heart jerked again, and as she looked up into those gorgeous blue eyes she could see a devil dancing in them.

‘Sorry,’ he murmured, but she had the distinct feeling he wasn’t. Swallowing her confusion, she stooped and picked up the last of the toys and returned them to the box hastily, then followed him through a doorway to the kitchen at the back.

Her heart was still in turmoil from the look in his eyes and the unexpected touch of his hands on a body long condemned to abstinence, and so she was relieved to see that the other man in the kitchen was much older, perhaps in his fifties, a gentle, kindly looking man with crinkles round his eyes, a slight paunch and a straightforward, no-nonsense handshake.

‘Dr Harris—welcome to Barton-Under-Edge. You’ve met Max, I take it? Sorry about the kitchen, but we’re on the drag and as we’ll probably be working till seven tonight we ought to grab a bite. Have you had lunch?’

‘I have, thank you. And please don’t apologise. I know all about eating on the run!’

‘I’m sure you do. Coffee, then?’

He poured her a cup from a jug on the machine, and she sipped it gratefully while they unwrapped some pre-packed sandwiches. Her application was lying on the table, a coffee-coloured ring on it, and Dr Glover flipped it across the table to his colleague.

‘Here, perhaps you could skim your eyes over that while we get to know each other.’ He smiled at Cathy. ‘So, Dr Harris, tell us about yourself.’

‘Of course.’ Lord, she hated those sorts of questions! She cleared her throat and sat up straighter. ‘Well, until recently I’ve been working part-time in an inner-city practice, but the practice has expanded due to redevelopment, and they want a full-time partner so I’ve been filling in, but I didn’t think I wanted to work there full-time permanently, so I thought I’d have a look and see if there was anything more suitable.’

Oh, lord, I’m gabbling, she thought, and paused for breath. Dr Armstrong looked up from her application, those blue eyes sweeping her with blatant curiosity. ‘You’re thirty-five? You don’t look it.’

She gave him a sugary smile. ‘I dye the grey.’

‘Amazing, it looks so—natural …’ He seemed to inspect her hair for a second, and then glanced back, his eyes sharp behind the friendly twinkle. ‘And yet, despite your—’ one eyebrow arched provocatively ‘—advanced years, you’ve only been working part-time?’

‘Until recently, yes,’ she confirmed.

‘You do know this is a full-time post?’

‘Yes, I do. I want full-time now.’

‘So why not stay on where you are? Personality problems?’

Not until I met you, she wanted to say, but bit her tongue. ‘I don’t want to work in an inner-city practice.’

‘Too much for you?’ he asked, and she sensed rather than saw the sudden shift in his attitude. Gone was the friendly smile, the mild flirting, and she felt oddly threatened.

‘I thought the country air and the simpler lifestyle would benefit my son. He’s just started school, and frankly I’m not happy about it. I thought a country school would suit him better.’

The atmosphere chilled even further. ‘Son?’

‘Dr Harris has a son of five,’ Dr Glover put in. ‘Stephen, isn’t it?’ His smile was encouraging.

‘That’s right.’

‘Just the one?’ Dr Armstrong asked, and she nodded.

‘Why on earth do you want to work full-time?’ he asked, his voice deceptively lazy. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be at home tweaking the curtains and patting the cushions?’

Cathy controlled her temper with difficulty. ‘As a matter of fact I wouldn’t, but even if I would I don’t have the choice. If I want any kind of a lifestyle, I have to earn it.’

‘Ambitious, eh?’

‘No more than any other caring parent,’ she said quietly.

He eyed her dispassionately. ‘I would have thought you’d be more than happy to allow your husband to make all the pushy career moves. How does he feel about a move to the country—or do you support him, too?’

A long-ago sadness touched her gently. She was dimly aware of Dr Glover’s sharply indrawn breath, but she ignored it. ‘Not any more—Michael died three years ago. He had multiple sclerosis.’

She looked down at her hands, but not before she saw the swift shock on Dr Armstong’s face.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, and his rich, deep voice was tinged with remorse. ‘I had no idea. I haven’t really had time to study the applications.’

She lifted her eyes to his, unwilling to use her late husband as a defence against Dr Armstrong’s blistering interview technique. ‘Please—forget it. It really doesn’t matter.’

‘But it does—in many ways, in fact, I think it’s even worse than if you were married,’ he argued, and she could see now there was no light-hearted twinkle or mocking humour. He was deadly serious. ‘You’ll have no back up, no emotional support—it’s a hard life, demanding, the hours are long and antisocial, they don’t coincide with school holidays—there are endless insurmountable problems.’

‘Not entirely insurmountable,’ she corrected quietly, ‘and believe me, I am aware of the problems.’

‘What about night duty? What about the times you’ll be on duty at Christmas? What will happen to your son then?’

‘Max, I’m sure Dr Harris has considered all these points before making her application. She is, after all, facing all those very problems at the moment and apparently successfully.’ Dr Glover leant back in his chair, peering at his colleague over the rim of his specs. ‘Her references are excellent, her current practice will be extremely sorry to lose her, and I think you’re being rather harshly judgemental. She has, after all, been working in the field for some time and has a great deal to offer.’

‘She’s only been working part-time.’

‘For six years,’ Cathy replied tightly, ‘and the last six months have been full-time.’

‘Why didn’t you just buy some nice little house somewhere with the insurance money and settle down to raising your son properly?’ he asked curiously.

Cathy’s temper frayed a little further. ‘What insurance money?’ she snapped. ‘You don’t expect a young, fit man of thirty to become terminally ill! We were going to take out life policies when we bought a house—we were looking for one when he was diagnosed. One of the drawbacks of knowing you’re going to die is that you can’t very easily get life insurance!’ she finished sarcastically, and then let out her breath with a harsh sigh. It wouldn’t do to lose her temper with him, however infuriating he might be.

She tried again. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, but I can’t help feeling this has no bearing whatsoever on my application. I have domestic arrangements which take into account my hours, and my reasons for needing or wanting to work are entirely my own, beyond satsifying you that I am dedicated to my profession. Perhaps some questions along the lines of vocational training and current techniques might be more relevant, particularly where your patients are concerned!’

Dr Armstrong’s firm, full mouth clamped shut as if he was controlling himself with difficulty. Dr Glover, glancing between them, steepled his fingers and regarded her thoughtfully over the top.

Oh, lord, she thought, I’ve blown it now. He’s going to tell me I’m not suitable, and that will be it, and we’ll have to stay in Bristol and Stephen will have to go to that awful school and——

‘What do you know about gambling?’ he asked her.

