The Spice of Life
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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

KATHLEEN HENNESSY was spoiling for a fight.

She had just spent a weekend at home in Belfast dutifully admiring the latest Hennessy grandchild and enduring countless little digs about good Catholic girls and settling down to raise a family instead of racketing about the world enjoying herself—as if it was such a sin to enjoy life, for God’s sake, she thought angrily, and anyway six years as Sister in the accident and emergency department of the Audley Memorial in Suffolk hardly constituted racketing! Anybody would think she was a promiscuous little tart, the way her family reproached her for her single status …

All except Maria. She understood—mainly because she was only twenty-six and already had four children and another on the way. She had had such a promising career as a physio, Kathleen thought crossly, and now she was trapped at home with her children while her husband powered quietly on up the career ladder, leaving her behind.

And nothing wrong with it at all, if that was what was right for you, but it wasn’t right for Maria, and it sure as eggs wasn’t right for Kath!

She turned her little car precisely into a parking place in the hospital car park, climbed out and slammed the door. Damned dictators! Why couldn’t they just understand that she didn’t want to be married and settled with umpteen kids and a mortgage up to the sky and no life to call her own?

Selfish, they’d called her. OK. That was fine. So she was selfish. Perhaps that was why she worked the hours she did in the most gruelling part of the hospital, picking up the pieces—literally, sometimes—and putting them back together if possible, consoling distraught relatives if not.

‘They probably think I’m still carrying bedpans all day!’ she said to no one in particular, and locked her car door with a vicious twist.

As she did so she glanced towards the entrance of A and E, checking automatically for Jim Harris’s car—except it wouldn’t be there, she remembered with a twinge of regret. Jim had left, moved on to London and was heading up a new Rapid Response Unit there in connection with HEMS, the Helicopter Emergency Medical Service.

She wondered what his replacement would be like. Well, they’d find out soon, she thought, glancing at her watch, and then stared in amazement as a heavy black motorbike cruised lazily into the consultant’s slot and stopped.

‘Well, of all the nerve!’ she muttered, and, yanking her keys out of the door, she shoved them into her bag and marched across the car park, head held high.

‘Excuse me, you can’t leave that there!’ she said firmly, and looked him straight in the eye.

Her first mistake. Even through the streaky visor she could see that he had the most mesmerising eyes—laughing eyes—laughing at her. She looked hastily away—and found her eyes glued to a body that had no business being so magnetically attractive.

He was still sitting astride the bike, balancing it with his long, lean legs tautly encased in black leather. Hell, the whole man was tautly encased in black leather! His body flexed as he hauled the heavy bike up on to the centre stand, and her heart jerked and accelerated to a steady two hundred beats a minute. Well, that was what it felt like.

Ridiculous! She dragged her eyes up and watched as, unhurriedly, he stripped off his heavy gloves and laid them across the bike before lifting his helmet off and balancing it in front of him. His hair was dark, almost black, rumpled by the helmet but unruly anyway, and a heavy stubble covered his jaw, lending him a rakish and piratical air. His lips were firm and sensual—and twitching.

Ignoring the kick of her heart as she met his eyes again without the intervention of the visor, she tried again.

‘You can’t leave your bike here, it’s the consultant’s parking space! If he’s needed urgently and he can’t find anywhere to park, he could waste precious minutes while someone’s lying dying for want of his attention!’

A dark, slender brow arched tauntingly above the laughing grey eyes. Holy Mary, he had lovely eyes! She forced herself to concentrate.

‘Aren’t you being rather melodramatic?’ he said in a deep, cultured voice with a deceptively lazy lilt to it. It made her toes curl just listening to him, and perversely that made her even angrier.

‘No, I’m not, and if you knew the first damn thing about Accident and Emergency you would know I wasn’t!’ she snapped.

He inclined his head in a cheeky little salute and grinned. ‘I concede to your superior knowledge, Sister,’ he murmured.

Oh, that voice!

‘Good,’ she said, and was disgusted to notice that her voice was softening. She firmed it up. ‘So, please move your bike.’

His lips twitched. ‘I really don’t think—’

‘Are you going to move it, or am I going to contact the hospital security staff and get them to move it for you?’

The smile blossomed on his lips and, lifting his hand, he coiled a lock of her hair around his finger, drawing her closer. ‘You know, Irish,’ he said softly, his voice like raw silk sliding over her senses, ‘with a temper like that you really ought to have red hair …’

For a full second she was too stunned to move, but then she slapped his hand away, and, drawing herself up to her full five feet four, she glared at him furiously.

‘That just about does it!’ she hissed. Spinning on her heel, she stalked away with her head in the air.

In the midst of the morning rush-hour his laughter drifted after her, curling round her senses and inflaming her still further.

She marched into A and E, slapping the swing doors out of the way with the palm of her hand, and turned smartly into the cloakroom. Two nurses in there straightened away from the walls, murmured, ‘Good morning, Sister,’ and faded into the corridor.

Kathleen turned and studied herself in the mirror. ‘Red hair, indeed!’ she muttered. ‘Rude man.’ In fact, there was a trace of red when the sun was on it, but she didn’t want to dwell on that at the moment! No, it was plain old dark brown, cut in a blunt bob at her chin, easy to keep neat and tidy—unlike his wild tangle that was almost black, except at the temples where it was streaked with grey.

To match his eyes, she thought, and her own lost focus as she remembered the strange way the colour had seemed to change as he laughed. Like pebbles underwater, flickering with the light.

Yuck. She’d be reciting poetry next!

Her own eyes were a muddy green, and just now they were spitting fire, like a little cat. In fact it was a wonder there wasn’t smoke pouring out of her ears!

But, my God, he did look good in all that leather gear …

She turned away from the mirror with a sound of disgust. Imagine getting turned on by a biker! He was probably smothered in tattoos, for heaven’s sake! She ruthlessly suppressed a little shiver of curiosity. Perhaps her family were right; maybe it was time she settled down.

She took her frilly cap out of the locker and skewered it to her hair with the pins, adjusting it until she was satisfied that it was absolutely correct. Nothing got past Sister Hennessy that wasn’t correct—including That Man!

She glanced at her watch and pulled a face. There wasn’t time to report the bike to the security staff before hand over. She left the cloakroom and went to her office, took the report from the night sister and then went out of the office towards the nursing station.

However she didn’t get there. One of the nurses she had seen in the cloakroom was standing in the middle of the corridor, flushed pink and grinning like an idiot, while That Man lounged on one leg in all his taut leather and chatted her up.

Enraged, she marched up to them.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but you aren’t allowed in this area. It’s staff only. Nurse, are you here for a reason?’

The girl blushed even pinker, and stood up straight. ‘Oh—yes, Sister. I’m starting on A and E today.’

