Amy Andrews - Just One Last Night...

One that had demanded academic success. Not failure.

She’d known right then it was medicine or Brent. Both of them were all-consuming. Both of them demanded a singular focus.

She’d had to choose.

She’d wanted to be a doctor since she’d been eight years old and had had her appendix out.

She’d loved Brent for two years.

And in those two short years he’d made her forget all her career aspirations and long-term goals. He’d made her fail anatomy. He’d put her scholarship on the line.

Ending it, transferring to another uni, had been the logical thing to do.

But it had hurt. Oh, how it had hurt.

Twenty years on the stakes were even higher. Her life was careening out of control and this was her chance to get it back on track. It wasn’t just about her any more. There were two kids involved.

But how foolish would it be to pass up this opportunity? She needed to be informed and who better to do so than the current—if temporary—director? The doctor inside, the pragmatist, knew it made sense. And she’d got through the last twenty years, made a success of her life by listening to the doctor and not the woman.

It would be foolish to start doing so now.

BRENT put everything, including the fact that Grace was a rival for his job, aside and gave her the full tour. When he’d been seconded to Melbourne Central he’d been far from enthusiastic about the change. After fifteen years at the Royal Melbourne he had been utterly dedicated to his old hospital.

He’d planned on taking the helm, keeping the ship running until they found the right candidate and then head back to the Royal.

But since moving into the brand spanking new Melbourne Central he’d changed his mind. He’d realised he’d grown stagnant staying in one place. Roots were all well and good but the challenge of heading a new department, if only temporarily, had been exhilarating. And working with top-notch equipment in state-of-the-art facilities had been a luxury he’d quickly grown used to.

He’d put his stamp on this place and he was proud to share it with Grace. To show her that the boy with dreams she’d once known had more than fulfilled his goals.

He showed her around the twenty cubicles and seven resus beds, introduced her to the staff and demonstrated the central monitoring and fully integrated computer system that was run from the central work station.

Afterwards he took her around the other side of the station and opened a door. ‘And this is my office.’

Grace looked inside. It wasn’t palatial. But it was big enough, with a decent-sized desk and a very comfortable-looking leather chair. She looked at him. ‘You mean my office?’

Brent gave a grudging half-laugh. ‘Okay, the director’s office.’

His laughter slipped over her skin like a satin nightgown—light and silky—and Grace smiled. For a moment. Before reality intruded. ‘What will you do if I get the job?’

Brent regarded her for a few moments, wondering whether to tell the truth. He decided to give her no quarter. The old Grace hadn’t liked to be mollycoddled.

‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news but I really don’t see that happening, Grace. I’ve been here since the beginning. They’re only advertising the role because they have to. It’s just a formality.’

Grace held his gaze. It was surprisingly gentle, considering the impact of his words, and had come over all tawny again. She appreciated his frankness. Hell, she’d suspected as much when he’d told her he was acting in the position.

Still, it irked. She needed it. Jobs like this at her senior level, with regular hours, didn’t grow on trees. She wasn’t just going to cede it to him.

‘Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?’

Brent saw the chin tilt again. ‘You want it that badly?’

‘I need it,’ she corrected.

Brent knew the concession wouldn’t have come easily to Grace and he saw in her gaze she was already regretting it. ‘Need it?’

She hesitated for a moment, already cross with herself for giving away more than she should have and hyper-aware that they were standing very close in the small doorway. She could smell his aftershave wafting towards her and memories of how good it had felt to bury her face against his neck assailed her.

She took a step back, out of the doorway. ‘More regular hours for the kids would be a blessing.’

Brent noted her withdrawal, pleased for the breathing space. It seemed twenty years hadn’t dulled her effect on him. ‘What are their names?’

‘Tash …’ Grace cleared her throat. ‘Natasha and Benji.’

He nodded liking the way her voice softened as she said their names. She sounded like a mother and it called to something primitive inside him. After all, he’d once hoped she’d be the mother of his children.

Children she hadn’t wanted.

‘You could still come and work here you know, if this position doesn’t come off. We’re always looking for staff. You could have a job with flexible hours.’

Brent surprised himself with the invitation. But good hospitals needed good doctors. And he knew she wouldn’t be being interviewed unless she was damn good. He wanted the best for the Central, for his department. Their history was immaterial.

He shrugged. ‘The offer’s there, anyway.’

Grace glanced at him, startled. That was a big call. And very generous. But it also had danger written all over it. Her life was complicated enough, without repeating past mistakes.

‘Thanks,’ she said, filing it in a mental bin. ‘So …’ she looked around ‘… is there a minor ops room somewhere?’

Brent stared at her for a moment longer then took the hint. ‘This way.’

They walked to a corridor that ran along the back of the department with several more rooms evenly spaced along its length.

‘That’s X-Ray through there,’ Brent said, pointing to the door at the far end of the corridor. ‘This here …’ he indicated, opening a door ‘… is for minor ops.’

Grace perused the layout and equipment before they moved on to several other rooms, including a storeroom, medication room and an examination room for eye patients housing an expensive specialised microscope.

‘Dokator Brent!’

‘Oh, hell,’ Brent groaned at the raised female voice from nearby floated towards them. He looked behind him at the trail of black scuff marks his shoes had left on the polished linoleum floor.

‘Dokator Brent!’

The heavily accented voice was closer this time, more insistent, and Grace looked at Brent, perplexed. ‘Who is that?’

‘That’s Sophia,’ he said, frantically scrubbing at the nearest mark with his shod foot. ‘She’s the department’s cleaner. She’s a dear old thing, has to be about ninety years old. Russian or Slavic or something like that. Salt of the earth but takes fanatical pride in her floors. Does not like having them besmirched, and these damn shoes always leave horrible marks.’

As Grace watched he moved on to the next black smudge. She stared at his shoes. They looked expensive—a far cry from the tatty sneakers he’d worn when they’d been young and in love.

‘I don’t usually wear them, except of course I had the interview today. She’ll give me a terrible tongue lashing,’ he groaned, the sole of his shoe erasing the marks.

Grace smiled. She couldn’t help herself. Brent Cartwright terrified of a little old lady. She laughed then, unable to stop herself. Twenty years fell away and she was back at uni with him, goofing around.

He looked up at her laughing face and it took his breath away. She was looking at him like she had back then, like the intervening years had never happened. Like they were still lovers.