‘Gambling?’ The question was so unexpected that she faltered for a second, but then she recovered her poise and drew a calming breath. ‘It can become an addiction, like alcoholism or drug-taking. The gambler finds it impossible to stop, even when losing, and the lies and secrecy and the resultant financial consequences can cause havoc in the family. Why?’

He smiled his encouragement. ‘We have a gambler on our books—I just wondered how you would deal with him.’

‘I’d read his notes before I did anything,’ she said, shooting a sharp glance at Dr Armstrong. ‘I don’t believe in making snap judgements; they are often unreliable.’

‘So you wouldn’t say you’re intuitive?’ Dr Armstrong asked, and she had the crazy feeling it was a trick question.

‘Not when there are other, more reliable methods of divining information—like reading the notes,’ she retorted, with a speaking glance at her application. He had the grace to flush slightly, and his lips curved in a parody of a smile.

‘Touché,’ he said softly.

‘So, having read the notes and established that the condition is pathological in nature and causing havoc in the family, as you so accurately put it, what would you suggest then?’ Dr Glover asked.

They discussed the psychiatric aspects of the illness and the pros and cons of various approaches for a while, then moved on to talk about the clinics run in the surgery, health-care screening and preventative medicine.

Then, while Dr Armstrong went out on a call, Dr Glover showed her round the practice premises briefly before showing her to the door.

‘We’ll be in touch, my dear,’ he said with a reassuring smile. ‘And may I apologise for my colleague? He’s inclined to be a little blunt. He also finds it rather difficult to come to terms with the idea that some women have to work for a living.’

He patted her hand, and her mouth curved automatically at the avuncular twinkle in his eye.

‘Please don’t worry,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

Summoning a confident smile, she turned towards her car, just as a young lad came running up the path clutching a blood-soaked rag round his hand.

‘Martin—what’s the problem?’ Dr Glover asked.

‘Bloody band-saw—my hand slipped. It’s gone up between my fingers …’

He swayed, and Cathy grabbed him, propping him against her and wrapping her arm firmly round his waist. ‘In you come—don’t worry, we’ll soon have you sorted out,’ she reassured automatically.

She supported him into the treatment-room off the hallway, and while Dr Glover scrubbed his hands she took away the rag and replaced it with a sterile pad. ‘It’s still welling slightly, but it seems to be slowing,’ she told the other doctor.

He lifted off the pad, turned the hand this way and that and then smiled at the patient.

‘Just a few stitches and a week or so off work, and you’ll be right as rain. You were lucky, Martin.’

He swallowed. ‘Doesn’t feel all that lucky,’ he said with a weak attempt at a laugh.

Dr Glover infiltrated it with local anaesthetic, and sorted out a couple of packets of sutures. ‘Done much of this sort of thing?’ he asked Cathy quietly.

‘A fair bit when I was in Casualty. Friday night and Saturday morning there’s a lot of soft-tissue repair work!’

Dr Glover chuckled. ‘I’ll let you do it while I watch. My eyesight isn’t what it ought to be, and Max is out on a call. Do you mind?’

Cathy paused. She ought to be getting back for Stephen, but he was with his grandmother and they would be fine together. She smiled. ‘Of course not.’

Compared with some of the injuries inflicted by bottles and knives that she had dealt with routinely, Martin’s wound was child’s play, and in no time she had it sutured and bandaged, and they were seeing him off armed with painkillers.

She was just getting into her car when a big Mercedes swished into the car park and Max got out.

‘Good lord, what happened to you?’ he asked, and she followed the direction of his eyes to see blood smeared all over the front of her jacket.

‘Oh! I didn’t realise—someone came in with a cut hand, and I sutured it.’

‘You sutured it? Where was John?’

‘Dr Glover? He was there, but he said his eyesight wasn’t too good and you were out——’

There’s nothing wrong with his eyesight!’ Max said wryly. ‘Crafty old devil. I expect he just wanted to see you in action. Did you pass?’

Cathy thought back to Dr Glover’s praise when she had finished. ‘I’m afraid I may well have done.’

‘Afraid?’ His brows quirked. ‘Why should you be afraid?’

She shrugged and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I rather had the feeling you wanted me to fail,’ she said candidly.

A lesser man would have blushed. Max Armstrong threw back his head and laughed. It infuriated her.

‘Well? Didn’t you?’ she persisted.

‘Oh, no, Dr Harris. I may not want you as a partner, but it’s nothing to do with your ability as a doctor——’

‘Just my ability as a woman,’ she finished for him, and then flushed as he ran his eyes assessingly over her soft curves, lingering momentarily on the middle button of her blouse as it strained slightly against the fabric.

‘Oh, no, I’m sure your ability as a woman is unquestionable,’ he said softly. ‘It’s about you as a mother that I have my reservations.’ His eyes flicked back to hers. ‘Au revoir, Dr Harris.’

‘Don’t you mean goodbye?’ she asked sharply, stung by his criticism and disconcerted by her reaction to his lazy scrutiny.

‘No—no, as you realise I’m not in favour of your appointment, but I have no illusions. We need another woman doctor, and if John wants you to join the practice he’ll ask you, and guess who’ll end up picking up the slack? I suppose it could be worse—at least as a widow you’re unlikely to saddle us with the burden of your maternity leave.’

He touched his fingers to his temple in an insolent little salute, and strode past her into the surgery, leaving her quivering with anger and frustration.

‘Well, damn you, Dr Armstrong!’ she gritted, slamming the car into gear and screeching out of the car park, spraying gravel all over the front of his Mercedes. ‘Arrogant pig!’

She raved for a few minutes as she threaded her way through the little town, then when she reached the outskirts she pulled over into a lay-by and poured herself a drink of ice-cold orange from a flask she had packed earlier, giving herself a good talking-to before setting course for home.

Her temper slowly cooling, she looked around her. The countryside was beautiful, softly rolling hills, a gentle patchwork of farmland stretching away as far as the eye could see, and here and there a stonebuilt farmhouse nestled in a little cluster of barns and outbuildings.

It was the same stone that was very much in evidence in the little town houses, too, of course, as well as in the grander homes in the area. She glanced across the road. Set well back on the other side behind a low stone wall sat a lovely old house, roses and clematis tangling around the upper windows, a Virginia creeper smothering the honey-coloured stone, and she gazed longingly at it for a moment before restarting the car and pulling away.

