CHAPTER ONE
‘I SUPPOSE it was inevitable, really.’ Verity gave a heavy sigh as she stared into the full-length mirror which was supposed to add light and depth to a tiny sitting room which desperately needed both. But somehow the mirror had never quite achieved its purpose!
Butter-coloured curls were tossed as a small head was turned upwards and a pair of very big, very blue eyes widened into cornflower saucers. ‘What’s ’nevitable, Mummy?’ The child concentrated fiercely on the new word and a pudgy little hand tugged at the hem of Verity’s tartan miniskirt.
Verity turned away from the mirror and smiled with automatic pleasure as her eyes met those of her interested little daughter, her troubles momentarily forgotten as she thought for the hundredth time how adorable Sammi looked in her new school uniform. ‘Nothing, darling,’ she hedged. Why subject Sammi to fears which might not, after all, come to anything at all? ‘Sammi mustn’t worry.’
But Sammi was not to be deterred. She may not have anything of her father’s looks about her, thought Verity with a grim kind of humour, but she had certainly inherited his determination!
The cornflower saucers were screwed up into petal shapes as Sammi again tried to remember the word her mother had used. “Nevitable!’ she recalled, triumph curving her rosebud mouth. ‘What’s ’nevitable, Mummy?’
Verity was torn between fierce maternal pride at her five-year-old’s vocabulary and the worry of how she was going to keep the momentous news from her.
That Benedict was about to re-enter her life.
Benedict Jackson—the hunky obstetrician and gynaecologist who could charm just about any woman he wanted with an irresistible combination of arrogance, wit and good old-fashioned sex appeal!
But how could you turn round to a five-year-old who, to all intents and purposes, believed that she had no father—and tell her that she had? And not only that. That the man in question was one of the finest surgeons in his field. The rising star of obstetrics and gynaecology, with more original research papers to his name than Verity had had hot dinners.
And that later on that morning she would be standing opposite him in the operating theatre, assisting the great man as his scrub nurse.
She had spent the last week wondering how on earth she was going to cope with working side by side with the father of her child. Especially when that man remained ignorant of his paternity.
Verity had also given considerable thought as to why Benedict was taking up the post of senior registrar at St Jude’s. Oh, it was true that St Jude’s, set in one of the prettiest parts of North London, was an internationally renowned hospital. But so, too, was the hospital in which the two of them had trained—Benedict as a doctor and Verity as a nurse. The prestigious St Thomas’s on the other side of London—where generations of Jacksons had dominated the surgical wards. Benedict had fitted in well there, with most of the nurses madly in love with him and nearly all the doctors in awe of his father’s reputation as dean of the medical school.
So why come here, of all places?
Oh, sweet mercy! Verity thought despairingly. The whole situation was like something out of her very worst nightmare, which had begun when she had picked up the off-duty last week and seen the new senior registrar’s name.
Benedict Jackson.
It might as well have been written in letters of fire because she had dropped the off-duty on Sister’s floor as though she had been burnt and Sister Saunders had given her a most peculiar look.
If only Jamie Brennan hadn’t gone away on holiday, Verity sighed inwardly as she slicked some peach-coloured gloss over her full mouth. She always scrubbed for the popular young consultant herself, which meant that at least one of the junior staff nurses would have had the dubious pleasure of dealing with the new surgeon. And not her.
Or if only Jamie had mentioned the name of his new senior registrar to her before he had gone off to Florida then it might not have come as such a shock. But why would he do that? she reasoned. He certainly didn’t name all the new members of medical staff who passed through the hospital under his superb tutelage. And it would not occur to him to mention Benedict in particular, despite his close relationship with Verity, since he had no idea that his new senior registrar was the father of her child.
No one did. Though many wondered. Just as they wondered about the true extent of the slim, blonde staff nurse’s involvement with her consultant.
For Verity and Jamie were friends outside as well as inside work and that was official.
