The Doctor's Special Touch

“You’ve built yourself a cocoon. If you love, then you get hurt.”

“Oh, please,” she whispered. “What’s with the psychoanalysis?”

“I did it as a minor during med,” he said, suddenly cheerful. “I knew it’d come in handy some day.”

“I’m not your patient.”

“No,” he said, and his voice was serious again. “You’re my love. You’re my Ally. You’re a wonderful doctor and a wonderful massage therapist and a wonderful daughter and karate expert and toast-maker and floor-scrubber. But most of all you’re you. I love you, Ally. Whoever you are. Whatever you do.”

“You’re crazy.”

Dear Reader,

There are so many doctors in the world today—doctors of all descriptions. For example, the lovely lady who massages away the knots that form in my back after a week of writing has a doctor of philosophy degree. I think this could lead to some wonderful mix-ups. Last year, lying on my massage table, half-asleep, I started to dream what those mix-ups could be.

Mix-ups, massage and medicine, and two very special doctors…this book has them all. I had a lot of fun writing The Doctor’s Special Touch. In the interests of research I even learned to give a half-decent massage.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as my husband enjoyed my research!

Warm regards,

Marion Lennox

The Doctor’s Special Touch

Marion Lennox

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

‘ARE you out of your mind?’

Ally’s ladder wobbled to the point of peril.

Until now, the main street of Tambrine Creek had been deserted. At eight a.m. on a glorious autumn morning, anyone without any urgent occupation was walking on the beach, pottering on the jetty or simply sitting in the sun, soaking up the warmth before winter.

Which left Ally alone in Main Street. It was gorgeous even there, she’d decided as she worked. The shopping precinct of the tiny harbour town was lined with oaks—trees that had been acorns when Ally’s great-grandfather had first sailed his fishing boat into the harbour a hundred years before. Now the oaks were at their best, their leaves ranging from vivid green to deep, glorious crimson. They were starting to drop, turning the street into a rainbow of autumn colour.

Which was why Ally had a leaf above her eye right now, caught by her honey-blonde fringe. She’d been in the process of brushing it away when the stranger had spoken.

And shocked her into almost falling off her ladder.

She was brushing the leaf from her fringe. She was holding a paintpot, with her brush balanced on the top. That didn’t leave a lot of hands to clutch her ladder. But clutching the ladder was suddenly a priority. She made a grab, subconsciously deciding whether to drop the leaf or the paintpot.

Which one? According to Murphy’s law, some things were inevitable.

So the pot fell, and it hit street level right at the stranger’s feet. A mass of sky-blue paint shot out over the pavement, over the leaves—over the stranger’s shoes.

Whoa!

Safely clutching her ladder—she’d finally decided maybe she could release her leaf as well—Ally surveyed the scene below with dismay.

The guy underneath was gorgeous. Seriously gorgeous, in a sort of any-excuse-to-put-him-on-the-front-page-of-a-women’s-magazine-type gorgeous. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a lovely strong-boned face. Deep, dark grey eyes. Wavy, russet hair, a bit too long. Yep, gorgeous.

The clothes helped, too. The man was dressed relatively formally for this laid-back seaside village in neat, tailored trousers and a short-sleeved shirt in rich cream linen. The man had taste. And he was wearing a tie, for heaven’s sake—and not a bad tie either, she conceded.

What else? He had lovely shoes. Brogues. Quality. Beautifully streaked now with sky-blue paint.

His shoes seemed to be a cause for concern. Ally clutched her ladder and sought valiantly for something to say.

Finally she found it. She let the word ring around her head a little, just to see how it sounded. Not great, she thought, but she couldn’t think of much else. He’d scared her. Don’t launch straight into grovelling apology, she told herself. So what was left?

‘Whoops,’ she said.

Whoops.

The word hung in the early morning stillness. The stranger stared for a bit longer at his shoes—as if his feet had personally let him down—and then he turned his attention back to her.

Involuntarily Ally’s hands clutched even tighter at the ladder. Whew. She was about to get a blast. His deep, grey-flecked eyes looked straight up at her, and they blazed with anger.

This man intended to let her have it with both barrels.

OK. She knew about anger. She’d lived through it before and she could live with it again. She closed her eyes and braced herself.