Kathleen eyed her up and down. ‘Are you, indeed? Well, you’d better come with me. The exit’s that way, sir,’ she added pointedly, and then marched the nurse into the CSSD store.

‘Right, young lady, there are a few things you need to know about how I run this unit, and the first is that my nurses don’t loll around in the corridors indulging in idle chatter with strange men!’

‘But, Sister, he asked me—’

‘I don’t want to know what he asked you! I’ve already had trouble with him today. The best thing you can do is keep out of his way until I get rid of him. Right, this place is chaotic. I want everything cleared up and sorted out before the rush starts again, all right? If you think we’re getting low on anything, I want to know, please. I’ll send another nurse in to help you. Here’s the check list.’

And she swept out, heading for the phone again.

There was no sign of him now, thank goodness. Security said they’d send someone over right away, and she busied herself for the next few minutes with the half-dozen patients in the waiting area.

There was a nasty sprain which needed an X-ray, a query appendix for the surgical reg and a couple of cuts and other minor injuries which needed cleaning up and suturing.

Mick O’Shea, the surgical registrar on take and one of her old SHOs, breezed in as she was cleaning up one of the patients with a cut hand.

Top o’ the mornin’ to you, Sister Hennessy!’ he sang, cheerful as ever, and she shot him a black look.

‘Good morning, Dr O’Shea,’ she said repressively.

He pretended to look chastened, and inspected the cut with great care.

‘Just a couple of wee stitches—sure you can manage, Sister?’

‘Probably a great deal better than you,’ she replied with a sugary smile, and after a reassuring word to her patient, she led Mick out into the corridor.

‘Your patient’s in here,’ she said shortly.

Mick stopped her with a hand on her arm.

‘What’s eating you today?’

She gave a strained little chuckle. ‘It shows?’

He grinned. ‘Only to an expert in family relationships—and I know you were away for the weekend!’

Her chuckle relaxed. ‘I’ve been home—got lots of grief about not being settled down with fourteen children—’

Mick laughed. ‘Why under God do you imagine I never go home?’

They shared a commiserating smile, and Mick put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a friendly hug. ‘Of course you could always marry me and blame the lack of children on my war wound—’

She spluttered with laughter. ‘What war wound?’

He grinned cheekily. ‘Poetic licence, m’darlin’! We’d make a lovely couple, don’t you think? Can’t you just see your mother in a pink floppy hat with cherries on it? How about a quick kiss to seal the pact?’

‘Put me down, you lecherous old goat!’ she said with a laugh, and, pushing him away, she straightend up in time to see That Man emerge from Jim’s old office with Ben Bradshaw, the senior registrar.

He had obviously showered, the almost-black hair falling in damp curls over his broad forehead, and he had changed into casual trousers and a shirt. The stubble was gone, and he was even wearing a tie—well, nearly. It hung round his neck, the knot well below the open collar of his shirt, and in the vee she could see the cluster of damp curls at the base of his throat. He looked almost respectable—and very, very sexy. He was also in the wrong place again. Kathleen opened her mouth, and a lid drooped over one of those fabulous grey eyes in a wicked wink.

‘We meet again,’ he said with a grin.

‘Morning,’ Mick greeted him. ‘Good weekend?’

That Man shrugged. ‘Not bad—bit windy earlier. Good thermals, though.’

Thermals? As in underwear? Never! Kathleen glanced sharply up at Mick. ‘Do you know him?’

Mick nodded, and Ben Bradshaw stepped into the yawning void. ‘Have you met Sister Hennessy yet?’ he asked.

That Man’s full lips twitched. ‘Yes, we have—er—spoken,’ he said, and the smile won and tipped the corners of his lips, bringing an enticing little dimple to one cheek. He held out his hand. ‘Jack Lawrence,’ he said, and if the floor could have opened up and swallowed her she would have been delighted.

As the fiery blush mounted her cheeks, she shook his hand briefly, desperately hoping for a miracle.

Holy Mary, she thought, all these years I’ve been a good girl—can’t you do something?

Apparently not. The floor stubbornly resisted her prayers and imprecations. Jack Lawrence released her hand and turned to Ben.

‘So, how’s the rest of the weekend been? Sorry I had to desert you yesterday.’

‘Oh, not a problem. There wasn’t anything too drastic.’

‘Good. So, Sister Hennessy, how would you like to offer me a cup of coffee so we can get acquainted while these two young men carry on with their duties?’

Her mind flailed. ‘I—I have somebody to suture——’

‘Ben, would you? I think Sister Hennessy and I need to have a chat. We’ll be in my office.’

And that was the end of that.

She followed him numbly, still praying for that elusive miracle as they went into the staff rest-room and collected two cups of coffee and then out again, back down the corridor to the consultant’s room—his room.

On the way her mind ran over their conversation in the car park. One thing in particular sprang to mind. ‘If you knew the first thing about Accident and Emergency—’ Oh, Lord, let me be dreaming …

He opened the door for her, closed it behind him and indicated the chair, then lounged against the window sill and grinned. ‘Would you like to go first?’

Oh, sure—and say what? She almost laughed. ‘Not really—I’m still trying to swallow the rest of my feet,’ she confessed ruefully.

He chuckled, a wickedly delicious little chuckle that sent a shiver down her spine. She set her coffee down before she slopped it all and met his eyes defiantly.

‘Why didn’t you say something?’

He smiled slowly. ‘Such as?’

‘Well—I don’t know—anything. “I’m your new boss” would have done nicely. You just stood there and made a complete fool of me—’

He shook his head. ‘Oh, no, Irish, you did that all by yourself.’

She blushed again. ‘You could have said something,’ she repeated stubbornly.

‘Yes, I could, you’re quite right. It was unkind of me. I apologise.’

She shot him a keen look, quite sure he was laughing at her, but his face was sober and his eyes were gentle now.

‘You didn’t look like a consultant.’

‘No.’

‘You should have said—’

‘I should. You didn’t really give me much chance—’

‘Rubbish! You had every opportunity!’

He shrugged and grinned. ‘I suppose so, but it just seemed like a bit of harmless fun—and you know, Irish, you’re beautiful when you’re angry.’

She was speechless.

The phone rang, and he reached out a long arm and hooked it up. ‘Lawrence.’

He listened for a moment, a slow smile spreading over his face, and then held the phone out to her.

‘Security for you—something about a motorbike in the car park …’

Kathleen supposed there was some comfort to be gained from knowing that nobody had ever died of humiliation. Doubtless in later years she would be glad of that, but for now she was too embarrassed to care.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, of course, if it had only been him, but there was that second-year nurse whom she had accused of loitering with him in the corridor—that was going to take some fancy footwork to get out of without loss of face. Oh, well, at least she wasn’t Japanese. Good job too, as there wasn’t a handy sword to fall on. She didn’t somehow think a stitch cutter would do the trick quite so well!

