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Dreaming
CHARLOTTE LAMB


Date With an Angel Luisa was drawn to Zachary West. It was more than a nurse's compassion for her patient that moved her, it was the man himself: temperamental, courageous and so very desirable. WHen she discovered it was her father's car that had cause Zachary's accident, she was drawn even further into his life.For Zachary, healing - both physically and emotionally - would take time. And Luisa wanted to be there with him. But did he want her? She was fighting a rival she could neither see nor understand, a woman who haunted Zachary's dreams. A woman he could not forget… .









Dreaming

Charlotte Lamb















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#u3a8d7a07-34a0-559b-9008-7af54c96362c)

CHAPTER TWO (#u01d196f4-6861-5d37-9186-6da9111fce53)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


ZACHARY WEST loaded the last canvas into the back of the van, then checked yet again that everything was securely fastened down. He didn’t want any accidents en route. That was why he was taking the canvases himself, instead of sending them with the courier service Leo had wanted him to use.

‘Much safer, Zac!’ Leo had urged on the phone. ‘And much less trouble for you! They’ll pack them up; you won’t have to do a thing!’

‘I prefer to do it myself.’

‘That’s crazy, Zac. These people are experts! They—’

‘I once lost a canvas when someone who was carrying it dropped it, fell over, and put a foot through it. Never again. I pack them up myself, and I’m driving them to London, too.’

‘Why are you so stubborn, you irritating man?’ Leo had demanded, but Zachary would not change his mind.

He thought long and hard before he did anything, but once he had made up his mind he didn’t change it, whatever anybody said. In the last resort, he believed, you could only rely on yourself, and life had proved him right. Zachary West was grimly self-sufficient, and it showed.

His black leather jacket and jeans coupled with his height gave an almost menacing look to his rough black hair, razor-cut features and hard jawline. Of this Zachary was quite unaware, even when he got sideways looks of uneasiness from people in the street. He was rarely conscious of other people. His mind obsessed with his work, he had no time to waste on anything else.

He rarely went to London and there had been no woman in his life for a year or so, since he’d found out that his last girlfriend was dating someone else at the same time. Zachary had brutally told her what he thought of her and hadn’t seen her since. He had barely thought of her, either, except when he found something of hers around the cottage—a handkerchief, still sweet with her perfume, a small comb, a red lipstick.

Frowning, he would get rid of them, but for a while the cottage would hold her presence: Dana’s bright, seductive eyes and amused mouth hovering on the air like the smile of the Cheshire cat. Zachary exorcised it with relentless work.

When he wasn’t painting he looked after the garden, grew his own vegetables and fruit, kept chickens so that he had free-range eggs whenever he needed them, and when the hens stopped laying eggs Zachary killed and cooked them to supplement his diet. He lived simply and did his own housework and washing.

The red-brick cottage had been built in the reign of Queen Anne for a retired sea captain who wanted to pretend he was still at sea. The house looked out over the windy coastline of Suffolk and in a gale the old timbers creaked and groaned as if they were at sea. Nothing had changed in that view in the last three hundred years; it was still a wild and lonely place with the savagery of the sea in front of it and behind it flat, low-lying fields with winding roads buried secretly among them.

The village, Tareton, was a mile away, the nearest little town, Whinbury, a good twenty-minute drive past that. That isolation was what had drawn Zachary to the place. Here he could work uninterrupted and without distractions and when he needed anything he couldn’t get in the village shop—paints or canvases, for instance—he could always drive into Whinbury and there pick up the main road to London as he would be doing this evening.

The light was going as Zachary came out of the cottage again, locking the door behind him as he looked up at the darkening spring sky. It was early for twilight—was there rain in those clouds? He didn’t enjoy driving long distances in the rain, especially at night. Grey eyes frowning, he looked at his watch. He should be in London by seven. With luck, the rain might hold off until then.

As he drove, he thought of the coming exhibition and all the turmoil which would accompany it. His mouth twisted cynically. Leo loved it, of course; he revelled in the Press showing, the society parties, the art critics with their reviews and their rich, smart friends. Zachary hated it.

He was dreading the whole experience; he should never have let Leo talk him into it. It wasn’t his first exhibition, it was his third, but he had not had one for some years because he disliked them so much, and he didn’t need to drum up custom. He wasn’t a portrait painter, looking out for rich people to paint. He painted landscapes, still life; they sold well because people knew what they were about, they did not need to have them explained. Leo thought that...

At that instant, out of the corner of his eye, Zachary caught a flicker of white and instinctively turned his head. There it was again, a whiteness, floating sideways, above a leafy hedge, through the growing dusk.

‘What on earth is that?’

He narrowed his eyes, but still couldn’t make it out clearly. A piece of paper blowing in the wind? A white bird? A barn owl? One didn’t often see their white faces haunting these lanes any more, but Zachary loved them and regretted that.

His foot hit the brake. As his van slowed he went on staring, the hair standing up on the back of his neck as the whiteness flowed on alongside him, on the other side of that hedge. No, that wasn’t a bird, or an owl. What in the name of heaven was it?

Zachary didn’t believe in ghosts, and disliked things he could not rationally explain. He was an artist, with trained eyes; he knew what tricks the eye could play, how the eye and brain together could deceive. There had to be an explanation, but what was it?

His van slowed almost to a stop as he reached a gate through which he saw a garden and behind that, at a great distance, along a tree-lined drive, the pale, shadowy shape of a large white house. The floating whiteness reached it too, a second later, and turned in the air.

As it did so, Zachary suddenly realised what he had seen, and began to laugh a little angrily because he felt a fool. Just for a second he had almost thought he saw a ghost.

But it was only a girl: a small, slender girl with long, straight dark hair, framing a pale oval face. Her head must have been turned away from the road, her dark hair hiding her face, making her head invisible to him.

That was why he hadn’t realised he was watching a human being as she walked behind the hedge. All he had seen was the white dress she wore—a flowing garment with long, billowing sleeves. Now she leaned over a gate in the hedge, staring out into the road, clearly visible to him. Briefly, she looked across at Zachary, in his van, then her dark blue eyes moved on indifferently, to watch the road ahead of him, the road into Whinbury.

Grimacing, Zachary drove on. If he hadn’t been in a hurry he would have stopped to ask her if she was human. Or was she a witch-girl weaving spells in the twilight? He laughed at himself again. Oh, come on! he told himself—stop thinking nonsense. At this time of the evening it was easy to let the imagination run riot, especially in a state of heightened excitement.

