Assignment: Single Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Thank you,’ he said in a low voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do you miss me?’ she teased.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

‘Coffee?’ he suggested hopefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You’re incorrigible!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Herbs,’ she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hobbled towards her, wincing as he did so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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