A Perfect Hero

It dawned on Clare that Henrietta must be his boat, and she almost laughed out loud—till she realised that the feeling she had experienced had probably been jealousy. She wasn’t sure, she’d never felt it before, and couldn’t imagine for the life of her why she was feeling it now, but life was full of little surprises …

‘No, I don’t get seasick—or I didn’t. I haven’t sailed since I was about thirteen, but I used to go out a lot with my brother before that.’

‘Snap! We had a Mirror, then a Fireball. Henrietta was my grandfather’s boat—I spent a lot of time on her with him when I were a lad, as they say.’

Their laughing eyes met, and Clare was suddenly terribly conscious of the high iron and brass bedstead behind them.

‘Why don’t you go on down and find yourself a drink? There’s white wine in the fridge, or red if you prefer, open on the side, and all sorts of soft drinks—I just want to get out of this suit and relax a bit.’

‘Fine,’ she said, a trifle breathlessly, and turned for the stairs as he stripped off his tie and kicked off his shoes. She heard them land with a thud as she ran down the stairs, and then he was humming, and she could hear drawers opening and shutting above her head as she rummaged in the kitchen for the fridge. She was still looking for it when he ran lightly down the stairs in his bare feet, clad only in a pair of old jeans that clung lovingly to every contour of his body. He was tugging on a T-shirt over his head, and his chest gleamed golden brown under the soft scatter of blond curls.

Her fingers itched to touch him, and she rammed her hands into her pockets to control them.

‘Where’s the fridge?’ she asked, her voice sounding strained to her ears.

‘Here—sorry!’ He opened a cupboard like all the others, hand-built in dark oak to match the beams, and she saw a built-in fridge tucked in behind the door.

‘How clever!’

‘It’s been well done—it belonged to an interior designer who’s gone to Scotland to escape the rat race.’

‘Rat race—here?’

He laughed. ‘Over-populated, she said. I gather their nearest neighbour up there is ten miles away. Red, white or something soft?’

‘White with something in it?’

‘Good idea.’ He took a bottle of hock from the fridge, pulled the cork deftly and splashed it into two tall glasses, adding soda water and ice.

‘Cheers!’

‘Cheers! Welcome to the Audley.’

He smiled. ‘Thank you, Clare. Right, sit down over there and tell me all the pitfalls—who’s fallen out with who, who I mustn’t speak to, who does the crossword in the staff lounge, all that sort of thing.’

It was her turn to laugh. ‘Nothing like that. The Audley’s a very happy hospital, and there’s practically no hierarchy. We’re all in the same business, after all.’

‘Well, thank God for that! My last hospital was the giddy limit—I was forever treading on someone’s toes.’ He put the washed lettuce in the salad spinner, and placed it on the table in front of her. ‘Now, what do you fancy? I’ve got a fresh sea-bass, or we could have steak if you’d prefer.’

‘Did you catch the bass?’

He laughed. ‘Afraid not, not this time. I bought it from the guy on the next boat. He caught it last night.’

‘Sounds wonderful.’

While she spun the lettuce and made the salad, he washed the fish, stuffed it with butter and a handful of fresh fennel from the garden, and pinned it together with cocktail sticks.

‘Thirty minutes in the oven,’ he said with a grin. ‘Time for a walk round the garden.’

It was lovely, heavy with scent and ripe with colour, and in the last rays of the June sunshine it was quite intoxicating.

Michael’s enthusiasm was infectious, as he discovered things in the garden and pointed out others to her that he had noticed before. Under a tree at the end was a swing, old and creaky, but he tested it and then offered her a ride.

She shook her head. ‘I never could make them go high enough.’

The next second his arm had snagged her waist and she was on his lap, swinging high in the air and laughing with delight as the wind tugged at her hair and the ground rushed up to meet them.

Finally he slowed it, and as they drifted gently back and forth, his lips touched warmly against hers before his arm released her.

She stood up, her legs shaking, but whether from the dizzying ride or the effects of the kiss she wasn’t sure. After all, it had only been a very tiny kiss, not at all the sort of thing that smouldering passion was made of, but it had affected her more deeply than she dared admit, even to herself. She could still feel the hard imprint of his thighs against her legs, and the warmth of his chest against her side.