She was neither a ghost nor a witch-girl. But she had a strange, unearthly beauty; he couldn’t help being curious about her and wondering what she had been doing, walking alone in the twilight garden. Who had she been waiting for? A lover? There had been a sense of urgency in her fixed waiting, the intentness of those blue eyes—and yet at the same time Zachary’s antennae, the intuitions of an artist accustomed to reading what lay behind people’s faces, had picked up no passion, no sensuality. There had been something else entirely in that face. What? he thought, frowning, trying to pin down his shifting impressions. Something almost nun-like: a purity in the oval of her face, in her widely spaced blue eyes, in her gentle pink mouth, as if she came from another plane, a spirit world.

Zachary remembered Dana, grimacing. There was a world of difference between the two girls! Now, Dana...

The road turned sharply on a bend at that point, and as Zachary began to take the corner a dark red car hurtled towards him from the other direction, but much too far over on Zachary’s side of the road. Zachary swore, stiffening and turning pale. He slammed on his brake, swinging his wheel sharply to one side, but there was no chance of avoiding the red car. He hit it with a crash that sent his van skidding and spinning right across the road through a hedge.

He was flung violently forward, into his steering-wheel, his chest slamming into the padded leather.

His seatbelt held, though. He was pulled sharply back again as the impact of the collision filled the world with the sound of splintering glass, rending metal, screaming. His head hit the side of the door and he slumped, dazed, half unconscious for a moment, then his nostrils twitched, inhaling a pungent scent.

‘Oh, my God...’ he groaned, pulling himself together as he recognised the smell of petrol.

White-faced, he struggled to undo his seatbelt and get out of the van, but even as he felt the metal clasp give way, releasing him, there was a sudden whooshing sound and a wall of flame shot up in front of him. Fierce, searing heat blazed through the broken windscreen and Zachary gave a scream of agony as it hit him, his hands flung up in front of his face in a vain effort to shield himself from the flames.

* * *

The phone rang as Luisa was just starting out on her round, which had already been delayed endlessly by one crisis after another. She sighed as she picked up the phone. What else could go wrong? But her voice was soft and calm, betraying nothing of her thoughts. ‘Burns Unit.’

‘Sister Gilbey?’ The voice was familiar and a faint smile touched her mouth and eyes, changing her whole expression.

‘Yes, Mr Hallows,’ she said demurely, because in the hospital they always tried to keep their outward relationship professional. David sounded tired, and no wonder. He had been in Theatre for hours.

‘He’s in Recovery and he’ll be coming down to you in half an hour or so. I’m just sending you the papers. Considering the nature of the burns, he stood up to the operation pretty well. He’s fit and tough; he should pull through. Shock’s the immediate threat, of course. If he gets through the next twenty-four hours without a set-back the prognosis is hopeful.’

Luisa listened, frowning, her blue eyes dark with compassion. She had worked on this ward for several years now and was used to seeing men, women, and, even worse, children, with horrifying injuries, their faces and bodies badly burnt, but she never became hardened by custom; she was still moved and disturbed by what she saw.

‘Lucky we aren’t rushed off our feet at the moment. I’ll be able to have one nurse monitoring him closely all night. Whatever nursing can do we’ll do for him, poor man.’

‘I know you will—you have a very good team down there,’ David Hallows said warmly, then paused before adding, in a lower and more personal tone, ‘Talking about not being rushed off your feet, does that mean you will be able to come to the dance on Saturday, after all?’

He had invited her several weeks ago and she had been hesitant, warning him that she might have to work this weekend because her senior staff nurse would be on holiday and she had another girl away with a broken leg. The ward roster had had to be rearranged, and Luisa wasn’t sure whether or not she could get anyone to take charge of the ward on Saturday night.

‘Well, I’ve had to compromise, David,’ she said wryly. ‘I’ve arranged with Staff Nurse Jenkins from Surgical to do a split shift. She was on this ward for a long time before she moved to Surgical, so she knows the routine. She’ll work here from eight until two, and then I’ll take over and finish the shift.’

‘So you’ll come to the dance with me?’ His voice was pleased; she could imagine the smile on his calmly attractive face. David Hallows was not handsome, but he had a face people instinctively took to on sight. Warm brown eyes, set wide apart, direct and friendly; wide, placid cheekbones, a firm but kindly look to his mouth, and smooth brown hair—he was one of the most popular members of staff at Whinbury Hospital.

‘I’d love to! Thank you for asking me, David.’ Luisa had been out to dinner with him quite often over the past months, but they both knew that this invitation was different. At the hospital dance they would be very publicly paired off; everyone would be watching them, fascinated. In this closed community, people gossiped endlessly.

‘A pity you can’t have the whole night off! We could have gone on somewhere afterwards. Everyone else will be going back to Mack’s place, I gather.’

She laughed. ‘They usually do.’

‘Ending up with bacon and eggs for breakfast at dawn!’

‘Poor Mrs Mack—she’s a long-suffering soul.’

‘She seems to thrive on it, and being the wife of the chief consultant gives her a lot of status,’ David said drily.

‘I like her; she can be very kind.’

‘Hmm...well, she throws her weight around too much for me—thinks she’s Queen of Whinbury. I don’t like bossy women.’

Luisa’s eyes were amused; this confession was not news to her. She had seen David bristling whenever Mrs MacDonald appeared at the hospital. That regal manner didn’t worry Luisa, who had spent her training being ordered around by autocratic senior nurses, but she knew it put David’s back up.

He yawned then. ‘Oh, well, I’m going to bed now, but I’m on call all night, if I’m needed.’

‘You must be dead on your feet, poor David—I hope I won’t have to wake you up. Sleep well.’

David hung up and Luisa replaced the phone and left her office. The ward was shadowy, curtains drawn around some of the beds, one of her nurses sitting constantly beside a patient who was still on the danger list. Some beds were empty, stripped down to the plastic cover and smelling strongly of the disinfectant with which they had been washed. In others, patients lay rigidly like Egyptian mummies, their bedclothes carefully raised over a cradle so that no weight should lie on their bodies. They were afraid to move: lay there, trapped in pain, only the sheen of their eyes as she walked past betraying that they were alive and awake, and suffering. Luisa walked from bed to bed on almost noiseless feet, at her customary measured pace, used to the half-dark of the ward, the pools of yellow light here and there. She whispered gently to those who were awake, soothed, promised pain-killers, paused to watch those who slept before walking on again.

She liked working at night. There was a very special feel to a ward during those long dark hours when the rest of the world slept, and only you were awake. You came much closer to the patients than you could during the day. Then they had their guard up, were better able to hide their fears and anxieties. At night, though, they were at their lowest and needed reassurance, to know that they weren’t alone with their pain. She had become a nurse because she wanted to do a job that was more than just a way of earning money, and helping very ill people get through the long night made Luisa feel that she was doing something important.

Returning to her office, she did some paperwork, her capped head bent over her desk, a frown between her thin dark brows.

‘I’m back from the canteen, Sister,’ a cheerful voice behind her said. ‘Fish pie again—I wish they’d put some fish in it! It was all potato and parsley sauce.’