The two of them had worked side by side in Theatres for the four years that Verity had been at St Jude’s. Jamie always said that she was the best scrub nurse he had ever had—apart from Kathy, of course—and he had married Kathy and forbidden her to ever work again!
He and Kathy had had a daughter, Harriet, who was just a year older than Sammi, and Verity and Jamie used to spend hours comparing notes over the operating table as they had each passed through the various stages of child-rearing. And although Jamie was a fairly conventional man, despite his relatively tender years, he had never once commented or judged Verity on her single-mother status and for that she had been eternally grateful.
And then Kathy had died.
A tumour had grown inside her brain in what had been the most shocking diagnosis in all Verity’s years of nursing. She remembered Jamie, white-faced and trembling, when he had called her into his office and told her that the prognosis was poor; remembered him breaking down in front of her, his face in his hands and his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
It had taken Kathy two long years to die and Verity had seen something of Jamie’s spirit die with her.
As a friend she had done what little she could. The most practical help she had been able to give them had to been to take Harriet out at weekends when Kathy was suffering the worst of her drug treatment. The chemotherapy had made her violently sick and all her hair had fallen out and Verity could have wept as she’d watched the once vibrantly beautiful woman slowly fade before their eyes.
But she had not been self-indulgent enough to let Kathy or Jamie see her grief; instead she concentrated on giving Harriet the best time possible, given the circumstances. Sammi and Harriet had become very close—the best of friends—and after Kathy’s death Jamie had begun to include himself in the trips to zoo, the park and the cinema. Verity suspected that he’d found the outings as cathartic as his young daughter did.
And now, two years after his wife had died, Jamie had felt strong enough to take Harriet on holiday. One evening, after the four of them had shared a hamburger and the two girls had gone off to play, he had quietly asked Verity and Sammi to accompany them. ‘Especially now you’ve got your passport!’ he’d joked, but Verity had refused immediately.
‘Why?’ he had asked softly.
She’d said the first thing that had come into her head because she had not wanted to face her growing certainty that Jamie’s feelings for her were changing. ‘People will talk.’
He had smiled sadly. ‘And do you care?’ It had been one of those loaded questions, his eyes very intense as they’d watched her response.
‘Of course I care,’ Verity had answered lightly but she’d been aware that she’d been evading the real issue—of whether she cared enough about Jamie to begin a relationship with him and all that entailed.
The clock broke into her troubled thoughts as it rang out the half-hour, shrilly reminding her that if she didn’t get a move on she would risk being late for work and she had enough on her plate to cope with without inviting a black mark from Sister Saunders! She might be best friends with the obstetric and gynaecological consultant but that didn’t carry any weight where Sister was concerned and she was an absolute stickler for punctuality!
‘Come here, Sammi.’ Verity picked up a hairbrush from the mantelpiece, sat down on the sofa and pulled her daughter gently towards her, drawing her up to sit on her lap as she began to stroke the brush through the honey-coloured, silken curls.
Samantha wriggled impatiently, her dislike of having her riotous mop of hair combed well known, but Verity held her firmly. ‘Please, darling,’ she pleaded. ‘Keep still for Mummy or I’ll be late for work. It’s nearly time to go to the childminder’s.’
‘Don’t like the childminder’s,’ muttered Sammi sulkily.
Verity finished tying a blue bow with a flourish and leaned back to admire her handiwork. She knew that she was biased, but really—Sammi was the most beautiful child she had ever seen! ‘She’s a very nice childminder,’ she corrected automatically. ‘Of course you like her!’ She frowned, the guilt she felt at having to leave Samantha every morning never far from the surface. ‘She hasn’t been horrible to you, has she, darling? Not Margaret?’
Samantha was honest, sometimes painfully so. ‘No, Margaret’s nice,’ she agreed, as Verity heaved a sigh of relief. ‘It’s that William Browning!’ she added indignantly. ‘He always takes my biscuit!’