Silence. Then: ‘Hey, I’m not going to hit you,’ he told her.

That was out of left field. She opened her eyes cautiously and peered down.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said I’m not about to hit you,’ he told her. ‘Or knock you off your ladder. So you can stop looking like that. Much as you deserve it, there’s no way painting shoes merits physical violence.’

She thought about that and decided she agreed. She agreed entirely. She shouldn’t expect violence, she thought, but she had entirely the wrong slant on the world, and she’d had it for ever.

‘You scared me,’ she said, still cautious.

‘So I did.’ His voice was almost cordial. ‘Silly me. So you decided to paint me in return.’

‘It might come off,’ she told him. ‘With turpentine.’

‘Do you have turpentine?’

‘No.’

He sighed. ‘You’re painting with oil-based paint—and you don’t have turpentine?’

‘I’ll get some. When the store opens.’

‘At nine o’clock. By which time my shoes will be dry. Blue and dry.’

‘But I’ve only just started to paint, so I don’t need turpentine yet. Or I didn’t.’ She gazed up at her handiwork then down to his shoes, and her ladder wobbled again.

‘You know, if I were you I’d come down,’ he told her. ‘That ladder isn’t safe. You need someone holding the bottom.’ Then, as if it occurred to him that she just might ask him to volunteer, he added, ‘Maybe you need to get a different type of ladder.’

‘This one’s fine.’ Though maybe he did have a point, she conceded. It was sort of wobbly. Sort of very wobbly. Maybe instead of one that balanced against the shop front, she should get one that was self-supporting.

How much did a self-supporting ladder cost?

Probably far too much. How much did she have left in the kitty? About forty dollars to last until she got her first client.

But he was still worrying. ‘You’ll kill yourself,’ he told her. ‘Come down.’

She considered this and found a flaw. ‘The pavement’s all blue,’ she told him. ‘I might get my shoes dirty.’

‘Lady…’

‘Mmm?’ She dared a smile and discovered he was trying not to smile back. She smiled a little more—just to see—and the corners of his mouth couldn’t help themselves. They curved upward and the flecked grey eyes twinkled.

Whew! It was some smile. A killer smile.

The sort of smile that made a girl clutch her ladder again.

But the smile had moved on. ‘Whoever’s employing you should be sued for making you work with a ladder like this.’ He gazed up at the sign she’d etched in pencil and was now filling in with paint. ‘And to get back to my first point…’

‘Which was asking me was I out of my mind.’

‘You’re painting a sign,’ he said. ‘Advertising a doctor’s rooms. Right next to my surgery.’

‘Your surgery?’

He pointed sideways. She peered sideways and wobbled again.

He sighed. He caught the ladder and held it firmly on each side, gaining a liberal coating of blue paint on each hand as he did.

‘Get down,’ he told her. ‘Right now. I’m the Dr Darcy Rochester of the small, insignificant bronze plate on the next-door clinic. A nice, discreet little doctor’s sign. As opposed to your monstrosity.’

‘Monstrosity?’

‘Monstrosity. Signs four feet high are a definite monstrosity. And painting them above eye level is ridiculous. For both of us. I don’t want another patient,’ he told her. ‘I’m worked off my feet as it is, and this is a one-doctor town. If you break your neck you’re in real trouble.’

‘I might be at that,’ she admitted. She thought about what he’d said, sorting it out in her head. Figuring out what was important. ‘You’re the Dr Darcy Rochester in the sign?’

‘Yes.’

Nice. She’d been wondering what he looked like, imagining who he could be, and this was perfect. He so fitted his name.

‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a very romantic name?’

‘They have, as a matter of fact,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘My mother was a romance addict. She couldn’t believe her luck when she met Sam Rochester. She called my brother—’

‘Don’t tell me. Edward?’

‘Nothing so boring. Try Byron.’ Then, at her look of horror, he grinned. ‘He calls himself Brian and anyone who uses Byron gets slugged. You know, with the amount of paint sprayed on these rungs, if I stay holding this ladder for much longer I’m going to stick here. Get down. Now.’

She didn’t have much choice. She took a deep breath and descended. With care. Another leaf landed on her nose and she blew it aside. It distracted her, but not very much.