Luisa could imagine it and grimaced. ‘Please! You’re making me feel sick!’

‘Shall I tell the others to go now?’ Nurse Carter asked.

‘Yes, then give Mr Graham his injection, would you?’

A moment later she heard the quiet feet passing her door as her other two nurses went down to have a meal. Luisa made herself a cup of jasmine tea, a fragrant, pale golden liquid served without milk or sugar which she found refreshing during the night. She never ate in the canteen because the food was far too heavy: fatty or stolid, unimaginative. It was useless for the hospital dietitian to complain or protest. The canteen was run on a tight budget; they went for the cheapest alternative, and that was usually stodgy—bread, pasta, potatoes, often served as chips. Luisa ate fruit, nuts, yoghurt at her desk during the night, and ate her one large meal of the day at home before she came on duty each day.

The phone rang sharply in the silence, making her jump so that her pen skidded on the paper, ruining the word she had been writing. Her nerves were shot to hell tonight. Pull yourself together! she impatiently told herself, and picked up the phone. ‘Burns Unit.’

‘Surgical Recovery here. We’re just bringing Mr West down now.’

‘Right, we’re ready for him.’ Luisa was tidying her papers as she spoke, sliding them into a drawer in the desk and locking it.

The caller hung up. Luisa replaced her own phone and stood up, her white apron crackling. From the ward door, she could see the neatly made bed waiting for the new patient. She heard noises in the sluice-room just behind her and pushed open the door.

Anthea Carter was busy sterilising the bed pans. Flushed and faintly untidy already, she looked round, her face pinker than ever as she met Luisa’s blue eyes.

‘Did you want me, Sister? Sorry, Sister, I was trying to get on with these.’

‘They’re bringing the new patient down now, Nurse Carter. Leave that—I’ll get Nurse Brett to do it when she gets back from the canteen. I want you to stay with the new admission for the rest of this shift; he’s going to need constant supervision. You know how to recognise the signs of shock—that’s what we’re mostly worrying about, with this one. If you see anything worrying, don’t hesitate. Hit the panic button.’

Anthea Carter pulled down the bib of her apron, straightened the cap precariously perched on her curly hair. ‘Yes, Sister.’ She was a good nurse, in spite of her untidiness and lack of method. She was likeable, too, and Luisa smiled at her as she turned to leave.

They both heard the rattle of the lift doors. ‘There they are!’ Luisa said, moving to meet the new arrival. Anthea Carter deftly clipped back the swing doors so that the patient could be wheeled through into the ward by the porter pushing him, while Luisa was taking the folder of notes from the nurse who had come down with the patient. At the same time she took a quick look at the still figure being wheeled past her. He was unconscious; she winced at what she saw, but her professional training told her that in time his face could be rebuilt to hide the scars his burns would leave.

‘Zachary West,’ she murmured, looking at his notes. ‘Age thirty-four. Well, Dr Hallows says he’s strong and should pull through—I wonder what sort of patient he’s going to be?’

‘Not easy,’ said the nurse who had brought him down from the theatre floor. ‘I saw him when they brought him in... He was conscious for a while and made the air turn blue with his language.’

‘Not unusual,’ Luisa said absently, staring at the strong bone-structure of the unconscious man.

‘No, but he struck me as a very angry man. If he ever catches up with the guy who caused his accident, murder will be done.’

Luisa frowned and closed the folder of notes. ‘Thank you, Nurse, you can get back to your ward now.’ She walked down the ward to oversee the transfer of the patient from the theatre trolley to his waiting bed, a delicate operation in his condition, although he was unconscious and could not feel the pain which the lightest touch would otherwise have caused him.

Once he was installed she went back to her office to get on with her paperwork. Sometimes she wished she hadn’t been promoted: she preferred to deal with the patients rather than sit in here doing clerical work.

Just before dawn, Luisa did another tour of the ward. Anthea Carter was still beside Zachary West’s bed, keeping herself busy by mending a torn hem on one of her uniform aprons. Luisa studied his notes. Anthea had been taking his pulse and temperature every hour; Luisa followed the line. Nothing unexpected there.

‘He hasn’t shown any sign of waking up?’

‘Several times I’ve thought...’ Anthea broke off as there was a faint movement from the bed. Their voices must have disturbed the patient. His bruised lids flickered upward, his eyes glistening, silvery, unseeing, then he gave a strangled cry.

Luisa heard anguish and anger in the sound; she bent, murmuring comfortingly, not touching him because she knew how the lightest touch meant agony for him, but soothing him with her low, soft voice. The wild eyes turned towards her.

‘What have you done to me...?’

‘We’re looking after you, Mr West, don’t worry.’

‘Get away from me!’ he snarled, and she flinched as if he had hit her.

‘Give him his injection now, Nurse,’ she told Anthea, standing back to watch. A moment later, the patient was asleep again, his body limp. Luisa sighed and turned away.

Back in her office she rang another ward, dialling with trembling fingers. ‘Hello, Beth, it’s Luisa. How is he now?’

‘Fine, Luisa. Don’t worry, it’s just shock and a few bruises; nothing serious has developed. I expect he’ll be going home today. Are you coming up to see him later?’

‘Before I go home, yes.’

She replaced the phone; a tear trickled out from one eye and she angrily wiped it away.

* * *

Zachary West was trapped inside a ring of fire. Flames leapt up, glass splintered, glittering shards like daggers falling towards him. Heat seared his skin, made him blind.

I’m blind, I’m blind, I’m blind, he screamed in his dreams, but nobody heard him.

Sometimes she was there, floating along beside him, light as a white feather, a barn owl, a dove; a dreamlike, silent presence that calmed and soothed him. He called out to her from within his ring of fire and she slowly turned in mid-air and looked towards him. Long, wild black hair, a sweet, gentle face, dark blue eyes that held compassion and kindness. The pain fell away and Zachary sighed, holding his hands out to her.

She kept vanishing again, like a bubble bursting, and when she was not there he was plunged back into his nightmare.

Once Zachary managed to force open his eyes, cried out for her, but he didn’t see her; he saw other faces, strange faces, staring down at him out of yellow light that dazzled him.

He looked angrily at them. Who were they? What had happened to the girl in white? he tried to ask, but the words wouldn’t come out.

One of them bent towards him, saying something he couldn’t quite hear. This one had a cold, pale face, the look of a nun. Zachary disliked her on sight, with her hair dragged back off her face, buttoned-up eyes and tight mouth. Icy, dried-up virgin.

‘Where am I? What’s happened?’ he tried to ask, but the words came out in a mumble. He tried again, accusation in his voice. ‘What have you done to me?’

She opened her mouth and said something, but he didn’t hear a word; he just wanted her to go away. He told her so and she stiffened.

