Relative Ethics
Relative Ethics
Caroline Anderson
A DANGEROUS TEMPTATION? When Dr Bronwen Jones returns to work after the birth of her now fifteen-month-old daughter it’s nerve-racking enough to be thrust in at the deep end of Audley Memorial Hospital’s busy Emergency Department. But coming face to face with Oliver Henderson, the brilliant young consultant general surgeon she once loved, has sent her stress levels through the roof… He was forbidden fruit then—and she had to leave—but now…? He doesn’t behave like a man who’s still married but she has to find out—because one thing’s for sure:Bron still loves him…THE AUDLEY—where love is the best medicine of all…
Relative Ethics
Caroline Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#uc5eb498c-3eac-50f6-b26a-ba67cf8132fd)
Title Page (#u2fd292d6-3d14-5d7a-a44a-bb98e01aa7fe)
Chapter One (#u48bed1e5-f737-5a0c-9054-8dbf0bd0ad30)
Chapter Two (#u8914d0ae-396a-5fc1-9982-940d5a6f7d73)
Chapter Three (#ucff932ff-887b-5784-94c0-b9e4ab66a22e)
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 Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f590b895-9219-5228-87f6-83eccfbe12a3)
‘How do I look?’
Elizabeth Jones glanced up at her daughter, and swallowed the lump in her throat. It was a big day for them all, but especially for Bron.
She forced herself to run her eye professionally and dispassionately over Bronwen’s slim, neat figure, from the glowing tumble of shining dark hair cut into becoming layers, down over the clean lines of the navy suit-jacket which hid the soft curves of her daughter’s slender figure and lent her an air of brisk efficiency, down the narrow navy skirt and the matching sheer tights to the neat navy pumps, and then back up again, to study the face, bravely confident and yet with a touch of uncertainty mirrored in the wide grey eyes.
‘Perfect.’ She cleared her throat, and tried again. ‘Just right. You look approachable and yet efficient. Have some breakfast.’
Bronwen shook her head. ‘No—oh, Mum, I couldn’t eat a thing——’
‘Bron, you can’t start your first day without a single calorie inside you. Now sit down and do as you’re told!’
‘Bully,’ Bron said softly, but she smiled and obeyed, struggling with a piece of toast and a cup of coffee.
‘Livvy still asleep?’ Her mother’s gentle query brought a flush of guilt and anxiety to Bronwen’s pale cheeks.
‘I didn’t like to wake her just to say goodbye. Oh, Mum, I’m sure she won’t really be scarred for life if I go back to work, but somehow—I just feel so wicked——’
Her mother laid her hand gently over Bronwen’s slim fingers, and squeezed reassuringly. ‘Don’t be silly—I went back to work, and you aren’t exactly scarred for life. She won’t go short of love, darling. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine together. Now get off to work before you’re late.’
‘I wasn’t fifteen months old, and you only worked part-time. I suppose I can always hand in my notice if it doesn’t work——’
‘Over my dead body!’ her mother chided. ‘Without your work you’re only half a person. You belong there, Bron. You need medicine—and medicine needs you.’ She walked Bronwen to the door, and gave her a firm hug. ‘Did I ever tell you how proud I am of you?’
‘Oh, Mum—I love you!’
Eyes misting with emotion, feeling the same tingling dread and anticipation as she’d had on her first day on the wards, Bronwen started her car and drove carefully the three miles to the Audley Memorial Hospital.
A new day, and a new start. Another chapter in her life closed. She stifled a pang of regret and dragged her mind away from the memory of a pair of vivid blue eyes the colour of a Mediterranean dawn, burning with passionate intensity, and a gravelly voice saying over and over, ‘I love you, Bron, I love you …’
Lies, all of it. Yet even so, she wouldn’t change a thing. And damn it, she still loved him, even after all this time and knowing the way he had lied. And there was Livvy, bright, vivacious, her tumble of gold curls framing a smiling face, and those incredible long-lashed blue eyes she had inherited from her father. For the thousandth time, Bron wondered where he was and how he was—not that she ought to care, but somehow hearts tended to go their own way.
She parked in the area set aside for medical staff, using the plastic card Jim Harris had given her to raise the security gate, and, squaring her shoulders, made her way through the door marked ‘Accident and Emergency’.
The smell hit her as she walked in, a sort of busy antiseptic smell composed of polish and institutional food and Hibitane, totally familiar and very reassuring. Her mother was right, this was where she belonged.
She walked on, past the doors marked ‘Staff Only’, round to the right, second door on the left. Here it was—Dr J E Harris. Drawing a deep breath, she rapped twice.
‘Come in!’
She opened the door and did as she was bidden, smiling to herself at the huge man sprawled like a teddy-bear across the chair and desk. He grinned, covered the mouthpiece of the telephone with one large paw, and mouthed, ‘Have a seat—won’t be a tick.’
She perched on the edge of the desk while he terminated the call, and then dropped his feet to the floor and stood with surprising grace, coming out from behind the desk to wrap her hands warmly in his.
‘Good to see you again, Bronwen. Welcome to the team. Come and get a cup of coffee and meet the others. They’ll be glad to see you—we’ve been awfully pushed just recently. Hell of a weekend, I gather. Pile-up on the A45—holiday traffic, I suppose. I was sailing.’
‘Very sensible,’ she said with a wry smile, and he laughed and patted her shoulder.
‘Nervous?’
She shrugged. ‘A bit. It’s been eighteen months. Dr Harris?’
‘Call me Jim, Bronwen. What’s the matter?’
She paused, unsure of how to word her unusual request. ‘It may seem silly to you, but I’d rather the others didn’t know about my daughter, if you don’t mind. There’s enough speculation about single women doctors without adding fuel to the fire. Of course, if you’ve already told them, it doesn’t matter——’
‘Tell ’em what you like, my dear. I’ve told them only that you’re joining the department—frankly, we’re so pushed they wouldn’t care if you had three heads!’
‘They would if I were a cannibal,’ she said with a grin, and Jim Harris chuckled and opened the door.
‘They’d probably line up to be nibbled by you. They’re a miserable collection of rakes, by and large, but good doctors nevertheless. Just don’t let them take themselves too seriously!’
He wheeled her down the corridor and into the staff lounge. Forewarned was forearmed, she thought as the two young men lolling in the chairs raised bleary faces to her and then stumbled to their feet, interest flickering in the sunken depths of their bloodshot eyes. How tired would they have to be before they failed to register a reasonable-looking woman? Bron wondered, and tried not to laugh at their enthusiasm as they squabbled amicably over who was giving her a cup of coffee.
It turned out to be academic because the loudspeaker on the wall squawked as they reached the coffee-pot, and they groaned and tossed a coin.
‘See you later,’ one of them grumbled, grabbing his white coat off a peg, and Jim waved at his retreating back.
‘That was Steve Barnes. This——’ he indicated the other doctor, who had forgotten about Bron’s coffee and slumped back down in a chair ‘—is Mick O’Shea.’ The loudspeaker squawked again, and Jim excused himself with a mild expletive and a muttered apology.
Bronwen crossed to the coffee-pot. ‘Hello, Mick. I’m Bronwen Jones. Can I get you a coffee?’
The Irishman raised his head and stared through her for a second, then forced his eyes to focus. ‘Thanks. That’d be great. What a bloody awful night!’
‘Grim, was it?’
He nodded, and sat up to take his coffee from her, gulping it gratefully. ‘So tell me, Bronwen, what’s a pretty little slip of a thing like you doing in a hell-hole like this?’
Bronwen laughed. ‘One, I am not a pretty little slip of a thing—I am at least three years older than you, Dr O’Shea—and I’m here to work, and two, it’s not a hell-hole, it’s a well-run, modern hospital in an idyllic setting.’
‘Well, it sure feels like hell this morning, and as for your being a whatever it was I said you were, I reserve judgement—even if you’re positively middle-aged!’
Bron shook her head and tried to look severe, but Mick’s eyes were closing again and his half-finished coffee was taking a nose-dive down the front of his shirt.
She caught it in the nick of time and eased his fingers from the handle of the mug. Mick murmured something unintelligible, and slid further down the chair, out for the count.
Finishing her coffee, Bronwen made her way out of the staff-room and out into the corridor off which opened the treatment-rooms. Middle-aged, indeed! Sometimes she still felt eighteen, young, shy and innocent, and the world seemed a terrible place, full of people tempting her with lies and platitudes; she shook her head and pulled herself together as Steve Barnes came out of one of the treatment-rooms with a laughing nurse at his side.
‘Ah, Dr Jones, I take it you got your coffee?’ he said with a grin, and stuck out his hand. ‘Steve Barnes, and this is Sister Hennessy—Kathleen.’
She shook the proffered hands, and introduced herself as Bronwen. ‘I left Mick crashed out on the chairs in the staff-room—he looked all in.’
Steve shook his head. ‘He had a bad night—lost two of his patients in the space of an hour. It’s his first SHO job; he only started on A and E four weeks ago, and he hasn’t got used to it yet.’
‘Do we ever?’ Kathleen asked drily, and Steve laughed shortly and without humour.
‘Point taken. I’m going up to breakfast—I’ll dig Mick out on my way. Nice to meet you, Bronwen.’
Kathleen gave Bron a steady look, and smiled. ‘Welcome to the madhouse,’ she murmured. ‘Come with me and have a look round—have you worked in A and E before?’
‘Yes, in Bristol, but not for eighteen months.’
Kathleen twitched back a curtain across a treatment-room door and folded a blanket on to the foot of the bed. ‘This is where we treat the walking wounded,’ she explained, and opened the door at the far end of the room. ‘The cubicles are open to the waiting-room through a door, and through the curtained opening to the corridor, so that we have access from both sides. It means that seriously ill patients aren’t treated or moved in view of the waiting area, which is a fantastic improvement on where I trained.’
She opened another door. ‘This is the plaster-room, and X-ray is opposite, with Orthopaedics through there, so it’s all very convenient. Surgical and Medical wards are the other way, Paediatrics upstairs, and Obs and Gynae are in another wing—quite a trek, but they tend to be admitted direct. And in here is the emergency treatment area for acute and cardiac cases. In our more pompous moments we call it the trauma unit! OK?’
Bronwen was quite definitely not OK. Confused, bombarded with facts, names, unfamiliar geography, and all on top of doubts about returning to work. She shook herself and straightened.
‘Where do I leave my bag, and what about a white coat?’ she asked.
‘See Jim. He’s in his office. Come and find me when you’re all set up—and don’t worry, you’ll soon get back into it.’
She grinned and walked away with the quick, businesslike stride of the professional nurse, quiet and no-nonsense. Bron had warmed to her on sight, and knew instinctively that the sister would do everything in her power to help her settle in.
With a sigh of relief, she made her way to Jim Harris’s office. Just as she was turning the corner, she heard a deep, masculine laugh that shocked her to her toes. It couldn’t be! Bron gave herself a little mental shake. She really must stop doing this, seeing him and hearing him in every tall, fair man she had seen for the past two years. Nevertheless, as she rounded the corner, she couldn’t prevent her eyes from scanning the corridor eagerly, nor could she prevent the ridiculous little stab of disappointment when he wasn’t there.
Ten minutes later, equipped with a bleep, a white coat and a locker key, she found herself plunged in at the deep end with an elderly man suffering from chest pain and acute breathlessness. She listened to his chest, and smiled and chatted while she took a history and observed him.
‘Do you find it easier to breathe sitting up? Yes, I thought you might. All right, Mr Davis, you just sit there like that for a minute or two and breathe nice and steadily through the oxygen mask, and I’ll get someone down to look at you.’
She detailed a nurse to stay with him, and found Kathleen Hennessy checking dressings in one of the other cubicles.
‘There’s an elderly man in three with what looks like LVF, but he’s in too much pain, and I don’t like the sound of his chest. Can we get someone to look at him?’
‘I’ll get the consultant down.’ Kathleen crossed to her desk and picked up the phone. ‘Dr Marumba, please.’
Bron, her face troubled, went back to her patient. He was, if anything, even more distressed, but she was reluctant to give him anything before Dr Marumba saw him, so she checked his pulse again and found it light and fast. His skin was damp, and he was obviously deteriorating rapidly.
She stepped out into the corridor again and looked up and down for any sign of another doctor.
Kathleen came up to her. ‘His wife’s here—do you want to talk to her?’
Bron nodded. ‘Yes—is there somewhere we can go?’
Kathleen showed her into the office and then moments later came back with a worried-looking woman in her late sixties.
‘Mrs Davis? Is there anything you can tell me about how your husband’s been feeling recently that might help us?’
‘Oh, Doctor! He’s been off for weeks—hasn’t wanted his food, and he’s never been a picky eater. Complained of his feet swelling, and feeling breathless, and yesterday he was sick again—then this morning I thought he was better, because he went out into the garden and picked some strawberries for breakfast. He’s been in the garden a lot recently, that’s how he’s got that lovely tan, but he hasn’t looked well, and the backache——’
Bronwen leapt up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Davis. That’s been most helpful. I’ll get a nurse to take you back to the waiting-room.’
She all but ran back down the corridor to the treatment room.
She took the nurse to one side. ‘How is he?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Not good. Chest pain seems to be worse. I’ve put him on a monitor.’
Thanks. Taken any bloods? I think we need a total chemistry and blood count. It might be his heart, but I’m putting my money on renal failure.’
‘May one ask why?’
At the sound of the impeccable Oxford accent, Bronwen turned and looked up—and up.
‘Dr Marumba?’
He clicked his heels and inclined his head with a slight smile. ‘Call me Jesus. Everybody does. You were about to tell me…?’
While he ran gentle but thorough hands over the frail patient, Bron repeated the symptoms—nausea, vomiting, backache, breathlessness, oedema, chest pain, and also the all-over suntan—and then delivered the coup de grâce.
‘He had strawberries for breakfast. Aren’t they supposed to be very high in potassium?’
He arched an eloquent eyebrow. ‘Clever girl. Well done. If it is renal failure, it may well have pushed him over the edge. Let’s get him in and then we can dialyse him PDQ if necessary.’