Verity bit back a smile. ‘William’s a boy, darling, and boys are different.’ She wasn’t sure whether this was a politically correct statement for a mother to make to her daughter but this morning, at least, she didn’t care! ‘Anyway, you’re only there for an hour or so before you start school.’
‘I wish you could take me to school!’
‘And so do I, darling. So do I. But I have to earn the pennies to pay our keep, don’t I?’
‘I miss Harriet,’ said Sammi suddenly. ‘And Jamie.’
Verity swallowed one of her abiding fears. That Sammi was becoming too attached to the widowed consultant and his young daughter. And that things between her and Jamie were heading towards some kind of showdown. Like a coward, she put the thought away. She had quite enough to worry about at the moment without fretting about a situation which might never arise. She gave her daughter a tender smile.
‘I miss them, too,’ she said truthfully. ‘There!’ With a final flourish of the hairbrush the curls were tamed and Verity stood up and smiled. ‘Now. Did I hear you say something about wanting cherries in your lunch-box?’
‘Oh, Mummy—can I?’
Verity laughed. Pennies might be tight but she always made sure that they ate plenty of fresh fruit. She had added the cooled fruit to Samantha’s packed lunch at breakfast-time. If only she could be so easily pacified by the thought of a handful of cherries for lunch! ‘Sure you can,’ she murmured indulgently, picking Samantha’s blazer off the peg and helping her into it before grabbing her own jacket. She popped the umbrella under her arm for good measure—the recent late-April weather had certainly been living up to its reputation!
Then she clasped Samantha’s small hand and set off for the childminder’s more slowly than usual, subconsciously putting off the awful moment when she would have to walk into Theatre and come face to face with Benedict Jackson for the first time in almost six years.
The powerful E-type screeched to a halt in the staff-only car park, its British racing green colour glistening as the sun peeked out from behind a cloud to illuminate the droplets of rain which were spattered all over its distinctive bonnet. One long, long leg emerged from out of the low-slung door, followed by another, and then a spectacular example of muscle-packed male made a dramatic appearance as the driver of the car stood up to his full, impressive height of six feet three inches.
Benedict paused, his dark head turning a fraction as he was drawn to a movement on the other side of the car park, and his green eyes narrowed as he watched the girl running frantically up the steps towards the hospital entrance.
There was something very wild and free about her athletic movements, he thought. And something very appealing, too, about the yards of shapely thigh in their woollen tights which were fetchingly displayed by the short tartan skirt she wore.
He caught a glimpse of palest blonde hair peeping out from beneath a cute green velvet hat as the girl let her umbrella down and shook it vigorously and he stilled momentarily, his heart beating faster as some distant memory nudged disturbingly at his subconscious, but then the sun went in again and the memory was gone in an instant.
As he bent down to lock the car a uniformed nurse strolled by, candid appreciation in her open smile, but Benedict scarcely noticed her. He had been used to women smiling at him like that since he was barely out of nappies! He was a man on whom the gods had chosen to confer more than their fair share of gifts and, consequently, he had never had to try too hard. Women came on to him strongly. Always had done. For years he had enjoyed the sensation—up to a point. But lately...
He sighed. What was it they said? About too much feasting making you long for famine! He had even tried famine recently—passing up every invitation which came his way. And invitations came thick and fast to Benedict Jackson.
So why was it that this jaded feeling, which clung to skin like grime, stubbornly refused to go away? Why did cynicism continue to harden his mouth into a tight, harsh line? Just what in hell did he need to put the spark back into his life? he wondered.
The hard mouth quirked as he watched the girl in tartan push open the glass doors of the entrance, her small, high bottom anatomical perfection as she wiggled off into the distance. Then he shook his head. There was more to life than a flounce of pale blonde hair and a flawless figure. Looking like that, he decided with chauvinistic pessimism, she would be bound to have an IQ in single figures.
Other men seemed to find their soul mates. So why not him?
He sighed again as he pocketed his car keys and made his way to Theatres.