She said something to the other girl too quietly for him to hear, then Zachary felt a sting of pain. He glared at them: what the hell was that? What...? But they had gone, again; he was sinking back into the dreams, into the centre of the ring of fire. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t; he was trapped inside his pain. He tried to see through the flames, to look beyond to what lay outside, and suddenly she floated towards him, the girl in white, giving him that gentle smile, and Zachary’s fear fell away. An angel, he thought. That’s what she is—an angel! Why didn’t I realise that before? I am dead, and she is an angel.

On her way home Luisa stopped off at Ward Twelve. The patients had had their breakfast and were lazily reading the morning papers or just sitting in chairs talking to each other, while the day staff got on with their morning routine. As courtesy demanded, Luisa went into the sister’s office to say ‘Good morning!’ before she went on into the ward.

The night sister, Beth Dawlish, with whom she had trained, had hurried off long ago, and it was a woman Luisa knew only by sight who was the day sister on this ward.

‘Yes, Dawlish told me you’d come by,’ Sister Jacobs said, nodding, her brown eyes incurious. ‘Fine by me; take your time, although I expect he’ll be on his way home by this afternoon, judging by the report Dawlish left. A relief for you, anyway! It could have been much worse. How’s the other one, the one you’ve got up on your ward? I hear he was badly injured. Car caught fire? I don’t know how you can work on that ward—I did my time when I was working the wards and I hated it. You must have nerves of steel.’

Luisa managed a faint smile. ‘I’m used to it. Our patient made it through the night and he’s doing as well as can be expected.’

She got a dry look. ‘Hmm. Like that, is it? Well, even if he pulls through he isn’t out of the wood, is he? There’s a long, long road ahead for him.’

‘Yes,’ Luisa said, shivering. ‘Well, I’ll let you get on...’

She walked steadily to the last bed in the ward. The man in it was sitting up against his pillows, staring at nothing, his face shadowed and white. He turned his head to look at her as she sat down on a chair beside the bed.

‘Luisa...’ He put out a hand, gripped her fingers so hard it hurt. ‘Is...is he...?’

‘Alive,’ she said, her voice low and husky. ‘Don’t look like that. He’s going to make it, Dad.’




CHAPTER TWO


LUISA slept for six hours, rather fitfully, because she had never quite got used to sleeping during the day; she finally got out of bed in the mid-afternoon, had an apple and some muesli and a cup of tea, and decided she would feel better if she got out into the fresh air and had some exercise. She was living in a small two-roomed flat within walking distance of both the hospital and Whinbury’s modern shopping streets, a pedestrian precinct with paved walkways, cafés, squares and gardens.

Today was sunny and there were plenty of people about. After doing her shopping in the big supermarket in the heart of the precinct, Luisa was on her way home when she almost collided with a hurrying figure, a blonde girl not much older than herself.

‘Oh, it’s you!’ The other girl was far from friendly; in fact her green eyes glittered with hostility.

‘Hello, Noelle,’ Luisa said coolly, the dislike mutual. ‘Is Dad back home now?’

‘Yes! And I had to go and get him; they wouldn’t send him home in an ambulance!’

‘The ambulance service is very overworked—’ began Luisa, and the other girl interrupted furiously.

‘They took him to hospital in an ambulance; why couldn’t they send him back the same way? I had an important business appointment; I can’t just walk out of the office whenever I like. It was very embarrassing having to cancel it; I only hope we don’t lose a contract because of it. The woman who rang from the hospital was very high-handed. She insisted somebody came to get him. I couldn’t see why he couldn’t have come home in a taxi, or why you couldn’t have brought him home. After all, you work there! It would have been no trouble to you; they said you were at home, but when I rang you all I got was your answerphone!’

‘I’m on night duty; I have to sleep during the day,’ Luisa said, trying not to lose her own temper, although it wasn’t easy to stay calm.

‘And I have to work because your father can’t be bothered to run the firm any more!’ retorted Noelle. ‘If it wasn’t for me we’d be bankrupt within a year! He has let things slide for years—’

‘Never mind the firm, how’s Dad?’ Luisa interrupted tersely. ‘You haven’t left him alone, have you? He really shouldn’t be alone at the moment; he’s very upset.’

Noelle bristled with open resentment. ‘Don’t you tell me what to do! I’m not your father’s secretary any more; I’m his wife, and I won’t put up with you patronising me.’

‘I wasn’t doing anything of the kind! But I don’t think you realise how dangerous shock can be... I wanted to explain the clinical—’

‘Well, don’t! I’m not one of your nurses, scuttling about whenever you snap your fingers!’

It wasn’t pleasant to be stared at with such dislike. Luisa felt faintly sick meeting those sharp green eyes. Noelle was beautiful, there was no denying that, but for Luisa that beauty was skin-deep. From the first day they met, when Noelle joined her father’s firm as his secretary, Luisa had felt uneasy. It hadn’t occurred to her to suspect Noelle of being interested in her father—after all, he was a good twenty years older! No, she had simply sensed that, for some reason, Noelle did not like her, and when her father admitted to her that he was dating his secretary Luisa had been taken aback and shocked, and unable to hide it.

She should have done, of course. She wished now that she had. She bitterly wished she could like Noelle, that they could be friends, for her father’s sake. She had tried hard to make friends, once she had to face the fact that the relationship was serious and was going to end in Noelle’s becoming her stepmother, but it had been useless. Noelle hated her and was not prepared to come to terms.

Look at the way she was staring now, her eyes as sharp and acid as little green apples. ‘As it happens, he isn’t alone! Mrs North is at the house, cleaning, and I asked her to keep an eye on him. He didn’t go to bed; he’s lying on a couch watching television. There’s nothing much wrong with him that I can see, and if he’s upset he deserves it, driving like a maniac! He could have killed that man!’

Luisa paled, knowing that was true. ‘But he didn’t, thank God!’

‘If he had it would have been your fault!’ her stepmother spat, and Luisa flinched, unable to deny it. Watching her with triumph, Noelle rubbed it in, malice in every spiked syllable. ‘If you hadn’t rung Harry and made all that fuss he wouldn’t have left the party and driven like a bat out of hell to get back home.’

Luisa’s face was drawn. It was true, however much she wished it wasn’t, and regrets were useless now. If she could, she would go back and change events, but you could never do that. They were strung together like beads on a string, one event leading to another inevitably. She had rung her father in a mood of wounded disappointment, and he had rushed home to placate her. If he hadn’t, the accident would never have happened, and Zachary West would not be lying in a hospital bed close to death, her father would not be facing prosecution for dangerous driving...or even worse, if Zachary West did not pull through. Ice trickled down her spine. What if he didn’t...? No, she couldn’t bear to think about that.

‘But then you’ve always been spoilt and selfish!’ Noelle said, and Luisa stared dumbly at her.