What it must be like to have roots, to buy a house and plant climbing roses and know you’d still be there to see them grow in happy profusion all the way up to the roof. Perhaps, if she got the job, she’d be able to afford to buy a little cottage—nothing like that beautiful old house, but even a terraced house would have a wall she could grow a rose up—unless Max Armstrong had his way.

It was after six when she arrived at her mother-in-law’s house, and Stephen rushed to greet her, his eyes alight.

‘Mummy!’ he yelled. ‘Come and see—we made a cake and Granny let me decorate it! See!’ He grabbed her by the hand and towed her into the kitchen.

There, resplendent on a fine bone-china plate, was a ghastly puddle of chocolate smothered in sticky Smarties.

‘Oh, my goodness!’ she exclaimed, and winked at her mother-in-law over Stephen’s head. ‘What a wonderful cake!’

‘Do you want a bit?’

‘Yes, please, that would be lovely, darling.’

Joan Harris eyed her thoughtfully, then put the kettle on. ‘Cup of tea, I think, to go with it. Stephen, why don’t you go and put your pictures in Mummy’s car while we wait for the kettle to boil?’

He picked up an enormous stack of colourful daubs and zoomed out of the kitchen making racing-car noises. Cathy sighed. ‘Has he been all right?’

‘He’s been fine,’ Joan assured her soothingly. ‘How did you get on?’

‘Oh, God knows.’ Cathy shrugged expressively. ‘The boss was OK, but his junior partner was arrogant and high-handed—doesn’t like working mothers. He thinks I should be at home letting my husband support me—’ She caught the flicker of pain on her mother-in-law’s face and sighed. ‘Oh, hell, Joan, I’m sorry!’

She lifted a shoulder slightly. ‘It’s OK, Cathy. So, you didn’t get on?’

Cathy laughed shortly. ‘Get on? Are you kidding? He’s a womaniser, too—a real barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen guy. Macho man unlimited. Yuck.’

Joan suppressed a smile. ‘What did he look like?’

‘Tall, good-looking, sexy smile, come-to-bed eyes—I wanted to hit him.’

‘Why? Because he made you feel like a woman again?’

Cathy flushed and looked away, remembering the feel of his hands when he took the toys from her arms. ‘Rubbish! I never want to feel like that sort of woman!’

‘What sort? Real? Alive? Whole? Cathy, you’re still young. I know you loved Michael, but he died nearly four years ago, and in all that time you’ve never even been out for a drink with anyone.’

‘That’s not true——’

‘Not a man.’

Cathy met the gentle concern in her mother-in-law’s eyes, and looked away. ‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Not that busy. Any time you want to go out, you only have to ask.’ She reached out and took Cathy’s hand, squeezing it gently. ‘Don’t let life pass you by, Catherine.’

Cathy covered Joan’s hand with her other one, cradling it against her cheek. ‘I don’t mean to, but sometimes I think it already has. I’m thirty-five, Joan. It’s too late to start again.’

‘Nonsense! It’s never too late. Look at me!’

Joan, widowed seven years earlier, had recently started going out to the theatre with a man she had met through the Samaritans where they both worked as volunteers. Now, in what she classed as the autumn of her life, she was busy falling in love all over again. The only drawback was, she wanted everyone to be as wonderfully happy as she was—and Cathy knew it wasn’t for her.

She forced a smile. ‘I see you—you’re wonderful. I’m delighted things are going so well for you, but my priorities have to be with Stephen at the moment. He’s all I’ve got, Joan, and I’m afraid my love life comes a long way down the list of what matters right now.’

Just then the focus of her affection streaked back into the room, arms flailing, and dive-bombed her lap.

‘I’m a helicopter gunship—ack-ack-ack-ack—’

‘Hello, darling,’ she said with a smile. ‘Do helicopters like chocolate cake?’

‘Ye-eah! Can I have a big bit?’

The letter came a week later, when Cathy had all but given up hope. She was scanning a professional journal for the vacancies when the postman came, and she stuffed the letter in her bag, sure it was a polite but firm rejection.

She opened it during a snatched coffee-break midway through her morning surgery, and almost shrieked aloud.

So Max Armstrong had been right—John Glover had overruled him, and offered her the job. The thing was, knowing who she would be working with, did she still want it?

Yes, her heart told her. It was a fresh start, away from all the memories of Michael and the heartache of his illness and subsequent death, away from the dirt and oppression of the inner city, away from the muggings and the rapes and the stabbings—but away, too, from Joan, who had been such a tremendous support through the difficult years, and away also from all her friends.

Even so, it was the right thing for them, and she rang John Glover before she could change her mind and told him she would take the post and would be confirming her decision in writing that day.

‘Excellent,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re just what this practice needs, my dear, and I’m delighted you’ve decided to join us. If there’s anything we can do to help with the move, give us a yell.’

‘In fact there is,’ she told him. ‘I’ll need somewhere to live—you don’t have any ideas, do you?’

‘Leave it with me,’ he said instantly. ‘I’ll put the word around.’

She thanked him, and then went and told her own senior partner that she would be leaving.

‘Good,’ he said without prevarication. ‘You’re like a plant grown under artificial light—you look as if you need a bit of fresh air and sunshine to brighten up your foliage!’

She smiled. ‘I’ll miss you all.’

‘We’ll miss you, too, Cathy, but it’s the right thing for you—and for Stephen.’

It was just what she needed to hear. In her lunch-break she contacted the headmaster of the little school in Barton-Under-Edge, and he confirmed that he would have a place for Stephen as soon as they moved.

Now all she needed was an au pair. She contacted her cousin in Paris, discovered that she had a friend whose daughter had just left school and was looking for a job in England but didn’t want to work in a town, and that evening she spoke to the young lady in question on the phone.

Delphine’s English was sketchy but adequate, and she sounded charming and very sensible. Immensely reassured, Cathy phoned her mother-in-law and broke the news.

‘Fantastic. I knew you’d get it. Now all you have to do is charm that lovely man with the come-to-bed eyes—’

‘I can’t tell you anything,’ Cathy said with a laugh, but secretly she was worrying about Max’s attitude towards her.

Would his prejudices make him impossible to work with? Oh, well, she thought with a shrug, all she had to do was prove him wrong. That shouldn’t be so difficult.

The one remaining problem was accommodation, and that was solved almost immediately as well.

She had a phone call the following day, from the only estate agent in the town, to say he had a charming little place to rent in Barton-Under-Edge, a three-bedroomed stable flat attached to Barton Manor, the impressive seventeenth-century stone-built house she had noticed on the outskirts of the town.