In the end she screwed up her courage, took the girl into her office and apologised. ‘I made a mistake,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t realise who he was, and with the security problems hospitals have been having recently, you can’t be too careful.’

The nurse smiled. ‘I didn’t know who he was, either, but he asked me where he could find you, and I told him I didn’t know, and he said “Are you new too?” and then you arrived and …’ She trailed to a halt. ‘He didn’t look—well—like a consultant, did he?’

Bless her, Kath thought. ‘No, Nurse, he didn’t, but he is.’ She glanced at her name badge. ‘Amy, have you done any work on Surgical?’

She nodded. ‘I did some time with Sister Lovejoy last year, and I’ve done some orthopaedics.’

‘And how did you get on?’

She nibbled her bottom lip. ‘OK. I had a bit of a problem with Mr Hamilton when he first arrived—I did something rather stupid and he was furious, but the patient was OK and he was great after that. Sister Lovejoy was ever so kind to me over it.’

Kathleen groaned inwardly. That was all she needed, a nurse who made mistakes.

‘Well, Amy, if you aren’t sure about anything, you ask, OK? We can’t afford to make mistakes down here. I think you’d better work with me for the next few days, or if I’m not here, then with one of my staff nurses. Right. Do you know what triage is?’

‘Um—is that putting patients in order of priority as they come in so that you don’t leave people to bleed to death because they’re at the end of the queue?’

Kathleen winced and grinned. ‘Sort of. You’re on the right lines. It really comes into its own when there’s a big emergency involving lots of people. Then the triage nurse is perhaps the most important member of the team. It’s a tremendous responsibility, and challenges all your skills and training, but it also depends a lot on gut instinct. OK, now we’re going to go and have a look in the waiting-room and at the notes, and do a bit of triage there. If they’re all on a par, we take them on a first come, first served basis. Anyone with a suspected heart condition or serious bleeding or a major fracture or head injury comes first, though, and every time an ambulance brings someone, they get seen immediately in the trolley area.’

She took Amy down the corridor. ‘Here we have the cubicles for the walking wounded or minor cases, then the trolley area for the major cases, and then the resus. room for the crisis cases. Then down here we have a couple of day beds for patients who need to rest under observation for the day following treatment but who don’t really justify admission, and then over here we’ve got the two theatres for major suturing and cleaning up, and then down there at the end the X-ray and plaster rooms.’

Amy nodded, her eyes like saucers, and Kathleen remembered the first time she had worked in A and E.

‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’ll look after you.’

They checked the few patients in the waiting-room, and Kathleen got Amy to sort them into priority, talking through the decision-making process as she did so.

‘Fine,’ she said when Amy had finished. ‘No problems there. But don’t worry, you wouldn’t be asked to do it alone yet. The triage nurse is always qualified and experienced, but it doesn’t hurt you to see how it’s done.’

It was, in fact, a ridiculously quiet day with a steady trickle of bits and pieces, an ideal day to find one’s feet.

Unfortunately it meant that there wasn’t enough for the consultant to do to keep him out of her way, and every time she turned round she almost fell over him.

‘Are you checking up on me?’ she demanded half way through the afternoon.

‘Now, Irish, you know better than that,’ he said with a cheeky grin, and left her alone for a few minutes.

Then there was a call on the red phone.

‘OK,’ Kathleen said. ‘We’ve got someone coming in on a blue light, a young man who’s fallen under a train. Could be an attempted suicide, we don’t know. Anyway, there’s considerable loss of blood, massive lower limb and pelvic damage and some chest injuries. We’ll need plasma expander, and samples immediately for cross matching. Better have some O neg. sent up for immediate use as well. Right, let’s move.’

They prepared the resus. room, and when all was ready they informed the patients still waiting that they might have a slight delay due to an emergency that was being brought in. There were the usual grumbles, but they faded instantly as the ambulance backed up to the entrance, doors already opening.

He was screaming, the high-pitched, nerve-grating scream of agony that always turned Kathleen’s blood to stone, and the waiting-room fell into shocked silence.

They wheeled him rapidly into Resus., Kathleen snapping out instructions right, left and centre, but as they peeled back the blanket to examine him, even Kathleen after all the years she had been working in A and E was shocked at the extent of his injuries. Both his legs were severed completely, the right one mid-thigh, the left up at the hip. His head was cut and bleeding, and his jacket was torn and damaged, indicating possible chest injuries. His right arm was also lying at a funny angle and was probably dislocated or fractured.

Amy Winship took one look at him and disappeared quietly through the door, and Ben Bradshaw winced. Only Jack Lawrence appeared quite unmoved, glancing dispassionately at the damage that Kath revealed with her scissors. There was blood everywhere, more of it by the second, and nothing they did seemed to stop it. His left leg was particularly bad, the vessels refusing to co-operate. They slowed it to a steady well, but it wouldn’t stop, and through it all there was the awful screaming.

‘For Christ’s sake get an anaesthetist down here and shut him up,’ Jack Lawrence grunted, and moved to his head, checking his pupils automatically. ‘Have we got any ID?’

Kathleen shook her head. ‘No, nothing. The ambulance men checked his clothes.’

‘Damn. We need to get his relatives in fast.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t say?’

He grinned ruefully. ‘Any sign of a surgeon? And we need cardiothoracic and orthopaedics, too.’

‘Before or after the mortuary technician?’ Ben said under his breath.

Kath glared at him, and he shrugged.

‘Just being realistic, old thing.’

‘Well, don’t bother—and don’t call me old thing. Just do your job, please. Have you stopped that bleeding yet?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s leaking from the abdomen—I think he needs a bit of surgical attention.’

Kath shot him a dry look. ‘You guys are really sharp today, aren’t you?’

Jack was inspecting the young man’s chest dispassionately, watching the ragged rise and fall of the ribs as he dragged in a breath between screams, and he shook his head thoughtfully. While he ran thorough hands and eyes over his shattered body, Kathleen started cleaning up the chest area ready for the heart monitor after checking the IV line that was running in Haemacel and taking blood for cross-matching, dodging round the radiographer who had brought the portable in and was taking X-rays.

When his chest was clear, she put on the pads for the heart monitor, frowning slightly as she did so at the feel of the chest wall under her hands. As she watched his breath jerked in, and a large section of his chest wall moved in instead of out.

‘Flail chest,’ she said quietly, and Jack nodded, drawing her to one side.

The lung’s collapsed, I think. Probably where he was hit by the train. His pelvis is shot to hell, too, and judging by the feel of the abdomen, he’s got massive haemorrhaging.’

Kath nodded. ‘So why is he still alive?’