Had she? It was true that she ought to have known better than to lose her temper just because Dad had forgotten it was her birthday and had gone out with his wife, instead, but she had been so hurt, at the time. Dad had always been absent-minded; she usually had to remind him about her birthday. She saw so little of him, though, these days, that that was not so easy. She had rung a week ago to jog his memory and ask if they could have lunch, but he was out and she had had to leave a message with Noelle, which had never reached him. Instead, Noelle had lured him out to one of those long business lunches she seemed to enjoy so much. She was grimly determined to push Luisa out of her father’s life, and Dad seemed blind to the battle going on over him.

Oddly enough, Luisa could see it from Noelle’s point of view. It must be embarrassing to have a stepdaughter who was almost the same age as yourself; it must underline the difference in ages between man and wife, and Noelle was probably jealous, too, of the old affection Harry Gilbey had for his daughter, an affection which reminded his new wife of his dead one.

Luisa was very like her mother, as all the photographs which filled the house when she first entered it must have told Noelle. Anna Gilbey had been a graciously lovely woman of forty when she died of a heart attack, leaving her only child as a living reminder to Harry of the woman he had married when he was only twenty years old. The years since then had been lonely ones for her father. Luisa could understand why he wanted to marry again, even if his choice had astonished and disturbed her, just as she understood some of Noelle’s feelings, but to understand did not make it any easier, she was to find. Luisa had always been very close to her father, especially since the death of her much-loved mother. Suddenly being cut off from him was hard to take.

Nevertheless, she had tried to accept the new situation, for Dad’s sake, as much as anything. It must be difficult for him, too, to be a buffer between two warring women, and she wanted to see him happy again, uneasily though she viewed his marriage to a girl of her own age.

If only she hadn’t got so upset when she realised that her father had forgotten her birthday and was not going to be back in time to see her! But her birthdays had always been special days: Dad had always made them magical in the past. They had gone out to lunch somewhere special, spent the afternoons together, made each birthday memorable. This was the first one since his marriage, and realising that her birthday treats too were over had hurt more than anything else so far. She had reacted childishly when she realised where he had gone and had rung him at the party, overwhelming him with guilt.

No, she should never have done that—but how could she have imagined that such disastrous consequences would flow from her outburst?

‘He’ll lose his licence, you know,’ Noelle vindictively said. ‘For at least two years, the lawyer says. And that’s not the worst thing that could happen to him. Well, I won’t be able to drive him around all the time; he’ll have to get a chauffeur. He can afford it, although he keeps saying money is tight. He wasn’t so mean when I married him. If he’d had a chauffeur, that accident would never have happened. At his age his judgement isn’t too good any more.’

Luisa stiffened. ‘What do you mean, “at his age”? Dad’s barely fifty, for heaven’s sake!’

Noelle had not apparently thought him very old when she married him! She had always been saying how young he was, how full of energy and life—and Harry Gilbey had lived up to that description over the past year, working and playing hard to keep up with his young wife. When he wasn’t at cocktail parties, dinner parties, business lunches, he was out on the golf course playing with clients or people Noelle wanted him to impress.

‘His reflexes aren’t what they were,’ shrugged Noelle.

‘Maybe he goes out to parties too often! It must use up a lot of energy!’ Luisa accused, and her stepmother’s green eyes blazed back at her.

‘That’s right, shift the blame on to me! You’d love to say it was all my fault! Well, it isn’t—Harry enjoys a busy social life; he always did, before he ever met me!’

Luisa couldn’t deny that, either. Her father had always been a social animal; he was gregarious, lively and loved company, especially that of young people, which was no doubt why he had fallen for the ravishing blonde who had become his secretary. Noelle had encouraged him and Harry Gilbey hadn’t been able to resist her and the chance to be young again.

Luisa sighed. ‘Yes, I know he does.’ Poor Dad. She bit her lip and looked at her stepmother with appeal in her dark blue eyes. ‘Noelle, why do we always have to quarrel like this? Especially now, when Dad is in trouble...he’ll need both of us over the next few months. Can’t we be friends?’

Noelle’s beautiful mask didn’t soften. Her green eyes flashed. ‘You’ve done enough harm, just leave us alone. Harry is my business now, not yours.’ She turned to walk away, stopped, and pulled a crumpled newspaper out of the black leather briefcase she was carrying. ‘Have you seen this?’

She didn’t wait for an answer; she was gone a second later, leaving Luisa staring blankly at the paper, folded back to show a grey photograph of Zachary West above half a column of print headlined ‘Crash Wrecks West Exhibition’.

Even more worried and depressed now, Luisa looked around for somewhere to sit down. There was a café across the square; she made for it shakily and fell into a seat near the door.

‘What can I get you?’ asked a waitress, coming over at once.

‘Coffee, please,’ Luisa said.

‘Anything to eat?’

Luisa knew her blood sugar must be low; she was feeling light-headed. ‘A...sandwich?’ she muttered, glancing at the menu which stood in the centre of the red and white checked tablecloth. ‘Cheese and salad sandwich, please.’

The waitress vanished and Luisa spread the newspaper out in front of her. By the time she had absorbed what it said the waitress was back with her sandwich and coffee. Luisa folded the newspaper up again with fingers that trembled, and tried to enjoy her meal, but it tasted like sawdust and ashes. All she could think about was what she had just read.

The consequences of the crash were even worse than she had imagined. Zachary West was an artist, it seemed—and famous, according to the newspaper, which had talked about large sums of money paid for his work in the past.

When the crash happened Zachary West had been taking a number of paintings up to London, in his van, to be shown in a big exhibition of his work in the gallery of a well-known art dealer. The exhibition would have been a major event in the art world, the dealer was quoted as saying. It had been awaited eagerly since Zachary West’s work was much sought after and fetched increasingly large amounts and he had not exhibited his work for some years. The art world had been curious to see how he had developed his style and technique since his last exhibition. Now, said the dealer, tragically, the world would never know. All the paintings Zachary West had spent the last four years working on had been destroyed in the fire which had left the artist himself so badly burned.

Chilled and appalled, Luisa paid for her meal and left the café. She walked home and put away her shopping, then rang her father.

‘How are you this afternoon, Dad?’ she gently asked.

‘Have you seen the newspapers?’ was all he said, his voice dry and shaky.

Luisa bit her lip. ‘Dad. Dad, don’t—’

‘Don’t what?’ Harry Gilbey bitterly asked her. ‘Face up to what I’ve done? God, when I think—’

‘Don’t think about it, Dad, not yet. You’re still shocked,’ Luisa hurriedly pleaded, her blue eyes anxious.

‘How can I stop thinking about it? A man like that—a genius, they say in the papers—all that talent, so much to give the world...and I’ve destroyed him...’