He turned to the patient, and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘OK, Mr Davis, I think we’d better have you in for a closer look at your problem. We’ll soon have you feeling better. I’ll go and have a chat with your wife now, and she can come in and sit with you until we take you up.’
He tucked a hand in the crook of Bron’s arm and gave her the benefit of a ten-megawatt smile that could well have been a monument to the success of some unknown orthodontist, but Bron would lay odds that the dentition, like the man, was totally without artifice.
‘Let’s get a coffee,’ he said.
Bron’s lips twitched into a grin. She’d bet he was a real heartbreaker. ‘Good idea.’ They walked down to Kathleen’s desk and arranged for Mr Davis’s transfer to ITU, then went into the staff-room.
While she poured the coffee, she studied Dr Marumba as he prowled around the room. He looks like an Olympic athlete, she thought, with that powerful build and those incredibly long legs. His ebony skin was in stark contrast to the gleaming white of his coat, and his eyes twinkled like jet. He took the proffered cup and that smile broke out again on his face, lighting up the corners of the room with its brilliance.
‘Tell me something,’ Bron said, eyeing this delightful giant over the rim of her cup. ‘Why Jesus?’
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Apart from the miracles I perform? Because it’s my name. True! They call the medical wards heaven—not usually in my hearing, and not usually in front of the patients—it’s been known to upset them!’
He gave a rich chuckle, and drained his coffee. ‘Back to the grind. I’ll go and talk to Mrs Davis. Good to meet you, Bronwen, and well spotted, by the way. I’ll catch up with you later.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, OK. Thanks for coming down—he was my first patient. And come to think of it, if I don’t get back out there, he could be my last!’
He laughed. ‘You could always come and work for me if Harris throws you out!’
He gave a jaunty wave and left, and, setting her cup down, Bron followed him.
The rest of the morning passed in a whirlwind of minor cuts and bruises, sprains, simple fractures and a very straightforward case of a child who had swigged an unknown quantity out of a bottle of cough medicine, and obligingly vomited with the aid of a little ipecacuanha.
His mother was relieved and grateful, and marched the little terror out to wreak further havoc.
‘I bet we see him again before too long!’ Kathleen laughed, and Bron found herself smiling. So far, so good.
‘All quiet now, Bron? Come on up for lunch, and meet some of the others.’ Jim Harris dropped a friendly arm around her shoulders, and gave her an affectionate squeeze. ‘How are you doing? Well done with that old boy—jolly good start. Marumba was very impressed. Clever of you to pick up on the strawberries. Here, dump your coat, forget reality for a while.’
He filled her in on the history of the building and the current state of the hospital as they went, and by the time they arrived at the staff dining-room she was totally lost again.
There was, predictably, a sea of new faces, all friendly and, she found, instantly disconnected from their names. I suppose I’ll sort them all out in time, she thought, and concentrated on smiling and avoiding too many questions about her marital status and past medical career.
When they had finished eating, Jim led her through to the coffee-lounge and sat her down with her back to the door.
‘Don’t mind, do you? Only there’s someone I want you to meet—you’ll be bound to work with him fairly soon. General surgeon—excellent chap. Started here about a year ago. He was senior registrar at Guy’s until then, and became a consultant at thirty-one. Meteoric rise, but he’s extraordinarily gifted. Ah, talk of the devil——’
‘As opposed to Jesus?’ Bronwen quipped, but the laugh died in her throat as Jim rose to his feet.
‘Oliver, I want you to meet my new registrar, Bronwen Jones. Bronwen, Oliver Henderson, boy-wonder of general surgery.’
In slow motion, frame by frame, Bronwen lifted her head and made herself meet the clear, steady gaze that had haunted her for almost two years—the longest, loneliest, most rewarding and challenging years of her life.
‘Hello, Bron.’ The voice like oiled sandpaper, deep and husky, rasped over her senses, leaving her nerve-endings raw.
She closed her eyes against the sensation, and felt the years slip away …
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_39ef6e20-4b93-536a-aa0e-9b5b987e5af1)
BRONWEN lifted her eyes and looked around the crowded conference room. There was no sign of Jane—typical! And there was that man again, propping up the wall with indolent grace: tall, well-built, a lock of his heavy gold-blond hair falling over his eyes so that he had to keep thrusting it back with his fingers.
Every time Bronwen looked up he was there, watching her with those startling blue eyes like a Mediterranean dawn, with a sultry promise of heat.
She shifted uncomfortably on her chair and cursed Jane for her absence. Where was she? He was watching her again.
She made a deliberate attempt to ignore him. It lasted perhaps fifteen seconds, and then her eyes were drawn back to his, tangling helplessly in that clear, bright gaze that seemed to dip into her soul. A slow, sensuous smile touched the corner of his mouth, and she blushed and looked away, more determined than ever to ignore him. Just a conference Lothario, she decided, and scoured the room for her colleague.
‘Hi!’ Jane came up behind her, and struggled inelegantly over the back of the seat, dropping into it with a plop. ‘Just in time. Phew! What a scorcher. Have I missed anything?’
Bron smiled and shook her head. They haven’t started. What kept you?’
Jane rolled her eyes and grinned wickedly. ‘I met this man—stunning. We’re meeting him in the bar before supper tonight. He’s here with a friend, too—said so long as you weren’t related to Count Dracula you’d be welcome to join us. I accepted for you—OK?’
Bron laughed. ‘Do I get a choice?’
‘Absolutely not. That’s him over there——’ She gave a little wave, and Bron looked across the room in time to see the man with the blue eyes smile and raise an eyebrow at her. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’
Bron’s heart thumped heavily with disappointment. So Jane had snapped him up—the story of her life! God knows, she was used to it. ‘What?’
‘I said don’t you just love the way his hair curls over his ears? And those melting brown eyes——’
‘Brown eyes?’
‘Mmm, like toffee. Gosh, I’m not sure I can wait for tonight.’
Bron glanced across the room again, and saw the tall, fair man in conversation with another man, equally good-looking, but dark-haired, and as she looked he raised his hand and waved.
Jane waggled her fingers at him, and grinned. ‘That must be his friend. What a pair they make!’
‘Mmm. Wolves always hunt in packs. I wouldn’t care to trust either of them,’ Bron muttered, but her eyes kept creeping back to him, and then flicking away when she was caught.
In the end she resolutely turned her back, but she could feel his eyes boring holes in her skull, and missed every second word of the lecture.
When it was over they went up to their rooms and showered and changed. As she was berating herself for her indecision, Jane tapped on the door and let herself in.
‘Wear the blue silk,’ she said decisively, and lifted it out of the wardrobe.
Bron threw her a withering look. ‘I have no intention of getting myself raped. God only knows why I brought that thing. I shall wear the peach cotton dress—or the navy one with the sailor collar——’
‘Wear the blue silk,’ Jane repeated.
In answer Bron hung it up in the wardrobe and lifted out a soft peach-flowered cotton tea-dress, delicately pretty and absolutely demure. Jane made a sound of disgust, and Bronwen ignored her and finished her light make-up.
By the time they went down, Jane had admitted defeat and conceded that Bron did indeed look very attractive in the tea-dress.
‘Probably worse. You look so damned feminine that even a dyed-in-the-wool misogynist would fall for you!’
Bron laughed. ‘There’s hope for the average doctor, then!’
As they reached the bottom of the sweeping stairs, the two men detached themselves from the bar and came across to meet them.
‘Bron, I want you to meet Michael Grant. Michael, this is Bronwen Jones. I’m sorry, I don’t know your friend’s name——’
‘Oliver—Oliver Henderson. Pleased to meet you—at last.’
As their hands touched, a shiver of awareness surged between them, and Bron stiffened, and then with a smile Oliver engulfed her hand with his long, slender fingers and held it firmly. Eyes locked, they stood frozen, tingling with awareness, until a hand waved between their faces snapped them out of the trance.
Bron gave a breathless little laugh. ‘Hello, Oliver.’
Oliver’s eyes danced with amusement, and he released her hand reluctantly. ‘Hi,’ he said softly. ‘You’re looking lovely. Shall we go and get a drink?’
They gravitated to the bar, and, while Michael and Oliver organised the drinks, she had an opportunity to observe him.
He was tall—a touch over six feet, she judged, although from five feet five it was hard to be specific—and that lovely hair like burnished gold brushed his collar at the back, thick and unruly. She clenched her hands, just in case she gave in to her urges and ran across the bar to thread her fingers through its softness.
Heavens, he was just a man, like any one of the dozens she saw every day at work—no, not quite like them, her body denied. No one else had ever—ever—made her feel so warm and womanly and wanted with just a simple compliment.
They returned with the drinks, and Oliver squeezed in beside her, brushing her knee with the hard length of his thigh. She tried to shift away, but there was nowhere to go and the movement only exaggerated the contact.
He laid his arm along the back of the banquette seat and grinned at her.
‘Cosy, isn’t it? Do you mind? We could go somewhere quieter, if you like.’
Bronwen nearly choked. She was sure his comment was meant quite innocently, but her thoughts and his words were becoming inextricably entwined. She felt the blush coming before it reached her cheeks, and ducked her head forwards to hide it behind the fall of her hair.
His fingers eased it back and he smiled gently. ‘You’re lovely when you blush. I really didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’
She glanced quickly at him, and offered a shy smile in return. ‘I’m sorry, it must be the heat.’
‘Do you want to go out for a walk?’
‘Yes—oh, no! I mean——’
‘Just a walk. Trust me.’ His grin was mischievous but wholly straightforward, and his eyes were open and sincere. For some lunatic, unsound and intuitive reason, she did trust him.
‘OK. It’s too hot to eat yet anyway.’
They wandered through the grounds of the conference centre, down towards the little man-made lake, and paused on the bridge, elbows resting on the parapet, sipping their drinks and watching the baby ducks for a while in companionable silence.
‘So what’s a gorgeous young thing like you doing on a God-awful course like this?’ he asked after a minute or two.
Bron laughed. ‘Treatment of Trauma? I work in Accident and Emergency. I’m an SHO, but I’ve been offered the registrar’s job in December when she takes maternity leave. What about you?’
‘I’m in general surgery. I found A and E too traumatic—literally.’
‘Really?’ Bronwen eyed him in amazement. ‘I love it.’
‘You must be addicted to your own adrenalin, then! I like the nice, sedate pace of the theatre. I can cope with that. You don’t often get two patients at once!’
Bronwen studied him openly. ‘You ought to be able to cope at your age,’ she teased. ‘How old are you—thirty, thirty-one?’
He chuckled. ‘Not bad. I’m thirty next week. What about you?’
She smiled. ‘You aren’t supposed to ask a lady that question!’
‘But?’
‘Twenty-seven.’ Her smile tilted her lips a little further.
He touched his finger to the corner of her mouth. ‘Lovely…’ His eyes fastened on her lips, and she moistened them involuntarily with her tongue.
He ran the fingertip across her lower lip, the damp skin dragging gently.
‘If we stay here much longer, little lady,’ he whispered, ‘I’m going to kiss that delectable mouth.’
Bron felt his breath fan gently across her face, and her lips parted on a sigh of regret. She wished he would. Her eyes fluttered closed while she dealt with the storm of feeling suddenly raging in her breast. Who was he? Why this crazy urge to bury her face against his broad, firm chest and hug him close?
His palms cupped her face, and she sensed rather than felt his lips brush lightly over hers, once, twice, before his lips came down firmly over hers with a sweet, aching tenderness far more intimate than passion would have been. With a tortured groan, he folded her into his arms and held her tight.
‘Oliver?’
‘Shh. Don’t say anything. Just let me hold you.’
They stood there, arms wrapped round each other, absorbing the warmth and humanity of the contact while their tumbling emotions settled to a steady roar. Gradually his grip slackened, and Bron stood away from him, raising puzzled eyes to his.
‘What happened?’
His voice was gruff with emotion. ‘I don’t know, Bron. I’ve never felt anything like this before. It’s as if——’ He laughed, a little raggedly. ‘My God, I’m normally so practical and down-to-earth! Perhaps we ought to go and eat—it’s probably the hallucinogenic effects of hypoglycaemia.’
Bron laughed breathlessly. ‘You could be right.’
Instinctively their fingers met and wound together as they walked slowly back to the conference centre, a large, sprawling country house dating from the turn of the century.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Bron sighed. She wondered what he had been going to say. It’s as if—what? As if we were meant for each other? As if we’ve been waiting all our lives? Suddenly, she felt threatened by the short time they could have together. ‘It’s a shame we’re only here for four days,’ she blurted.
‘Funny, I’ve been thinking that, but it’s nothing to do with architecture and everything to do with a dark-haired sprite from the valleys——’
‘I’m not from the valleys! It’s only my name that’s Welsh—and my father. I was born in London.’
‘Poetic licence. Bron?’
‘Mmm?’
He tugged her to a halt, and looked down into her face with eyes unguarded and vulnerable. He looked slightly embarrassed and very honest. ‘I know we’ve only got a few days, but I want to see as much of you as I can. I don’t know what’s happening between us, I don’t normally come on so strong. Whatever, there’s something, and I want to find out what it is. No holds barred. I’m warning you, I want to make love to you, Bron, slowly, tenderly—I want to watch your eyes heavy with passion, your lips full and ripe from my kisses … not tonight, but soon. Maybe tomorrow, the next day? I want to know you first, but when I do——’
He flushed and turned away, obviously embarrassed. ‘God, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m rambling on like this. I feel like a raging adolescent—I’ll be reciting poetry to you next!’ He took a deep, ragged breath. ‘There you are, though. That’s how I feel. If you want to come along for the ride, the spacecraft leaves in thirty seconds. I should warn you, though. I think the pilot’s gone slightly crazy.’
She gave a breathless little chuckle. There was a pulse beating heavily in her throat, and she felt unbearably moved and aroused by his honesty. She laid a hand reassuringly on his arm, and felt a shudder run through him. ‘It’s all right, Oliver. I understand.’
He turned back to her, his eyes searching. ‘You do? I’m damned if I do. Look, if it isn’t what you want, Bron, for whatever reason, then stop me now. Don’t play with me.’
Bronwen swallowed with difficulty. ‘Oh, Oliver … Are you serious?’
