‘WHAT do you mean, uninhabitable?’
Will sighed and shifted his right arm, swore softly and dropped his head back against the wall behind his chair. Lucie had got the distinct impression he’d been about to ram his hand through his hair in irritation. ‘There was a missing roof tile. That’s what I was doing.’
‘You said you were rescuing the cat,’ she accused, and he sighed again, even more shortly.
‘I was—she’d gone up there because I’d been up there, fixing the roof. Because it was leaking. So the bed was wet. The carpet’s ruined. The room is trashed, basically, until I can get a new carpet and bed next week and get the ceiling repainted.’
So not too long to wait, then. Just a few days of each other’s company. It might be just as well, the state he was in. Lucie cocked her head on one side and studied Will. He looked awful. She wondered when he was going to relent and have a painkiller. Never, probably.
Stubborn as a mule.
He opened his eyes and looked at her, then looked at the door and dragged in a deep breath. Then he got very slowly and carefully to his feet.
‘Can I get you something?’
‘I need the loo.’
She went to stand up, and he fixed her with a glare that would have frozen the Atlantic. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said tautly, and, suppressing a smile, she fell back in the chair and waited patiently for him to return.
Buttons, Will decided, were the spawn of the devil. Desperation got them undone. Nothing seemed sufficiently urgent to induce him to hurt that much just to do them up. Lord knows why he’d bought button-fly jeans. He must have been mad. So now what? Flies undone, or change into something more sensible, like tracksuit bottoms?
But they were upstairs, and he was down here, and it was all too much like hard work. His head was spinning, and he felt sick again. Damn. He tried to turn the tap on, but the washer needed changing and he always had to turn it off hard to stop it dripping. The other tap might be better.
Apparently not. It wouldn’t budge for the feeble urging of his left hand, and his right was totally out of action.
He leant his head against the wall and winced as he encountered a bruise. If he’d been three, he would have thrown himself down on the floor and wailed, but he wasn’t. He was thirty-three, and stubborn and proud, and he wasn’t giving Lucie the privilege of seeing him this far down.
‘Will? Are you OK?’
‘Fine,’ he lied through clenched teeth.
‘I thought you might want these jogging bottoms—I found them on the chair in your bedroom. They’ll be more comfortable to slouch around in, I should think.’
He opened the door—thank the Lord he had levers, not knobs—and took them from her. The damn woman must be psychic. He avoided her eyes. He didn’t want to see mockery or, worse still, pity in them. He pushed the door shut with his hip.
Her voice came muffled through the wood. ‘Thank you. My pleasure, any time. You’re too good to me, Lucie. No, no, not at all.’
‘Thank you,’ he bit out tightly, and looked at the trousers, then at his feet. All he had to do now was get his shoes off and swap the trousers without falling over.
Will looked awful. Grey and drawn and sick. He’d been ages just changing into the jogging bottoms, and now he was slumped in a chair in his cheerless little sitting room while she struggled to light the fire.
Finally it caught, and Lucie put a log on the kindling and prodded it. It spat at her out of gratitude, so she put another log on to keep it company and put the spark guard in front.
Bruno seemed to approve. He gave a deep grunting sigh as he collapsed in front of it, and proceeded to sleep. It was what Will needed to do, of course, but he was fighting it.
‘Why don’t you go to bed?’ she suggested after an hour of watching him wrestle with his eyelids.
‘I need to stay awake—concussion,’ he told her in a patronising tone that made her grind her teeth.
‘No, you need to be monitored so you don’t go into a coma without anyone noticing. I can do that—I am almost qualified to tell if a person’s alive or dead, you know.’
He gave her a baleful look and shut his eyes again. ‘I’m fine.’
Like hell he was fine, but who was she to argue? Taking the suitcase with her overnight things, which they’d retrieved from her car, she went upstairs, found a bedroom next to his that was obviously a guest room and made the bed with sheets from the airing cupboard in the bathroom.
Once she’d done that, she went into his room, changed his sheets and turned back the bed. He’d need to sleep, whether he liked it or not, and she’d monitor him, again whether he liked it or not.
She went downstairs and stopped in front of him, studying him. He had dozed off, his head resting awkwardly against the wall, and for a moment she contemplated leaving him.
His eyes were shut, the lashes dark against his ashen cheeks, and his brows arched proudly above them. Most people looked younger and even innocent in sleep. Not Will. He looked hard and craggy and implacable. Tough. Indestructible.
Sexy.
Good grief. Sexy? She looked again. Well, maybe. He was probably quite good-looking, really, she conceded absently. Tousled mid-brown hair flopped in disorder over a broad, intelligent brow. Beneath it his nose was lean and aristocratic, despite the kink in it that gave away an old injury. Below the sculpted, full lips were a strong jaw and stubborn chin—no surprise there.
Sexy? Maybe. Certainly interesting in a strictly academic, architectural sense. And he did have beautiful, striking pale grey eyes brought into sharp relief by a darker rim. They weren’t comfortable eyes. Too piercing. She wondered if they ever softened, if he ever softened.
Probably not.
They flickered slightly, but didn’t open. He was awake now, though. She could tell. ‘Will?’ she said softly.
He opened them, spearing her with a surprisingly alert gaze. ‘What?’