‘You don’t know that, Dad! He’ll pull through, and he’ll do other work when he’s better. He’s still a young man...’ But her reassurances were only half-hearted and she knew it, because she felt just as guilty as her father, and with more reason. ‘And, anyway, it’s my fault, not yours,’ she huskily added.

‘Your fault? How can it be your fault? I was driving that car, not you!’

‘But if I hadn’t rung you and made so much fuss you wouldn’t have been hurrying!’

‘That still doesn’t make it your fault, Luisa. I was the one doing the driving, and I’d been drinking—oh, I wasn’t over the limit, I’m not that stupid, and I never have been a drinking man. As you know, I’m not that keen on spirits—I just had some white wine. Anyway, they breathalysed me and they said I was in the clear. But I know my reflexes were affected by the couple of drinks I’d had, my mind worked slower than it usually does, and I know in my heart that I was driving recklessly. I took the corner too fast; I was right over his side of the road... But that was nothing to do with you. I was in a temper—I’d had a row with Noelle—and... Oh, well, never mind. But it was my fault, Luisa! You mustn’t blame yourself at all.’

But she did, of course, and she was still edgy and tense as she walked into the ward that evening. It was difficult to force a smile for her colleague, Mary Baker, who was Day Sister.

‘Anything wrong? You don’t look well,’ Mary said, frowning in concern. She was a married woman with two grown-up children and had been working at the hospital for fifteen years. Easy-going and cheerful, she had been very kind during Luisa’s probationary period when she worked on this ward as a very raw, anxious newcomer who had difficulty coping with what she had to do each day.

‘I’m fine,’ Luisa hurriedly said now, and tried to look as if it was true. Pleasant though Mary always was, Luisa still felt like a nervous probationer at times when they were talking, and she couldn’t bring herself to confide in Mary. ‘Just a little headache...’

‘Are you sleeping properly?’ Mary promptly asked, frowning. ‘I don’t have to remind you how vital it is to get enough sleep when you’re on nights, do I?’

‘No,’ Luisa grimaced. ‘I usually do, don’t worry. So what sort of day have you had? Any new arrivals? Anyone depart?’

Mary gave her a wry look, but obligingly began to go through the ward list, putting Luisa in the picture with each patient until they came to Zachary West’s name. ‘He’ll be going soon,’ she then said, and Luisa’s dark blue eyes opened wide.

‘Going? What do you mean?’

‘He’s being whisked up to London to have specialist private nursing. It seems we’ve a celebrity on the ward!’ Mary grinned, looking amused. ‘I’ve been getting phone calls from Fleet Street all day, asking how he is! Would you believe some of them wanted to come up and take photos of him? He’s unconscious, I said, and he doesn’t look very pretty at the moment, either, so if he was conscious he wouldn’t want you taking pictures of him looking like that, I told them. One or two of them turned up in person and I had to get George from the front hall to come and turf them out! Nice behaviour on a ward like this!’

‘But...why is he leaving us?’ pressed Luisa, not very interested in Fleet Street.

Mary bridled, sniffing crossly. ‘Well, apparently his agent...or his manager, or whatever...doesn’t think this hospital is good enough to treat such a famous man, so he wants him transferred to this London place where they specialise in skin grafts and plastic surgery. They would have taken him today, but our Mr Hallows put his foot down, told them he was in no condition to make that journey yet. It will be decided tomorrow when he’ll be ready to travel, when Mr Hallows makes his round.’

Luisa was appalled. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was possible for him to bear that trip to London! It would be so painful for him.’

He was being fed intravenously and kept on continuous medication in order to get him over these first few days with as little pain as possible. Luisa stood beside him, staring at the grim mask he would show the world for many months to come, until he was fit enough for plastic surgery. From the photo she had seen of him, in the newspaper, he must have been an attractive man. It was terrible to see him the way he was now.

As Mary had said earlier, thank heavens he was physically strong. Otherwise he could never have survived that crash, or already begun to show the first faint signs of a recovery.

As it was, you could see that he was a powerfully built, lean man with slim hips and long legs and the muscles of someone used to exercise—or, perhaps, to constant work. His lower body had escaped the worst of the fire; his legs were almost unscathed, their skin tanned and dusted with dark hairs.

Suddenly his lids flicked up and she found herself looking into his eyes, pale eyes like polished silver, his enlarged black pupils dominating his gaze, a sure sign to her of the drugs they were having to give him to damp down his pain.

Luisa’s professionalism took over and she bent hurriedly towards him, smiling reassurance.

‘Hello, how are you feeling now?’

Zachary West didn’t even try to answer. He vaguely remembered her and his scorched brows drew together painfully. This was the pale, cold woman he had seen standing beside his bed before, although he couldn’t quite be sure how long ago that was.

But then time had become a labyrinth through which he endlessly searched for a way out. He didn’t know how long he had been like this; he only knew that he kept waking up and going back to sleep and the moments in between were brief and painful, almost surreal. Each time he couldn’t think where he was or what had happened to him, and each time the pain was lurking to spring out at him. He always escaped from consciousness with a sense of relief because when he was awake everything hurt, although he couldn’t quite recall why. All he knew was that his life had simply stopped suddenly one day when he was driving along a road, and ever since he had been in pain.

‘I’m Sister Gilbey,’ the woman said. ‘I’m looking after you, Mr West. How do you feel?’

She had a soft, low voice that should have soothed. Instead, he was irritated by it. Did she think he was a child?

Zachary swallowed and became aware of a raging thirst. ‘Drink...’ he tried to say through his dry lips, and she must have understood because she gently inserted a straw between his teeth. He sucked weakly, and cool water came into his mouth. He stopped sucking when he had quenched his thirst, and his eyes closed in weariness.

‘Are you in much pain?’ the woman asked stupidly.

Zachary opened his eyes to look at her with contempt. What did she think? his gaze asked her.

He closed his eyes again and very soon he was slipping back into his dream. The girl was waiting with her windblown black hair and glimmering oval face, the smile that made his blood sing. Zachary floated towards her, smiling, his heart beating faster.

When his surgeon saw him again the following day Zachary was awake for the first time and David Hallows was able to talk to him.

‘Your agent, Mr Curtney, wants you to be moved up to London to another hospital which specialises in skin conditions, but I’m afraid...although you are already much improved and I have every faith that you will go on improving very fast...for the moment I’m afraid I cannot really permit you to make such a long journey.’

Zachary West gazed incuriously at him, his body slack. ‘I see.’

He did not seem too disturbed by the news and David Hallows gave him a friendly, encouraging smile.

‘We’ll take the best possible care of you, Mr West. We’re trying to make you comfortable.’

‘I’ve been too drugged to notice,’ Zachary said suddenly, his voice clearer than it had been since his accident.