‘God knows.’ Their eyes met and tracked together to the heart monitor. ‘He’s not doing too well, is he? I think we need an echocardiograph. Can you get the cardiographer?’

Not that there’s a great deal of point, Kathleen thought to herself, but we may as well go through the motions.

While she phoned the switchboard and requested that they page the cardiographer, Michael Barrington the orthopaedic SR arrived and glanced at the shattered stubs of the young man’s femurs.

He swore, softly and succinctly. ‘Got any X-rays yet?’

Jack nodded. ‘Yes, they’re just being developed.’

Michael pursed his lips. ‘Done a real job on himself, hasn’t he? Anyone know why?’

‘No. We don’t even know if it was an accident yet.’

Their eyes flicked to the monitor. Their patient was still alive but his condition was deteriorating visibly. The anaesthetist, Peter Graham, had arrived and managed to dull his pain. Now he merely lay and moaned, but at least he was no longer screaming.

Amy popped her head round the door to tell Kathleen that they had found some ID on the track and the police had brought his parents in.

‘His name’s Steven Blowers. They want to see him.’

Kathleen exchanged glances with Jack, and he shook his head.

‘Put them in the interview-room and give them a cup of tea. One of us will be out in a minute,’ she told the young nurse. ‘Oh, and Amy? Say nothing.’

Amy nodded gratefully and retreated.

The X-rays appeared and Michael ran a critical eye over them.

‘Ouch. Do you want me to interpret, or is it academic?’ he said quietly.

Jack’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. ‘Probably. We’ll see what the cardiothoracic guy has to say.’

When he arrived moments later, he took one look at the X-rays and shook his head.

‘You jest, of course?’ he said drily. ‘Look at this shadow here—probably a bulge in the heart or the aorta behind it—the kid’s a goner. He’ll never make the anaesthetic, and even if he did, who wants to be a bloody cripple? Oh, well, we can only fail. Let’s have him up in Theatre.’

He sauntered out, whistling, and Kathleen met Michael Barrington’s eyes. They were like chips of blue ice, his lips compressed into a thin line.

‘Call me if you need me in Theatre—but I’d just as soon Tim Mayhew did it—I don’t trust myself near that bastard.’

And he turned on his heel and stalked away, his limp almost imperceptible.

Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s eating him?’

‘He’s a bloody cripple,’ she said succinctly.

‘What?’

‘He has an artificial leg. He went to assist at a passenger train derailment last year and got trapped in the wreckage. We had to amputate part of his leg to free him.’

‘Ah …’

Just then their patient moaned and opened his eyes. Kathleen was there instantly.

‘Steven? It’s all right, you’re in hospital. Can you hear me?’

He licked his lips and nodded slightly. ‘Messed it up, didn’t I?’ His voice was a mere thread. ‘I thought it would be quick,’ he went on painfully. ‘Let me go—please, let me go. You don’t know what this is all about.’

She squeezed his hand. ‘Do you want to tell me?’

‘Danny,’ he whispered. ‘My fault … gave Danny—HIV.’

‘Oh, Christ,’ someone muttered behind her. Kathleen closed her eyes. The room was a bloodbath, all of them were covered, and their patient was HIV positive.

Great. Oh, well, it had happened before, doubtless it would happen again. As far as she was aware, no one had cut themselves or pricked themselves with a needle.

Behind her she could hear Jack calmly telling everyone to go and shower and change and come back in full barrier gear.

She could see blood on Jack’s cheek and on his arm above the gloves. God knows where it was on her.

Steve groaned again, and the nurse in her took over.

‘YOUR parents are here, Steven. They’re waiting to see you. Do you feel up to it?’

His mouth twisted in a bitter little smile. ‘You mean I’m going to feel better?’ he whispered.

It wasn’t really a question. Kathleen lifted her head and met Jack’s eyes pleadingly. He nodded.

It was time to be honest.

‘You’ve got severe chest and abdominal injuries, as well as the injuries to your legs.’

‘Will I die?’

She was struck by how blue his eyes were as they bored into her own—blue and clear, like the sky. What a bloody waste.

‘I’m afraid it’s quite likely.’

‘Don’t be—afraid. It’s OK, really. It’s what I want …’

His eyes flickered closed, and he licked his lips. ‘Love a drink.’

‘I’ll get you some iced water.’

She found a nurse and sent her for it, and then held the cup and dabbed his lips with a swab dipped in the water.

‘Thanks.’ His voice was weaker. Kathleen didn’t think they could afford to wait any longer.

She met Jack’s eyes, and he nodded. ‘I’ll get them.’

‘Thanks.’

As he moved past her, she took a clean swab and wiped his cheek.

‘You could change your coat first.’

He glanced down and gave a short, humourless grunt of laughter. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. Put a blanket over him.’

He was only gone a minute, and when he returned, it was with a couple in their fifties who were holding hands as if they were desperately hanging on to reality.

They were obviously shocked by his condition and lost for words, but he shocked them further with his.

‘Never been what you wanted—I’m sorry. Never meant to hurt you,’ he whispered.

Kathleen swallowed a lump in her throat, Ben coughed discreetly and Jack busied himself at the X-ray box.

The phone on the wall rang softly, and Kathleen answered it.

Theatre’s ready for him,’ she said quietly.

Jack nodded and took a step towards Steve where he lay surrounded by his family, and then everything seemed to happen at once.

The monitor shrilled, Steve moaned, his mother gasped, and everybody leapt into action.

‘Pressure’s dropped right away,’ Kath said quietly.

‘Damn, he’s arrested,’ Jack muttered, and flung the covers off his chest.

Kath snatched up an airway and tipped back his head. ‘Ben, come and bag him while I get the drugs.’

She handed the airbag to the registrar while Jack pressed rhythmically on the patient’s sternum. ‘What do you want, IV adrenalin, calcium and atropine?’

Jack nodded. ‘And adrenalin into the heart. Let’s not mess about.’

Someone suggested to his parents that they should leave, but no one had time to show them out.

She handed Jack the syringe with the long needle, and he slid it neatly between the ribs and into the heart while Kath injected the other drugs into the giving set in his arm.

‘OK, let’s check the monitor.’

They glared at the screen, willing the line to flutter into life, but the trace remained persistently flat.

‘Come on, damn it!’ Jack muttered and thumped his chest again. ‘Now!’

Nothing.

‘Try again?’ Kath said quietly.

Jack let his breath out on a sigh and shook his head. ‘His aorta’s gone. It’s pointless. Damn, damn, damn …’

He removed his hands, stripped off his gloves and stepped back, only then noticing the stricken parents still standing near the door. He lifted his hands helplessly.

‘I’m sorry—we did everything we could.’