‘You’re going to be late if you’re not careful, Verity!’ Sister Saunders was glaring as Verity tried to sneak past her office unnoticed but every nurse in Theatre knew that her bark was worse than her bite, just as they knew that she had a particularly soft spot for Verity or, more specifically, for Verity’s daughter.
Verity nodded, pulling her wide mouth into an apologetic grimace as she slid to a halt. ‘I know. Sorry, Sister. Sammi threw a tantrum when we got to the childminder’s. And then, to cap it all, the seven-forty bus was cancelled.’
Sister Saunders’s face softened, though not for very long. ‘And you’re wet!’ she accused. ‘Though, quite frankly, Verity, if you wear skirts that short it’s a small wonder you haven’t always got double pneumonia! I don’t know why you don’t clad yourself out in something a bit more sensible!’ she snorted. ‘A pair of trousers and a thick sweater!’
‘Yes, Sister,’ answered Verity automatically, even managing a small grin. Her fashionable clothes were the one small rebellion left to her. When you got pregnant at twenty and the father had run off and become involved with someone else there wasn’t really a lot of opportunity to rebel in other ways. Having a baby and a limited budget certainly put the kibosh on going out at night!
So she bought couture patterns and sewed them herself, knowing that her figure was good enough to get away with some pretty outrageous garments. As hobbies went it was harmless and fairly nonaddictive! And even though she did go out more often these days, with Jamie, she still kept sewing like crazy!
Her teeth chattered and Sister Saunders glared again. ‘Now run away! Shoo! Get dry and get scrubbed up! I’ve put you in Theatre Two with the new boy. Jackson.’
Verity hurried along the corridor towards the nurses’ changing room, the words clanging around inside her head. ‘New boy’? She could almost have laughed aloud in different circumstances.
Benedict would be thirty now—three years older than her and hardly a boy. She had known him at twenty-four, when he was fresh out of med school. He had been no boy, then, either.
Infuriatingly, her heart thudded with the memory. Benedict Jackson had always seemed to be more of a man than any of the other new doctors. More of a man than anyone she had ever met, as it happened. Taller and tougher, his limbs more muscular and solid, his chin more prone to darken with stubble and much more experienced than the others. Oh, yes. Verity winced. Definitely more experienced...
‘Whoa! Steady, Staff!’ chided a voice, and Verity slid to a halt. She had almost collided with Ethel’s sandwich trolley.
‘Sorry, Ethel,’ she said apologetically.
Ethel shook her head, although her tightly permed hair didn’t move a bit! ‘That’s all right, love,’ she said cheerfully. ‘No harm done.’ She hesitated. ‘Did you know I’m booked to come in tomorrow, Staff?’
‘What, for an operation?’ asked Verity in surprise. Ethel had been working in Theatres for the last twenty years; she was like part of the furniture. ‘I didn’t know you’d been ill, Ethel.’
Ethel shrugged her plump shoulders beneath the flowery pinny she always wore. ‘Not ill, really. Nothing to worry about, that’s for sure!’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think it must be the change, Staff. You know. Periods coming more often than they should. Wretched things—as if I haven’t already had enough problems with childbirth! I saw Mr Brennan in the clinic last week and he’s booked me in for investigations. Pity he’s away on holiday,’ she sighed. ‘I like Mr Brennan.’
‘I’m sure Mr Jackson, the new senior registrar, is just as good,’ said Verity immediately, smiling widely to put Ethel’s mind at rest.
‘You think so?’ Ethel brightened up immediately.
‘I know so,’ said Verity firmly. ‘I’d better go, Ethel, or Sister will have my guts for garters!’
‘Want me to put you a sandwich aside?’
‘Got any tuna and tomato?’
Ethel shook her head. ‘Tuna and cucumber?’
‘That’ll do!’
‘I’ll leave it in the staff-room—you can pay me later!’