David Hallows laughed. ‘Well, yes, that was necessary for the first few days, to protect you against too much movement, and to counter the effects of shock. From now on we will be cutting back on the dosage; we don’t want you getting hooked, do we?’

He laughed again. Zachary didn’t. Bleakly he said, ‘There’s no chance of that. I hate being out of my mind.’

‘Quite,’ David Hallows said. ‘Well, I’m happy to see you recovering so rapidly. I’ll be in to see you again tomorrow, a little earlier as it’s Saturday. Keep your fingers crossed that I get a quiet weekend for once!’

Again he laughed, and this time Zachary showed a spark of amusement in his grey eyes.

‘That might be a little difficult for me at present.’

David did a double take, then grinned in some surprise. ‘Yes, I’m afraid you’re right.’ Zachary’s hands had been very badly burned and must be intensely painful.

Talking to Luisa that evening, David said, ‘I have a lot of respect for the man; he’s got guts. I’ve known men with burns that weren’t half as bad as his who made ten times the fuss. To be making jokes this early shows a very strong character. I don’t think I’d be that brave if I were in his place.’ He grimaced. ‘In fact, I know I wouldn’t be! I’m petrified of having his sort of injuries. That’s probably why I specialised in skin surgery. My father was badly burnt in an explosion in a chemical works when I was ten, and I’ve never forgotten seeing him a week or so later. I had nightmares for years afterwards, kept dreaming it was me under the bandages.’

Luisa looked fixedly at him, her blue eyes as dark as gentians in the shadowy light of her office. ‘Poor David, how frightening it must have been for you at such an early age.’ He had never told her this story before and it revealed a lot about him that she had never suspected.

A little flushed, he laughed and got up, shrugging. ‘Yes...well...I must go. I’m going home now. I’ve run out of bodies in the theatre so I might as well get some sleep. See you tomorrow. Looking forward to it?’

Luisa lit up, smiling. ‘Oh, yes. I haven’t been to a dance for ages and I love dancing. I’m going to buy a new dress tomorrow, too!’

‘To go out with me? I’m flattered!’ He grinned down at her, a head taller than her, his attractive face warm, yet still set in lines of exhaustion and weariness.

Luisa didn’t manage to get out to do her shopping until quite late on Saturday afternoon, but there was only one good dress shop in Whinbury so she would not need much time in which to make her choice. She was lucky: there was a ravishing dark blue silk dress with a low-cut bodice and a stand-up ruff of lace at the back. The dress was long-skirted with a trio of rustling pale pink lace petticoats under it, and a pale pink silk rose pinned to the waist. Luisa loved the feel of the frou-frou of petticoats around her legs as she walked.

‘It has a sort of Victorian look, doesn’t it?’ said the girl who sold it to her. ‘Your hairstyle goes with it. Very classy, that chignon. Of course some of them wore ringlets in Victorian days, too, but I think that was the young girls, not ladies of your age.’

Luisa laughed without amusement. The girl was probably not even twenty; no doubt to her Luisa’s twenty-seven years did seem pretty ancient, but it left Luisa feeling as if she had suddenly aged without noticing it. Twenty-seven wasn’t that old! Why shouldn’t she wear her hair in ringlets if she liked? Victorian, indeed!

When she got home she had a bath, washed her hair, and spent some time curling it into Victorian-style ringlets with some electric hair tongs she had once been given, but rarely used.

Once she was dressed for the dance she stood in front of her mirror, biting her lip. The new style certainly made her look different! In fact, it changed her whole appearance. She went pink. What on earth had she done to herself? She felt ridiculous and would have tried to restore her hair to normal if David hadn’t arrived while she was still trying to make up her mind what to do.

He did a double take, staring. ‘Luisa? Good heavens! I hardly recognised you. Your hair...’

Luisa groaned. ‘It looks awful, doesn’t it? I don’t know what on earth made me do it! But—’

‘I love it!’

She blinked uncertainly. ‘You do?’

‘It’s perfect with that dress.’ He held out his well-shaped hand, his brown eyes warm. ‘And that is a very sexy dress, let me say!’

She laughed, but went pink, and David smiled down at her, holding her slender fingers lightly. ‘The blush is sexy, too.’

‘Don’t you make fun of me, David Hallows!’ she protested, even more flushed.

‘I’m not, I mean it. When you go pink like that you look very female. I suppose it makes me feel you need protecting...’

‘In this day and age?’ she asked incredulously.

He grimaced. ‘Oh, I know it’s an out of date attitude—opening doors for a woman, standing up when she comes into a room...OK, it’s laughed at these days. But I’m an old-fashioned guy. I like the difference between a man and a woman and I don’t see why I should apologise for that.’

‘Neither do I,’ she said, smiling at him because they had worked together long enough for her to know that he was no put-down artist. He didn’t treat women as dolls—far from it. He’d always treated her with respect and grave equality.

He smiled back. ‘That’s what first attracted me to you,’ he surprised her by saying. ‘Your femininity.’

Luisa stared in surprise. He had never told her that before. She had often wondered how he had managed to reach the age of thirty-five without marrying because he was attractive and popular with the other nurses. He had had other girlfriends, but the relationships had all fizzled out in the end. Maybe the long hours he had to work, the intense concentration of the job, always came between him and anyone he dated?

He usually looked relaxed and casual, even in his ward-walking suits, because he was not the authoritarian type of surgeon of an earlier generation. David was too laid-back for that; his warm smile and easy-going manner made him the most liked of all the doctors. But tonight he, too, looked different: very distinguished in his evening suit. The black jacket and trousers made him look very slim; the white shirt and immaculate black tie gave him a touch of glamour he did not normally have.

His mouth curled in amusement. ‘Are you looking me over, Luisa? Or have I put you off by admitting I like feminine girls?’

She laughed, shaking her head.

He tightened his grip on her hand and drew her closer, bending his head. Luisa instinctively lifted her face to meet his kiss, but, even as their lips met, behind them in her flat the telephone rang and they froze, looked at each other, grimacing.

‘Don’t answer it!’ David said, and she laughed.

‘You know I must! It may be my father.’

David groaned. ‘Famous last words!’

It wasn’t her father; it was the hospital. She sighed and turned, holding out the phone to David. ‘Sorry,’ she said as he reluctantly took it.

‘I won’t say I told you so!’

He curtly said into the phone, ‘Hallows here.’ Then listened, brows pulling together. ‘How long has that been happening?’

Luisa stood watching him, her hands unconsciously playing with her short black velvet evening jacket. If David was being summoned back to the theatre she would not be going to the dance.

He put the phone down and turned to make a wry face at her. ‘I told you not to answer it!’

‘I thought you weren’t on call!’