‘Oh, thank God it’s over,’ his mother said unsteadily, and then the tears overflowed and ran down her pale cheeks.

Kathleen carefully covered the shattered body with the blanket, but left his face uncovered. Relatives hated to see a sheet over the faces of their loved ones. It was illogical, but quite understandable, and she respected that. Sticking her head out of the door, she summoned a nurse and got her to take the young man’s parents back to the interview-room and give them a cup of tea.

They cleaned themselves up quickly, instructed all the others to shower again as thoroughly as possible in view of the AIDS risk, and then went into the interview room to talk to Steve’s parents.

Jack was astonishing. All day long she had wondered how he had managed to bamboozle his way into a consultancy, but first the calm, unflappable way he had dealt with Steve and now here, with the devastated relatives, Kathleen had an opportunity to see at first hand the qualities that set him apart as a consultant.

He talked through the whole drama again with them, explaining the various problems their son had had, discussing the probable outcome of each of his injuries had he survived, and then, when there was no doubt left in their minds that he should have died, he gave them even more.

‘Whatever problems you’ve had in the past, remember that he loved you, and you loved him. No one can ever take that from you.’

It was a calculated tear-jerker, but delivered with great sincerity, and Kathleen found her own eyes misting over.

She escaped to her office as soon as the Blowers’ left, grabbing herself a cup of coffee on the way. Seconds later there was a tap on her door and Jack came in.

‘Are you OK? You looked a bit shaken up.’

‘Oh, yes, I’m fine. It all adds variety. You know what they say—the spice of life, and all that …’

Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat.

He gave a grim little smile. ‘If you say so, Irish. Got any of that coffee left?’

She handed him the cup and he swallowed the remains with a gulp.

‘Home, I think. Fancy a drink on the way?’

She remembered their inauspicious start, and her somewhat ungracious behaviour during the morning. Perhaps it would be an opportunity to smooth things over, to apologise again and make a fresh start.

Her mouth was opening, the reply ready, when there was a tap on the door.

‘Ah, Mr Lawrence—there’s a young man who’d like to talk to you. His name’s Danny Featherstone. I think he’s a friend of Steven Blowers.’

He nodded at the receptionist. ‘Put him in my office. I’ll be along in a tick.’

He turned back to Kathleen and shrugged.

‘Sorry.’

She took a deep breath.

‘Maybe later?’

He shook his head slightly. ‘Some other time, perhaps. I don’t know if I’d be very good company tonight after all. I’ll see you.’

And with that, he was gone.

CHAPTER TWO

THERE was a strange car in the consultant’s slot the following day.

Kathleen found herself heaving a sigh of relief. If he had come by car, then she wouldn’t have to endure the sight of him in all that black leather gear looking like something from Star Wars. All he needed was a sweeping black cloak …

She hauled herself back to reality. Damn the man. He was persecuting her, and he didn’t even know it! She hadn’t been able to sleep at all the night before for thinking of him, and some of her thoughts had been unprintable.

But then, yesterday had been a funny old day, clouded as it was by the memory of Steve Blower’s traumatic and tragic death and the image of Jack comforting his parents. It seemed inconceivable that the man who had teased her so unforgivably in the morning had been so filled with compassionate understanding later in the same day. She had had him pegged as an emotional lightweight, probably good at his job in a technical sense but untroubled by messy feelings.

Instead, he had proved himself to be capable of great human emotion. Odd, that. Jim had been good with relatives, but Jack had some extra dimension to add to it.

She had pondered on it all night—that and the image of his laughing eyes and the way his full, firm lips tipped so readily into that wickedly sexy smile.

Just a flirt, she chastised herself, and probably a married flirt for all that. After all, he must be pushing forty at the very least to be a consultant in A and E, although he didn’t look it by any stretch of the imagination.

Well, only the once, when Steven Blowers had died and he had looked up at the parents, and then a curious bleakness had stolen over his face and drained the life away. Then he had looked older.

With a sigh, she got out of the car and locked it, walking deliberately by his car to peer curiously inside.

It was a very ordinary car, a middle of the range Ford in deep blue metallic with a roof-rack on it and the back full of—ropes? How odd.

She made her way into the department, greeting all the staff with a smile and a friendly word. Amy Winship was on earlies, and flashed her a grin.

‘Morning, Sister.’

‘Good morning, Amy. Is Mr Lawrence in his office?’

‘No, he’s gone to get some breakfast. He arrived at four, apparently. There was a pile-up—they called him in.’

She nodded. Yes, he would certainly earn his keep in this job, she thought drily.

She went into her office and took the report from the night sister, then swung cheerfully into her routine.

She was busy taking off a back-slab and replastering a fracture when Jack appeared, sticking his head round the door and grinning.

‘Morning, Irish.’

She shot him a black look and squeezed the water out of a bandage viciously. ‘Good morning, sir!’ she said pointedly.

His grin widened. ‘Having fun?’

‘Absolutely. Want to help?’

He shook his head. ‘You’re managing just fine, I’d only get in your way. I’ll watch, though.’

And he did, propping himself up against the wall and chatting lightheartedly to the patient while she wound the plaster bandage round the broken wrist.

‘There,’ she said with a smile when she had finished. ‘We’ll let that set for a little while, then X-ray it again to check that it’s nicely lined up. OK?’

The patient, a woman in her forties, nodded. ‘Thank you both. It feels much better already than it did yesterday.’

Kathleen forced a smile, showed the lady to the waiting area outside the X-ray room and went back to clear up her mess.

‘Thank you both, indeed!’ she muttered.

‘I did talk to her to set her at her ease,’ he justified mildly.

Kath snorted. ‘She was already at her ease, sir, and while we’re on the subject of putting people at their ease, my name is Sister Hennessy!’

He grinned, totally unabashed. ‘I’ll try and remember that, Irish.’

She wondered if she would lose her job if she tossed a sodden plaster bandage right at his grinning mouth.

Probably, but by God, it would be worth it!

A brow twitched. ‘I wouldn’t,’ he warned softly.

She lost the battle and laughed. ‘Now, would I?’

‘Quite likely!’

She met his eyes, searching for any lingering trace of the bleakness she had seen the night before, but there was none, only undiluted wickedness flirting with her senses.

Well, he was wasting his time because as far as he was concerned she had no senses left!

She wiped the sink down viciously. ‘Can I do anything for you?’

He chuckled. ‘Now that’s a thought to play with!’ he said softly.

‘Damn it, Jack Lawrence—’

She turned, the soggy, dripping plaster bandage in her hand, but he was gone, only the last swoosh of the swing door left to show he had ever been there.

She sighed and shook her head. Aggravating man. She mustn’t let him take the rise out of her like that. He just seemed to find it so infuriatingly easy!

She caught up with him later in the staff-room, cracking jokes about second-rate coffee.