‘The fish,’ he said abruptly, and she followed him back to the kitchen, her emotions in turmoil. As he unwrapped the bass and lifted it carefully on to the plate, she forced herself to behave calmly.

‘Do you have any salad dressing?’

‘In the little jar in the fridge door—it’s home-made.’

They sat at the big oak table in the kitchen for their meal, and to her surprise she relaxed and enjoyed it. The food was delicious, Michael friendly but nothing more, and she began to think she must have imagined her reaction to his kiss.

They took their coffee in the garden and sat on the bench seat among the roses, he at one end, she at the other, and a respectable distance between them. After a while their conversation flagged, and she looked up to see him watching her, his eyes intent.

She flushed. Perhaps she hadn’t imagined it? His arm was flung along the back of the seat, and his fingers reached out and brushed the side of her neck. Her pulse leapt to life, and she sprang to her feet.

‘I ought to go, Michael.’

He stood up smoothly and reached for her hand, his thumb idly brushing against her wrist.

‘I can feel your pulse,’ he murmured. ‘It’s racing. Fight or flight, or something even more fundamental?’

She was frozen, transfixed to the spot, as he closed the gap between them and cupped her face gently in his hands.

‘Have I told you how lovely you look tonight?’

‘I—no, I don’t think so …’

‘How remiss of me. You’re beautiful, Clare. Quite exquisite.’ Trapped in that paralysing blue gaze, she was powerless to move as he lowered his head and took her mouth in a kiss so gentle, so delicate that she thought she must be dreaming.

She sighed softly, and he eased her closer, so close that she could feel the beating of his heart against her own. Her lips parted slightly, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the edge of her teeth.

‘Open your mouth,’ he murmured gruffly against her lips, and she obeyed mindlessly, oblivious to everything except the feel of his body against hers, the touch of his hands on her face, the devastating intimacy of his kiss.

With a muffled groan he lifted his head and rested his cheek against her hair. She could feel the thudding of his heart, the slight tremor in his muscles as he held her close against his chest.

‘I think I’d better take you home now,’ he said after a moment, and she nodded speechlessly.

Neither of them spoke on the journey back to the hospital, but as he turned to leave her at her door, she laid a hand on his arm.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Michael,’ she said softly.

‘The pleasure was all mine,’ he murmured.

Clare smiled and shook her head. ‘Not all of it,’ she replied gently, and, rising on to her toes, she kissed his cheek lightly. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Clare. See you tomorrow.’

And she would, she thought with a little race of her heart. For the first time in a long, long while, she found herself looking forward to seeing a man again. The smile was still on her lips as she fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS a busy week, and one in which Clare saw frustratingly little of Michael, and that only in brief snatches on the ward.

Two of the boys in ‘Borstal’ went home, to be replaced by one of the lads from ITU—the other had been moved direct to Stoke Mandeville—and another admission, a youth of seventeen who had come off his motorbike and fractured his femur.

He was in traction with a Steinmann pin and was comfortable enough to join in with the general hilarity after twenty-four hours.

Pete Sawyer had had a bone graft taken from his hip and placed in his arm to link the broken ends of his radius, and they were now hoping for some progress.

Tina, on the other hand, showed no progress, and on Thursday Mr Mayhew discussed with her the possibility of fusing her spine so they could start the long process of her rehabilitation.

She was stoical throughout, but Clare sensed her outward calm was just a front. Her mother, however, had no such outward calm, and on Friday Clare had to remove her from Tina’s bedside because she had collapsed in tears.

She took Mrs White into the office and met Michael there, studying case notes. He had been in on the dicussion with Tim Mayhew and the Whites, and the decision-making beforehand, and Clare gratefully handed the distressed woman over to him while she went back to see Tina.

The girl had tears in her eyes, the first real tears Clare had seen, and in a way she was relieved. She drew the curtains quietly round and sat beside her, holding her hand.

‘I don’t want to be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life,’ she whispered, and then the great heavy tears came, running down her wan cheeks and trailing into her hair.

There was nothing constructive to say, so Clare held her hand, and gradually the sobs subsided, leaving her weary and shaken.

‘I don’t think I can face my mum again for a while,’ she told Clare, and she nodded.

