Joanna Neil - The Surgeon She's Been Waiting For

 Megan was conscious of Theo’s long, lean body as he moved about the kitchen. He was flat-stomached, with broad shoulders, and when he rolled back the sleeves of his shirt she saw that his arms were a faint shade of golden brown. He was irresistibly male—a man who would melt any woman’s heart.

Unnerved by his strong masculine presence, she sought something to do, filling the kettle with water and waiting for it to heat up.

In that moment he turned, so that his body was in intimate, immediate contact with hers, and she felt a wild flush of response reverberate throughout her nervous system. Every cell in her body tingled, clamouring for more. She loved the intimacy of that embrace, yet deep down she was afraid of what the consequences might be if she gave in to her wilder feelings and snuggled up against him as the arms wrapped around her were coaxing her to do. It had been a long, long day, and somehow her whole world seemed to have changed. Was it possible that she was falling for Theo? How else could she account for this tide of feeling that was sweeping over her?

When Joanna Neildiscovered Mills & Boon®, her lifelong addiction to reading crystallised into an exciting new career writing Medical™ Romance. Her characters are probably the outcome of her varied lifestyle, which includes working as a clerk, typist, nurse and infant teacher. She enjoys dressmaking and cooking at her Leicestershire home. Her family includes a husband, son and daughter, an exuberant yellow Labrador and two slightly crazed cockatiels. She currently works with a team of tutors at her local education centre to provide creative writing workshops for people interested in exploring their own writing ambitions.

Recent titles by the same author:

CHILDREN’S DOCTOR, SOCIETY BRIDE

HIS VERY SPECIAL BRIDE

PROPOSING TO THE CHILDREN’S DOCTOR

A CONSULTANT BEYOND COMPARE

THE DOCTOR’S LONGED-FOR FAMILY

BY

JOANNA NEIL

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

‘HOW long are you going to be staying here?’

The sound of a child’s voice cut through the gentle birdsong that filled the air, infiltrating the peace and quiet of the Welsh countryside.

Megan frowned. There was no one in sight, and she stopped for a moment, looking around to see if she could pinpoint exactly where the voice was coming from.

She had only just left the waterside inn behind, and now she was venturing into a neighbouring field, taking a well-worn footpath. The voice seemed to have originated from somewhere beyond the hedgerow that veiled the pub grounds from the disappearing line of the canal. In fact, the sound appeared to be coming from the direction in which she was heading right at this moment.

Most of the inn’s customers were congregated happily around the wooden bench tables some distance away, enjoying the warm sunshine of a late May afternoon as they watched the canal boats drift by on their way towards the lock gates.

She heard a murmured reply. It was a man’s voice, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Somehow she hadn’t expected that anyone would be stopping by this more secluded part of the canal, and for a moment the realisation made her pause. It was beginning to look as though her plan to take a quiet, solitary walk had been scuppered from the outset.

Not that it mattered. She had enjoyed a light meal and a companionable drink with her friend, Sarah, which had at least given her the chance to wind down a little after a difficult shift at the hospital. It had been a hectic few hours, and she was glad of the chance to loosen up a little. Even now, she could feel the pull of tight muscles in her neck and arms.

Now that Sarah had gone to meet up with her parents for a Sunday afternoon visit, Megan was free to wander as she pleased.

‘Is you going to paint the swans?’ The piping voice came again. ‘I like them, but I like the ducks better.’

Again there was the muffled sound of a male voice answering, and this time it was closer. Megan followed the footpath through a gap in the hedgerow until she came upon the grassy canal bank once more.

A whole new vista appeared in front of her, and she took a moment to drink it in. A stone-built bridge spanned the water, and beyond that the canal opened up into a wide waterway, with fields on either side where sheep grazed. Further on, a breathtaking panorama of rolling hills and woodland spread out as far as the eye could see.

Nearby, a man was seated in front of an easel, a few feet away from the water’s edge. He was wearing an open-necked, short-sleeved shirt and casual trousers, and from the taut, lean outline of his frame and the smooth, lightly bronzed appearance of his skin, she guessed he was in his early thirties. His dark hair was cut close to his head, in a style that complemented his angular features.

‘Is that the sky?’ A little boy, with the same, dark-coloured hair, waved his hand towards the canvas that the man was working on. He looked to be about four years old.

‘Yes, it is.’ The man’s voice was deep and pleasant, easy on the ear.

The child looked up, turning his gaze heavenwards. ‘The sky’s blue. Why is the sky blue?’

‘Because the light from the sun makes us see it that way.’

‘Does it? Why?’ The boy was puzzled.

The man dipped his brush into the palette of colours and added a fleck of white to his painting of the scene. ‘Because the world is made up of colour.’

‘Why?’

‘Just because that’s the way it is.’

Perhaps the boy sensed that he wasn’t going to get any more answers to his questions, because he began to wander away from the man and his painting. He went over to the water’s edge and peered down.

Megan guessed that he was looking at his reflection. He started to move his head from side to side, and then lifted up his arms and waggled his fingers. He began to giggle.

‘My arms is wriggling,’ the boy said. ‘See? My face is wriggling as well.’

Megan felt herself tensing. The boy was far too close to the edge, and the man wasn’t taking any notice of him at all. His concentration was centred on his painting.

‘Are they?’ he said. He wiped his brush on a cloth and glanced down at a box that rested by his feet.

‘Why is they wriggling?’

The man glanced at the child briefly. ‘I expect the water is moving,’ he answered.

At least he had taken a moment to look at the boy, but his attention was short-lived. He rummaged in the wicker box and picked out a tube of paint, squeezing out a small amount onto his palette.

Megan stiffened. Her muscles were tightening up into knots all over again. Did the man not realise that the boy was dangerously close to the edge of the water? What would it take for him to notice that the ground was uneven, and one false move would tip the child into the river?