It sounded delightful, the rent seemed extremely reasonable, and she made arrangements to view it at the weekend.

The agent showed her round as the owner was unavailable, and it was, as she had supposed, absolutely charming. Attached to the side of the house, it was over the original stable block, now converted to a workshop and garage, and was accessed by a lovely old cast-iron staircase up the outside. A magnificent climbing rose was trained against the wall and reached almost to the eaves, and huge trusses of heavily scented apricot blooms cascaded over the doorway, drenching her with their exquisite fragrance.

The view over the rolling hills from the top of the steps was breathtaking, and, if that alone wasn’t enough to convince her, the flat itself, comfortably furnished and homely, was absolutely perfect for their requirements. Her natural prudence made her check all the terms, and, that done to her satisfaction, she agreed to take it and the agent said he would send her a contract to sign.

So it was that, two weeks later and a week before she was due to start her new job, she and Stephen packed up their things, rented a van and uprooted themselves from Bristol. As she closed the front door of their old flat behind her, it was as if she had closed a door on that part of her life. Her emotions ambivalent, but hope predominating, she bolstered herself with the memory of their new home. Surely there, in those wonderful surroundings, things would start to look up.

Joan came with them to help unload, because although there was no furniture there was still a phenomenal number of boxes, and she was glad of the other woman’s company.

They collected the key from the agent and Cathy drove up to the side of the house, parking at the foot of the steps.

‘What a beautiful house!’ Joan breathed, clearly awed.

‘Isn’t it? Come and see the flat. You’ll love it. Stephen, come with us, please.’

‘Oh, Mummy, do I have to? There’s a duck with her babies!’

And there was, waddling across the grass beside the stable block, head held proudly erect, followed by an untidy line of fluffy little ducklings.

Cathy relented. ‘All right, but don’t go anywhere else. I don’t want you wandering off!’

She led Joan up to the flat and they let themselves in, to find the place freshly polished and gleaming, a bowl of the apricot roses set in the middle of the dining table.

‘Oh, Cathy, how delightful!’ Joan exclaimed. ‘Oh, I just know you’ll be happy here!’

She hugged her mother-in-law and friend. ‘I hope so—oh, Joan, I hope so. I’ll find Stephen—I want to show him his bedroom. I’ll have to ask the owner if we can have an area for him to play in. He’ll love that. He’s hated not having a garden in Bristol.’

Her heart singing, she ran lightly down the cast-iron steps—and slap into a solid and very masculine chest.

‘You!’ the man exclaimed, and, with a sinking feeling, Cathy looked up into the astonished blue eyes of Max Armstrong.

## CHAPTER TWO

CATHY stepped back, snatched a calming breath and dredged up a smile. ‘Dr Armstrong! What a surprise.’

Goodness, she had forgotten how blue those eyes were. They glittered like sapphires—especially when, like now, they were clearly angry!

‘Is this young man anything to do with you?’

Belatedly Cathy noticed Stephen, lurking uncomfortably behind Max. ‘Yes—I wondered where he’d got to. He was watching the ducks—’

‘Well, you should keep a closer eye on him. I nearly had to fish him out of the pond!’

‘I was just following the baby ducks,’ he mumbled miserably.

‘Oh, Stephen! I told you not to go anywhere. You can’t just do what you want, it isn’t our garden. Wait until I’ve sorted something out, OK?’

He scuffed his toe against the gravel and nodded, evidently subdued. Apparently he had already been given a severe talking-to. She glanced up, and her attention was snagged again by the glittering sapphire chips of Max Armstrong’s eyes.

‘Did you want to see me?’ she asked.

‘I rather thought you must be looking for me.’ He glanced around. ‘You must have parked on the road—or did you walk?’

She laughed. ‘From Bristol? Hardly—I drove the van.’

His eyes were riveted on hers in what seemed to be horror. ‘You’re the new tenant?’

‘Yes—I haven’t met the owner yet, he wasn’t available when I looked round. Why? Do you know him?’

‘You might say that,’ he said drily, and groaned under his breath. ‘I’ll bet it was John.’

Cathy felt she was several conversations behind him. ‘John?’

‘Come on, Dr Harris, stop playing innocent. You know damn well who the owner is—I expect John put you up to it. He probably even told you when I was on call so you could arrange to view it when I’d be out of the way.’

Cathy’s confidence faltered as his words registered in her befuddled brain. ‘You—you’re the owner?’

He sketched a tiny, mocking bow. ‘That’s right—and you, I gather, are my tenant. How dreadfully cosy.’

She was stunned. The place absolutely reeked of wealth. It couldn’t possibly belong to him …

‘I didn’t realise that country practices were quite so financially buoyant,’ she said bluntly.

‘They aren’t,’ he replied, equally bluntly. ‘So now tell me John Glover had nothing to do with this.’

A tell-tale flush crawled up her cheeks, and he nodded. ‘I knew it—interfering old goat. Dammit, he really has gone too far this time.’

‘I didn’t know it was you, or I wouldn’t have taken it,’ she said frankly, ‘but don’t worry; I won’t trouble you. Believe me, Dr Armstrong, I have no more wish to be in your company than you apparently have to be in mine. I can assure you we won’t get in your way again. Stephen, go inside, please, and stay with Granny. Excuse me.’ She waited pointedly until he moved out of her way, then wrenched open the back of the van and hauled out a box.

He got in her way again. ‘Where are you going with that?’ he asked sharply.

‘My flat,’ she snapped back.

“Oh, no, you don’t,’ he told her, his voice like flint.

Surely he didn’t mean to stop her moving in? For a moment her confidence failed, but then she remembered the papers she had signed.

She lifted her chin. ‘I’m afraid I do. I have a contract, legally binding on both of us. Excuse me.’

‘No.’ He took the box from her. ‘It’s heavy; you shouldn’t be lifting this on your own.’

‘Yes, well, unfortunately I don’t have the luxury of a pet gorilla to do the heavy work—and anyway, how the hell do you think it got into the van?’

The strain of the move, the upheaval and uncertainty, and then on top of it all the man’s unfriendliness were suddenly too much for her. She felt the hot sting of tears behind her lids, and turned quickly away before he could see.

She was too slow, however, and a second later his fingers snaked out and caught her chin, turning her back to face him.

