‘NO WAY!’
‘No way?’ Pete Harrison leaned back in his chair, locked his hands behind his head and levelled a thoughtful look at Ben. ‘Are you turning into a diva, Maguire?’
His voice was casual, but Ben wasn’t fooled for a moment. Casual, nothing. The programme’s producer never missed a trick—and every twitching eyelash would be taken down and used in evidence.
Well, he could do casual, too. He crossed one ankle over the opposite knee and picked at a thread on his clean but frankly knackered jeans. He really ought to get some new ones but, dammit, he liked these jeans and, anyway, they annoyed Pete, and that in itself made them worth wearing.
He lifted his head and met Pete’s eyes head on. ‘A diva? After what I’ve been through for you and your blasted programme? I think that’s a tad unjustified,’ he said mildly. ‘I’ve been shot at, nearly drowned, I’ve risked the bends, I’ve dragged a fireman out of a burning building in the nick of time—I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I didn’t mind, I even enjoyed some of it. But I don’t do hospitals—not for you, not for anyone.’
Pete’s reply was rude and to the point. ‘You’re a doctor, for God’s sake. Of course you do hospitals.’
‘Not any more.’
Pete twiddled his pen with apparent idleness. ‘You never did tell me why you gave up medicine,’ he said, and Ben felt his muscles tighten.
‘No, I didn’t,’ he said flatly. He wasn’t opening that particular can of worms—either now or any time soon—and he had no intention of spending the next week in an A and E department either, good television or not.
As if he realised that line would get him nowhere, Pete put the pen down and leant forwards, changing tack. ‘It’s the last one of the series,’ he said encouragingly. ‘We want to end on a high note with a bit of touchy-feely. It’s nothing too cutting edge—it’s in a nice quiet rural town in the depths of Suffolk, a sleepy little country hospital. Look on it as a holiday.’
Ben snorted rudely. ‘Hardly.’
‘Ah, come on, Ben. Compared to the lifeboats and the fire service and the deep-sea diving off the oil rigs, it’ll be a walk in the park—and light years from a war correspondent. This is a little nurse you’re shadowing, that’s all. Watching her do her job. Nothing dangerous, nothing threatening.’
That’s all you know, Ben thought, but he said nothing, and not by a flicker of those carefully watched eyelashes did he give away the emotion that was roiling inside.
‘No.’
Pete’s voice was as smooth as polished steel, and with about as much give in it. ‘Fly-on-the-wall hospital stuff is hot news at the moment. Blood and guts, heart-wrenching drama, the buzz of lives saved—it’s what your adoring public want, and let’s be clear here, Ben. You give them what they want. It’s in your contract.’
The bottom line.
He’d known it was coming. He opened his mouth to say stuff the contract, but then shut it. He couldn’t just walk away midseries, they’d seen to that. Unsung Heroes was hugely popular, and he didn’t suffer from false modesty. A brilliant idea, it nevertheless owed its success almost entirely to the way he’d flung himself headlong—literally—into the making of every programme, and they weren’t going to let the gravy train hit the buffers because he had a hissy fit.
And anyway, a legal battle to break the contract would be much messier, much harder—much more intrusive—than just taking a huge deep breath and getting through it.
Somehow.
You can handle it, he told himself. It was years ago—finished. Time to move on, time to let go.
He took that huge deep breath. ‘So—who’s this little nurse I’m supposed to be shadowing in this sleepy little country hospital?’ he asked, and Pete dropped the pen and smiled at him like a friendly barracuda.
‘That’s my boy,’ he said softly. ‘I knew you’d see sense.’
‘Me? No way!’
‘Meg, don’t be daft! You’ll be wonderful! Everyone loves you—all that bounce and empathy and good-natured teasing, not to mention the high cheekbones and twinkly eyes! You’ll be a natural.’
‘Angie, I can’t!’ she wailed at her boss. ‘Dream on! This is me—Meg Fraser. I’m not an unsung hero! I’m not any kind of a hero, I’m just a nurse! Who on earth will want to know how I spend my life? I’m a nobody! He does fire-fighters and war correspondents, not boring nurses! Who suggested me, anyway, of all people?’