He was too near. Too close. And when she took those last couple of steps he was right behind her. He was big, warm and solid, with the faint scent of something incredibly masculine emanating from his person. Like open fires. Woodsmoke.

‘Do you smoke?’ she demanded, and he was so surprised that he took a step back. Breaking the intimacy. Which was good.

Wasn’t it?

‘Um…no.’

‘You smell like smoke.’

‘You smell like paint thinner,’ he told her, trying not to smile. ‘I don’t ask if you drink it.’

‘Sorry.’ She bit her lip. ‘Of course. It’s none of my business. But if you’re a doctor…’

‘I have a wood stove in my kitchen,’ he said, with the resigned tolerance he might have used if she’d been a too-inquisitive child. ‘I cook my morning toast on a toasting fork.’

Her eyes widened. That brought back memories. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Cool.’

But he’d moved on. Back to business. ‘You know, I really would like to know what your sign means,’ he told her. ‘We seem to be going the long way round here. You know what I do. You know about my crazy mother’s addiction to romance. You know I cook my toast on a wood stove.’ His voice lowered, and suddenly the laughter was gone. ‘So now it’s your turn. Are you going to tell me why on earth there is a blue sign half written on the building next door to mine saying “Dr A. J. Westruther”?’

She gulped. Dr A. J. Westruther. She’d agonised over whether to use the ‘Doctor’ bit. But she was entitled, and if it meant more clients…

This was a small country town and massage would be a new experience for most. If the label ‘Doctor’ made the locals feel more comfortable—and scared away those for whom massage meant something totally inappropriate—why shouldn’t she use it?

‘Dr Westruther’s me,’ she told him.

This conversation had been frivolous up to now. But suddenly it wasn’t. She wiped her hands on the sides of her paint-stained overalls and thought, Uh-oh. Here goes.

‘You’re Dr Westruther?’

‘Ally,’ she told him and put out her hand.

He didn’t take it.

‘No one’s employing you to paint a sign?’

‘No.’

‘You’re saying that you’re a doctor?’

‘Yep.’

His brows hiked in disbelief. ‘You’re a doctor—and you’re setting up in opposition to me?’

‘Oh, come on.’ She tried to smile but there was something about the sudden shadowing of this man’s eyes that made her smile fade before it formed. ‘You think I’d do that? It’d be crazy to set up in opposition.’

‘You’re a…dentist, then?’ His eyes raked hers, and she saw disbelief that she could be anything so sensible. So mature.

This was hardly the way she’d wanted to meet this man, she thought. If this worked out, she hoped that maybe he could send work her way. That was why she’d rented this place so close to the doctor’s surgery. But when she’d visited the town two weeks ago to organise a rental, a locum had been working in Dr Darcy Rochester’s rooms. The gangly locum who’d been filling in for him had said that he’d tell…Darcy about her, but maybe he hadn’t.

As a professional approach, this was now really difficult. She’d imagined a cool, collected visit to his surgery, wearing one of her remaining decent suits, pulling her hair back into a twist that made her look almost as old as her twenty-nine years, maybe even wearing glasses. Handing him her card.

It hadn’t happened like that. She hadn’t been able to afford cards. She was aware that she looked about twelve. Her overalls were disgusting. Her long blonde hair was hauled back into two pigtails to keep it free from paint, and she was wearing no make-up. And he was angry and confused.

She had to make things right. Somehow.

‘I’m not a dentist,’ she told him. ‘Urk. All those teeth.’ She grimaced and hauled the ladder along past where she’d been working so he could see what the final sign would be.

After the huge, blue sign—DR A. J. WESTRUTHER—was another, as yet only faintly stencilled in pencil.

MASSAGE THERAPIST.

‘You’re a masseur,’ he said blankly, and she nodded. There was something in his voice that warned her to stay noncommittal. Let him make the judgements here.

‘You’re setting up professional rooms as a masseur.’

That was enough. ‘Hey, we’re not talking red-light district,’ she snapped. There was enough disdain in his voice to make it perfectly plain what his initial reaction was. ‘I give remedial and relaxation massage, and I do it professionally. By the way, I’m a masseuse. Not a masseur. Get your sexes right.’