His eyes were steady on hers, and they softened with tenderness. ‘I’ve never been more serious in my life. Do you want time to think about it?’
In answer, she stepped closer and, reaching up, pulled his face down to brush his lips with hers. ‘I don’t want to waste our time. I feel the same—and I’m terrified.’
He hugged her close, and the breath sagged out of his body with relief. Thank God!’ he breathed, and then chuckled. ‘Come on, little lady, let’s go and eat before I do something very ungentlemanly and drag you off into the bushes!’
The crowd in the dining-room was thinning out by the time they arrived, and they took their salads out on to the terrace, eating with one hand while the fingers of the other were entwined.
After a while, Oliver gave up and pushed his plate away. ‘I can’t eat and hold you at the same time, and I daren’t let go in case you vanish.’
Bron followed his lead. She really wasn’t very hungry anyway. The feelings racing through her were nothing to do with low blood sugar and everything to do with the dancing blue eyes and the warm, generous mouth whose touch she had felt so briefly.
‘I won’t vanish,’ she murmured.
‘Promise?’
‘Promise. Will you?’
‘Vanish? No way. Where can I go? We’re in outer space!’
They talked for hours, comparing likes and dislikes, hobbies and interests, and in the end they simply sat, their coffee growing cold, and stared into each other’s eyes like moonstruck adolescents.
As the last rays of the evening sun dipped behind the trees, Jane and Michael came and joined them, and the spell was broken, or at least put on hold. Michael fetched fresh coffee and they chatted about the conference. Bron found it difficult to drag her eyes from Oliver and concentrate on what they were all saying. In the end she gave up and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his voice, headily conscious of the pressure of his thigh against hers. She wondered what tomorrow would bring.
Time for bed,’ she heard him say, and her eyes flew open in alarm.
He caught her surprised look before she could cover it, and smiled teasingly. ‘I’ll walk you to your room. Goodnight, Jane, Michael.’
He held her chair, and placed a warm and comfortable arm around her shoulders as they walked towards the stairs. Her arm slipped naturally around his waist and she felt the hard nudge of his hip against her side as they crossed the hallway and went up the stairs.
At the door to her room, she stopped in confusion. Did he expect her to let him in? She really felt as if she would, if he made the slightest move towards her, and yet it went so against her normal character that she felt a wild flutter of panic.
He turned her into his arms and tucked her head under his chin, the steady, even beat of his heart reassuring under her ear. His voice rumbled gently above her.
‘I don’t want to let you go, but I must. You’re tired and so am I, and so much has happened. I want some time to absorb it, and I really ought to write up my notes on this evening’s lecture.’
‘Notes?’ she whispered vaguely, and wondered how he could think of anything so totally prosaic while she was floating on a cloud of cotton-wool.
‘Notes,’ he said, more firmly. ‘It’s probably more effective than a cold shower.’
He released her gently, and, with a slow smile and the gentle pressure of his lips fleetingly on her forehead, he was gone, striding quietly down the landing. Bron watched the empty hall for minutes afterwards, hugging herself and smiling softly, then with a little laugh she let herself into her room and prepared for bed.
Oliver. She lay in bed turning over the events of the evening in her mind, hearing his voice again and seeing the way his cheek dimpled when he smiled, and the twitch of his firmly sculpted mouth.
It’s all genetic, she told herself. He can’t take any credit for the way he looks. Oh, lord, what have I promised him? With her thoughts in turmoil, and a mingled feeling of panic and trembling anticipation, she fell asleep.
‘What we are talking about here is the Golden Hour, the time between admission and stabilisation for surgery in victims of severe trauma—for example, road-traffic accidents, burns, chemical leaks, explosions, et cetera.
‘In the USA, and now in some fortunate areas of Britain, specialist Trauma Units exist, and they are specifically set up as emergency treatment centres for victims of such incidents. They have highly skilled staff available twenty-four hours a day, to provide specialist care instantly on admission. No fudging around wondering what the hell to do until the consultant has come back from lunch, or trying to phone another hospital to find out what the current treatment for chemical burns is—instant, immediate, accurate treatment within the first hour—the Golden Hour.’
The lecturer paused, and papers were handed out down the rows. These are the statistics. I think you’ll be as impressed as I was when I saw them. They outline quite clearly the importance of getting the right treatment within those crucial early minutes. OK, let’s break for coffee to give you time to look at the figures. We’ll meet back here in an hour to discuss anything you want to raise, so please don’t waste your time—you aren’t here to have fun!’
A laugh rippled round the conference, and the delegates stood and shuffled towards the coffee-lounge. Beside Bronwen, Oliver stretched and grinned. ‘Hear that, little lady? We aren’t here to have fun! Let’s go and find a corner and look at his figures—although I’d much rather look at yours.’
‘Oliver!’ Bron blushed and laughed, and he grinned again.
‘I’ll be good,’ he promised.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ she muttered under her breath, and his startled grunt of laughter made her blush again. ‘You weren’t meant to hear that.’
‘I’ll bet! Come on, let’s go and lie on the grass by the lake and study this lot.’
‘I think we ought to stay here and concentrate.’
He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘If you insist. Let’s go over the top. Michael! Grab two more coffees, there’s a good lad. I’ll find a space outside.’
Michael waved acknowledgement and turned back to Jane.
‘Those two seem to have scored a hit with each other,’ Bron commented, and Oliver shook his head.
‘Just a holiday flirtation. I don’t think either of them is taking it seriously.’
Their eyes met, and for a long moment Bron felt herself drowning in the depths of those endlessly blue eyes, but then Oliver looked away and swore softly under his breath.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Wrong? Nothing. Everything’s in perfect working order—it’s just a little public to react quite so strongly to you, and when you look at me like that my body gets a mind of its own. Come on, let’s go over there on the grass and sit down.’
He grabbed her arm and steered her quickly through the crowd, then they sank down on to the cool grass in the shade of a tree. He leaned against the trunk and studied her flushed cheeks with a reluctant smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s OK for girls, it doesn’t show. You don’t know how lucky you are. Hell, I thought by now I could control my reactions, but no one’s ever got to me the way you do.’
‘Oh, Oliver, don’t apologise. You aren’t the only one.’
Bron wrapped her arms around her knees to hide the hard jut of her nipples against the thin fabric of her dress, and looked out over the lake. ‘Why is this happening to us?’ she asked in a strained voice, and she felt his hand reach out and trace the line of her shoulder under the strap of her dress.
‘I don’t know. I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done to deserve you, but I can’t tell you how glad I am—hi, Michael. Drag up a blade of grass and join us.’
Bronwen looked up to find Jane watching her curiously. ‘What did you think of the lecture?’
Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘Excellent. Have you seen the figures?’
‘We were just getting round to that,’ Oliver put in, and Michael snorted with laughter.
‘Bull! Right, grab a coffee and let’s confer.’
Bron listened, putting in the odd comment, but content by and large to listen to Oliver’s voice and to learn from his remarks. He was obviously very aware of current trends, and Bron was willing to bet that he was an excellent and conscientious doctor.
The conversation became more general, and she gathered that Michael was a senior registrar in the A and E department of Guy’s, where Oliver was a surgical SR. She also learned that Oliver was waiting for the results of his FRCS exams, which he had completed recently.
‘Hard?’ she asked, and he raised his eyes to the sky.
‘I’ll say! I’ve never worked so hard in my life. They were killers. I don’t think I stand a chance, but one can only try. The vivas were foul.’
‘Rubbish. You can’t fail. You’ve never got less than a first yet—bloody star student, this boy. Made the rest of us look as if we’d spent all our time in the bar——’
‘I wonder why that was?’ Oliver teased, deflecting Michael’s praise. Yet another aspect of him that Bron found so appealing.
He unravelled his length and stood up, stretching his arms high above his head. A sliver of tanned, hair-scattered midriff peeked out under the hem of his shirt, and Bron dragged her eyes away from it and got to her feet, making a production of brushing the grass off her skirt to avoid his eye.
Jane attached herself firmly to Bronwen’s side, said, ‘We’re just going to freshen up—save us a place,’ and steered her through the bar towards the cloakroom.
There she took her comb out of her bag, dragged it through her hair and eyed Bron in the mirror.
‘So what’s with you two? You’ve been making sheep’s eyes at each other ever since you met. What’s going on?’
Bron shook her head in denial. ‘Nothing. We just—I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone like that before.’
‘Well, I’ve certainly never seen you behave like this—the cool, calm, collected Dr Jones? Good grief, Bron, I always thought you were an iceberg, and yet if Oliver so much as looks at you I can see the smoke pouring off you both.’
Bron laughed. ‘Is it that obvious? Sorry. We’ll try to ignore each other.’
Jane shook her head vigorously. ‘Uh-uh. Go for it—get it out of your system. I won’t tell.’
‘Sister Hardy, if you so much as hint to anyone that I’ve been behaving like a moonstruck teenager I’ll get you transferred to orthopaedics—as a patient.’
Jane snorted. ‘You and whose army? Come on. Let’s go and tie the lecturer up in knots.’
In the event it was Oliver who had the lecturer tied up in knots, and the other delegates in stitches, but it was entirely good-natured, and resulted in an excellent discussion with much in the way of relevant contribution from many of the delegates.
By the time they broke for lunch, Bron was feeling light-hearted and cheerful, and they all took their salads out into the grounds and carried on the discussion.
Bron lay back in the cool grass and let the conversation wash over her. She was feeling intoxicated with the air and the sound of Oliver’s voice, and she closed her eyes and drifted in and out of a light sleep.
She awoke slowly to awareness of him; he was lying beside her propped up on one elbow and watching her sleep, and she smiled lazily and shaded her eyes.
‘Hi. Where are the others?’
‘Hi yourself. Gone for a walk.’
He leaned over her, and his shoulders blocked out the sun. She watched, breathless, as his mouth came slowly down and brushed hers with careful deliberation. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,’ he whispered softly. His head came down again, and this time he deepened the kiss, his hand coming up to tangle in her hair.
When he lifted his head, his eyes were smoky with passion and he swallowed convulsively. He lifted a lock of her hair and wound it thoughtfully around one finger, then tugged it gently. ‘I want to drag you off into my cave and make mad, passionate love to you, but the lecturer would be so disappointed if I wasn’t there to stir things up.’
He laughed a little shakily, and as he lifted his hand to graze her cheek with his knuckles she noticed he was trembling.
‘Oh, Oliver, I want you, too,’ she whispered, and he gave a low groan and flopped back against the grass.
‘What the hell are we going to do about it, Bron? I can’t think, I can’t concentrate; if I close my eyes all I see is your face. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I just want to hold you in my arms and talk to you—I don’t really care if we make love or not. Hell, it’s far too soon!’ He groaned and rolled on to his stomach, burying his head in his arms. ‘I never behave like this, and I can’t believe you do either, but I have this overwhelming urge to take you to bed and make love to you until one of us begs for mercy! I’m just not sure I could cope with it yet.’
Bron took a deep breath. He was right, of course, she didn’t behave like this and never had, either, but what they had was different, special, and she wasn’t ready to let him go. She’d only had one affair before, and that was with someone she’d known for years. It had been a gentle and natural extension of their friendship and respect, and it had fizzled out just as naturally when he’d moved away for promotion; but, in terms of fireworks, already Oliver was winning hands down. If she let him go now, she knew she’d regret it for the rest of her life. When she spoke, her voice trembled slightly.
‘I won’t beg for mercy.’
He lifted his head and gazed at her seriously. ‘Oh, Bron—I’m not interested in a quick roll in the hay.’
‘Oh! That wasn’t—I didn’t mean…’
Her confusion must have shown in her face, because he pulled her into his arms and cradled her against his chest. ‘I’m not saying I don’t want to make love with you! I’m saying it’s more than that. I think you could come to mean a great deal to me, very easily. I just don’t want to blow my chances with you by pushing you into something you’ll regret later.’
‘I would never regret it,’ she said quietly.
‘You don’t think you would, but things—people, circumstances—change. Come on, let’s go back to the lecture and put things back into perspective. I don’t think I trust myself to be alone with you when you’re so vulnerable.’
‘Oliver! I’m not vulnerable, I’m making a choice.’
He looked down at her, and shook his head. ‘No, Bron, you have no choice. Where I’m concerned you’re as vulnerable as I am with you. We’re wide open to hurt, and we’ll have to protect each other. God knows, I’ll never forgive myself if I hurt you.’
He pulled her to her feet, and tucked her into his side for the walk back to the conference-room.
Jane and Michael were waiting for them, and they sat down just in time as the lecture began again. Bron made a conscious effort to listen, but it wasn’t easy, and she caught Oliver’s rueful grin more than once. He was obviously having the same trouble.
They broke for tea and stayed on the terrace with the others, and after the evening lecture they got together for a drink and a chat over the day’s notes. Whether it was the atmosphere, or Oliver’s presence, or just the fact that she wasn’t used to it, Bron felt the drinks going to her head and found it harder than ever to concentrate on what they were saying.
Predictably her notes were sketchy and filled with doodles—her name and Oliver’s, intertwined with love-hearts and arrows and trailing vine leaves. His were almost as bad, except that his doodles were restricted to ‘She loves me, she loves me not’, down the margin to the bottom line, ending with ‘She loves me not’.
Bron took his notes, drew in another line and wrote, ‘She loves me’, on it, and handed it back, and he gave a startled laugh.
‘Goodnight, all,’ he said briefly, grabbed Bron by the hand and towed her out through the french doors into the garden.
‘Just what are you trying to do to my blood-pressure?’ he said with a ragged chuckle, and tugged her into his arms to kiss her with all the pent-up emotions of the day. ‘Crazy girl,’ he murmured eventually against her hair, and held her, rocking her gently against his chest while the nightingale sang in the wood and the scent of orange blossom drifted round them in the warm, evening air.
Then with a sigh he put her from him. ‘Go on, go up to bed while I can still let you go.’ He brushed his lips lightly across hers and, turning her round, he propelled her gently towards the door. ‘Goodnight, my darling. Sleep tight. I’ll see you for breakfast.’
On considerably reluctant feet, Bron forced herself to walk away from him and upstairs.