‘I did.’
She spun round and rolled her eyes—her twinkly eyes, no less!—at Tom Whittaker, A and E consultant and her best friend’s husband. ‘I might have known,’ she groaned. ‘And did Fliss have anything to do with it?’
‘She might have done,’ he agreed with a lazy smile. ‘And don’t let her hear you describing nurses as boring. She’ll have your guts for garters.’
‘If I don’t have hers first,’ Meg muttered. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this to me! And he’ll probably faint at the first sign of blood.’
‘Hardly. Ben’s a doctor—a good one. He trained with me—we were friends.’
That intrigued her. ‘Ben Maguire’s a doctor? I thought he was just a pretty face with a death wish. Why did he give up medicine?’
‘I have no idea. I’ll ask him on Sunday.’
‘Sunday?’
‘When the team arrives,’ Angie chipped in.
‘Team?’
‘You’re beginning to sound like a parrot,’ Tom teased. ‘The film crew. You know—the cameramen, the sound men, the lighting…’
‘Sunday?’ Meg shrieked. ‘They can’t start on Sunday!’
‘They’re starting on Monday,’ Angie told her. ‘I would have told you all about it, but you were on holiday.’
‘You could have sent me a text.’
‘What, and risk you not coming back? Where was it? Corfu? Cyprus?’
‘Crete,’ Meg said mechanically. ‘You’re right. I might have been forced to miss the plane. Oh, damn, I can’t believe you’ve all done this to me!’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Angie said bracingly. ‘You’ll be great. And you get tomorrow off to sort yourself out—get your uniform sorted, have your hair cut and all that sort of thing, ready for the camera. Still, don’t get star-struck just yet. I need someone on Triage right now.’
‘No, you need your bumps felt,’ Meg said sourly, and with a shake of her head she walked briskly off, muttering ‘Sunday. Sunday!’ under her breath.
Behind her, Angie and Tom shared a sigh of relief. She didn’t hear it, but she heard the chuckles that followed, and she could have screamed.
Damn. Damn! If she had a grain of sense she’d walk out right this minute.
‘Look on the bright side,’ Fliss said later when she rang her. ‘You won’t have to worry about what to wear.’
‘No, I’ll just look hideous in my uniform!’
‘You don’t look hideous in anything. Don’t be silly. You’re gorgeous—all lush curves like Kate Winslet.’
‘I’d rather look like Cameron Diaz—all eyes and no lush at all.’
‘How about looking like Meg Fraser? At least you’ve got a waist, unlike some of us.’
‘Do I get a choice?’ Meg said drily, then sighed. ‘Oh, well, I know one person who’ll be pleased. My mother will die of excitement. She loves the programme and she thinks Ben Maguire’s gorgeous.’
‘And you don’t?’ Fliss teased. ‘Come on—six feet of solid testosterone with those wicked, amazing eyes and that sexy grin—lord, girl, if I wasn’t married…’
‘Well, you are, and Tom’s no slouch and he loves you to bits, not that you deserve it. Just thank your lucky stars.’
‘I do. Every day,’ Fliss said gently. ‘He’s wonderful and I love him to bits, too. And I won’t be distracted. We were talking about you.’
‘And you should be talking about whether or not I’ll forgive you for setting me up,’ Meg pointed out, not at all sure that she would.
‘Of course you will. You’ll have a great time, and it’s only for a few days, anyway.’
A few days? Well, it probably was, but it seemed huge to her then, just three days away from the start of it all. And her hair was a mess, trashed by a week on the beach in Crete, and her nose was peeling, and she’d be on television.
Television, for heaven’s sake! Never mind the hair and the nose, she could get them sorted tomorrow, but what about her mouth? Given the slightest provocation she’d say something stupid for sure, and it would come back to haunt her, in the way of these things, for years to come.
‘I don’t think I will forgive you,’ she said to Fliss. ‘With my ability to run off at the mouth I could ruin my career and probably his, too, with a few carefully un-chosen words!’
Fliss laughed. ‘Rubbish. You’re lovely, they’ll adore you and it would take dynamite to ruin Ben Maguire’s career. Anyway, it’s not live so they’ll edit out the bad bits.’