‘Tsk-tsk. Not tears—really, you should have outgrown that childish little trick by now, Dr Harris. It really doesn’t work——’

‘Damn you, leave me alone!’ she gritted, and, gripping his wrist, she wrenched his hand away from her face. ‘I really don’t need any more from you in the way of criticism and condemnation. I may not have any control over the fact that I am a mere woman, but I don’t have to stand here and listen to you insulting me without any justification—’

She whirled away, furious with him and with herself for the scalding tears that splashed over and ran down her cheeks. She clamped her fingers over her mouth to trap the sob which threatened to rise and complete her humiliation, and then, quite unexpectedly, his hand came down, warm and firm and reassuring on her shoulder.

‘Catherine, I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘You’re right, I was way out of line and I apologise.’ He gave a rueful chuckle. ‘At the risk of sounding like a chauvinist, why don’t you go and make a cup of tea while I bring this lot up?’

She should have enjoyed her victory, but she was too tired to care. ‘The kettle’s in the van,’ she said wearily.

‘There’s one in the flat—and tea and coffee and milk. Agnes put some in this morning. Go on, you’ve obviously had enough, and I could do with a cup myself. I’m sure you’ll make it better than me.’

‘Patronising oaf,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘Stubborn, mule-headed feminist,’ he shot back. ‘Tell me this, if you hurt your back humping all this lot upstairs, who is it who’ll have to cover your sick leave?’

‘I don’t have a bad back,’ she replied with a return of her old fire, ‘and for your information I haven’t had a day off for myself in five years!’

‘Yet,’ he muttered provocatively.

She was just turning back for another go at him when Joan appeared at the top of the steps.

‘Cathy, have you—? Oh! Company—and help. How wonderful!’

She clattered delicately down the cast-iron stairs and paused just above him, her curiosity barely in check. ‘I’m Joan Harris, Cathy’s mother-in-law.’

Max juggled the box to his left arm and held out his hand. ‘Max Armstrong.’

Joan’s smile broadened into one of real warmth. She came down the last steps and shook his hand firmly. ‘Dr Armstrong—Max. I’ve heard so much about you. How kind of you to come and help. Cathy’s had so much to do, and she was working right up to last night. I don’t think she’s had a wink of sleep, but she never complains. It is good of you to offer to carry the boxes upstairs for her.’

Cathy groaned under her breath. She could almost hear the violins!

Or was it the sound of Max’s smothered laughter?

‘My pleasure, Mrs Harris,’ he said with a smile that was almost civilised.

Joan shot Cathy a keen look. ‘I’ve got an idea—why don’t you go upstairs and tell Max where to put everything, and I’ll try and sort things out logically in the van—oh, and you could make a pot of tea while you’re up there—I could just murder a cup!’ and Cathy, comprehensively outmanoeuvred by a pair of masters, grumbled up the stairs and put the kettle on.

By the time the tea was brewed the van was nearly empty, and the three bedrooms and the little sitting-room were piled high with seemingly endless boxes.

As for Max, he was almost charming, and Joan, despite her advancing years still an excellent judge of what she described as ‘horseflesh’, declared him later to be absolutely perfect.

‘I couldn’t have made him better for you myself,’ she said as Cathy and Stephen left her house the following day. ‘He’s just what the doctor ordered!’

‘In which case, it’s time the little men in white coats came and took the good doctor away,’ Cathy said laughingly, then, with an affectionate hug and kiss, she slid behind the wheel of her little car and set off for Barton-Under-Edge.

They had spent the night with Joan in Bristol having returned the van, and were going to spend the day unpacking before Stephen started school the following day, and Cathy was using her final week’s holiday to settle them in and do a bit of homemaking—the last chance she would have before she started her new job.

Delphine, the au pair, arrived on Tuesday, by which time everything was unpacked and ready.

She was a delightful girl, and Cathy, much to her relief, liked her on sight. So, more importantly, did Stephen, and as he was also settling in well at his new school it was with a light heart and in a thoroughly optimistic frame of mind that Cathy set off for work the following Monday morning.

Considering that they were living on top of each other, Max had maintained a remarkably low profile during the previous week; apart from a visit from Stan the gardener, to tell her that she and Stephen could feel free to use the area of garden beyond the stables, and Agnes the housekeeper popping in to ask if there was anything she could do, they had had no contact with their landlord, and Cathy was beginning to think that renting his flat wouldn’t be so bad as she had first feared.

Working with him, however, would be a totally different kettle of fish, she was certain. Still, she was on firm ground there, and not even he could shake her confidence in her ability as a doctor.

Her first patient, however, was less enthusiastic.

A well-dressed, athletic-looking man in his early thirties, he walked into the room, took one look at her and stopped in his tracks.

‘Oh.’

She glanced down at the notes. ‘Mr Carver? Do come in. I’m Dr Harris. Take a seat.’

He hesitated, and then with a resigned sigh he lowered himself into the chair she had positioned beside the desk, and gave her a wary smile.

‘I wasn’t expecting a woman,’ he offered.

She grinned. That’s equality for you. For years women have expected their doctors to be men. For some reason men find it uncomfortable when the boot’s on the other foot, but don’t worry, the most important thing is that I’m a doctor. Now, what can I do for you?’

He paused for a second, then took a deep breath and met her eyes. He was quite clearly worried. He had been fitted in as an emergency, and her list being the lightest on her first morning, he had been sent to her.

‘What’s wrong, Mr Carver?’ she prompted gently.

He dropped his eyes to his hands. ‘I think I might have testicular cancer.’

So that was it. She set down her pen and leant back in her chair. ‘What makes you think that?’

He let his breath out on a sigh. ‘I saw the nurse a few months ago—she runs a well-person clinic. She gave me a leaflet on self-examination, and I’ve been doing it regularly ever since. My brother thought I was crazy, but it’s so simple—I just do it in the shower while I’m washing. Anyway yesterday I noticed a slight tenderness, and I think I can feel a sort of bump—nothing much, but I thought it would be a good idea to have it checked.’ He twisted his wedding-ring distractedly. ‘I haven’t told my wife. We haven’t got any children yet although just recently we’ve been leaving it to chance, but if I have got—I mean, the treatment—there won’t be any children, will there?’

She smiled. ‘I think you’re jumping the gun here, but let’s assume I find a lump that looks suspicious. The first step then is to refer you to a specialist at the hospital. They’ll examine you and do an ultrasound to make sure that it’s not just a cyst or a hydrocele, and if they’re satisfied that it’s a tumour they’ll remove only the affected testicle. Now, if you’ve been checking yourself regularly as you say, then this will have been caught in the very early stages, and the likelihood of it having spread is very small, but speed is the important thing.’