The night was predictably sleepless; she lay, her mind filled with thoughts of Oliver, and wondered if he returned her love. How could he not? she thought dreamily, and finally fell asleep as the sun crept over the horizon.
She was woken abruptly by Oliver pounding on her door.
‘Bron? Open up, I’ve got something to show you!’
What on earth does he want? she wondered, and slid out of bed, her hair tousled, face flushed, eyes half shut. She caught a glimpse of herself on the way to the door, and groaned. She looked a wreck!
‘Come in,’ she muttered, and shut the door again behind him.
He swept her up in his arms and hugged her tight, laughing with delight and something else. She heard the crackle of paper, and then he dumped her on the bed and shoved a letter into her hand.
Sleepily, she pushed her fingers through her hair to lift it off her face, and dropped her eyes to the letter.
‘Oh! You passed your FRCS! Congratulations, Mr Henderson!’
She flung her arms around him and squeezed him tight. That’s fantastic! We’ll have go to out tonight to celebrate. Oh, you clever man! Oh, well done, darling——’
His mouth came down hard on hers, and when he released her his face was blazing with pride and happiness.
‘I can’t believe it—all that and you, too. I’d better get out of here before I do something crazy. See you downstairs in ten minutes.’
He winked and left her, and she gathered her scattered wits and washed and dressed in double-quick time.
The day passed in a whirl of congratulations. Somehow they managed to make some sense of the lectures, but by this time both of them were relying more and more heavily on Jane and Michael to pass on relevant notes during their breaks.
The other delegates heard about Oliver’s success and, not needing much of an excuse, decided to organise a party for that night.
Someone produced some disco lights, which were set up in the conference-room, and the chairs were cleared to leave space for dancing. The sound equipment was pressed into service, and a young SHO, who had done time on the hospital radio as a student, agreed to act as DJ. Jane dragged Bronwen upstairs.
The blue silk,’ she said firmly, thrusting Bron through her bedroom door. ‘I’ll be back in an hour, and you’d better be ready to blow their socks off!’
Bron laughed and shook her head in despair. ‘OK, OK, the blue silk. See you later.’
Fifty-five minutes later there was a tap on the door. Bron was sitting at the dressing-table, clad in a tiny pair of midnight-blue silk panties and her make-up, toying with her hair.
‘Come in,’ she called, and she heard the door open and shut softly behind her. ‘What do you think, Jane, down or up?’
‘Down,’ said a deep voice, and Bron leapt to her feet and spun round, clutching her arms to her chest.
‘Oliver! What are you doing in here?’ she squeaked.
He chuckled. ‘Obeying orders. You said come in.’ He walked towards her and, placing his warm hands on her bare shoulders, he kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘What are you wearing?’
‘Not a lot! Get out so I can get dressed.’
He grinned. ‘No way. Don’t worry, I’m a doctor——’
‘Huh! Anyway, you’re just plain Mr now, Henderson, so you can take yourself off while I finish my preparations.’
‘No. Is this the one?’ He held up the mightnight-blue silk dress, and she nodded. ‘Which way round does it go?’
‘Oliver!’ Bron tried to sound scandalised. ‘It’s backless!’
‘Pity. I think it would look better the other way round——’
‘Shut up and close your eyes. I’m getting cramp standing like this.’
‘Your choice, not mine. Oh, well.’ He sprawled out comfortably on the bed and shut his eyes. ‘I’ll give you ten seconds.’
It took her six.
‘Right, pervert, do the zip up, please.’
There was a tap on the door, just as Oliver sat up and reached for the zip.
‘Can I come in? Oh, sorry!’
‘It’s all right, Jane. He’s just doing up the zip.’
‘More’s the pity——’
‘Oliver!’
Jane smiled benignly. ‘I’ll see you two downstairs. Michael’s in the bar running up the bill.’
‘Whose?’
‘Yours, I think!’ Laughing at his horrified expression, Jane floated out of the room and closed the door.
‘Do I detect a mean streak?’ Bron murmured, and Oliver glowered at her.
‘Mean? You don’t know him when he gets going. By now, everyone down there will be celebrating my success at my expense, and what’s more I’m not even there!’
Bron slipped on her pumps. ‘Come on, then, what are we waiting for?’
‘This,’ he murmured, and drew her into his arms to kiss her gently. ‘Have I ever told you,’ he murmured, ‘how very beautiful you are?’
‘Oh, Oliver…’ Bron coloured delicately at the softly voiced compliment.
‘Oh, God, let’s get out of here while we still can,’ he groaned.
By the time they joined the others, the party was in full swing. They danced until Bron was breathless, and then propped up the parapet outside to cool off for a while before going back in again.
Oliver eyed her thoughtfully. ‘How are we going to keep this going, Bron? I’m in London, you’re in Bristol—it’s going to be hell. Normal people could commute for the weekends, but the chances of us both getting a weekend off together must be remote in the extreme. We might have to wait weeks on end.’
She tried to smile. There’s always the phone.’
He shook his head. ‘It can’t take the place of holding you in my arms—oh, God, Bron, I’m going to miss you so much!’ He tugged her into his arms with a wild desperation that found an echo in Bronwen’s heart, and she clung to him, suddenly terrified.
‘We’ll work something out—we must,’ he murmured against her hair. After a moment he released her, captured her hand, and led her back on to the dance-floor.
In the middle of the evening the DJ paused to dedicate the party and the next number to Oliver. The song, predictably—considering that their blossoming romance was being avidly watched by all and sundry—was a slow, sultry number. Oliver opened his arms and Bron steped into the warmth of his embrace with a delicious sense of inevitability.
He held her close, their thighs brushing with every slight movement, so that she was aware of the change in him almost as soon as he was. His warm, strong hands moved sensuously against the bare skin of her back, tracing the slender column of her spine and sending fire racing through her veins. His heart beneath her cheek quickened and beat more strongly, fanning the flames of her own desire, and when he led her wordlessly out on to the terrace to the other hall door and upstairs she followed without question.
At the door to her room she fumbled with the key so badly that he took it from her with hands only a little steadier than her own. Once in, he leaned back against the door and crushed her body against his, motionless for several minutes, then he eased her away from him and looked down into her eyes.
‘Sorry, I just had to be alone with you. I couldn’t hide my feelings any more.’ His voice was gruff with passion, and yet tinged with uncertainty. He searched his eyes, and then his lids drifted shut and he swallowed unsteadily. ‘Bron?’
‘Oh, yes, Oliver … please?’
For a long, breathless moment, he was motionless, then he exhaled and reached round to slide the zip down with trembling fingers. Slowly, with infinite care, he lowered the dress from her shoulders until it slithered in a shimmering pool to her feet, and then he knelt and eased the tiny triangle of lace down over her trembling legs. With a feather-light kiss on the tangle of curls he had revealed, he straightened and stripped off his own clothes, casting them aside until he stood naked before her, the moonlight silvering the smooth planes of his body, casting shadows in the scatter of curls on his chest, darkening the skin to bronze. Her breath caught in her throat.
‘You’re beautiful…’
He gave a shaky little laugh that cracked in the middle. ‘That’s my line. Oh, Bron…’
He scooped her up in his arms and laid her tenderly on the bed, coming down carefully beside her. She felt the slight rasp of his hair-roughened thigh, and smelled the warm, male, musky scent of his body as it joined with hers, and a soft cry rose in her throat, mingling with his as his mouth closed over her lips and captured her words of love.
She hadn’t known the highs could be so high. It was as if a giant hand had lifted them and thrown them out among the stars, to tumble gently back to earth in a tangle of limbs and murmured promises.
Later, she lifted her hand and touched his face, and found it wet with tears. He turned his lips into her palm, and pressed a soft kiss on the skin. When he lifted his head, she was stunned by the naked emotion in his eyes. His voice was ragged.
‘Dear God, Bron … I had no idea. Oh, darling, hold me, I love you, Bron. I love you, I love you…’
When she woke in the morning, he was gone. He had written ‘I love you’ on the mirror with her lipstick, and there was a note on the dressing-table.
Gone back to clear up the chaos. Think it’s best if I sleep in my room—I don’t want any speculation about you. See you for breakfast. We have to talk—there’s so much to tell you. I love you. Oliver.
She showered and dressed and ran downstairs eagerly, but as she reached the bottom step the manager crossed over to her.
‘Oh, Dr Jones, I’m so glad I’ve caught you. Mr Henderson asked me to give you a message. He was called away in the night—awful business, his brother-in-law was killed in a car accident. He had to dash back; he said his wife—Clare, isn’t it?—is pregnant, and he had to be with her. Dr Jones, are you all right?’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_31365805-9e62-5de7-9d54-f6333f51d4eb)
‘DR JONES? Bronwen? Are you all right?’
Bron lifted her shocked face to Jim Harris’s startled eyes and nodded faintly.
‘Yes—yes, I’m all right, Jim. Just a bit giddy. I think I stood up too fast.’
Oliver swore softly under his breath, and Bron felt her knees give way. She sat down abruptly before she fell.
‘I’ll get you a cup of coffee,’ Jim mumbled, and turned on his heel. Out of the corner of her eye, Bron could see Oliver, his face composed, only a muscle twitching in his jaw giving him away.
He sat beside her and covered her hand with his. ‘Bron? Are you OK? What happened?’
Was it her imagination, or was there a note of genuine concern in his voice? She snatched her hand away, but that only made matters worse because his hand then lay on her knee, and he made no attempt to remove it. Oh, lord, was she to be punished for that fatal attraction over and over again?
‘Here, drink this——’ Jim thrust a cup of coffee into her unsteady hands, and she tightened her fingers on the handle until her knuckles were white. ‘Did you have any breakfast?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I was sat down and force-fed.’
‘So it’s not the hallucinogenic effect of hypoglycaemia?’ Oliver murmured drily, and removed his hand from her knee. ‘Just to be on the safe side, I’ll get you a bar of chocolate.’
‘Please don’t bother,’ she said curtly, and Jim looked from one to the other of them with puzzled eyes. ‘Do you two know each other?’
‘Yes.’
‘No!’
‘Yes, we do,’ Oliver argued gently. ‘We met on a conference on trauma, remember?’
How could she forget? It had been the most traumatic week of her life. ‘Yes, we have met, but I wouldn’t say I knew you—though I thought I did…’
‘Bron?’
Jim’s bleep went off then, so he excused himself with a worried look at his new registrar, and left the room.
‘Just what did you mean by that?’ Oliver asked.
Bron laughed, a thready, shaky little laugh that betrayed her tension. ‘I would have thought it was obvious.’
‘Not to me. Why didn’t you reply to my letters?’
‘Letters? What letters?’ Bron couldn’t quite meet his eye. There had been letters, three of them, addressed to her hospital, but not for two months, and by then she’d been so hurt that she’d thrown them away without reading them. And then nothing, just when she had been prepared to sink her principles and tell him that she was pregnant. She had wound up her courage to ring Guy’s and tell him about Livvy when she was born, and she was told he had left. Mail would be forwarded, she was told, but they had no address as yet. Her courage had failed before she could post the letter, and afterwards she was glad it had.
He sighed heavily. ‘I tried to contact you—several times. When you didn’t reply, I phoned the hospital and was told you had left with no forwarding address. I had to assume that what we had between us had meant nothing to you—but I was wrong, wasn’t I? You’re as shocked to see me as I am to see you——’
‘Rubbish,’ she got out, and he snorted.
‘Look at you. If you aren’t affected by seeing me again, why are you trying to throttle that cup?’
Surprised, Bron glanced down and made an immediate conscious effort to relax. The coffee slopped on to her skirt and she smacked the cup down on to the saucer with a defiant clatter. ‘Damn—now look what you’ve made me do!’
Unruffled, Oliver produced a clean handkerchief from his pocket and blotted her skirt unnecessarily thoroughly.
‘Thank you,’ she muttered through tight lips, and he chuckled.
‘Oh, Bron. Look, I have to go and start the afternoon list. What are you doing tonight?’
She closed her eyes. Surely he didn’t think she was going to let him pick up where they left off? Thinking of that gave her heart an unruly and unwelcome flutter, and she crushed the memory of his lovemaking with ruthless vigour. Lovemaking, indeed! Sex. A juvenile exercise in relieving hormones. So he was particularly good at it. So what? There were other things—like loyalty.
‘Going home, putting my feet up and telling someone very important to me how much I love them.’
His mouth thinned. Good. He had misunderstood, as she had intended.
‘OK. But we need to talk, Bron, because there’s a lot we didn’t say.’
‘You’re too late, Oliver.’ Years too late.
He stood up and sighed again, running his hand through his hair in that gesture she knew so well.
‘Nevertheless—I left abruptly, without time to say half of the things I wanted to say to you, and I want to apologise.’
‘So, you’ve apologised.’ Her voice softened. ‘I was sorry to hear about your brother-in-law. How was—Clare?’
‘Devastated, but the baby’s made a great deal of difference to her life, as you can imagine.’
Bron tried not to laugh. Oh, yes, she could imagine—only too well!
‘What was it?’ she asked, turning the knife.
‘A boy—lovely, healthy little lad. She called him after Tom, but he looks just the way I did as a child. The Henderson genes must be very strong.’
She could imagine that, too. Livvy was the spitting image of her father, from that startlingly direct blue gaze to the unruly tumble of golden hair. She squeezed back the tears that threatened, and rose to her feet.
‘I must get back to work. I’m glad Clare’s OK and the baby was all right. I’ll see you…’
She forced herself to walk away, and when she glanced back from the door she saw him watching her with a strangely unguarded expression in his eyes.
Oh, hell. That was all she needed. For two years she had told herself that he was an opportunist, an unscrupulous bastard—not her favourite word, she thought with a pang—but what if she was wrong?
No, she told herself firmly. Whether his feelings for her had been genuine or not, he was married, and he jolly well should have made that clear and remained faithful, even if only in body.