‘Let’s get the qualifications right.’ Anger met anger. ‘You’re calling yourself a doctor?’

‘Yes!’ Her eyes blazed. Heck, she was committed to this profession. She’d fallen into it sideways but she loved it. She loved that she was able to help people. Finally. And she didn’t need this man’s condemnation. It’d be great if he supported her but she’d gather clients without him.

‘It’s illegal to call yourself a doctor.’

‘Phone my university,’ she snapped. ‘Check my qualifications.’

‘Doctor of what?’

‘Go jump.’ She was suddenly overpoweringly angry. Overpoweringly weary. What business was it of this man what her qualifications were? She was telling no lies. She wasn’t misrepresenting herself.

Maybe it had been a mistake to use the word ‘doctor’ in her sign. She’d agonised over it but, heck, she’d abandoned so much. If the use of one word would help her build this new career—this new life—then use it she would.

So much else had been taken from her. They couldn’t take this.

‘Look,’ she said wearily, her anger receding. Anger solved nothing. She knew that. ‘We’re getting off to a really bad start here. I’ve tossed blue paint at you and you’ve implied I’m a hooker.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You did. If you check, you’ll find that I’m absolutely entitled to use the title “Doctor”.’

‘You don’t think a doctorate—of what, basket weaving?—might be just a bit misleading when you’re setting up in a medical precinct?’

‘Medical precinct?’ She swallowed more anger. Or tried to. Then she gazed around. There were a total of five shops in the tiny township of Tambrine Creek. Then there was a pub and a petrol station. The oak-lined main street ran straight down to the harbour, where the fishing boats moored and sold their fish from the final shop—a fishermen’s co-op that had existed for generations.

‘You know, we’re not talking Harley Street here,’ she ventured. ‘Medical precinct? I don’t think so.’

‘There’s two premises.’

‘Yeah, two medical premises. Yours and mine. Yours is a doctor’s surgery. Mine is a massage centre. It was a tearoom once, but it’s been closed for twenty years. The owner’s thrilled to get rent from me and the council has no objection to me setting up. So what’s your problem? Do I somehow downgrade your neighbourhood?’

‘There’s no need to be angry.’

‘It’s not me who’s angry,’ she told him, but she was lying. She’d done with the placating. ‘Basket weaving,’ she muttered. ‘I wish it had been purple paint I threw at you and I wish it had hit your head. Now, are you going to sue me for painting your feet? If so, there’s no lawyer in town but I can’t commend you strongly enough to leave town and find one. Preferably one in another state. I need to get on with my work.’

‘You’ve spilled your paint.’

‘Of course I have,’ she snapped. ‘And it was well worth it. Your brogues are drying, Dr Rochester. You need to go find some turpentine.’

‘You’ll never make a living.’

‘We’ll see.’ She stooped to lift her now empty paintpot from the pavement and was suddenly aware that someone was watching them. An elderly lady, a basket on one arm and a poodle dangling from the other, was gazing at the pair of them as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

‘It’s Ally,’ she whispered. ‘Ally Lindford. You’ve come home!’

Crimplene was very hard to escape, especially when Crimplene was intent on smothering you. Ally was enfolded in a bosom so ample she’d never felt anything like it, and it took her a few valiant tries before she could finally find enough space to breathe.

Doris Kerr. How could she have forgotten Doris?

She hadn’t. She hadn’t forgotten a single person in this town.

So who was this Dr Rochester? she wondered from her cocoon of Crimplene. Definitely a newcomer. But maybe not so new. Ally had been away for twenty years.

‘I saw the Dr A starting on the wall when I walked my Chloe last night.’ Doris had decided to take pity on her and hold her at arm’s length. ‘And I said to myself—a doctor? Yes. Just what we need. Dr Rochester needs help so much. But then I saw the pencilling saying massage and I said to myself we don’t need a massage parlour here—that’s the last thing we want in a respectable town like this—and I phoned Fred on the town council before I went to bed. But he said it’s not like I think—it’s a proper nice massage that you get when you hurt yourself and then he told me who it was who’d applied to run it and I was so excited. I thought I’d come down this very morning to see for myself and… Oh, my dear, it is so good to see you again.’