‘You reckon? I hope you’re right. And, of course, word will get out and the department will be flooded with drama queens who want to be on the telly. It’s OK for you, tucked up safely at home with the children, you don’t have to be here to deal with it.’ She thought of Fliss’s life now, filled with the love and laughter and chaos of a big extended family, and for the briefest moment she felt a little twinge of envy.
Not that she wanted it for herself—heavens, no! But sometimes… ‘How’s Charlotte?’ she asked.
‘Gorgeous. I can’t believe that at only seven months she’s into everything. I can’t take my eyes off her for a second. You need to exert a little influence over your god-daughter, teach her how to behave. How about supper on Sunday?’
‘What, to bolster me up before the big day?’ she said wryly. ‘What time?’
‘Six? I’ll feed the kids early, then you can help me put them to bed and we can settle down with a glass of wine while we knock ourselves up something a bit more sophisticated than fish fingers to eat. How about a barbeque if the weather’s nice? With steak and hot chilli chicken and not a burger in sight?’
‘Sounds good,’ she said, and then remembered she would, by then, have met the great man himself. Oh, rats. How could they all have done this to her?
Ben turned off the car engine and sat for a moment, staring at the hospital as if by some sheer effort of will he might make it go away, but it stayed stubbornly there, right in front of him.
ACCIDENT AND EMERGENCY, it said in huge letters across the front of the ambulance canopy. His worst nightmare come home to roost.
Damn.
And as for it being a sleepy little country hospital—hah! It was a big, sprawling district-general hospital with a real-life full-on A and E department, and any illusions he’d been cherishing about it being otherwise went right out of the window. He pressed his lips together, took a deep breath to waste another second or so and opened the door.
The hospital wasn’t going to go away, so he might just as well get on with it. It was an hour before the rest of the team were due to arrive, and he just wanted to do this bit alone, to get inside, to get his reaction over with, to learn in private just how hard it was going to be to go back.
Not that it was the same hospital, but it might as well have been for all the difference it would make.
‘You’re a fool, forget it,’ he told himself, impatient with the dread that lay in a cold lump at the bottom of his stomach. Shrugging it off, he straightened his shoulders, locked the car and strode towards the entrance.
The doors hissed open to let him in, and instantly the smells, the sounds—beeps and groans and fast footfalls, the television in the waiting area, the hushed voices of the patients—assailed his senses and dragged him right back to square one. A child was crying, and in the distance he could hear the rhythmic hiss of a ventilator. He felt his pulse pick up and rammed his hands into his pockets to stop them shaking.
Hell, how could it be so hard?
He stood there, letting it all sink in, his eyes scanning the waiting area and finding familiarities amongst the differences, concentrating on the mundane to distract him from dwelling on the past. The same kinds of posters, the same flickering LED on the electronic message banner announcing the horrendous waiting time—that was something that didn’t change, no matter which hospital you were in. They were all the same under the skin.
Unfortunately. He’d hoped it would feel different, but he didn’t get that lucky.
He switched his attention to the reception desk just as the receptionist glanced up, did a mild double-take and went pink and girly on him. Dammit, she must have been fifty-five if she was a day, but just the sight of him flustered her, and for once his legendary charm and charisma deserted him.
She leapt up. ‘Mr Maguire—I’ll call Mr Whittaker for you.’
‘No need.’ A firm hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned and stared straight into a pair of strangely familiar, smiling eyes.
‘Tom?’
Before Ben could react further, he found himself enveloped in a hard, brief hug. Then he was thrust away and scrutinised briefly, then wrapped in another bone-cracking bear hug that brought a lump to his throat. He couldn’t remember when anyone had last hugged him with genuine affection, and he found his arms coming up and hugging back, just briefly—just enough. Then he made himself let go, before he blubbed like a baby.
‘Damn, I’ve missed you, you old reprobate,’ Tom said gruffly, giving him a hearty slap on the back. He slung an arm around his shoulders and steered him away from Reception. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here and go somewhere less public. I’ve nicked Matt Jordan’s office, we’ll go in there.’
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Ben asked, totally confused now. ‘How did you know I’d be here?’