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Caroline Anderson
A DANGEROUS TEMPTATION? When Dr Bronwen Jones returns to work after the birth of her now fifteen-month-old daughter it’s nerve-racking enough to be thrust in at the deep end of Audley Memorial Hospital’s busy Emergency Department. But coming face to face with Oliver Henderson, the brilliant young consultant general surgeon she once loved, has sent her stress levels through the roof… He was forbidden fruit then—and she had to leave—but now…? He doesn’t behave like a man who’s still married but she has to find out—because one thing’s for sure:Bron still loves him…THE AUDLEY—where love is the best medicine of all…
Relative Ethics
Caroline Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#uc5eb498c-3eac-50f6-b26a-ba67cf8132fd)
Title Page (#u2fd292d6-3d14-5d7a-a44a-bb98e01aa7fe)
Chapter One (#u48bed1e5-f737-5a0c-9054-8dbf0bd0ad30)
Chapter Two (#u8914d0ae-396a-5fc1-9982-940d5a6f7d73)
Chapter Three (#ucff932ff-887b-5784-94c0-b9e4ab66a22e)
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 Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f590b895-9219-5228-87f6-83eccfbe12a3)
‘How do I look?’
Elizabeth Jones glanced up at her daughter, and swallowed the lump in her throat. It was a big day for them all, but especially for Bron.
She forced herself to run her eye professionally and dispassionately over Bronwen’s slim, neat figure, from the glowing tumble of shining dark hair cut into becoming layers, down over the clean lines of the navy suit-jacket which hid the soft curves of her daughter’s slender figure and lent her an air of brisk efficiency, down the narrow navy skirt and the matching sheer tights to the neat navy pumps, and then back up again, to study the face, bravely confident and yet with a touch of uncertainty mirrored in the wide grey eyes.
‘Perfect.’ She cleared her throat, and tried again. ‘Just right. You look approachable and yet efficient. Have some breakfast.’
Bronwen shook her head. ‘No—oh, Mum, I couldn’t eat a thing——’
‘Bron, you can’t start your first day without a single calorie inside you. Now sit down and do as you’re told!’
‘Bully,’ Bron said softly, but she smiled and obeyed, struggling with a piece of toast and a cup of coffee.
‘Livvy still asleep?’ Her mother’s gentle query brought a flush of guilt and anxiety to Bronwen’s pale cheeks.
‘I didn’t like to wake her just to say goodbye. Oh, Mum, I’m sure she won’t really be scarred for life if I go back to work, but somehow—I just feel so wicked——’
Her mother laid her hand gently over Bronwen’s slim fingers, and squeezed reassuringly. ‘Don’t be silly—I went back to work, and you aren’t exactly scarred for life. She won’t go short of love, darling. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine together. Now get off to work before you’re late.’
‘I wasn’t fifteen months old, and you only worked part-time. I suppose I can always hand in my notice if it doesn’t work——’
‘Over my dead body!’ her mother chided. ‘Without your work you’re only half a person. You belong there, Bron. You need medicine—and medicine needs you.’ She walked Bronwen to the door, and gave her a firm hug. ‘Did I ever tell you how proud I am of you?’
‘Oh, Mum—I love you!’
Eyes misting with emotion, feeling the same tingling dread and anticipation as she’d had on her first day on the wards, Bronwen started her car and drove carefully the three miles to the Audley Memorial Hospital.
A new day, and a new start. Another chapter in her life closed. She stifled a pang of regret and dragged her mind away from the memory of a pair of vivid blue eyes the colour of a Mediterranean dawn, burning with passionate intensity, and a gravelly voice saying over and over, ‘I love you, Bron, I love you …’
Lies, all of it. Yet even so, she wouldn’t change a thing. And damn it, she still loved him, even after all this time and knowing the way he had lied. And there was Livvy, bright, vivacious, her tumble of gold curls framing a smiling face, and those incredible long-lashed blue eyes she had inherited from her father. For the thousandth time, Bron wondered where he was and how he was—not that she ought to care, but somehow hearts tended to go their own way.
She parked in the area set aside for medical staff, using the plastic card Jim Harris had given her to raise the security gate, and, squaring her shoulders, made her way through the door marked ‘Accident and Emergency’.
The smell hit her as she walked in, a sort of busy antiseptic smell composed of polish and institutional food and Hibitane, totally familiar and very reassuring. Her mother was right, this was where she belonged.
She walked on, past the doors marked ‘Staff Only’, round to the right, second door on the left. Here it was—Dr J E Harris. Drawing a deep breath, she rapped twice.
‘Come in!’
She opened the door and did as she was bidden, smiling to herself at the huge man sprawled like a teddy-bear across the chair and desk. He grinned, covered the mouthpiece of the telephone with one large paw, and mouthed, ‘Have a seat—won’t be a tick.’
She perched on the edge of the desk while he terminated the call, and then dropped his feet to the floor and stood with surprising grace, coming out from behind the desk to wrap her hands warmly in his.
‘Good to see you again, Bronwen. Welcome to the team. Come and get a cup of coffee and meet the others. They’ll be glad to see you—we’ve been awfully pushed just recently. Hell of a weekend, I gather. Pile-up on the A45—holiday traffic, I suppose. I was sailing.’
‘Very sensible,’ she said with a wry smile, and he laughed and patted her shoulder.
‘Nervous?’
She shrugged. ‘A bit. It’s been eighteen months. Dr Harris?’
‘Call me Jim, Bronwen. What’s the matter?’
She paused, unsure of how to word her unusual request. ‘It may seem silly to you, but I’d rather the others didn’t know about my daughter, if you don’t mind. There’s enough speculation about single women doctors without adding fuel to the fire. Of course, if you’ve already told them, it doesn’t matter——’
‘Tell ’em what you like, my dear. I’ve told them only that you’re joining the department—frankly, we’re so pushed they wouldn’t care if you had three heads!’
‘They would if I were a cannibal,’ she said with a grin, and Jim Harris chuckled and opened the door.
‘They’d probably line up to be nibbled by you. They’re a miserable collection of rakes, by and large, but good doctors nevertheless. Just don’t let them take themselves too seriously!’
He wheeled her down the corridor and into the staff lounge. Forewarned was forearmed, she thought as the two young men lolling in the chairs raised bleary faces to her and then stumbled to their feet, interest flickering in the sunken depths of their bloodshot eyes. How tired would they have to be before they failed to register a reasonable-looking woman? Bron wondered, and tried not to laugh at their enthusiasm as they squabbled amicably over who was giving her a cup of coffee.
It turned out to be academic because the loudspeaker on the wall squawked as they reached the coffee-pot, and they groaned and tossed a coin.
‘See you later,’ one of them grumbled, grabbing his white coat off a peg, and Jim waved at his retreating back.
‘That was Steve Barnes. This——’ he indicated the other doctor, who had forgotten about Bron’s coffee and slumped back down in a chair ‘—is Mick O’Shea.’ The loudspeaker squawked again, and Jim excused himself with a mild expletive and a muttered apology.
Bronwen crossed to the coffee-pot. ‘Hello, Mick. I’m Bronwen Jones. Can I get you a coffee?’
The Irishman raised his head and stared through her for a second, then forced his eyes to focus. ‘Thanks. That’d be great. What a bloody awful night!’
‘Grim, was it?’
He nodded, and sat up to take his coffee from her, gulping it gratefully. ‘So tell me, Bronwen, what’s a pretty little slip of a thing like you doing in a hell-hole like this?’
Bronwen laughed. ‘One, I am not a pretty little slip of a thing—I am at least three years older than you, Dr O’Shea—and I’m here to work, and two, it’s not a hell-hole, it’s a well-run, modern hospital in an idyllic setting.’
‘Well, it sure feels like hell this morning, and as for your being a whatever it was I said you were, I reserve judgement—even if you’re positively middle-aged!’
Bron shook her head and tried to look severe, but Mick’s eyes were closing again and his half-finished coffee was taking a nose-dive down the front of his shirt.
She caught it in the nick of time and eased his fingers from the handle of the mug. Mick murmured something unintelligible, and slid further down the chair, out for the count.
Finishing her coffee, Bronwen made her way out of the staff-room and out into the corridor off which opened the treatment-rooms. Middle-aged, indeed! Sometimes she still felt eighteen, young, shy and innocent, and the world seemed a terrible place, full of people tempting her with lies and platitudes; she shook her head and pulled herself together as Steve Barnes came out of one of the treatment-rooms with a laughing nurse at his side.
‘Ah, Dr Jones, I take it you got your coffee?’ he said with a grin, and stuck out his hand. ‘Steve Barnes, and this is Sister Hennessy—Kathleen.’
She shook the proffered hands, and introduced herself as Bronwen. ‘I left Mick crashed out on the chairs in the staff-room—he looked all in.’
Steve shook his head. ‘He had a bad night—lost two of his patients in the space of an hour. It’s his first SHO job; he only started on A and E four weeks ago, and he hasn’t got used to it yet.’
‘Do we ever?’ Kathleen asked drily, and Steve laughed shortly and without humour.
‘Point taken. I’m going up to breakfast—I’ll dig Mick out on my way. Nice to meet you, Bronwen.’
Kathleen gave Bron a steady look, and smiled. ‘Welcome to the madhouse,’ she murmured. ‘Come with me and have a look round—have you worked in A and E before?’
‘Yes, in Bristol, but not for eighteen months.’
Kathleen twitched back a curtain across a treatment-room door and folded a blanket on to the foot of the bed. ‘This is where we treat the walking wounded,’ she explained, and opened the door at the far end of the room. ‘The cubicles are open to the waiting-room through a door, and through the curtained opening to the corridor, so that we have access from both sides. It means that seriously ill patients aren’t treated or moved in view of the waiting area, which is a fantastic improvement on where I trained.’
She opened another door. ‘This is the plaster-room, and X-ray is opposite, with Orthopaedics through there, so it’s all very convenient. Surgical and Medical wards are the other way, Paediatrics upstairs, and Obs and Gynae are in another wing—quite a trek, but they tend to be admitted direct. And in here is the emergency treatment area for acute and cardiac cases. In our more pompous moments we call it the trauma unit! OK?’
Bronwen was quite definitely not OK. Confused, bombarded with facts, names, unfamiliar geography, and all on top of doubts about returning to work. She shook herself and straightened.
‘Where do I leave my bag, and what about a white coat?’ she asked.
‘See Jim. He’s in his office. Come and find me when you’re all set up—and don’t worry, you’ll soon get back into it.’
She grinned and walked away with the quick, businesslike stride of the professional nurse, quiet and no-nonsense. Bron had warmed to her on sight, and knew instinctively that the sister would do everything in her power to help her settle in.
With a sigh of relief, she made her way to Jim Harris’s office. Just as she was turning the corner, she heard a deep, masculine laugh that shocked her to her toes. It couldn’t be! Bron gave herself a little mental shake. She really must stop doing this, seeing him and hearing him in every tall, fair man she had seen for the past two years. Nevertheless, as she rounded the corner, she couldn’t prevent her eyes from scanning the corridor eagerly, nor could she prevent the ridiculous little stab of disappointment when he wasn’t there.
Ten minutes later, equipped with a bleep, a white coat and a locker key, she found herself plunged in at the deep end with an elderly man suffering from chest pain and acute breathlessness. She listened to his chest, and smiled and chatted while she took a history and observed him.
‘Do you find it easier to breathe sitting up? Yes, I thought you might. All right, Mr Davis, you just sit there like that for a minute or two and breathe nice and steadily through the oxygen mask, and I’ll get someone down to look at you.’
She detailed a nurse to stay with him, and found Kathleen Hennessy checking dressings in one of the other cubicles.
‘There’s an elderly man in three with what looks like LVF, but he’s in too much pain, and I don’t like the sound of his chest. Can we get someone to look at him?’
‘I’ll get the consultant down.’ Kathleen crossed to her desk and picked up the phone. ‘Dr Marumba, please.’
Bron, her face troubled, went back to her patient. He was, if anything, even more distressed, but she was reluctant to give him anything before Dr Marumba saw him, so she checked his pulse again and found it light and fast. His skin was damp, and he was obviously deteriorating rapidly.
She stepped out into the corridor again and looked up and down for any sign of another doctor.
Kathleen came up to her. ‘His wife’s here—do you want to talk to her?’
Bron nodded. ‘Yes—is there somewhere we can go?’
Kathleen showed her into the office and then moments later came back with a worried-looking woman in her late sixties.
‘Mrs Davis? Is there anything you can tell me about how your husband’s been feeling recently that might help us?’
‘Oh, Doctor! He’s been off for weeks—hasn’t wanted his food, and he’s never been a picky eater. Complained of his feet swelling, and feeling breathless, and yesterday he was sick again—then this morning I thought he was better, because he went out into the garden and picked some strawberries for breakfast. He’s been in the garden a lot recently, that’s how he’s got that lovely tan, but he hasn’t looked well, and the backache——’
Bronwen leapt up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Davis. That’s been most helpful. I’ll get a nurse to take you back to the waiting-room.’
She all but ran back down the corridor to the treatment room.
She took the nurse to one side. ‘How is he?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Not good. Chest pain seems to be worse. I’ve put him on a monitor.’
Thanks. Taken any bloods? I think we need a total chemistry and blood count. It might be his heart, but I’m putting my money on renal failure.’
‘May one ask why?’
At the sound of the impeccable Oxford accent, Bronwen turned and looked up—and up.
‘Dr Marumba?’
He clicked his heels and inclined his head with a slight smile. ‘Call me Jesus. Everybody does. You were about to tell me…?’
While he ran gentle but thorough hands over the frail patient, Bron repeated the symptoms—nausea, vomiting, backache, breathlessness, oedema, chest pain, and also the all-over suntan—and then delivered the coup de grâce.
‘He had strawberries for breakfast. Aren’t they supposed to be very high in potassium?’
He arched an eloquent eyebrow. ‘Clever girl. Well done. If it is renal failure, it may well have pushed him over the edge. Let’s get him in and then we can dialyse him PDQ if necessary.’
He turned to the patient, and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘OK, Mr Davis, I think we’d better have you in for a closer look at your problem. We’ll soon have you feeling better. I’ll go and have a chat with your wife now, and she can come in and sit with you until we take you up.’
He tucked a hand in the crook of Bron’s arm and gave her the benefit of a ten-megawatt smile that could well have been a monument to the success of some unknown orthodontist, but Bron would lay odds that the dentition, like the man, was totally without artifice.