‘So,’ she said, ‘how did you get on with that young man’s friend last night?’

His face lost its sparkle. ‘Ah, Danny. Well, he was very distressed, as you can imagine. They’d been lovers for some time, apparently. A few months ago they had a row, and Steve stormed off and went nightclubbing in London for the weekend. He caught HIV from a casual encounter, didn’t realise and they patched up the row. The rest, as they say, is history.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘How sad—what a dreadful waste.’

‘One of the dangers of casual, unprotected sex. If you’re going to live that life, you have to learn to do so responsibly.

‘You don’t have to engage in casual relationships,’ she replied, more sharply than she had intended.

He arched a brow. Tut, tut, Sister Hennessy. Your Catholic upbringing is showing.’

‘And what if it is?’ she retorted, her chin lifting.

He met her eyes reprovingly. ‘We’re here to help, not to pass judgement. It’s no business of ours to referee lifestyles.’

‘But that’s nonsense! I wouldn’t hesitate to tell an overweight, unfit man that he was putting his health at risk. Why should I be allowed to give him dietary advice and not be able to advise a young person not to engage in indiscriminate sexual activity?’

He grinned. ‘You don’t tell an overweight man not to eat, you tell him what he can eat safely. Ergo, when you give advice on sexual behaviour, you don’t say, “You mustn’t”, you say, “Do it like this”—likewise junkies. You have to give them clean needles and good habits, not moral outrage and prohibition.’

‘Who in the hell is talking about moral outrage?’ she demanded, her voice rising.

He just grinned wider, bent forwards and dropped a kiss on her startled lips.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured absently, and walked away, leaving her riveted to the spot, astonished.

‘Well, well, well—I do believe our dear Sister Hennessy is speechless!’

She glared at Ben Bradshaw, dragged some air into her deprived lungs and marched swiftly down the corridor into her office, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Then she let out the breath and sagged against the desk. Dazed, she lifted her fingers and rested them against her lips. They felt—tinglingly alive, soft and warm and swollen, aching for—for what? For more?

With a whimper of disgust and confusion, she sank into her chair and stared absently at the mound of paperwork. Damn him. Why did he have to do that? As if he’d known she’d spent all night wondering about the feel of his lips on hers, about how it would be if he kissed her.

She’d never expected rockets to go off and stars to shoot in all directions—leastways, not from just a casual brush of flesh against flesh …

She suppressed a shiver. Damn him. There had been nothing casual about that kiss. Brief, yes, and outwardly innocent, but my God, packed with promise!

Well, it wasn’t about to happen again!

She got to her feet, checked her cap in the little mirror on the wall and marched out into her department.

She rapped on his door, swung it open and stood in the doorway, not trusting either of them if it was shut.

He raised his eyes from the paperwork on his desk and leant back in the chair, a lazy grin on his face.

‘I suppose you want an apology?’ he said unrepentantly.

‘Don’t you ever—ever!—pull a stunt like that again!’

The grin widened. ‘Sorry—didn’t you enjoy it? Perhaps next time——’

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ she returned, her voice torn between a growl and a whimper. ‘There will be no next time!’

‘Pity. I was rather looking forward to it.’

She glared at him. ‘You’re incorrigible.’

He shrugged, a laughing, arrogant, almost Gallic shrug. You would have thought it was a compliment, she thought crossly.

‘I try to be.’

‘Well, don’t. This is my department, and I won’t have you lolling around here undermining my authority——’

‘My dear girl, nothing I could do could possibly undermine your authority,’ he drawled lazily. ‘The entire department cowers at the sound of your voice. I should have thought a little evidence of human frailty would merely enhance your reputation—and the association would do mine a power of good!’

She snorted. ‘Your reputation would be greatly enhanced if you took yourself seriously!’

Something changed in his face then, some fleeting spectre that drained the life from his eyes and left them cold and hard.

Then he smiled, a dangerous, cynical smile.

‘Life’s too short to take it seriously, Irish. You should learn that, before it’s too late.’

And with that he picked up his pen and returned to his paperwork, dismissing her.

She was in the staff lounge making herself a drink when he came in half an hour later.

‘Coffee?’ she asked, more as a reflex than anything. He shuddered and shook his head.

‘Think I’ll pass. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about yesterday. What’s hospital policy on HIV testing after an incident like yesterday?’

‘I don’t think we have a policy. It’s never been a problem before. If someone knows they’ve been contaminated by a needle or a knife, for instance, then I think the testing certainly is available.’

‘But not otherwise?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Why should it be necessary? I mean, I don’t think anyone took any risks, and we were all wearing gloves anyway because of the state he was in—I would be worried that it would make people panic unnecessarily. You know, rather like getting an adverse smear test, and before you know where you are you’ve convinced yourself you’ve got cancer when it was probably just a lousy smear and they didn’t get enough cells. Do you understand what I’m saying? I don’t think we should threaten people’s conception of their immortality unnecessarily, and I’m perfectly certain we’re all quite safe.’

He shrugged. ‘It was just an idea. Professionally, if I felt there was a risk I should want to know that I was clear so I was certain there was no danger of me passing anything on to a patient or a future partner. I mean, if you did contract it, wouldn’t you want to know?’

She met his eye determinedly. ‘Of course, if I felt there was a real risk, but I wouldn’t pass it on anyway. I’m extremely careful at work and I don’t have indiscriminate sexual relationships.’

He laughed softly, and it tickled up her spine. ‘Your rosary’s showing again, Irish. I didn’t say anything about indiscriminate sex. Take Ben, for example. He’s married. I gather his wife’s pregnant. Now how would he feel if he contracted the virus from a freak accident at work and gave it to his wife and child just because we had failed to test him?’

Kath stared at him, stupefied. ‘Maggie’s pregnant? When?’

He grinned lazily. ‘Well, I hardly liked to ask him that!’

She clicked her tongue irritably. ‘You know what I mean …’

‘Ask him—I’m sure it’s not a secret.’

‘I wonder why he hasn’t said anything?’ Kath mused.

‘I think they only knew this morning, and you’ve been so busy being cross——’

‘Huh! How would you like it if you were sexually harrassed?’

He grinned again. ‘Try me.’

She drew herself up and sniffed. ‘Don’t be absurd. Why would I want to do that?’

‘Because you’re curious? Because you’re secretly dying to press that delightful body up against me and find out how it feels?’

He was so close to the truth that she flushed and looked away. ‘Please,’ she muttered in a strangled voice. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’

His deep chuckle curled round her insides and squeezed. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll leave you in peace with your atrocious coffee.’

Her head came up. ‘Jack?’

He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Hmm?’

‘About the testing—do you really think it’s necessary?’