He didn’t look reassured. ‘And the prognosis?’

The success rate for this type of cancer now is between ninety and ninety-eight per cent, depending on the speed with which it’s picked up and the type of cancer. And it still has to be proved to be cancer. It could be orchitis, or an inflammation of the membrane around the testicle—almost anything. The lump may not even exist except in your fears.’

‘Oh, it exists,’ he said hollowly. ‘I checked yesterday because it started hurting on Friday. I played squash, and I thought I’d strained it or something, but it got worse over the weekend.’

‘I think I should have a look before we go any further. Just slip your things off and lie down on the couch. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

She drew the screens round him and wrote down his symptoms in the notes, then, pulling on a pair of gloves, she went behind the screen and examined him.

Her examination finished, she stripped off her gloves and left him to dress.

He emerged while she was writing up his notes and perched stiffly on the edge of the chair, his hands fisted on his knees, clearly tense.

‘Well?’ he asked after a moment.

She set down the pen. ‘You’ve got a lump, I’ll give you that. It’s very small, but it’s there.’

He looked searchingly at her. ‘And?’ he prompted.

‘I’m going to refer you to a specialist. I’ll phone him, and you should get an appointment within a matter of days. If you don’t, ring me. And don’t worry. If it is cancer, you’ve detected it very early. The operation should be very straightforward.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘After the operation, depending on the type of tumour and the existence of any secondaries, you’ll either be given chemotherapy, which has made great strides, or radiotherapy, or a combination of both. As far as fertility is concerned it will affect the other testicle temporarily. After about two years, however, it will probably have recovered enough for you to father children. However, for insurance against the unlikely event of permanent sterility in the other testicle, you will probably be advised to store semen in a sperm bank.’

‘Before the operation?’

She nodded.

‘But won’t it be affected? I mean, isn’t there a danger it will give the baby cancer?’

She shook her head firmly. ‘No, absolutely not. Hundreds of men have been treated in this way now, and many of them have successfully fathered perfectly normal children both before and after the operation.’

He was still silent, watchful. An intelligent man, he wanted the answers to all the questions. He met her eyes candidly.

‘What if they have to remove both testicles?’ he asked quietly. ‘I mean, it’s castration, isn’t it?’

‘It’s highly unlikely that they’d need to remove both,’ she assured him. ‘Removal of one makes absolutely no difference to your potency, so you needn’t fear that you would lose any of your masculine characteristics. Your voice, body hair and so on will remain completely unaffected. Once you’ve healed after the operation, you life will proceed exactly as before. That’s on the medical side. On the cosmetic side, if you wish they can give you a silicon implant to replace the missing testicle. No one would ever know the difference.’

He nodded and stood up, framing a polite social smile. ‘Thank you, Dr Harris,’ he said calmly. As he turned away, she saw the fear still lurking behind his eyes. Cathy took the bull by the horns.

‘Mr Carver, you still don’t know if you have cancer. If you have, it’s in the very early stages. Your chances are excellent.’

He paused at the door. ‘Will I be treated any quicker if I go privately?’

‘I very much doubt it. I think you’ll find you see someone in a day or two. Why? Have you got private health insurance?’

He shook his head. ‘We haven’t got round to it. I’ve got life insurance, though, although I must say I never thought I’d need it.’

She gave him a wry smile. ‘I think it’s extremely unlikely that you will need it, at least for a good many years.’

He answered with a grim smile of his own. ‘Let’s hope you’re right. And thank you for your help.’

‘You’re welcome.’

He left her, and for the next couple of hours she was swept along by the tide of patients that followed.

It took her longer than usual to deal with them because she had to get used to a new computer system, but finally she reached the bottom of the heap of notes, and with a sigh she went out into the kitchen at the back, from where a delicious smell of coffee was drifting.

Max was sprawled at the table, one foot across the other knee, a cup of coffee propped on his belt buckle.

‘Well, well—you’ve finally finished your surgery.’

She flushed under the implied criticism. ‘I’m sorry I took so long, but the computer doesn’t seem to like me.’

John Glover came in behind her and chuckled. ‘Join the club. It has me for breakfast every day. The only person it seems to like is Max, and he can get it to turn circles on the ceiling. Oh, and Andrea, of course—the practice manager. But then she could charm the birds out of the trees.’

Cathy disagreed, but she had the sense to do so silently. She had met the coldly efficient practice manager that morning, and had taken an instant dislike to her—a dislike that was apparently mutual.

‘So, how did it go?’ Dr Glover asked, settling himself down with a cup of coffee and dunking a chocolate biscuit in it.

She looked away. She couldn’t afford the luxury of biscuits. She had enough trouble with her figure without eating between meals.

‘OK. I had a patient this morning who thinks he’s got testicular cancer, and I have to say I think he’s probably right. He’s the right age—early thirties—and all his symptoms fit.’

‘Did you examine him?’

‘Yes—there’s no doubt, he’s definitely got a little lump.’

‘Who was it?’ Max asked, idly stirring his coffee.

‘Samuel Carver—’

‘Sam? You’re kidding!’ He shot upright, slopping his coffee on the table. ‘I played squash with him on Friday night, and he didn’t say anything then.’

‘He didn’t know then. It started to hurt after he played, so he checked himself yesterday. He got the leaflet from the practice nurse a few months ago and he’s been doing it regularly.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Max sank back against the chair, his face pale, and drew patterns absently in the pool of coffee. ‘So what did you tell him? Perhaps I’d better give him a ring and put his mind at rest about the treatment.’

‘I’ve done that. He knows exactly what will happen to him and what to expect,’ she informed him a trifle tartly. How dared he imply that she would have sent a patient away without sufficient information and reassurance?

‘I think I’ll ring him anyway. Was he frightened?’

She eyed him closely. ‘No more than you would be.’

He laughed without humour. ‘Don’t worry, I’d be petrified. I know it’s illogical, but it’s the Big C, isn’t it? We’re all afraid of it, even though we ought to know better, and even though it kills far fewer people than heart disease, for instance. And that, in its own way, is much more insidious. Poor old Sam. Do you want me to ring the urologist?’

‘I think I can manage,’ she told him drily. ‘Perhaps you could give me the name of the man I want?’

‘Sure. Andrea’ll give you the number. It’s a guy called Hart.’ He unravelled his legs and stood up, stretching lazily like a big cat. ‘I’ll catch you both later. I’m going out on my calls now.’

She watched him leave, her temper still severely provoked by his implications.