‘Let’s get a coffee,’ he said.
Bron’s lips twitched into a grin. She’d bet he was a real heartbreaker. ‘Good idea.’ They walked down to Kathleen’s desk and arranged for Mr Davis’s transfer to ITU, then went into the staff-room.
While she poured the coffee, she studied Dr Marumba as he prowled around the room. He looks like an Olympic athlete, she thought, with that powerful build and those incredibly long legs. His ebony skin was in stark contrast to the gleaming white of his coat, and his eyes twinkled like jet. He took the proffered cup and that smile broke out again on his face, lighting up the corners of the room with its brilliance.
‘Tell me something,’ Bron said, eyeing this delightful giant over the rim of her cup. ‘Why Jesus?’
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Apart from the miracles I perform? Because it’s my name. True! They call the medical wards heaven—not usually in my hearing, and not usually in front of the patients—it’s been known to upset them!’
He gave a rich chuckle, and drained his coffee. ‘Back to the grind. I’ll go and talk to Mrs Davis. Good to meet you, Bronwen, and well spotted, by the way. I’ll catch up with you later.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, OK. Thanks for coming down—he was my first patient. And come to think of it, if I don’t get back out there, he could be my last!’
He laughed. ‘You could always come and work for me if Harris throws you out!’
He gave a jaunty wave and left, and, setting her cup down, Bron followed him.
The rest of the morning passed in a whirlwind of minor cuts and bruises, sprains, simple fractures and a very straightforward case of a child who had swigged an unknown quantity out of a bottle of cough medicine, and obligingly vomited with the aid of a little ipecacuanha.
His mother was relieved and grateful, and marched the little terror out to wreak further havoc.
‘I bet we see him again before too long!’ Kathleen laughed, and Bron found herself smiling. So far, so good.
‘All quiet now, Bron? Come on up for lunch, and meet some of the others.’ Jim Harris dropped a friendly arm around her shoulders, and gave her an affectionate squeeze. ‘How are you doing? Well done with that old boy—jolly good start. Marumba was very impressed. Clever of you to pick up on the strawberries. Here, dump your coat, forget reality for a while.’
He filled her in on the history of the building and the current state of the hospital as they went, and by the time they arrived at the staff dining-room she was totally lost again.
There was, predictably, a sea of new faces, all friendly and, she found, instantly disconnected from their names. I suppose I’ll sort them all out in time, she thought, and concentrated on smiling and avoiding too many questions about her marital status and past medical career.
When they had finished eating, Jim led her through to the coffee-lounge and sat her down with her back to the door.
‘Don’t mind, do you? Only there’s someone I want you to meet—you’ll be bound to work with him fairly soon. General surgeon—excellent chap. Started here about a year ago. He was senior registrar at Guy’s until then, and became a consultant at thirty-one. Meteoric rise, but he’s extraordinarily gifted. Ah, talk of the devil——’
‘As opposed to Jesus?’ Bronwen quipped, but the laugh died in her throat as Jim rose to his feet.
‘Oliver, I want you to meet my new registrar, Bronwen Jones. Bronwen, Oliver Henderson, boy-wonder of general surgery.’
In slow motion, frame by frame, Bronwen lifted her head and made herself meet the clear, steady gaze that had haunted her for almost two years—the longest, loneliest, most rewarding and challenging years of her life.
‘Hello, Bron.’ The voice like oiled sandpaper, deep and husky, rasped over her senses, leaving her nerve-endings raw.
She closed her eyes against the sensation, and felt the years slip away …
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_39ef6e20-4b93-536a-aa0e-9b5b987e5af1)
BRONWEN lifted her eyes and looked around the crowded conference room. There was no sign of Jane—typical! And there was that man again, propping up the wall with indolent grace: tall, well-built, a lock of his heavy gold-blond hair falling over his eyes so that he had to keep thrusting it back with his fingers.
Every time Bronwen looked up he was there, watching her with those startling blue eyes like a Mediterranean dawn, with a sultry promise of heat.
She shifted uncomfortably on her chair and cursed Jane for her absence. Where was she? He was watching her again.
She made a deliberate attempt to ignore him. It lasted perhaps fifteen seconds, and then her eyes were drawn back to his, tangling helplessly in that clear, bright gaze that seemed to dip into her soul. A slow, sensuous smile touched the corner of his mouth, and she blushed and looked away, more determined than ever to ignore him. Just a conference Lothario, she decided, and scoured the room for her colleague.
‘Hi!’ Jane came up behind her, and struggled inelegantly over the back of the seat, dropping into it with a plop. ‘Just in time. Phew! What a scorcher. Have I missed anything?’
Bron smiled and shook her head. They haven’t started. What kept you?’
Jane rolled her eyes and grinned wickedly. ‘I met this man—stunning. We’re meeting him in the bar before supper tonight. He’s here with a friend, too—said so long as you weren’t related to Count Dracula you’d be welcome to join us. I accepted for you—OK?’
Bron laughed. ‘Do I get a choice?’
‘Absolutely not. That’s him over there——’ She gave a little wave, and Bron looked across the room in time to see the man with the blue eyes smile and raise an eyebrow at her. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’
Bron’s heart thumped heavily with disappointment. So Jane had snapped him up—the story of her life! God knows, she was used to it. ‘What?’
‘I said don’t you just love the way his hair curls over his ears? And those melting brown eyes——’
‘Brown eyes?’
‘Mmm, like toffee. Gosh, I’m not sure I can wait for tonight.’
Bron glanced across the room again, and saw the tall, fair man in conversation with another man, equally good-looking, but dark-haired, and as she looked he raised his hand and waved.
Jane waggled her fingers at him, and grinned. ‘That must be his friend. What a pair they make!’
‘Mmm. Wolves always hunt in packs. I wouldn’t care to trust either of them,’ Bron muttered, but her eyes kept creeping back to him, and then flicking away when she was caught.
In the end she resolutely turned her back, but she could feel his eyes boring holes in her skull, and missed every second word of the lecture.
When it was over they went up to their rooms and showered and changed. As she was berating herself for her indecision, Jane tapped on the door and let herself in.
‘Wear the blue silk,’ she said decisively, and lifted it out of the wardrobe.
Bron threw her a withering look. ‘I have no intention of getting myself raped. God only knows why I brought that thing. I shall wear the peach cotton dress—or the navy one with the sailor collar——’
‘Wear the blue silk,’ Jane repeated.
In answer Bron hung it up in the wardrobe and lifted out a soft peach-flowered cotton tea-dress, delicately pretty and absolutely demure. Jane made a sound of disgust, and Bronwen ignored her and finished her light make-up.
By the time they went down, Jane had admitted defeat and conceded that Bron did indeed look very attractive in the tea-dress.
‘Probably worse. You look so damned feminine that even a dyed-in-the-wool misogynist would fall for you!’
Bron laughed. ‘There’s hope for the average doctor, then!’
As they reached the bottom of the sweeping stairs, the two men detached themselves from the bar and came across to meet them.
‘Bron, I want you to meet Michael Grant. Michael, this is Bronwen Jones. I’m sorry, I don’t know your friend’s name——’
‘Oliver—Oliver Henderson. Pleased to meet you—at last.’
As their hands touched, a shiver of awareness surged between them, and Bron stiffened, and then with a smile Oliver engulfed her hand with his long, slender fingers and held it firmly. Eyes locked, they stood frozen, tingling with awareness, until a hand waved between their faces snapped them out of the trance.
Bron gave a breathless little laugh. ‘Hello, Oliver.’
Oliver’s eyes danced with amusement, and he released her hand reluctantly. ‘Hi,’ he said softly. ‘You’re looking lovely. Shall we go and get a drink?’
They gravitated to the bar, and, while Michael and Oliver organised the drinks, she had an opportunity to observe him.
He was tall—a touch over six feet, she judged, although from five feet five it was hard to be specific—and that lovely hair like burnished gold brushed his collar at the back, thick and unruly. She clenched her hands, just in case she gave in to her urges and ran across the bar to thread her fingers through its softness.
Heavens, he was just a man, like any one of the dozens she saw every day at work—no, not quite like them, her body denied. No one else had ever—ever—made her feel so warm and womanly and wanted with just a simple compliment.
They returned with the drinks, and Oliver squeezed in beside her, brushing her knee with the hard length of his thigh. She tried to shift away, but there was nowhere to go and the movement only exaggerated the contact.
He laid his arm along the back of the banquette seat and grinned at her.
‘Cosy, isn’t it? Do you mind? We could go somewhere quieter, if you like.’
Bronwen nearly choked. She was sure his comment was meant quite innocently, but her thoughts and his words were becoming inextricably entwined. She felt the blush coming before it reached her cheeks, and ducked her head forwards to hide it behind the fall of her hair.
His fingers eased it back and he smiled gently. ‘You’re lovely when you blush. I really didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’
She glanced quickly at him, and offered a shy smile in return. ‘I’m sorry, it must be the heat.’
‘Do you want to go out for a walk?’
‘Yes—oh, no! I mean——’
‘Just a walk. Trust me.’ His grin was mischievous but wholly straightforward, and his eyes were open and sincere. For some lunatic, unsound and intuitive reason, she did trust him.
‘OK. It’s too hot to eat yet anyway.’
They wandered through the grounds of the conference centre, down towards the little man-made lake, and paused on the bridge, elbows resting on the parapet, sipping their drinks and watching the baby ducks for a while in companionable silence.
‘So what’s a gorgeous young thing like you doing on a God-awful course like this?’ he asked after a minute or two.
Bron laughed. ‘Treatment of Trauma? I work in Accident and Emergency. I’m an SHO, but I’ve been offered the registrar’s job in December when she takes maternity leave. What about you?’
‘I’m in general surgery. I found A and E too traumatic—literally.’
‘Really?’ Bronwen eyed him in amazement. ‘I love it.’
‘You must be addicted to your own adrenalin, then! I like the nice, sedate pace of the theatre. I can cope with that. You don’t often get two patients at once!’
Bronwen studied him openly. ‘You ought to be able to cope at your age,’ she teased. ‘How old are you—thirty, thirty-one?’
He chuckled. ‘Not bad. I’m thirty next week. What about you?’
She smiled. ‘You aren’t supposed to ask a lady that question!’
‘But?’
‘Twenty-seven.’ Her smile tilted her lips a little further.
He touched his finger to the corner of her mouth. ‘Lovely…’ His eyes fastened on her lips, and she moistened them involuntarily with her tongue.
He ran the fingertip across her lower lip, the damp skin dragging gently.
‘If we stay here much longer, little lady,’ he whispered, ‘I’m going to kiss that delectable mouth.’
Bron felt his breath fan gently across her face, and her lips parted on a sigh of regret. She wished he would. Her eyes fluttered closed while she dealt with the storm of feeling suddenly raging in her breast. Who was he? Why this crazy urge to bury her face against his broad, firm chest and hug him close?
His palms cupped her face, and she sensed rather than felt his lips brush lightly over hers, once, twice, before his lips came down firmly over hers with a sweet, aching tenderness far more intimate than passion would have been. With a tortured groan, he folded her into his arms and held her tight.
‘Oliver?’
‘Shh. Don’t say anything. Just let me hold you.’
They stood there, arms wrapped round each other, absorbing the warmth and humanity of the contact while their tumbling emotions settled to a steady roar. Gradually his grip slackened, and Bron stood away from him, raising puzzled eyes to his.
‘What happened?’
His voice was gruff with emotion. ‘I don’t know, Bron. I’ve never felt anything like this before. It’s as if——’ He laughed, a little raggedly. ‘My God, I’m normally so practical and down-to-earth! Perhaps we ought to go and eat—it’s probably the hallucinogenic effects of hypoglycaemia.’
Bron laughed breathlessly. ‘You could be right.’
Instinctively their fingers met and wound together as they walked slowly back to the conference centre, a large, sprawling country house dating from the turn of the century.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Bron sighed. She wondered what he had been going to say. It’s as if—what? As if we were meant for each other? As if we’ve been waiting all our lives? Suddenly, she felt threatened by the short time they could have together. ‘It’s a shame we’re only here for four days,’ she blurted.
‘Funny, I’ve been thinking that, but it’s nothing to do with architecture and everything to do with a dark-haired sprite from the valleys——’
‘I’m not from the valleys! It’s only my name that’s Welsh—and my father. I was born in London.’
‘Poetic licence. Bron?’
‘Mmm?’
He tugged her to a halt, and looked down into her face with eyes unguarded and vulnerable. He looked slightly embarrassed and very honest. ‘I know we’ve only got a few days, but I want to see as much of you as I can. I don’t know what’s happening between us, I don’t normally come on so strong. Whatever, there’s something, and I want to find out what it is. No holds barred. I’m warning you, I want to make love to you, Bron, slowly, tenderly—I want to watch your eyes heavy with passion, your lips full and ripe from my kisses … not tonight, but soon. Maybe tomorrow, the next day? I want to know you first, but when I do——’
He flushed and turned away, obviously embarrassed. ‘God, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m rambling on like this. I feel like a raging adolescent—I’ll be reciting poetry to you next!’ He took a deep, ragged breath. ‘There you are, though. That’s how I feel. If you want to come along for the ride, the spacecraft leaves in thirty seconds. I should warn you, though. I think the pilot’s gone slightly crazy.’
She gave a breathless little chuckle. There was a pulse beating heavily in her throat, and she felt unbearably moved and aroused by his honesty. She laid a hand reassuringly on his arm, and felt a shudder run through him. ‘It’s all right, Oliver. I understand.’
He turned back to her, his eyes searching. ‘You do? I’m damned if I do. Look, if it isn’t what you want, Bron, for whatever reason, then stop me now. Don’t play with me.’
Bronwen swallowed with difficulty. ‘Oh, Oliver … Are you serious?’
His eyes were steady on hers, and they softened with tenderness. ‘I’ve never been more serious in my life. Do you want time to think about it?’
In answer, she stepped closer and, reaching up, pulled his face down to brush his lips with hers. ‘I don’t want to waste our time. I feel the same—and I’m terrified.’