‘I’m not, but one of my patients has been waiting for an op. for three days because his condition simply wasn’t stable enough for me to risk it. Tonight they think he has stabilised, but Colin Dawkins doesn’t like to risk doing an op. on his own opinion; he wants me to pop in and take a look at the guy and back him up before he gives the go-ahead.’

‘And he’d really rather you did the op. yourself!’ Luisa said drily.

David laughed. ‘I expect he would. He’s simply terrified of taking a risk, that fellow.’

‘Does this mean no dance?’

‘Certainly not! No, we’ll be going, but I suppose I’d better make a detour en route and drop by the hospital to see this patient and decide whether Colin ought to operate or not.’

‘It might be wiser to wait until tomorrow, anyway.’

David’s mouth indented. ‘Hmm. This is a dodgy one, though. Not sure he can afford to wait. But I’ll see.’

When they reached the hospital David asked, ‘Wait here for me?’ but she shook her head, smiling at him.

‘You may be gone for ages. No, I’ll come in and stop off at my ward to have a cup of coffee with Sister Jenkins.’

‘And show off your dress?’ he teased, and she laughed.

‘Well, why not?’

They split up in the hospital, and she rustled along the corridors, amused when she got a startled look from a nurse hurrying by.

Helen Jenkins was in the ward overseeing a nurse giving out the evening medication. Luisa walked towards them and Helen looked round, and stared, open-mouthed.

‘Can’t you keep away?’

Laughing, Luisa explained. ‘David had to see a patient. I hoped I’d get a cup of coffee from you while I wait.’

‘Put it on and I’ll be with you in a second,’ Helen cheerfully agreed.

‘What a gorgeous, dress, Sister,’ said the nurse, and Luisa smiled at her.

‘Thanks, it’s new. First time I’ve worn it.’

‘It suits you,’ said the girl, her eyes lifting to stare at Luisa’s ringlets.

Helen was staring at them, too. ‘I’ve never seen you wear your hair like that before!’

‘I never have; it’s an experiment, and I don’t think I’ll be doing it again, either,’ Luisa wryly said.

‘Oh, no, it looks great!’ the nurse said, and Helen nodded.

‘I like it, too. It certainly makes you look different.’

Rather pink, Luisa said, ‘Thank you,’ and then turned to walk back to the office. As she did so, a faint voice made her halt. She looked across the ward at Zachary West’s bed and saw him shift slightly. Luisa went over to him. His eyes were open.

‘Did you call out, Mr West?’

He stared in silence.

She tried again. ‘I thought I heard you call...’

He closed his eyes without answering.

‘I’m seeing things now!’ he muttered to himself, and she had to bend closer to hear the words. ‘Crazy!’ he was murmuring barely audibly, through his swollen lips. ‘I’m going crazy! God help me.’

His eyes opened again suddenly. He gave a start, finding her so near. Luisa gave him what she hoped was a soothing smile. ‘Is there anything I can get you, Mr West?’

All she got back was a ferocious look and a snarl. ‘Go away, for God’s sake! I can’t take any more! Go away!’

She was so taken aback that without another word she obeyed, her skirts rustling as she hurried towards the office.

To her horror, her blue eyes had filled with tears. What is the matter with me? she wondered and fumbled for a paper tissue to angrily wipe her wet eyes. He can’t help being bad-tempered; he’s very ill! He isn’t the first patient to turn on you, heaven knows! Why are you weeping over him?

She began to make the coffee, as Helen Jenkins had asked, but she never had a chance to drink it because just as Helen joined her the phone rang. It was David.

‘Ready?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, furious to realise that her voice was still husky. ‘How was your patient?’

‘Not yet up to an op. See you at the car in two minutes!’

She put down the phone and turned. ‘Sorry, Nell, David didn’t take as long as I’d expected. See you later tonight.’

‘Yes. Have a wonderful time, but don’t be late back!’ Helen said, grinning at her.

On her way out of the ward Luisa paused for one second to look down the ward towards Zachary West. He seemed to have gone back to sleep now. She sighed and hurried away to find David.

As they had both realised it would, their arrival together at the hospital dinner-dance in Whinbury’s best hotel made something of a stir. Everyone had known they were going out together, but for them to come to such a very important event together was seen as some sort of declaration of intent. They were now publicly an admitted pair.

‘When you come to choose your bridesmaids think of me!’ one of her friends said in the ladies’ cloakroom during the evening.

Luisa pulled an impatient face at her. ‘Give us a chance, Jane! We’ve only been going out for a few months. Marriage isn’t on our minds.’

‘Bet I know what is!’ Jane Dorset said, giggling. ‘Well, on his, anyway! I’ve seen the way he looks at you.’

Luisa blushed, which made everyone hoot with laughter. Not for the first time she furiously wished she didn’t colour up so easily. David might find it charmingly feminine, but it was a curse Luisa could do without.

David drove her back to the hospital at half-past one when the dance ended. ‘Enjoy yourself?’ he asked after switching off his engine in the car park.

Luisa nodded, eyes bright. ‘I had a wonderful time, David. Thank you, it was terrific. I only wish I didn’t have to go back to work!’

After eating a four-course meal which included a very rich roast duck with cherries and a chocolate and orange mousse, drinking champagne, laughing and talking to friends and dancing with David to a very good band for several hours, she was in no mood to change back into her uniform and put in a six-hour shift.

‘So do I, believe me. If you had the rest of the night off we could get to know each other better...’ David softly said, and her maddening colour flowed up her face again, making him smile. ‘You’re so lovely, Luisa,’ he muttered, his fingers gently stroking her cheek and then sliding down to tilt her head back.

Their lips met and Luisa closed her eyes. Yet somehow she couldn’t give herself to David’s passionate mouth. Some part of her was cool, resistant; her body arched away from him although she didn’t push him away.

After a moment he lifted his head and looked wryly at her. ‘I picked the wrong moment, didn’t I?’

‘I’m sorry, David, I’m just not in that mood any more...I suppose it’s having to go back to work right away...’ she whispered guiltily.

He gave her a comforting smile. ‘Never mind, there’ll be other times. You had better hurry in and change. Goodnight, Luisa.’

As soon as she had changed back into uniform and Helen Jenkins had gone, Luisa went down the ward to Zachary West’s bed.

He was asleep. She stood watching him, wishing she understood the strange, driving compulsion to see him which had possessed her all evening while she talked, laughed, ate, danced. Her body had been with David, but her mind had been here, with this strange, hostile, aggressive man towards whom she felt such complicated responses.

After a few moments she went on around the ward to check on all her other patients, then back to her office to get on with her work there, but every so often she would pause, glance up, and stare down towards Zachary West, then sigh and look down again, bewildered by her own feelings.

Zachary West was in her ward throughout the following week, a little better each day, waiting for David to agree that he was strong enough to make the journey to London to the specialist hospital. Luisa wished David would agree. She would feel easier if Zachary West were not around.




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