‘Ignore him,’ John Glover said quietly. ‘He’s only baiting you. Your predecessor didn’t make herself over-popular, and I’m afraid you’re being judged in the same jaundiced light.’

‘I thought there was something,’ Cathy said wryly. ‘What did she do—apart from being born a woman?’

He grinned. ‘Pauline joined as a single woman in her late thirties, moved in with a friend of Max’s and promptly got pregnant. Far from doing the decent thing and leaving, she had the cheek to take maternity leave and come back, very much on her own terms, and she nearly drove Max insane. Every time the baby had a cold, she took the day off. Her mind was never on the job, she didn’t follow up properly—oh, she was just generally sloppy. In Max’s eyes that’s totally unforgivable. When she got pregnant for the second time, I thought he was going to leave, but in the end her partner got moved to another part of the country and she went with him. Good riddance, too, but she was one on her own. A blind man on a galloping horse can see you’re an entirely different kettle of fish, but it’ll be an uphill struggle to convince Max of that. Of course, the worst thing is he blames himself because he introduced them to each other!’

John Glover’s pleasant, homely face creased with unholy laughter. ‘I don’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for that mistake!’

Cathy smiled. ‘Well, you don’t have to worry about me, Dr Glover. My days of romance are over. I’ve settled into middle age with a sigh of relief, and all I want to do is raise my son and get on with my job.’

Her remark was greeted by a snort of derision. Glancing up, her eyes collided with the brilliant blue of Max’s sardonic scrutiny.

‘Commendable but unlikely,’ he said drily. ‘But in order to aid you in your ambition, I thought this map might help you find your way round when you go out on call.’

He dropped a folded map of the town and surrounding area on the table and left again, radiating contempt.

Dr Glover’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He’s really got a burr under the saddle over you, hasn’t he? How’s the flat working out? Seen much of each other?’

‘None—thankfully. I think you could fairly say that we’re avoiding each other.’

He sighed. ‘I’m sorry you don’t get on. I was hoping that once you got to know each other—I know he seems a bit of a bigot, but he’s a good bloke really. Filthy rich, of course—old money, as they say. Lovely house.’

‘Yes—yes, it is. Which reminds me, when you said you’d find out about accommodation for me, did you know that estate agent had Max’s flat on his books?’

Dr Glover’s eyes twinkled. ‘Rumbled, am I? The estate agent happens to be a friend of mine. I told him to let the other properties slip from his mind if you asked.’

Cathy was astonished. ‘But why?’

He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. ‘He’s lonely, you’re a pretty girl—I know you make all these noises about middle age, but you’re still a young woman, Cathy. A little light-hearted romance would do you both the world of good.’

She glared at him. ‘I don’t believe it! I thought Max was exaggerating, but let me assure you, Dr Glover, I neither want nor need a little light-hearted romance! And if I did, the very last person I would choose would be Max Armstrong!’

She leapt to her feet and marched out of the door—slap into Max’s chest.

Hot colour flooded her cheeks, and she glared at him. ‘Did you hear?’

‘I did—and I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear it. It circumvents all manner of problems.’

She remembered the last thing she had said, and her colour rose again. ‘Not that—he fixed the estate agent!’

‘I told you he had something to do with it. Why do you think he appointed you? He acts like a bloody fairy godmother—but don’t worry, Catherine. You’re safe. I have no intention of breaching your defences, although your assertion about middle age is patently absurd. You’re a very attractive woman. If you were single and unencumbered, I confess I’d be extremely tempted, but, as it is, thanks but no, thanks. Now if you would let go of my clothes, I’d like to get on.’

She looked down, stunned to discover that her hands had wound into the soft cotton of his shirt. The warmth of his hard chest seemed suddenly scorching, and she released him abruptly, stepping back as if to distance herself from such unwarranted intimacy.

His eyes were laughing at her, and as he strode away she could have sworn that she heard a soft chuckle.

Well, damn him. Who needed his friendship anyway? She marched into her office, got the number of the hospital from Andrea the Android and phoned Mr Hart about Sam Carver.

She was just clearing the table after their evening meal when there was a clatter on the stairs and someone pounded on her front door.

‘Coming,’ she called, and, handing the plates to Delphine to wash, she went to the door.

It was Max, towering over her, looking bigger than ever and obviously hopping mad.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked with forced politeness.

‘Yes,’ he gritted, his voice icy with control. ‘You can ask your au pair to keep her clothes on in the garden. I’ve had my handyman bending my ear for the past half-hour, giving me a rundown on the state of youth today, and it’s not an experience I’m in a hurry to repeat!’

Cathy blinked. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about——’

‘Well, then, I suggest you ask her. He couldn’t get any work done today because he was unable to get to the workshop. I gather she was lying out here on the grass virtually naked for four hours—apart from the danger to herself of skin cancer, she practically gave Stan a stroke!’

Cathy couldn’t help herself. The giggle rose up and bubbled out, and after a second’s struggle, Max chuckled.

‘I’m sorry,’ she managed eventually.

‘So am I. Just have a word, could you?’

‘Of course. And please apologise to Stan for me.’

‘And risk another ear-bashing? No way! How are you settling in, by the way? I’ve been meaning to come up and see you, but I’ve been too busy.’

‘Oh, we’ve settled in well. It’s a lovely flat. I know John engineered it, but I can’t say I’m sorry. We’re very happy here.’

‘Good. I’m sorry if I seemed unwelcoming, but he’s becoming a bit obsessive about me. Wants me married off, I think.’

Cathy grinned wryly. ‘I know the feeling. My mother-in-law would like to see me settled with someone else, and she just won’t take no for an answer.’

They shared a smile rich with understanding, and Cathy’s naturally hospitable nature responded automatically.

‘Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee? I’m afraid I haven’t got anything stronger to offer you.’

He shook his head. ‘I haven’t really got time. I’ve got some paperwork I really ought to get on with. Thank you anyway.’

‘You’re welcome—oh, before you go, I just wondered—there’s a locked door, presumably leading to the house?’

‘Yes, that’s right. These rooms used to be the butler’s quarters. The door opens on to the back stairs and comes out on the landing. Why?’

‘I just wondered—Stephen can be awfully noisy, and I didn’t want to disturb you. I—I mean, I didn’t know where you sleep …’

He grinned lazily. ‘No problem. You won’t disturb me, my room’s at the other end of the house.’

A sudden image of Max sprawled asleep across a huge four-poster bed leapt unbidden into her mind, and Cathy flushed.

‘Oh. Good. That’s fine, then.’ She struggled with a smile.