‘In this case, no, but I think we should keep an open mind if anyone asks. I doubt if they will, but just keep your ears open.’

She nodded, and with a wink, he was gone, leaving her dealing with her curiosity about how his body would feel pressed against hers, and the slow recognition that the coffee was, indeed, atrocious.

‘Who is he, do we know?’

The ambulanceman shook his head. ‘Collapsed in the park. Nobody knows him, no ID. Passer-by saw him and reported him—thought he was drunk. He was unconscious when we got to him.’

‘Right, thank you, Sid.’

Kathleen bent over the unconscious patient and sniffed. No alcohol, but he was clammy and grey, and quite likely hypoglaecaemic. There was a pin-prick hole in the tip of his left thumb, and she nodded. Diabetic, gone into a coma from low blood sugar. She left the cubicle to find a blood test kit, and came back to find the new houseman, Joe Reynolds, ordering head X-rays and a neurologist’s opinion.

She rolled her eyes and wondered how to tackle it. Young doctors were usually only too willing to take advice, but every now and again you got one like this lad, who clearly was all at sea and didn’t know how to light the flares!

‘Not a bad idea,’ she said, ‘considering he’s probably banged his head when he passed out. Diabetics often damage themselves, don’t they?’

He looked faintly startled. ‘Diabetics? Does he have a Medic Alert bracelet?’

‘I have no idea, but he——’

‘Well, then, I think it would be safer to assume a neurological cause such as CVA, don’t you, Sister?’ he said loftily.

‘Certainly, Doctor, if you say so,’ she replied sweetly, containing the urge to crown him for his patronising ignorance. After all, how long would it take to do a blood test with a Haemastix strip? Thirty seconds? What he was planning would tie half the hospital up for the entire morning!

Jack was busy, dealing with a nasty fracture, so she went to the nursing station and picked up the phone. Tage Dr Marumba for me, could you?’ she asked the switchboard. Seconds later she was connected to the consultant physician.

‘Are you busy, Jesus? I wonder if I could offer you a cup of coffee in my department within the next couple of minutes?’

There was a deep chuckle from the other end. ‘My pleasure, Kathleen. Problems?’

‘You might say that.’

‘Be right down.’

‘Bless you.’

She put the receiver down and went back into the cubicle. ‘Should we take some bloods for chemistry, Dr Reynolds?’ she asked mildly.

‘Ah—good idea, Sister. Perhaps you’d like to do the honours?’

‘Certainly.’ She withdrew fifty millilitres of completely unnecessary blood from the patient’s arm, filled up the appropriate bottles and then put a blob on the treated strip and glanced at her watch.

As she finished she heard Dr Marumba’s deep, cultured rumble in the corridor.

She stuck her head round the curtain and winked. ‘Nearly done here, Dr Marumba. Could you give me a minute?’

‘Sure.’ The tall man elbowed his way past the curtain and peered at the patient. ‘Interesting—looks like hypoglycaemia, doesn’t it, Dr Reynolds?’

The SHO’s jaw dropped. ‘Ah—um—well, it’s certainly a possibility, sir.’

Jesus nodded. ‘Oh, yes, see the strip—blood sugar way down. Well spotted. I see Sister Hennessy’s done all the necessary tests for you. Well done. Glucagon?’

‘Ah—well, yes, I—’

‘Good, good. Well, I mustn’t hold you up. Perhaps I’ll come by for coffee another time, Sister. I can see you’re busy here with Dr Reynolds.’ He brushed past Kathleen, and the orthodontic miracle of his smile flashed against the rich ebony of his skin. His wink was wickedly conspiratorial.

‘I’m sorry about the coffee,’ she apologised, working hard on her straight face.

‘Forget it—it’s better upstairs, anyway.’

‘Not you, too!’ She turned back to Joe Reynolds and smiled innocently.

He returned the smile warily. ‘I guess I owe you an apology, Sister.’

She let her smile mellow. Poor boy, he had no idea his downfall had been engineered. ‘Think nothing of it,’ she told him. ‘I’ve been doing the job for years, don’t forget. Experience counts for a lot, Joe. OK, what next?’

He opened his mouth, shut it again and grinned sheepishly.

‘Glucagon?’

She waited.

‘Um …’

‘We’ll go through it together, shall we? Then he can go and rest in the day ward for a while.’

The relief on Joe’s face would have been comic if it hadn’t been so worrying. Yet another one she was going to have to watch like a hawk, she thought wearily. Between him and Amy Winship, they were well staffed with idiots at the moment.

Oh, well, it would give her two bodyguards if she didn’t ever let them out of her sight. That way she might have some protection against Jack Lawrence and his hyperactive lips!

It worked till Thursday, but then Amy was on days off and Joe had a cold. Inevitably it meant that she and Jack were in closer proximity, and it threatened to push her sanity over the brink.

Though why it should, lord only knows, she thought. What is it the man has that’s so darned appealing?

Charm, her alter ego told her. Lazy, sexy, masculine charm—bucketfuls of it, coupled with a certain vulnerability that showed every now and then. Unfortunately it was a potent combination, and there was no known cure.

By about two-thirty she had run out of ways of dodging him. They had a patient with multiple lacerations of the face and neck following a fall through a window, and he needed extensive suturing. Never having seen Jack suture, she wondered if she ought to call the fascio-maxillary surgeon over from the Norfolk and Norwich, or if she could, indeed, trust Jack to do a decent job. Their own fascio-max man was on holiday that week or the problem wouldn’t have arisen.

She decided there was only one way to deal with it, and that was directly.

She found him in his office.

‘How’s your suturing?’ she asked without preamble.

‘My suturing? Pretty good—why?’

‘We have a patient with multiple lacerations of the face and neck and our fascio-max is away—I was just wondering if you were good enough,’ she replied bluntly.

He smiled—which was just as well. He could have flipped, having his professional competence challenged like that.

‘I think she’ll be safe with me,’ he said mildly.

‘He.’

‘Even better. I’ll practise on the jaw-line—then if it isn’t good enough, he can always grow a beard to hide it.’

His voice was so bland she really wasn’t sure if he was joking, but having asked and received an apparently satisfactory reply, she decided she had no choice but to go with him.

‘He’s in Cubicle Four.’

Jack nodded. ‘I’ll have a look, but then I think we’ll move him into Ops if I think it’s justified. I’ll need a good work light.’

He went in to the patient, a man in his thirties, and smiled a hello.

‘I was enjoying that cup of tea,’ he said mournfully.

The man attempted a smile. ‘Sorry, Guv. Made a bit of a mess, haven’t I?’

‘Just a shade. Still, soon have you sorted out. I think we’ll move you into a little theatre we have down here for just this sort of thing, OK? I’ll get the nurses to move you and get you comfy, and I’ll have a bit of a wash and change. See you in a tick.’