Verity went into the changing room, her thoughts ticking over. She hoped that Ethel’s confidence wasn’t misplaced. She knew that women of around fifty sometimes had changes to their menstrual cycle which they assumed to be simply the change of life—often not even bothering reporting it to their doctor. In fact, these changes were occasionally the symptoms of an underlying disease such as cancer.
Thank heavens that Ethel had enough sense to have been referred to Jamie, thought Verity, and mentally willed herself to stop fretting about it. Everyone knew that nurses—particularly theatre nurses—always looked on the black side of things!
She took off the damp tartan suit, the woollen tights and the ankle-boots and then slithered into the unisex pale blue cotton trousers with the matching short-sleeved top which all the theatre staff wore.
After she had locked her clothes away she hunted around in the wire mesh rack beneath the wooden bench until she located her own pair of white theatre clogs, with her initials boldly painted in black felt-tip on each cork heel! Verity had discovered within her first week of nursing that if you wanted to hang onto anything in the huge, impersonal surrounds of a hospital then it was best to personalise it!
She tucked the silken strands of her bobbed hair beneath the all-enveloping theatre cap and went to look at the operating list which was pinned up outside the changing room.
She quickly scanned it, relieved to see that the anaesthetist was Russell Warner who was slick enough and relaxed enough not to take nonsense from any new surgeon, however brilliant. And Verity was automatically assuming that Benedict would be in the elite ranks of brilliant surgeons.
The list was not what you might have described as uncomplicated but Verity was an experienced enough theatre nurse for it not to cause her any undue anxieties. Thank heavens! Apart from two routine sterilisations there was an anterior colporraphy—which was a vaginal operation for prolapse of the uterus, followed by a simple hysterectomy. If she was going to have to face Benedict then she wanted to be able to do it on automatic pilot. It was going to be difficult enough concentrating as it was, she knew, without having the added worry of a difficult and unusual procedure to cope with.
Though maybe he had changed, she thought, a touch hopefully. Maybe in the intervening years all that superbly honed muscle had slackened to a thick apron of fat around his abdomen. But Verity almost smiled as she brushed the thought away. Benedict Jackson fat? Instant world peace seemed a more likely scenario than that!
As she went into the instrument room to check that the night staff had laid out all the operating packs for that day’s list she found herself wondering why she seemed almost relaxed about the thought of seeing him.
Almost...
Almost calm.
Perhaps because it all seemed so unreal. As though it wasn’t happening. As though someone was going to turn around and tell her that it was all some big joke.
She picked out a pair of gloves and a gown then went to the trough-like sink which stood in an ante-room and began to scrub up, wetting her arms right up to the elbow and then covering them in vivid pink antiseptic soap and washing for three minutes exactly to ensure that they were properly clean.
A passing student nurse walked in with a cheery ‘hello’ and tied the back of Verity’s pale blue gown.
When Verity was all gowned up she wandered into the instrument room where Anna Buchan was waiting for her. The second-year student nurse had only been working in Theatres for a fortnight but already Verity wondered how they had ever managed without her. She was a ‘natural’, with all the attributes needed by a good theatre nurse—manual dexterity, the ability to think on her feet and, most important of all, a non-panicky personality.
‘Hi, Verity,’ Anna smiled. ‘I’m your “runner” for this morning’s list.’
Which meant that Anna would assist Verity during the operation including, quite literally, ‘running’ around Theatre to add any extra instruments or sutures which the surgeon might require.
‘My prayers must have been answered,’ murmured Verity indulgently. ‘Everything ready?’
‘Yup!’
Verity wheeled her trolley into Theatre and opened the thick, green cloth to reveal the neatly packed silver-coloured instruments and packets of swabs and cotton wool.
‘New surgeon, I understand?’ remarked Anna conversationally.
Verity didn’t lift her head, just carried on calmly separating and counting a packet of gauze swabs before laying them in a dish. ‘So I believe,’ she answered neutrally.