He hugged her close, and the breath sagged out of his body with relief. Thank God!’ he breathed, and then chuckled. ‘Come on, little lady, let’s go and eat before I do something very ungentlemanly and drag you off into the bushes!’
The crowd in the dining-room was thinning out by the time they arrived, and they took their salads out on to the terrace, eating with one hand while the fingers of the other were entwined.
After a while, Oliver gave up and pushed his plate away. ‘I can’t eat and hold you at the same time, and I daren’t let go in case you vanish.’
Bron followed his lead. She really wasn’t very hungry anyway. The feelings racing through her were nothing to do with low blood sugar and everything to do with the dancing blue eyes and the warm, generous mouth whose touch she had felt so briefly.
‘I won’t vanish,’ she murmured.
‘Promise?’
‘Promise. Will you?’
‘Vanish? No way. Where can I go? We’re in outer space!’
They talked for hours, comparing likes and dislikes, hobbies and interests, and in the end they simply sat, their coffee growing cold, and stared into each other’s eyes like moonstruck adolescents.
As the last rays of the evening sun dipped behind the trees, Jane and Michael came and joined them, and the spell was broken, or at least put on hold. Michael fetched fresh coffee and they chatted about the conference. Bron found it difficult to drag her eyes from Oliver and concentrate on what they were all saying. In the end she gave up and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his voice, headily conscious of the pressure of his thigh against hers. She wondered what tomorrow would bring.
Time for bed,’ she heard him say, and her eyes flew open in alarm.
He caught her surprised look before she could cover it, and smiled teasingly. ‘I’ll walk you to your room. Goodnight, Jane, Michael.’
He held her chair, and placed a warm and comfortable arm around her shoulders as they walked towards the stairs. Her arm slipped naturally around his waist and she felt the hard nudge of his hip against her side as they crossed the hallway and went up the stairs.
At the door to her room, she stopped in confusion. Did he expect her to let him in? She really felt as if she would, if he made the slightest move towards her, and yet it went so against her normal character that she felt a wild flutter of panic.
He turned her into his arms and tucked her head under his chin, the steady, even beat of his heart reassuring under her ear. His voice rumbled gently above her.
‘I don’t want to let you go, but I must. You’re tired and so am I, and so much has happened. I want some time to absorb it, and I really ought to write up my notes on this evening’s lecture.’
‘Notes?’ she whispered vaguely, and wondered how he could think of anything so totally prosaic while she was floating on a cloud of cotton-wool.
‘Notes,’ he said, more firmly. ‘It’s probably more effective than a cold shower.’
He released her gently, and, with a slow smile and the gentle pressure of his lips fleetingly on her forehead, he was gone, striding quietly down the landing. Bron watched the empty hall for minutes afterwards, hugging herself and smiling softly, then with a little laugh she let herself into her room and prepared for bed.
Oliver. She lay in bed turning over the events of the evening in her mind, hearing his voice again and seeing the way his cheek dimpled when he smiled, and the twitch of his firmly sculpted mouth.
It’s all genetic, she told herself. He can’t take any credit for the way he looks. Oh, lord, what have I promised him? With her thoughts in turmoil, and a mingled feeling of panic and trembling anticipation, she fell asleep.
‘What we are talking about here is the Golden Hour, the time between admission and stabilisation for surgery in victims of severe trauma—for example, road-traffic accidents, burns, chemical leaks, explosions, et cetera.
‘In the USA, and now in some fortunate areas of Britain, specialist Trauma Units exist, and they are specifically set up as emergency treatment centres for victims of such incidents. They have highly skilled staff available twenty-four hours a day, to provide specialist care instantly on admission. No fudging around wondering what the hell to do until the consultant has come back from lunch, or trying to phone another hospital to find out what the current treatment for chemical burns is—instant, immediate, accurate treatment within the first hour—the Golden Hour.’
The lecturer paused, and papers were handed out down the rows. These are the statistics. I think you’ll be as impressed as I was when I saw them. They outline quite clearly the importance of getting the right treatment within those crucial early minutes. OK, let’s break for coffee to give you time to look at the figures. We’ll meet back here in an hour to discuss anything you want to raise, so please don’t waste your time—you aren’t here to have fun!’
A laugh rippled round the conference, and the delegates stood and shuffled towards the coffee-lounge. Beside Bronwen, Oliver stretched and grinned. ‘Hear that, little lady? We aren’t here to have fun! Let’s go and find a corner and look at his figures—although I’d much rather look at yours.’
‘Oliver!’ Bron blushed and laughed, and he grinned again.
‘I’ll be good,’ he promised.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ she muttered under her breath, and his startled grunt of laughter made her blush again. ‘You weren’t meant to hear that.’
‘I’ll bet! Come on, let’s go and lie on the grass by the lake and study this lot.’
‘I think we ought to stay here and concentrate.’
He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘If you insist. Let’s go over the top. Michael! Grab two more coffees, there’s a good lad. I’ll find a space outside.’
Michael waved acknowledgement and turned back to Jane.
‘Those two seem to have scored a hit with each other,’ Bron commented, and Oliver shook his head.
‘Just a holiday flirtation. I don’t think either of them is taking it seriously.’
Their eyes met, and for a long moment Bron felt herself drowning in the depths of those endlessly blue eyes, but then Oliver looked away and swore softly under his breath.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Wrong? Nothing. Everything’s in perfect working order—it’s just a little public to react quite so strongly to you, and when you look at me like that my body gets a mind of its own. Come on, let’s go over there on the grass and sit down.’
He grabbed her arm and steered her quickly through the crowd, then they sank down on to the cool grass in the shade of a tree. He leaned against the trunk and studied her flushed cheeks with a reluctant smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s OK for girls, it doesn’t show. You don’t know how lucky you are. Hell, I thought by now I could control my reactions, but no one’s ever got to me the way you do.’
‘Oh, Oliver, don’t apologise. You aren’t the only one.’
Bron wrapped her arms around her knees to hide the hard jut of her nipples against the thin fabric of her dress, and looked out over the lake. ‘Why is this happening to us?’ she asked in a strained voice, and she felt his hand reach out and trace the line of her shoulder under the strap of her dress.
‘I don’t know. I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done to deserve you, but I can’t tell you how glad I am—hi, Michael. Drag up a blade of grass and join us.’
Bronwen looked up to find Jane watching her curiously. ‘What did you think of the lecture?’
Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘Excellent. Have you seen the figures?’
‘We were just getting round to that,’ Oliver put in, and Michael snorted with laughter.
‘Bull! Right, grab a coffee and let’s confer.’
Bron listened, putting in the odd comment, but content by and large to listen to Oliver’s voice and to learn from his remarks. He was obviously very aware of current trends, and Bron was willing to bet that he was an excellent and conscientious doctor.
The conversation became more general, and she gathered that Michael was a senior registrar in the A and E department of Guy’s, where Oliver was a surgical SR. She also learned that Oliver was waiting for the results of his FRCS exams, which he had completed recently.
‘Hard?’ she asked, and he raised his eyes to the sky.
‘I’ll say! I’ve never worked so hard in my life. They were killers. I don’t think I stand a chance, but one can only try. The vivas were foul.’
‘Rubbish. You can’t fail. You’ve never got less than a first yet—bloody star student, this boy. Made the rest of us look as if we’d spent all our time in the bar——’
‘I wonder why that was?’ Oliver teased, deflecting Michael’s praise. Yet another aspect of him that Bron found so appealing.
He unravelled his length and stood up, stretching his arms high above his head. A sliver of tanned, hair-scattered midriff peeked out under the hem of his shirt, and Bron dragged her eyes away from it and got to her feet, making a production of brushing the grass off her skirt to avoid his eye.
Jane attached herself firmly to Bronwen’s side, said, ‘We’re just going to freshen up—save us a place,’ and steered her through the bar towards the cloakroom.
There she took her comb out of her bag, dragged it through her hair and eyed Bron in the mirror.
‘So what’s with you two? You’ve been making sheep’s eyes at each other ever since you met. What’s going on?’
Bron shook her head in denial. ‘Nothing. We just—I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone like that before.’
‘Well, I’ve certainly never seen you behave like this—the cool, calm, collected Dr Jones? Good grief, Bron, I always thought you were an iceberg, and yet if Oliver so much as looks at you I can see the smoke pouring off you both.’
Bron laughed. ‘Is it that obvious? Sorry. We’ll try to ignore each other.’
Jane shook her head vigorously. ‘Uh-uh. Go for it—get it out of your system. I won’t tell.’
‘Sister Hardy, if you so much as hint to anyone that I’ve been behaving like a moonstruck teenager I’ll get you transferred to orthopaedics—as a patient.’
Jane snorted. ‘You and whose army? Come on. Let’s go and tie the lecturer up in knots.’
In the event it was Oliver who had the lecturer tied up in knots, and the other delegates in stitches, but it was entirely good-natured, and resulted in an excellent discussion with much in the way of relevant contribution from many of the delegates.
By the time they broke for lunch, Bron was feeling light-hearted and cheerful, and they all took their salads out into the grounds and carried on the discussion.
Bron lay back in the cool grass and let the conversation wash over her. She was feeling intoxicated with the air and the sound of Oliver’s voice, and she closed her eyes and drifted in and out of a light sleep.
She awoke slowly to awareness of him; he was lying beside her propped up on one elbow and watching her sleep, and she smiled lazily and shaded her eyes.
‘Hi. Where are the others?’
‘Hi yourself. Gone for a walk.’
He leaned over her, and his shoulders blocked out the sun. She watched, breathless, as his mouth came slowly down and brushed hers with careful deliberation. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,’ he whispered softly. His head came down again, and this time he deepened the kiss, his hand coming up to tangle in her hair.
When he lifted his head, his eyes were smoky with passion and he swallowed convulsively. He lifted a lock of her hair and wound it thoughtfully around one finger, then tugged it gently. ‘I want to drag you off into my cave and make mad, passionate love to you, but the lecturer would be so disappointed if I wasn’t there to stir things up.’
He laughed a little shakily, and as he lifted his hand to graze her cheek with his knuckles she noticed he was trembling.
‘Oh, Oliver, I want you, too,’ she whispered, and he gave a low groan and flopped back against the grass.
‘What the hell are we going to do about it, Bron? I can’t think, I can’t concentrate; if I close my eyes all I see is your face. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I just want to hold you in my arms and talk to you—I don’t really care if we make love or not. Hell, it’s far too soon!’ He groaned and rolled on to his stomach, burying his head in his arms. ‘I never behave like this, and I can’t believe you do either, but I have this overwhelming urge to take you to bed and make love to you until one of us begs for mercy! I’m just not sure I could cope with it yet.’
Bron took a deep breath. He was right, of course, she didn’t behave like this and never had, either, but what they had was different, special, and she wasn’t ready to let him go. She’d only had one affair before, and that was with someone she’d known for years. It had been a gentle and natural extension of their friendship and respect, and it had fizzled out just as naturally when he’d moved away for promotion; but, in terms of fireworks, already Oliver was winning hands down. If she let him go now, she knew she’d regret it for the rest of her life. When she spoke, her voice trembled slightly.
‘I won’t beg for mercy.’
He lifted his head and gazed at her seriously. ‘Oh, Bron—I’m not interested in a quick roll in the hay.’
‘Oh! That wasn’t—I didn’t mean…’
Her confusion must have shown in her face, because he pulled her into his arms and cradled her against his chest. ‘I’m not saying I don’t want to make love with you! I’m saying it’s more than that. I think you could come to mean a great deal to me, very easily. I just don’t want to blow my chances with you by pushing you into something you’ll regret later.’
‘I would never regret it,’ she said quietly.
‘You don’t think you would, but things—people, circumstances—change. Come on, let’s go back to the lecture and put things back into perspective. I don’t think I trust myself to be alone with you when you’re so vulnerable.’
‘Oliver! I’m not vulnerable, I’m making a choice.’
He looked down at her, and shook his head. ‘No, Bron, you have no choice. Where I’m concerned you’re as vulnerable as I am with you. We’re wide open to hurt, and we’ll have to protect each other. God knows, I’ll never forgive myself if I hurt you.’
He pulled her to her feet, and tucked her into his side for the walk back to the conference-room.
Jane and Michael were waiting for them, and they sat down just in time as the lecture began again. Bron made a conscious effort to listen, but it wasn’t easy, and she caught Oliver’s rueful grin more than once. He was obviously having the same trouble.
They broke for tea and stayed on the terrace with the others, and after the evening lecture they got together for a drink and a chat over the day’s notes. Whether it was the atmosphere, or Oliver’s presence, or just the fact that she wasn’t used to it, Bron felt the drinks going to her head and found it harder than ever to concentrate on what they were saying.
Predictably her notes were sketchy and filled with doodles—her name and Oliver’s, intertwined with love-hearts and arrows and trailing vine leaves. His were almost as bad, except that his doodles were restricted to ‘She loves me, she loves me not’, down the margin to the bottom line, ending with ‘She loves me not’.
Bron took his notes, drew in another line and wrote, ‘She loves me’, on it, and handed it back, and he gave a startled laugh.
‘Goodnight, all,’ he said briefly, grabbed Bron by the hand and towed her out through the french doors into the garden.
‘Just what are you trying to do to my blood-pressure?’ he said with a ragged chuckle, and tugged her into his arms to kiss her with all the pent-up emotions of the day. ‘Crazy girl,’ he murmured eventually against her hair, and held her, rocking her gently against his chest while the nightingale sang in the wood and the scent of orange blossom drifted round them in the warm, evening air.
Then with a sigh he put her from him. ‘Go on, go up to bed while I can still let you go.’ He brushed his lips lightly across hers and, turning her round, he propelled her gently towards the door. ‘Goodnight, my darling. Sleep tight. I’ll see you for breakfast.’
On considerably reluctant feet, Bron forced herself to walk away from him and upstairs.
The night was predictably sleepless; she lay, her mind filled with thoughts of Oliver, and wondered if he returned her love. How could he not? she thought dreamily, and finally fell asleep as the sun crept over the horizon.
She was woken abruptly by Oliver pounding on her door.
‘Bron? Open up, I’ve got something to show you!’