‘Because I work here—in the department. Been here a year.’
And just like that, any hope of pretending ignorance of medical matters and keeping firmly in the background, pleading squeamishness, went straight down the pan, taking with it any chance of keeping himself to himself.
Tom had been a good friend—a really good friend. They’d lost touch when their careers had taken them to opposite ends of the country, but no doubt Tom would make it his responsibility to ensure that everything for this shoot ran smoothly, and that was bound to throw them together.
And that, of course, would mean all the inevitable questions about what he’d done since they’d last met, and why he’d given up medicine—and Tom wouldn’t be put off with feeble excuses. He’d demand the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and their friendship deserved honest answers. But he couldn’t tell him, couldn’t go there, not even for Tom.
Maybe especially for Tom.
And so he’d have to lie, to someone who deserved better and who, of all people, would understand and sympathise, and that, of course, was the trouble. For two pins he’d turn on his heel and run like hell, but he was stuck, because of Pete Harrison and his blasted contract, and there was no way out.
A bad day suddenly got a whole lot worse.
‘He’s here,’ Angie told her, and Meg felt her pulse rate rocket. Damn. She wiped her free hand on her tunic and closed her eyes, tipping her head back and counting to ten. Then fifteen. Then—
‘Just go and get it over with. He’s in Matt’s office with Tom Whittaker. Go on, he won’t bite.’
‘No, but I might,’ Meg said drily. ‘Can you manage here?’
‘Oh, I think an experienced plaster technician like Max and a senior nursing sister might be just about able to get a cast on a three-year-old,’ her superior said with a wry grin, and took the unhappy toddler from her arms. ‘Come on, my lovely, you come with Aunty Angie and we’ll sort your arm out.’
‘Want Meg!’ he wailed, and reached for her, but Angie shooed her out, ignoring her reluctance and Adam’s tragic wails. Meg blew the little one a kiss for courage and went, via the ladies’ loo for a flick of lippie and a quick spritz with the cold tap on her suddenly warm cheeks.
Miraculously her hair was still tidy, but she ran her hand over it critically anyway. Drenching it in conditioner had rescued it and restored the shine, and the mangled ends had been chopped off on Friday, which had made a huge difference. It wasn’t great, but at least it didn’t look like last year’s haystack any longer.
Good enough, she thought critically, and if it wasn’t, maybe he’d have someone else from the department. Probably a blonde, not a mousy brunette like her. There were plenty to choose from.
‘If I get lucky,’ she said with very little hope.
She blew herself a kiss, because like little Adam she needed courage, too, then forced a grin and marched up to Matt’s door. Her knuckles had scarcely grazed it when it swung inwards, and there he was, the man himself, right in front of her, propped up on the edge of Matt’s desk, and the things his long legs were doing to a pair of faded, worn denim jeans should have been outlawed. She dragged her eyes upwards and stopped in her tracks.
Grief.
She swallowed and tried to remember what she was supposed to be saying and doing, but her mind had inconveniently emptied itself of anything intelligent or relevant and she simply stood there and stared.
Lord, he was gorgeous. So different in real life—what a cliché, but he was, he really was. Bigger, tougher, more vital, with his chin roughened by stubble and his hair rumpled, a soft mid-brown touched with gold, and his eyes like a wild storm tracking over her, their expression crackling with curiosity and something else, something that drained her of common sense, riveting her to the spot until Tom rescued her.
‘Meg, I was just coming to find you,’ he said, and, taking her arm, he removed her from the doorway and closed the door behind her. ‘Meet an old friend of mine. Ben, this is Sister Megan Fraser, known to all as Meg. Meg, this is—’
The man stuck his hand out. ‘Ben Maguire,’ he said unnecessarily, and she found her hand enveloped in a firm, brisk handshake that sent shock waves through her system. Still, at least it freed her from her trance, and she conjured up a smile.
‘Hi. Good to meet you.’ She floundered for something intelligent to say and came up with nothing, so she just smiled again and went for autopilot. ‘I gather we’re stuck with each other for the week.’
One eyebrow arched above a stormy grey eye, and his mouth twitched.