Fortunately, Anna was far more interested in her forthcoming wedding than in any new members of staff. ‘Do you think I’ve lost weight?’ she asked quite seriously and Verity did lift her head then—to grin.
‘It beats me,’ she answered, shaking her head in an exaggerated fashion, ‘why brides-to-be always buy dresses too small, necessitating long weeks of working out in the gym and rigorous dieting so that they’re exhausted by the time the big day comes. Poor things!’
Anna smiled and seemed about to say something, then appeared to change her mind and started adjusting the theatre light instead.
And Verity knew why. Knew that she was something of an oddity at work. Unmarried but with a child. People tended to make assumptions about women in her situation. Particularly men. And so she had developed a polite but somewhat brittle approachability where men were concerned. Even Jamie had never seen her with her guard completely down. She had made a fool of herself over a man once and had been hurt—badly—and she had no intention of allowing a similar situation to repeat itself.
Anna switched on the powerful, circular theatre light and the chatter of voices approaching told her that the rest of the operating team was assembling.
And then some second sense alerted her and she looked across the theatre to see Benedict walking into the scrub room from the corridor.
He was talking to Ted Lyons, his houseman, his deep, authoritative voice carrying into theatre. Verity bit her lip, listening in to what he was saying while she decided how best to greet him and expecting his voice to have changed. Or something.
But it hadn’t. It was still deep and resonant with that sexy little chuckle that made it so irresistible.
‘Hell of a journey,’ he was saying. ‘The motorway was down to one lane.’
‘I noticed your car when you arrived,’ said the houseman reverent. ‘Top of the range, isn’t it?’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Benedict rather dismissively and Verity felt like shouting a warning to Ted, who was young and ambitious and terribly eager to please. Except that he was going about it the wrong way with Benedict.
Don’t be a sycophant, she felt like shouting! Don’t revere him! I did all those things—mad, love-struck fool that I was. And he won’t respect you if you do.
‘So how does she handle?’ the houseman quizzed.
‘Like a dream,’ answered Benedict slowly and Verity knew without looking that his green eyes would have crinkled at the corners in the way that they always did when something gave him pleasure...
His voice took on a deep, distinctively intimate timbre as he talked about his car and Verity suddenly got a very good idea of what it must be like to be jealous of an inanimate heap of metal and chrome.
He had paused. She knew without looking up that he had seen her. That those green eyes would be interested and alert—his attention caught by the sight of an attractive young woman. Unless he had changed a great deal...
So, what to do? The mask concealed all but her eyes and if she kept those downcast then there was no reason in the world for him to realise that it was her. At least not for the moment.
Except that such behaviour would speak volumes, surely? Why go to the trouble of deliberately avoiding someone who meant absolutely nothing to her? And she was going to have to face him sooner or later. So why not be civilised about it? Cool, calm and collected, even? That’s what all the agony aunts in the magazines would have advised her to do.
Cool, calm and collected, indeed! She felt none of those as Benedict walked across the operating theatre towards her, that elegant stance and impressive height and sheer breathtaking perfection dwarfing everything and everyone.
Hot, harassed and hounded would be a more accurate description of her feelings—but she stood her ground. After all, he was the stranger here, not she. So, psychologically at least, she had all the advantages. He would be the one to be surprised by this meeting, not her.
He was almost upon her. Consciously she forced herself to relax, hoping that her body language would do her a favour and tell a pack of lies!
‘Hi,’ she said with cool politeness, looking up. ‘You must be our new gynaecologist.’
He didn’t answer immediately but then Benedict had never been one to conform to the conventional mores of behaviour. Instead he let his green eyes flick very casually over her from head to toe, not long enough to be offensive but just long enough to make her hormones heatedly shriek their recognition of this powerful, potent male.
‘Yes, I am,’ he replied. ‘I’m Benedict Jackson.’
‘I know.’ She saw his eyes narrow. ‘I saw your name on the off-duty,’ she added, by way of an explanation.