‘I’ll suggest she goes and has a look round the shops and comes back later, shall I?’

Tina shot her a grateful look. ‘Would you? I just can’t deal with her as well.’

Clare squeezed her hand and went back to the office.

‘How is she? I didn’t mean to upset her, but she’s only seventeen—too young for all this——’ Mrs White buried her face in her hands and sobbed again.

Over her head Clare met Michael’s eyes. He jerked his head towards the door, and Clare nodded.

‘Mrs White, I’ll get you a cup of coffee. You stay here for a minute and I’ll be back.’

She followed Michael out and up to the ward kitchen.

‘How is she?’

‘Tina? Finding her mother hard to deal with,’ Clare told him.

‘I’m not surprised. She can’t cope at all. I think Tim will want to get her transferred to the spinal injuries unit at Stoke Mandeville—they have all the necessary social and emotional back-up as well as state-of-the-art technology for dealing with this sort of thing.’ He sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair. ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’

She was caught off guard by the change of tack, because she had hardly seen anything of him since Monday night. He had been kept on the run by the events of the week, and there had been no opportunity to further their relationship—if indeed they had one, which after such a short time she doubted, but she admitted to herself that she hoped they could have. She met his eyes.

‘Are you planning to jump my bones?’ she said with a twinkle.

He gave a short, surprised laugh. ‘Now that’s a tempting idea!’

She blushed. ‘I didn’t really mean that the way it came out,’ she laughed.

His hand came up and grazed her cheek. ‘What a shame,’ he teased gently. ‘I’ve been invited to a party at the house of one of the consultants, and I hardly know anyone who’ll be going—I’ll be like a fish out of water.’

‘Is it the Hamiltons?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right—they’ve just got married and they’re throwing a party to celebrate. I gather they had a very quiet wedding and this is in lieu of a reception. Well, will you come with me?’

Clare smiled. ‘I’m going anyway—Lizzi invited me. We’re sort of friends—or as close to it as anyone is with her. She’s always been a very private person until now. I can’t believe the change Ross has made in her.’

‘People don’t change other people, they just give them the confidence to be themselves—or take it away.’ He cupped her cheeks. ‘So you’ll come with me?’

She nodded. ‘I’d love to. I wasn’t really looking forward to it because I don’t know all that many people there myself. They’re all a bit exalted, really.’

He laughed. ‘I thought you said there was no hierarchy?’

‘Well, there isn’t really, but most of the people who’ll be there are older than me or married——’

‘Not part of the singles set, you mean?’

She shot him a surprised look. ‘I’m not part of the “singles set”, Michael,’ she said reprovingly.

‘No, of course not, you don’t have a lover and you don’t want one.’

She met his laughing eyes. ‘Are you teasing me?’

He remained deadpan, except for the eyes. ‘Would I?’

‘Yes, you would!’

‘Perhaps a little.’ His face gentled into a smile. ‘What time shall I pick you up?’

‘I’m on a split, so I won’t be ready to go until after nine—does that matter?’

He shook his head. ‘That’s fine. I don’t imagine it will get off the ground much before then, anyway. Tell you what, I’ll go and get changed when I finish here, and I’ll come up to your flat and wait for you—how’s that?’

Too intimate, she wanted to say, but Sister O’Brien came into the kitchen and smiled cheerily at them.

‘Making coffee for that poor woman?’

Clare flushed guiltily, ‘Yes, I was, Sister.’

Michael winked at her over Mary O’Brien’s frilly cap. ‘We’ll leave it like that, then, Staff,’ he said and sauntered out, giving her no option but to agree.

She was just putting the finishing touches to her make-up when she heard the knock on her door at five past nine. ‘Come in,’ she called, and carried on with her face.

Glancing up in the mirror seconds later, she saw Michael lounging in her bedroom doorway, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his immaculate cream trousers. The cornflower-blue silk shirt he wore was the same shattering colour as his eyes, and in the V at the neck she could see a cluster of golden curls nestling in the hollow of his throat. He looked ruggedly male and devastatingly sexy. She blinked and smudged her mascara.

‘Damn.’ Picking up a tissue, she wiped the offending mascara off her lid and touched up the shadow.