‘I’m sure we’ll both survive,’ he said drily.
And she thought, So much for my navigation system!
She groaned and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I was just—’
‘Press-ganged, I believe is the expression,’ Tom put in with a grin. Well, at least he hadn’t said star-struck, which was nearer to the humiliating truth! But then he went on, ‘Poor Meg. She knew nothing about this until Thursday. We set her up while she was sprawled topless on the sand in Crete.’
Ben’s eyes dropped automatically to the level of her chest, and Meg felt her temper fray. Star struck be damned. He was just a man like all the rest. Lifting her hand to the level of her breasts, she raised it slowly until it was just below her eyes, dragging his eyes up with it.
‘Thank you,’ she said curtly.
A decent man would have been ashamed. Not Ben Maguire. He just studied her in silence for a second, then his mouth quirked.
‘My pleasure,’ he murmured.
‘Ben, behave,’ Tom said easily.
‘Sorry. I wouldn’t like to embarrass her,’ Ben replied, his eyes still locked with Meg’s, and she raised an incredulous eyebrow. His lips twitched again, and she felt hers firm into a tight line. Tom just snorted.
‘No chance. She’s made of sterner stuff than that. You wait till you see her deal with the drunks on a Friday night. Our Meg doesn’t embarrass easily.’
That’s all you know, she thought, and contemplated killing him, but she was saved the effort. His bleep squawked, and with a muttered oath he excused himself. ‘Back in a moment, just got to sort something out. I won’t be long. Entertain yourselves—I’m sure you’ll find something to talk about for a minute or two.’
Yeah, Meg thought, starting with that smart remark and moving on swiftly to some ground rules!
She wasn’t wrong. Ben propped himself back on the edge of the desk, folded his arms and gave her a crooked, questioning smile. ‘So, were you? Topless?’
She was going to deny it, which was only the truth, but then perversely pride came to her rescue. There was no way she was going to admit to the sexiest man she’d met in ages—no, make that a lifetime—that she’d been the only one on the beach under fifty with a top on! And so she avoided the issue.
‘Is it relevant?’ she retorted, and he chuckled.
‘Not to the programme, no,’ he agreed. ‘But if I’m going to get to know you…’
His unspoken words hung in the air between them, and Meg found her breath catching as she waited for him to finish the sentence. He didn’t, though. Storm-grey gaze still tangling with hers, he lifted one shoulder and smiled. His shrug was Gallic and expressive and deeply sexy, and completely trashed her defences.
She yanked in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders like a prim little miss. ‘I don’t think you need to get to know me that well,’ she said, sounding like an old maid and silently cursing Tom for causing such havoc. Dammit, she wasn’t going to fall under this man’s spell! She wouldn’t! But the silence stretched out between them, humming with tension, and she was wondering what on earth she could say to him next when there was a tap at the door and Sophie appeared with Adam in her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
‘I’m really, really sorry, Meg, but the plaster technician’s been called up to the ward and Angie’s with Tom and I haven’t been trained to apply casts,’ she said, as Adam, catching sight of Meg, lunged out of Sophie’s arms and threw himself at her.
She fielded him with all the ease of long practice and settled the fractious youngster on her hip, his broken arm carefully cradled between them. ‘What’s all this, eh? Great big tears! Never mind. Shall we go and get a smart new cast on your arm and then everybody can write on it and draw some new pictures for you—OK?’
Adam hiccuped and cuddled into her, his screams subsiding to a whimper, and she turned to Ben. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ she said, not at all sorry with this instant escape route from a conversation that had been moving altogether too fast downhill. ‘It’s his second cast and he’s really not keen. I won’t be long.’
He shrugged away from the desk. ‘Why don’t I come with you? I can see the department and get the feel for how you work. Adam won’t mind a spectator, will you, mate?’
Damn. Still, he had a point, and she couldn’t just leave him there.
Only a week, she told herself. It’s only a week.
‘OK.’
She didn’t wait for his reaction, just headed for the door. He was supposed to be shadowing her. Fine. Let him shadow her, but right now she had a job to do, and Adam came first. If he wanted to watch, he could follow her. That’s what shadows did best.