By the time Kathleen had sorted the patient out and found someone to give his wife a cup of tea and explain what was happening, Jack was back in Theatre, clad from head to toe in green theatre pyjamas, with a J-cloth hat and a mask.

‘Good, ennit? Just like the telly,’ he said to the man, and received a lopsided grin for his pains. ‘You know, you really ought to do something about that razor you’ve been using!’

The man chuckled. Kath knew what Jack was doing, unobtrusively trying to assess the range of movement and any possible nerve damage indicated by loss of mobility in any of the facial muscles.

She relaxed. Already gowned and masked herself, she drew up the lignocaine and opened the suture packs.

Three hours later Jack tied the last suture and stood back to survey his work.

‘Bee-ootiful.’

It was. Oh, the patient looked a mess, but Kath had seen the enormous care that had gone into the alignment of each suture, the meticulous attention not only to the innumerable tiny little muscle fibres, nerves and blood vessels but to laughter lines and wrinkles to ensure that the tissues were realigned as closely as possible to their original position. He sealed the whole area with plastic skin to prevent infection, and then stripped off his gloves and stretched.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ the patient said a little stiffly. He was going to find it rather difficult to talk for a few days, Kathleen realised.

Jack smiled warmly. ‘My pleasure. I’m afraid you won’t be Miss World again, but you’ll do. All adds character. Come back in a week for a check-up and to have the majority of the sutures out, or earlier if they give you any trouble or get infected. Try and keep them dry, and take the painkillers we’ll give you for the first few days. How did you get here?’

‘My wife drove me.’

He nodded. ‘Good. Well, get her to take you home and look after you. You’ll be off work for a week. Sister will give you a certificate, and you’ll need a follow-up next time you come if you’re still a bit sore. Hopefully you won’t need it.’

With a cheery wave he left them, and Kathleen helped the man to his feet and put him in a wheelchair.

‘Don’t want you collapsing on us—not good for the department’s reputation,’ she joked lightly, and wheeled him round and handed him over to his wife.

She found Jack in his office, leaning on the window with a cigarette in his hand.

‘You smoke!’ she said in horror.

‘Only under duress. That was a long old job. Thanks for your help.’

‘You’re welcome. You did it well. I’m sorry I asked you if you were good enough.’

He chuckled. ‘Your privilege, my darling girl. I hope you aren’t going to find me anything else to do tonight.’

‘Why, tired?’

He grinned. ‘No, I was hoping you’d join me for that drink.’

She was caught without defences, her mind still playing with the idea of being his darling girl.

‘Ah—drink?’ she said helplessly.

‘Yes, you know, as in go into a pub and order something in a glass and eat a few nuts and so on.’

She wasn’t sure about the ‘and so on’, but there didn’t seem to be any way out of it without being churlish.

‘Um—perhaps just a quick one …’

‘Am I treading on anyone’s toes?’

Toes?’

‘Yes, toes. As in, some resident lover or whatever—perhaps Mick O’Shea?’

‘Mick?’ She was startled.

He shrugged. ‘You were all over each other on Monday morning.’

‘Oh, that—no, Mick’s a friend.’

His brow arched delicately.

‘Truly! I’ve known him for years.’ She eyed Jack suspiciously. ‘What about you? I don’t suppose you’re married?’ she said bluntly.

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Are you crazy? Why would I want a wife?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Why would anybody want a wife? I’m sure there are all manner of reasons.’

He chuckled. ‘None good enough for me, I’m afraid. Never again.’

‘So you’re divorced?’

He nodded.

‘I’m not going to bed with you.’

He blinked, and caught the smile before it got away. ‘Of course not.’

‘I mean it!’

He grinned wickedly. ‘What d’you think I’m going to do, drag you behind a hanging basket and rip your knickers off?’

The image was so outrageous that she giggled. ‘All right. What time?’

‘Seven-thirty? Do you want me to pick you up?’

‘On that bike? No way, José. Just tell me where.’

‘Rose and Crown, Tuddingfield?’

She nodded. ‘OK. I’ll see you there at seven-thirty.’

Deciding she was crazy, she made her way back to her room, collected her things and was just about to leave when a man carrying a young boy walked up to the doors.

He looked a little lost, and Kathleen went up to him.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘Oh—it’s my son—he’s got cystic fibrosis, and my wife’s gone away for a few days with a friend for a break. I thought I could cope, but they sent him home from school and I just can’t seem to shift the stuff off his lungs.’

Indeed, the child was rattling and bubbling, coughing weakly and obviously in great discomfort.

Kathleen put her arm round the man’s shoulders and led him in.

‘Come round here with me, and we’ll find a physio to take care of things for you. What’s his name? Do we have any notes on him in the hospital?’

‘Anthony Craven—yes, you’ve got stacks of notes. I’m sorry, I feel such a fool. I was sure I could cope but the CF clinic people had all gone home by the time I realised I couldn’t manage—’

‘Look, don’t worry, it really isn’t a problem. I’ll get a physio. You sit in here with Anthony and I’ll be back in a tick.’

She put him in the cubicle and went back to the nursing station to phone the physiotherapy department.

After a few seconds she glanced at her watch in disgust. It was just after six, long after the time she should have gone off duty, and that was exactly what all the physiotherapists had done. She would have handed over to one of her colleagues, but somehow she just felt this case needed her personal attention.

She called the switchboard and asked them to page the physio on call, and was told she was in ITU with a patient and likely to be tied up for at least half an hour.

She cradled the phone with more force than strictly necessary, just as Jack Lawrence strolled past in his black leather gear.

‘Problems?’ he asked.

She glanced up. Nothing compared to what her heart did when she looked at him like that. He was long overdue for a shave, and the combination of the dark stubble, the tousled hair from the theatre cap and the warm smell of leather was a potent combination.

She shook her head. ‘Not really. I want a physio for a kid with cystic fibrosis, but she’s down in ITU and won’t be free for half an hour.’

Something happened in his eyes then, some kind of inner battle. It was evidently resolved, because a sort of gentle resignation settled over his features.

‘Where is he? I’ll do it.’

‘In Three, but are you sure you know——?’

He laughed, a short, strained little laugh. ‘You really don’t have any faith at all in me, do you?’ he said, and his voice sounded strangely sad. ‘Trust me. It isn’t something you easily forget,’ he added enigmatically, and with that he turned on his heel and strode back down to his office, emerging a moment later back in his normal working clothes.

The harassed father was only too glad to hand over as Jack tenderly lifted the boy, laid him on his side over some foam blocks and firmly but gently percussed his chest.

Kath watched, mesmerised. He seemed to know just where to tap, and how hard, and how long for, and bit by bit the boy’s lungs cleared and he began to breathe more easily.

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