‘Sorry—didn’t mean to startle you,’ he apologised with a grin. Her heart flipped and she had to make a conscious effort to steady her hand.

Giving up, she dropped the eyeshadow brush and stood up, smoothing down the skirt of her cotton lawn dress. It was a splashy floral print in warm pastel shades, the perfect complement to her pale gold hair and English rose complexion, and she loved it.

‘Will I do?’ she asked with a twirl, and was rewarded by the bright flare of interest in his eyes.

‘Oh, yes, you’ll do,’ he said with wry emphasis. ‘My blood-pressure must have gone up to over two hundred in the last thirty seconds. Come on, out of here before I do something you’ll make me regret!’

She scooped up her shawl and bag, and clicked her heels.

‘Ready when you are, sir!’

‘That’s what I like—a woman who knows her place!’

He ushered her out to the car, and all the way to the Hamiltons’ house she was conscious of him as she had never been before.

‘What a fabulous place!’ she breathed as Michael parked the car on the sloping lawn and led her across to the sprawling, split-level house.

‘Gorgeous, isn’t it? He must be stinking rich.’

‘He’s quite old—thirty-eight or -nine.’

‘Oh, ancient!’ Michael said with a laugh. ‘I can assure you I won’t have accumulated this sort of wealth in five years.’

‘Private practice?’

He laughed and shook his head. ‘Too busy with the boat. Maybe later.’

He ushered her through the front door, and they were greeted by their host and hostess, looking wonderfully relaxed and blissfully happy. They made a beautiful couple, Lizzi with her astonishing violet eyes and pale blonde hair, Ross tall and distinguished, his thick, prematurely silver hair a perfect foil for the healthy glow of his skin.

Clare hugged Lizzi warmly. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Hamilton!’ she said, her voice full of emotion.

Lizzi hugged her back. ‘Thanks, Clare. I’m glad you could come. Ross, do you know Clare Stevens? She’s Mary O’Brien’s staff nurse.’

Ross shook her hand, and Clare was struck again by the wealth of warmth and understanding in his gentle grey-green eyes.

‘Take care of her, she’s a super girl,’ Clare admonished him.

‘Oh, I intend to cherish her until she begs for mercy,’ he said with a laugh, but she noticed his eyes met Lizzi’s in a look so intensely private and filled with passionate commitment that she felt almost embarrassed to have witnessed it. He turned to Michael. ‘Hello, Michael. Glad you could make it. Go on through and make yourselves at home. Drinks are in the kitchen—Callum will help you.’

‘Who’s Callum?’ Michael asked as they walked away.

‘Ross’s oldest son. He’s been married before.’

They collected their drinks and made their way out into the garden and down the terrace of steps.

‘Lord, a pool!’

‘Oh, yes—all mod cons! I expect things will deteriorate later and at least one person will end up chucked in—it was Lizzi last time!’

He chuckled. ‘Remind me to keep well out of the way—these shoes wouldn’t survive a dunking. Now,’ he said, tucking his arm round her waist and guiding her away from the crowd, ‘what’s a lovely young thing like you doing all on your own at a party like this?’

‘I’m not,’ she reminded him.

‘Ah, but you would have been if I hadn’t turned up in the nick of time. So why? You can’t tell me no one’s offered?’

She shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that if I go to a party with someone, that someone might get the wrong idea——’

‘But you’re here with me. Aren’t you afraid I’ll get the wrong idea?’

‘No.’ She turned to face him and met his gaze unblinkingly. ‘You have the same problem—because you look the way you do, no one will take you seriously. I know you understand,’ she told him frankly.

That doesn’t make me immune to your charms,’ he said softly.

‘Michael, don’t …’

‘OK, OK!’ He held up his hands in laughing surrender. ‘I take the hint. Now, who are all these people?’

They circulated, Clare introducing Michael to those people that she knew, and in turn being introduced herself to others who she knew only by sight. By ten-thirty they had talked themselves hoarse, and there was a welcome interruption when the music was turned down and Oliver Henderson, one of the other consultants, called everyone’s attention from the top of the steps.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I don’t want to bore you with speeches, but I’m sure you would all like me to take this opportunity to thank the Hamiltons for their hospitality tonight, and to wish them every happiness in their marriage. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ross and Lizzi!’