He gave a slow, dizzying smile. ‘Then I’m afraid that you have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am...’ The dark brows were raised quizzically. ‘But who are you?’ he finished softly.
I’m the mother of your child! she nearly shouted hysterically into his face but some protective instinct stopped her. And what was the reason for that foolish hurt which had started plucking at her heartstrings like a rusty nail? Why on earth should he remember a brief affair which had taken place six years ago? Especially when she knew for a fact that she was merely one in a cast of hundreds who had starred in the fulfilling role of Benedict Jackson’s bed-partner.
But even so she thanked some benevolent god that the theatre mask she wore hid most of the blush which stained her cheeks. And camouflaged the fact that she was biting her bottom lip hard enough to make it bleed. ‘I’m your—’ Verity swallowed and saw him hide a smile and it simply added fuel to her anger to realise the reason. He clearly thought that she was rendered speechless because he was so gorgeous! Oh, how she would like to pick up the nearest bowl of something cold and wet and sour-smelling and douse him with it! ‘Scrub nurse,’ she finished, on a gulp.
‘Ah,’ he murmured. ‘And do you have a name, oh scrub nurse?’ he finished, with gentle mockery lacing his voice.
It was now or never.
‘It’s Verity,’ she answered tightly. ‘Verity Summers.’
‘Hello, Verity,’ he said automatically, giving her a friendly nod, and had begun to turn towards his approaching houseman when he suddenly frowned and stilled.
She could see him racking through a mental computer printout of ex-conquests and if she hadn’t been one of them she might have found it vaguely amusing. All the same, she didn’t want to be standing in front of him when he finally remembered number one thousand and sixty or wherever she happened to be down the line! ‘Excuse me,’ she said and, sliding her right foot firmly back into her white clog, she began to move away from him.
‘No, wait!’ he instructed, still frowning. ‘Verity?’ he queried softly and his green eyes widened. ‘Verity?’ He half stepped towards her but she raised her elbows in front of her chest to indicate that she was scrubbed, although the gesture was more one of keeping him away than of keeping sterile.
‘Excuse me, Mr Jackson,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ve not yet finished preparing your instruments for the first case on the list.’
‘Verity, I—’
‘Are there any special instruments you prefer?’
He gave her a long, considering look. ‘No,’ he answered eventually.
‘Glove size?’ she queried crisply and saw the light of devilment in his eyes.
A light danced in his eyes. ‘Can’t you remember?’ he murmured silkily.
‘I never worked with you in Theatres!’ she snapped back, furious at the sexual innuendo.
‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ he laughed softly.
No. She knew exactly what he meant. Memory was a strange thing. And for years she had been able to remember every detail of his beautiful body and that included those wonderful hands, those long, strong and yet artistic fingers which could work such magic.
A huge wave of sadness engulfed her. If only he knew, she thought fleetingly. If only he knew that he had a beautiful five-year-old daughter sitting at her school-desk and learning her tables right at this very moment.
And he never would know! she vowed fervently. There was no way that she was going to let this no-good, philandering, flirting Casanova back into her or—far more importantly—Sammi’s life. ‘Glove size?’ she repeated, in a tone of icy indifference and her attitude must have finally got through to him for he looked at her assessingly.
‘Eight,’ he answered, then added in an undertone meant for her ears only, ‘And whose bed did you get out of on the wrong side this morning?’
‘Certainly not yours!’ she hissed with a foolish lack of thought or logic.
He shot her a look of pure sensual amusement. ‘I can tell,’ he purred, ‘because if you had you’d be a lot less uptight than you are now.’
If she hadn’t been scrubbed she really might have slapped his face. As it was she could see Ted, the houseman, coming over to talk to them so she contented herself—if contented could be the right word, given the circumstances—with a little yelp of impotent rage, accompanied by the most withering look that she could manage.
Then, and only then, did she move her sterile trolley to the back of the theatre to wait for the patient to be wheeled in, her tiny shudder seeming to indicate that she found his very presence contaminating.