Caroline Anderson - A Perfect Hero

‘Unlikely.’

‘I know.’ She stirred her coffee idly. ‘Pete Sawyer is a problem, as well, with his unstable forearm fractures. I think Mr Mayhew is concerned he may end up with a non-union of the radius and ulna. They were very badly shattered.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Six weeks—plenty of time for a callus to form, but there’s no sign of any regeneration.’

‘Got the X-rays?’

‘Mmm, they’re with the notes.’

She found them and put them on the light-box, and they stood side by side examining them.

‘What a bloody awful mess! He was lucky not to lose his arm.’

‘Fortunately the soft-tissue injuries weren’t too extensive, otherwise I think Mr Mayhew might have been tempted to amputate.’

That would be a shame.’

‘It would be a tragedy in such a young man.’

He gave a short laugh. ‘Amputation is always a tragedy, but the injury or disease giving rise to it is just as much of a problem. Often patients are better off without the traumatised limb.’

She shuddered. ‘I can’t believe that. Surely anything is better than losing a limb?’

‘Oh, come on! I’ll grant you a functioning limb, especially an arm, with even limited function can be more use than an artificial limb, but a neat amputation at a carefully chosen site and a properly fitting prosthesis in a well-adjusted patient causes far less change in lifestyle and social habits than a disablingly damaged limb—and it can be a lot less unsightly!’

‘And what about the emotional aspects?’ she asked heatedly. ‘What about the effect on family? The personal problems, sexual problems and so on?’

‘Hey, hey…’ His hand came up and his knuckles brushed her cheek lightly, tantalisingly. ‘Don’t get so het up. Of course there are problems. Amputees need a lot of support and therapy, but all I’m saying is, with the right support, under certain circumstances they can be better off!’

She wanted to argue, but the brush of his knuckles was doing strange things to her circulation and her brain felt fogged. He was too close, too male, too—just too much! Their eyes were locked, his so intense she could almost feel their heat.

‘Mr Barrington——’

‘Michael.’

‘Michael, then. Please stop. I can’t think.’

‘Good. I get the feeling that if you think, you’ll start arguing with me again, and that would be a shame.’

She was sure he was going to kiss her. His firm, well-sculptured lips were inches from her own, and closing fast …

The shrilling of the phone was shattering. Clare leapt as if she’d been burned, and snatched up the receiver breathlessly.

‘For you,’ she muttered, handing him the instrument and backing away behind the desk. What on earth was wrong with her? For years she had been pursued by an endless stream of handsome and not-so-handsome young doctors, all convinced that with her looks she was a sexy little airhead who would be more than content to convey her favours on them. They had all been disappointed, but none more so than Clare herself, who had longed for years to be wanted for herself! Not for her body, or her face, but for her mind, her sense of humour, her zest for life.

Perhaps it had been easy to keep them at a distance, because universally and to a man they had failed to reach that elemental core of spirit that made her a woman. But this man—one brush of his hand, and her legs felt on the point of collapse, her blood-pressure had sky-rocketed and her body was thrumming with wild and primitive passion! You’re pathetic, she told herself disgustedly.

He replaced the receiver and turned to her with a smile. ‘The gods have spoken—I have to go up to Theatre and prove myself under the eagle eye of the boss. Are you doing anything later?’

‘Washing my hair,’ she replied promptly.

‘Liar,’ he said with a soft laugh. ‘Come and have something to eat with me and tell me all I need to know about the hierarchy of this establishment. I’d hate to put my foot in it for the sake of a little friendly advice!’

She was tempted—oh, so tempted. As she hesitated, he watched her with a slightly quizzical expression, his vivid blue eyes seeming to see straight through her.

‘Is there a reason for your procrastination?’

‘Do I need a reason?’ she retorted, almost crossly.

‘No. I just wondered if you had a Significant Other.’

‘A significant what?’

‘Other—you know, husband, fiancé, boyfriend, live-in-lover—whatever.’

She shook her head. ‘No—no whatever whatsoever.’

He frowned in mock disbelief. ‘Really? No current lover?’

‘No lover at all—full stop—nor am I looking for one!’

‘What a tragic waste.’

‘You think so? I’m quite content—–’

‘Content?’ he snorted. ‘Damn, Clare, a woman as beautiful as you should be more than content——’

She fixed him with a withering look. ‘If you’re offering to relieve my sexual frustration, Mr Barrington, you can save yourself the trouble. The answer’s no!’

He threw back his head and laughed, a rich, warm laugh that rolled round her senses and left her feeling even more disorientated. Then he sobered slightly, and shot her a disarming grin. ‘It’s usual to wait until you’re asked, isn’t it? As a matter of fact, I wasn’t offering—yet. Although, to be fair, I might well have got round to it——’

‘You all do, some more quickly than others, but in the end you all make the same moves,’ she said with a touch of bitterness, ‘and the answer’s always the same. Thanks, but no, thanks. Hadn’t you better go?’

‘Yes, I must. I’ll see you later, Clare. Thanks for the ward-round and the coffee.’

And he was gone, leaving her feeling fraught with conflicting emotions. What a way for their professional relationship to get off the ground! Dear God, perhaps she had over-reacted, but there was no mistaking his interest. At twenty-five, Clare was something of an expert at interpreting masculine appraisal, and she was seldom mistaken.

And that man was interested.

Well, he’d soon discover that she wasn’t that sort of girl, and, with his looks, if all he wanted was a little recreation he would soon be overrun with offers.

Sighing a little and not understanding quite why, Clare left the office and went about her duties.

Her peace was short-lived. He was back at one with Mr Mayhew, the orthopaedic consultant, and David Blake, the junior registrar, and he looked even better than her fevered mind had remembered.

Sister O’Brien fell instantly under his spell, the motherly woman welcoming him to the ward like the prodigal son, and Clare watched in helpless fascination as he examined the two patients whose hip replacements he had performed that morning.

‘Good. That looks fine,’ he said with a smile, covering up the second patient, and turning to Clare to hand her the notes. ‘Thank you, Staff,’ he said, then, lowering his voice, he added, ‘What are you doing after you wash your hair?’

Ripping it out in handfuls, she thought, and choked down the laugh. ‘Nothing,’ she admitted quietly.

Then come with me. Just a simple meal—nothing elaborate. Take pity on a stranger, Clare. I don’t know a soul—doesn’t it worry you that I’ll be going home to a strange house all alone tonight, and every night? No one to talk to, to share anything with, except my cat, and his conversational skills are strictly limited. Please?’

‘All right,’ she relented with a laugh. ‘When and where?’

‘Do you live in the hospital?’

She nodded.

‘Main entrance, seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up.’

‘OK. What shall I wear?’

‘Anything—jeans? They do good food in the village pub, and we can sit in the garden. Must go. I’ll see you at seven.’