‘Ross and Lizzi!’ everyone chorused, and then there were yells of ‘Speech!’ from the crowd.

Ross came forward, his arm anchored round Lizzi’s waist, and waved them all down.

‘I don’t want to make any speeches—I hate doing it nearly as much as Oliver does, but we would like to thank you for your good wishes, and the welcome I’ve received since joining the hospital. So much has happened since then that I can hardly believe it’s only been ten weeks, but as all of it’s been good I won’t ask any questions!’ There was a ripple of laughter, and he continued, ‘Anyway, thank you all, and do enjoy yourselves.’

There was a round of enthusiastic applause, and then four young men appeared at Ross’s side.

One of them was Mitch Baker, his registrar, and one was Ross’s son Callum. He grinned at Ross and held up his hand.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, for my favourite stepmother, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!’

Then they picked Ross up, ran down the steps and hurled him, yelling wildly, into the swimming pool.

‘Good grief!’ Michael muttered.

Clare was convulsed with laughter.

‘Serves him right,’ she said eventually. ‘At the last party they had, he chucked Lizzi in in her underwear!’

‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘No one knows, but we all have a fair idea!’

The music was turned up again, and as Ross climbed out of the pool and laughingly tossed his sons in over his shoulder, Michael pulled Clare into his arms.

‘Dance with me,’ he murmured.

‘But it’s a fast record!’ she laughed.

‘So halve the beat! Where’s your imagination, Staff Nurse Stevens?’

There was a shriek behind them as Ross reached Lizzi and carried her, kicking and screaming, into the water, but Michael and Clare were oblivious.

The music changed tempo, and in the dimly lit garden Clare’s arms reached up and twined round Michael’s neck. His cheek rested against her hair, and as their bodies swayed gently to the music she relaxed against him and let herself go.

What harm could it do? She’d told him clearly enough that she wasn’t in the market for an affair, and she carefully blanked off the part of her mind that told her things might be changing.

His hands rested lightly against her spine, and for a long time they danced without any conscious thought. Then Michael lifted his head and rested his brow against hers, and eased her closer with a subtle pressure of his hands.

‘I think I’m going to die if I don’t kiss you soon,’ he murmured.

So much for her relaxation! So much for her belief that it couldn’t do any harm! And the worst thing was, she didn’t care any more.

‘Me, too,’ she whispered.

He drew in a sharp breath, and swallowed hard.

‘Let’s get out of here.’

Her heart pounding, she nodded blindly.

‘Any sign of our host and hostess?’ he asked, and she noticed his voice was strained.

‘I don’t think so.’ Heavens, she didn’t sound much better!

‘Let’s just go—they won’t miss us. We’ll thank them next week.’

Her wrap was still in the car, so they were able to make their way around the side of the house and leave without drawing attention to themselves.

All the way back to his cottage her heart was pounding with nerves, and as they pulled up outside, she took a deep, steadying breath before climbing out of the car.

Michael unlocked the front door and ushered her inside, then, leaning on the door, he pulled her gently but firmly back into his arms and kissed her thoroughly.

‘I’m scared,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t be. I won’t do anything to hurt you, or anything you don’t want me to do. I just had to be alone with you, without an audience of interested spectators making notes on our every move.’

He let her go, and she stood trembling by the door as he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

‘Coffee?’ he asked, sticking his head back round the door, and then came towards her, a serious but tender expression on his face.

‘Clare, it’s OK. Do you want to go home?’

She shook her head numbly.

‘Just hold me,’ she said unsteadily, and he wrapped his arms around her and held her hard against his chest.

After a minute she relaxed, and he eased away from her, dropping a light kiss on her brow. ‘Go and sit down, and I’ll bring the coffee through. How do you take yours?’

‘White, no sugar,’ she told him, and moved mechanically into the sitting-room.

He joined her a few minutes later, sat down on the settee and patted the cushion beside him.

‘Come and sit with me.’

His tone was gentle, persuasive, and quite unthreatening. Clare did as she was told, perching on the edge, longing to lean back against his side and at the same time ready to run if necessary.

His hand reached out and brushed the bare skin at the nape of her neck.