The Crimplene flooded toward her again and Ally managed to give Darcy a despairing glance before she was once again enfolded.

‘Um… It seems you two know each other,’ Darcy said.

‘Mmph.’ It was all Ally could manage.

‘And you’re using your grandpa’s name,’ Doris was saying. ‘Dr Westruther. How wonderful is that? I never did like Lindford. Evil is as evil does and…’ She caught herself. ‘Well, he was your father and he’s long dead so maybe I shouldn’t be speaking ill of him. But if your poor mother had just decided to go back to using Westruther…’ She gulped and hauled back, still hanging onto Ally but beaming across at Darcy. ‘Isn’t this just wonderful? A Dr Westruther in Tambrine Creek again after all these years.’

‘She’s a masseur,’ Darcy said, and Ally glowered.

‘Don’t say it like I’m a dung beetle.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t mean it, dear,’ Doris told her. ‘He’s the best thing since sliced bread is our Dr Rochester. Do you know, we didn’t have a doctor for five years before he came. And he’s so nice.’

‘I can see that,’ Ally agreed.

‘I did hold the ladder,’ he told her. ‘And I got blue hands.’

‘You scared me.’

‘Your grandpa was the doctor here?’

‘Grandpa died seventeen years ago.’

‘That’s when Ally left town,’ Doris told him. ‘Her father came and took her away. Nothing we could say made any difference. But…he looked after you, didn’t he, lass?’

‘He looked after me,’ Ally agreed tightly.

‘And now you’re back.’

‘I am.’ She made a determined effort to regain control—to pin a cheerful smile on her face and move forward. ‘And I’m here to stay.’

‘Where are you living?’

‘Here. Above the shop.’

‘You can’t do that.’ Doris seemed horrified.

‘Of course I can.’ How to explain to Doris that it was palatial compared to some of the places she’d lived in? ‘And now I’ve met the neighbour and he’s such a sweetheart.’

‘He is nice,’ Doris said, but she’d caught the tone of Ally’s voice and she was starting to sound dubious. ‘You two don’t sound as if you’ve started off on the right foot.’

‘She threw blue paint at my feet,’ Darcy said.

‘I’m sure she didn’t.’ Doris looked from one to the other—and then to Ally’s ladder. ‘You know, that doesn’t look all that safe to me, love.’

‘Just what I was saying.’ Darcy sounded almost triumphant.

‘Tell you what.’ Doris was clearly thinking on her feet. ‘The fleet’s in at the moment. Old Charlie Hammer’s funeral’s this afternoon so the fishermen can’t go out until they see him buried. And everyone’ll be sober until the wake. Why don’t I send a few of the men up here to finish your painting for you, dear? And anything else you might need doing. You know we all respected your grandpa, and everyone’ll be so pleased you’re back. And a doctor, too.’

‘She’s a masseur.’ Darcy was starting to sound a little desperate and Ally gave him her nicest, pitying smile.

‘Doctors can be massage therapists, too,’ she told him. ‘And massage therapists can be doctors.’

‘Are you telling me you seriously plan to make a living in this town?’

‘Of course.’

‘No one will come.’

‘I will,’ Doris said soundly. ‘I like a little massage. Not that I’ve ever had one, of course, but they sound nice. I was telling Henry only the other night that a rub would do me the world of good. Not like those tablets you have me on, Dr Rochester. I’m sure you’re doing your best, but Dr Westruther’s granddaughter… Ooh, I’m that pleased. And I’m sure Gloria will come as soon as she knows about you—her arthritis is something terrible—and my Beryl, and…everyone. I’ll just go and spread the word. It’s wonderful, that’s what it is. It’s just wonderful. Come on, Chloe.’

And with a tug on the unfortunate poodle’s leash, she sailed away to spread the word.

Dr Darcy Rochester was left staring at Dr Ally Westruther. Speechless. While she stared at him and tried to decide where to go from there.

‘You know, you’d really better go and take that paint off,’ Ally said finally. ‘We don’t want you to stay blue for ever, now, do we?’

‘You’re a local?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re really setting up for massage.’

‘That seems to be the intention.’

‘That’s fine,’ he said bluntly. ‘But take the “Doctor” off the sign. It’s misleading.’