What on earth does he want? she wondered, and slid out of bed, her hair tousled, face flushed, eyes half shut. She caught a glimpse of herself on the way to the door, and groaned. She looked a wreck!
‘Come in,’ she muttered, and shut the door again behind him.
He swept her up in his arms and hugged her tight, laughing with delight and something else. She heard the crackle of paper, and then he dumped her on the bed and shoved a letter into her hand.
Sleepily, she pushed her fingers through her hair to lift it off her face, and dropped her eyes to the letter.
‘Oh! You passed your FRCS! Congratulations, Mr Henderson!’
She flung her arms around him and squeezed him tight. That’s fantastic! We’ll have go to out tonight to celebrate. Oh, you clever man! Oh, well done, darling——’
His mouth came down hard on hers, and when he released her his face was blazing with pride and happiness.
‘I can’t believe it—all that and you, too. I’d better get out of here before I do something crazy. See you downstairs in ten minutes.’
He winked and left her, and she gathered her scattered wits and washed and dressed in double-quick time.
The day passed in a whirl of congratulations. Somehow they managed to make some sense of the lectures, but by this time both of them were relying more and more heavily on Jane and Michael to pass on relevant notes during their breaks.
The other delegates heard about Oliver’s success and, not needing much of an excuse, decided to organise a party for that night.
Someone produced some disco lights, which were set up in the conference-room, and the chairs were cleared to leave space for dancing. The sound equipment was pressed into service, and a young SHO, who had done time on the hospital radio as a student, agreed to act as DJ. Jane dragged Bronwen upstairs.
The blue silk,’ she said firmly, thrusting Bron through her bedroom door. ‘I’ll be back in an hour, and you’d better be ready to blow their socks off!’
Bron laughed and shook her head in despair. ‘OK, OK, the blue silk. See you later.’
Fifty-five minutes later there was a tap on the door. Bron was sitting at the dressing-table, clad in a tiny pair of midnight-blue silk panties and her make-up, toying with her hair.
‘Come in,’ she called, and she heard the door open and shut softly behind her. ‘What do you think, Jane, down or up?’
‘Down,’ said a deep voice, and Bron leapt to her feet and spun round, clutching her arms to her chest.
‘Oliver! What are you doing in here?’ she squeaked.
He chuckled. ‘Obeying orders. You said come in.’ He walked towards her and, placing his warm hands on her bare shoulders, he kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘What are you wearing?’
‘Not a lot! Get out so I can get dressed.’
He grinned. ‘No way. Don’t worry, I’m a doctor——’
‘Huh! Anyway, you’re just plain Mr now, Henderson, so you can take yourself off while I finish my preparations.’
‘No. Is this the one?’ He held up the mightnight-blue silk dress, and she nodded. ‘Which way round does it go?’
‘Oliver!’ Bron tried to sound scandalised. ‘It’s backless!’
‘Pity. I think it would look better the other way round——’
‘Shut up and close your eyes. I’m getting cramp standing like this.’
‘Your choice, not mine. Oh, well.’ He sprawled out comfortably on the bed and shut his eyes. ‘I’ll give you ten seconds.’
It took her six.
‘Right, pervert, do the zip up, please.’
There was a tap on the door, just as Oliver sat up and reached for the zip.
‘Can I come in? Oh, sorry!’
‘It’s all right, Jane. He’s just doing up the zip.’
‘More’s the pity——’
‘Oliver!’
Jane smiled benignly. ‘I’ll see you two downstairs. Michael’s in the bar running up the bill.’
‘Whose?’
‘Yours, I think!’ Laughing at his horrified expression, Jane floated out of the room and closed the door.
‘Do I detect a mean streak?’ Bron murmured, and Oliver glowered at her.
‘Mean? You don’t know him when he gets going. By now, everyone down there will be celebrating my success at my expense, and what’s more I’m not even there!’
Bron slipped on her pumps. ‘Come on, then, what are we waiting for?’
‘This,’ he murmured, and drew her into his arms to kiss her gently. ‘Have I ever told you,’ he murmured, ‘how very beautiful you are?’
‘Oh, Oliver…’ Bron coloured delicately at the softly voiced compliment.
‘Oh, God, let’s get out of here while we still can,’ he groaned.
By the time they joined the others, the party was in full swing. They danced until Bron was breathless, and then propped up the parapet outside to cool off for a while before going back in again.
Oliver eyed her thoughtfully. ‘How are we going to keep this going, Bron? I’m in London, you’re in Bristol—it’s going to be hell. Normal people could commute for the weekends, but the chances of us both getting a weekend off together must be remote in the extreme. We might have to wait weeks on end.’
She tried to smile. There’s always the phone.’
He shook his head. ‘It can’t take the place of holding you in my arms—oh, God, Bron, I’m going to miss you so much!’ He tugged her into his arms with a wild desperation that found an echo in Bronwen’s heart, and she clung to him, suddenly terrified.
‘We’ll work something out—we must,’ he murmured against her hair. After a moment he released her, captured her hand, and led her back on to the dance-floor.
In the middle of the evening the DJ paused to dedicate the party and the next number to Oliver. The song, predictably—considering that their blossoming romance was being avidly watched by all and sundry—was a slow, sultry number. Oliver opened his arms and Bron steped into the warmth of his embrace with a delicious sense of inevitability.
He held her close, their thighs brushing with every slight movement, so that she was aware of the change in him almost as soon as he was. His warm, strong hands moved sensuously against the bare skin of her back, tracing the slender column of her spine and sending fire racing through her veins. His heart beneath her cheek quickened and beat more strongly, fanning the flames of her own desire, and when he led her wordlessly out on to the terrace to the other hall door and upstairs she followed without question.
At the door to her room she fumbled with the key so badly that he took it from her with hands only a little steadier than her own. Once in, he leaned back against the door and crushed her body against his, motionless for several minutes, then he eased her away from him and looked down into her eyes.
‘Sorry, I just had to be alone with you. I couldn’t hide my feelings any more.’ His voice was gruff with passion, and yet tinged with uncertainty. He searched his eyes, and then his lids drifted shut and he swallowed unsteadily. ‘Bron?’
‘Oh, yes, Oliver … please?’
For a long, breathless moment, he was motionless, then he exhaled and reached round to slide the zip down with trembling fingers. Slowly, with infinite care, he lowered the dress from her shoulders until it slithered in a shimmering pool to her feet, and then he knelt and eased the tiny triangle of lace down over her trembling legs. With a feather-light kiss on the tangle of curls he had revealed, he straightened and stripped off his own clothes, casting them aside until he stood naked before her, the moonlight silvering the smooth planes of his body, casting shadows in the scatter of curls on his chest, darkening the skin to bronze. Her breath caught in her throat.
‘You’re beautiful…’
He gave a shaky little laugh that cracked in the middle. ‘That’s my line. Oh, Bron…’
He scooped her up in his arms and laid her tenderly on the bed, coming down carefully beside her. She felt the slight rasp of his hair-roughened thigh, and smelled the warm, male, musky scent of his body as it joined with hers, and a soft cry rose in her throat, mingling with his as his mouth closed over her lips and captured her words of love.
She hadn’t known the highs could be so high. It was as if a giant hand had lifted them and thrown them out among the stars, to tumble gently back to earth in a tangle of limbs and murmured promises.
Later, she lifted her hand and touched his face, and found it wet with tears. He turned his lips into her palm, and pressed a soft kiss on the skin. When he lifted his head, she was stunned by the naked emotion in his eyes. His voice was ragged.
‘Dear God, Bron … I had no idea. Oh, darling, hold me, I love you, Bron. I love you, I love you…’
When she woke in the morning, he was gone. He had written ‘I love you’ on the mirror with her lipstick, and there was a note on the dressing-table.
Gone back to clear up the chaos. Think it’s best if I sleep in my room—I don’t want any speculation about you. See you for breakfast. We have to talk—there’s so much to tell you. I love you. Oliver.
She showered and dressed and ran downstairs eagerly, but as she reached the bottom step the manager crossed over to her.
‘Oh, Dr Jones, I’m so glad I’ve caught you. Mr Henderson asked me to give you a message. He was called away in the night—awful business, his brother-in-law was killed in a car accident. He had to dash back; he said his wife—Clare, isn’t it?—is pregnant, and he had to be with her. Dr Jones, are you all right?’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_31365805-9e62-5de7-9d54-f6333f51d4eb)
‘DR JONES? Bronwen? Are you all right?’
Bron lifted her shocked face to Jim Harris’s startled eyes and nodded faintly.
‘Yes—yes, I’m all right, Jim. Just a bit giddy. I think I stood up too fast.’
Oliver swore softly under his breath, and Bron felt her knees give way. She sat down abruptly before she fell.
‘I’ll get you a cup of coffee,’ Jim mumbled, and turned on his heel. Out of the corner of her eye, Bron could see Oliver, his face composed, only a muscle twitching in his jaw giving him away.
He sat beside her and covered her hand with his. ‘Bron? Are you OK? What happened?’
Was it her imagination, or was there a note of genuine concern in his voice? She snatched her hand away, but that only made matters worse because his hand then lay on her knee, and he made no attempt to remove it. Oh, lord, was she to be punished for that fatal attraction over and over again?
‘Here, drink this——’ Jim thrust a cup of coffee into her unsteady hands, and she tightened her fingers on the handle until her knuckles were white. ‘Did you have any breakfast?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I was sat down and force-fed.’
‘So it’s not the hallucinogenic effect of hypoglycaemia?’ Oliver murmured drily, and removed his hand from her knee. ‘Just to be on the safe side, I’ll get you a bar of chocolate.’
‘Please don’t bother,’ she said curtly, and Jim looked from one to the other of them with puzzled eyes. ‘Do you two know each other?’
‘Yes.’
‘No!’
‘Yes, we do,’ Oliver argued gently. ‘We met on a conference on trauma, remember?’
How could she forget? It had been the most traumatic week of her life. ‘Yes, we have met, but I wouldn’t say I knew you—though I thought I did…’
‘Bron?’
Jim’s bleep went off then, so he excused himself with a worried look at his new registrar, and left the room.
‘Just what did you mean by that?’ Oliver asked.
Bron laughed, a thready, shaky little laugh that betrayed her tension. ‘I would have thought it was obvious.’
‘Not to me. Why didn’t you reply to my letters?’
‘Letters? What letters?’ Bron couldn’t quite meet his eye. There had been letters, three of them, addressed to her hospital, but not for two months, and by then she’d been so hurt that she’d thrown them away without reading them. And then nothing, just when she had been prepared to sink her principles and tell him that she was pregnant. She had wound up her courage to ring Guy’s and tell him about Livvy when she was born, and she was told he had left. Mail would be forwarded, she was told, but they had no address as yet. Her courage had failed before she could post the letter, and afterwards she was glad it had.
He sighed heavily. ‘I tried to contact you—several times. When you didn’t reply, I phoned the hospital and was told you had left with no forwarding address. I had to assume that what we had between us had meant nothing to you—but I was wrong, wasn’t I? You’re as shocked to see me as I am to see you——’
‘Rubbish,’ she got out, and he snorted.
‘Look at you. If you aren’t affected by seeing me again, why are you trying to throttle that cup?’
Surprised, Bron glanced down and made an immediate conscious effort to relax. The coffee slopped on to her skirt and she smacked the cup down on to the saucer with a defiant clatter. ‘Damn—now look what you’ve made me do!’
Unruffled, Oliver produced a clean handkerchief from his pocket and blotted her skirt unnecessarily thoroughly.
‘Thank you,’ she muttered through tight lips, and he chuckled.
‘Oh, Bron. Look, I have to go and start the afternoon list. What are you doing tonight?’
She closed her eyes. Surely he didn’t think she was going to let him pick up where they left off? Thinking of that gave her heart an unruly and unwelcome flutter, and she crushed the memory of his lovemaking with ruthless vigour. Lovemaking, indeed! Sex. A juvenile exercise in relieving hormones. So he was particularly good at it. So what? There were other things—like loyalty.
‘Going home, putting my feet up and telling someone very important to me how much I love them.’
His mouth thinned. Good. He had misunderstood, as she had intended.
‘OK. But we need to talk, Bron, because there’s a lot we didn’t say.’
‘You’re too late, Oliver.’ Years too late.
He stood up and sighed again, running his hand through his hair in that gesture she knew so well.
‘Nevertheless—I left abruptly, without time to say half of the things I wanted to say to you, and I want to apologise.’
‘So, you’ve apologised.’ Her voice softened. ‘I was sorry to hear about your brother-in-law. How was—Clare?’
‘Devastated, but the baby’s made a great deal of difference to her life, as you can imagine.’
Bron tried not to laugh. Oh, yes, she could imagine—only too well!
‘What was it?’ she asked, turning the knife.
‘A boy—lovely, healthy little lad. She called him after Tom, but he looks just the way I did as a child. The Henderson genes must be very strong.’
She could imagine that, too. Livvy was the spitting image of her father, from that startlingly direct blue gaze to the unruly tumble of golden hair. She squeezed back the tears that threatened, and rose to her feet.
‘I must get back to work. I’m glad Clare’s OK and the baby was all right. I’ll see you…’
She forced herself to walk away, and when she glanced back from the door she saw him watching her with a strangely unguarded expression in his eyes.
Oh, hell. That was all she needed. For two years she had told herself that he was an opportunist, an unscrupulous bastard—not her favourite word, she thought with a pang—but what if she was wrong?
No, she told herself firmly. Whether his feelings for her had been genuine or not, he was married, and he jolly well should have made that clear and remained faithful, even if only in body.
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Caroline Anderson
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A DANGEROUS TEMPTATION? When Dr Bronwen Jones returns to work after the birth of her now fifteen-month-old daughter it’s nerve-racking enough to be thrust in at the deep end of Audley Memorial Hospital’s busy Emergency Department. But coming face to face with Oliver Henderson, the brilliant young consultant general surgeon she once loved, has sent her stress levels through the roof… He was forbidden fruit then—and she had to leave—but now…? He doesn’t behave like a man who’s still married but she has to find out—because one thing’s for sure:Bron still loves him…THE AUDLEY—where love is the best medicine of all…