‘Why did you want to know where I sleep?’ he asked, idly tucking an escaped strand of her hair back behind her ear.

‘I—I didn’t! I wanted to be sure we didn’t disturb you.’

He chuckled softly. ‘You’ve been disturbing me since the moment I clapped eyes on you, Catherine. It’s very gratifying to know it’s mutual.’

She rallied her scattered defences and straightened away from him. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked, flustered. ‘I’m not the least bit interested in you, Dr Armstrong. You’re not at all my type, and, even if you were, I’ve told you, that part of my life is over, finished with! I have Stephen to think about now, and dallying with you in the sunset doesn’t figure very highly in my plans!’

He cast his eyes over his shoulder, and turned back with a smile. ‘What sunset?’

The sun was still well above the horizon, and Cathy flushed. ‘You know what I mean. Please, Max!’

‘My pleasure,’ he said softly, and moved closer.

‘Well, it wouldn’t be mine,’ she retorted, desperately trying to put distance between them on the little landing. She bumped against the door-frame, and he closed the gap slightly. ‘You’re deliberately misunderstanding me! I meant what I said, you aren’t my type. I expect you’re the sort of macho guy who kisses his women until their lips bleed!’

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. ‘I have it on good authority that I’m a very gentle lover,’ he answered, quite undeterred. ‘I’d be quite happy to satisfy your curiosity.’

Cathy’s breath caught in her throat, her wilful imagination racing.

‘I’m not curious!’ she denied weakly.

‘Liar,’ he murmured, his voice gravelly and soft.

She moaned. ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation!’

Reaching up, he plucked a rose from above the door and held it against her cheek. ‘You’ve got beautiful skin,’ he said huskily. ‘Velvety, like the petals of a rose. It’s even the same delicate peach.’

Soft colour flooded her cheeks at his words.

‘You’re talking like a romantic fool,’ she said breathlessly, and a slow smile tilted his sensuous lips.

‘You blush like a virgin,’ he murmured, scanning her cheeks with amused fascination. ‘How can a woman who’s been married and widowed and is raising a child alone still colour up at a simple compliment? Unless she, too, is a romantic fool?’

‘Max, stop it!’ she protested feebly.

His eyes clashed with hers, the vivid blue burning with some nameless emotion she didn’t dare to define.

‘You’ve got very kissable lips,’ he said softly, so softly that if she hadn’t had her eyes fixed firmly on his own very kissable lips she would have missed it.

‘Max, no!’ she moaned as his head came down.

‘Yes,’ he murmured against her lips, and then there was nothing but the feel of his mouth against hers, draining her resistance as if it had never been.

With a sigh of surrender she leant into him, feasting on the contrast between her softness and his hard, lean frame. His hands slid down her back and urged her against him, and her body went up in flames, aching for the pleasure so long denied.

With a whimper she wriggled closer, and he made a guttural noise low in his throat as he dragged his mouth away from hers to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses over the warm skin of her throat.

Then he lifted his head, and her hands came up to pull it down again.

His fingers fastened gently over her wrists and eased her hands away.

‘Now tell me I’m not your type,’ he said softly, and released her, turning on his heel to run lightly back down the stairs, leaving her slumped against the door-frame, speechless.

## CHAPTER THREE

CATHY found it impossible to sleep that night. Every time the soft shrouds of oblivion drifted closer, her mind seemed to float free into a world of sensation that she had long dismissed, a world of murmured sighs and tender caresses, of spiralling passion and earth-shaking emotions that left her aching with frustration and loneliness.

She turned on her bedside light and tried to read, but the words failed to hold her attention and she gave up in despair, getting up to tiptoe quietly into the kitchen and make a cup of tea.

The sky was lightening, and, letting herself out silently, she crept down the steps and walked barefoot through the dewy grass. The air was blissfully cool on her overheated skin, and she lifted her face to the sky, absorbing the early morning scents and sounds of the countryside.

Her feet carried her round the side of the house on to the terrace behind it, and she found a short flight of steps leading down on to a broad swath of lawn.

She had never been round the back into the main part of the garden and she found it fascinating to sit on the steps sipping her tea and watching as the dawn lightened the sky and colour slowly seeped into the borders, turning the garden into a brilliant riot of hues all jostling for her attention.

Further down the garden she could see the duck pond, and beside it the ducks slept, their heads tucked under their wings, their coats glossy with dew, and in the field beyond she could see rabbits, the young ones already frisky even this early in the day.

She laughed softly at their antics, content to sit and watch them a little longer.

After a while she felt a strange prickling in the back of her neck, a sort of awareness, as if she were no longer alone. Turning her head, she studied the back of the house, the stone-mullioned windows marching like sentries across the upper storey. She scanned them, wondering which one, if any, was Max’s room. He had said he slept at the far end of the house, but which of the end rooms?

She watched silently for several seconds, but there was no sign of life, however, and none of the curtains was closed; she finally concluded that he must sleep at the front of the house.

Crazy, she thought, returning her eyes to the view over the garden to the hills beyond. Why would he want to look out of the front when from the back he could see the sun rise?

The first brilliant arc appeared as she sat there, edging over the hills to her left and pouring over the landscape like molten gold. She felt peace steal into her heart—peace, and the realisation that she was more vibrantly alive now, this morning, than she had been for years. Like Sleeping Beauty after the Prince had kissed her, she thought.

But unlike Sleeping Beauty, she had responsibilities. She still had Stephen to think of, and he above all must come first.

Rising stiffly from the cold stone of the steps, she made her way over the damp grass towards the house, pausing briefly to stare again at the end window; then, head bowed, she crossed the terrace and went back round the side of the house, quite unaware of the man who stood watching her from the shadows of his room.

He shouldn’t have kissed her. It had been a big mistake—though not the first. The first, perhaps, had been to treat her like Pauline, expecting that she would shirk her responsibilities, failing to follow through as her predecessor had done.

Of course it was still early days, but after his phone call to Sam Carver he had realised his mistake. She had apparently been meticulously thorough in her explanations, soothing his fears without in any way denying the seriousness of his condition.

Max knew he owed her an apology for that—though not the kiss. God, no. That kiss …

His body heated at the memory, and he groaned softly as she stood up, her body clearly outlined by the early rays of the sun which turned the fine cotton of her nightgown to gossamer, clinging softly to her lush curves as she flitted through the damp grass like a pixie. The sun danced in her hair, so that it seemed like a halo of red and gold curls that tumbled over her shoulders in soft profusion.