‘Your bed’s ready. Do you want anything to eat before you go to sleep?’
He sighed heavily. ‘No. I feel sick still.’
‘Water? You ought to drink plenty to help your kidneys deal with all the rubbish in your bloodstream after your fracture.’
He nodded. ‘I know. I’ll get some water in a minute.’
‘How about painkillers?’
‘Don’t need them,’ he said, a little too quickly.
‘I’ll get you some water, then I think you should go and lie down. You’ll be much more comfortable.’
‘Did anyone ever tell you just how damn bossy you are?’ he growled.
‘Mm-hmm. Lots of times,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Where does the dog sleep?’
‘In here, now you’ve lit the fire, I should think. Anywhere. Usually outside my bedroom door.’
She went upstairs with the water and his painkillers, and came back for him, only to find him halfway up the stairs with that look on his face that brooked no interference.
She stood back and prayed he didn’t fall backwards onto his stubborn behind, and once he was up she followed him to his room.
‘I can manage,’ he said, and she looked at him.
‘Are there buttons on your shirt?’
He gave a short sigh of irritation. ‘Yes.’
‘Will, just for tonight, why don’t you let me help you?’ she suggested softly.
The fight went out of Will and he sat on the bed, looking at it in confusion. ‘You changed the sheets.’ His voice held astonishment and—heavens, gratitude? Surely not!
‘I always think fresh sheets make you feel much better,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Right, let’s get this sweater off and see if your shirt will come over the cast.’
It did, leaving him naked to the waist and utterly fascinating to her. His body was lean and muscled, healthy—and striped with purpling bruises from the rungs of the ladder. She touched his ribs with a gentle finger.
‘You need arnica,’ she told him, and he rolled his eyes.
‘Not witchcraft,’ he groaned.
She smiled. ‘Midwives use it. You should open your mind.’
He humphed.
‘Pyjamas?’
He shook his head slightly. ‘No. I can manage now.’
‘Socks?’
He looked at his feet, and his shoulders drooped. ‘I can sleep in them.’
‘Do you usually?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Fine.’ Lucie crouched down and pulled off his socks.
Nice feet. Strong, straight toes, good firm arches, a scatter of dark hair over the instep.
‘Now I really can manage,’ he repeated, and she stood up, putting the shirt and socks out of range so she didn’t trip over them in the night.
‘Water on the side. Can you hold the glass?’
‘I’m sure I’ll find a way,’ he said drily.
‘No doubt. OK, I’ll see you later. I’m next door. Shout if you want anything.’
She got ready for bed and lay down, and the silence and darkness was astonishing. She looked out of the bedroom window, and could see nothing. No lights, no sign of any other habitation. Something scuttled in the roof over her head, and she ducked and ran back to bed. Her skin crawled with fear until she realised it was in the roof space and not in the room with her.
‘It’s probably a tiny little mouse,’ she told herself, ignoring the vivid imagination that had always been her worse enemy as well as her greatest friend. That imagination was turning the mouse into a rat of terrifying proportions, and she had to force herself to relax. She buried her head under the pillow and then remembered she was supposed to be listening out for Will.
Damn. She poked her head out and listened.
Nothing. Well, nothing human. There was a snort right outside her window, and fear raced over her skin again. What on earth was that? She bit her lip, considering creeping into Will’s room and sliding into bed next to him for safety, then dismissed it as ridiculous.
Whatever was out there was out there, not in here with her. She’d be fine. Fine. Fine.
She chanted it like a mantra, and eventually she drifted off into a light, uneasy doze…
He’d thought he’d be all right. He’d really thought the pain wouldn’t keep him awake, but the hospital’s painkiller had worn off well and truly, and his arm was giving him hell. Well, both of them, really, but especially the right.
Will sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and waiting a moment for the world to steady. He didn’t know where Lucie had put his painkillers, but he had a bottle in his medical bag downstairs that he kept for emergencies—other people’s, not his, but they’d do.
He went down to the kitchen, creeping past Lucie’s open door, and struggled with the combination lock on his bag. Finally he broke into it, pulled out the bottle and stared at it in disbelief.
A safety cap! Marvellous. He didn’t know if he could turn it, never mind press and turn simultaneously. He tried holding the bottle in his right hand, but his fingers wouldn’t co-operate. He held in it his left, and pressed with the cast to release the safety catch while he turned the bottle.
The cap slipped, of course, and was no further off. However, he still had teeth. He held the bottle to his mouth, clamped the cap in his back teeth and pushed and twisted.
Pain shot through his wrist, and with a gasp he dropped the bottle on the floor.
Damn. He’d never get into the blasted thing.
Bruno came to investigate, giving him a great, wet kiss as he bent to pick up the bottle. ‘Hello, you vile hound,’ he said affectionately, and could have buried his face in the dog’s thick, black ruff and howled with despair.
Then he spotted the hammer on the window sill.
What on earth was Will doing? Lucie tiptoed to the top of the stairs and peered down. She could see his feet in the kitchen, and hear the occasional thump and groan. Then there was an almighty crash, and she ran downstairs and found him slumped over the sink.
‘Will?’
He straightened slowly and turned, glaring at her. ‘I can’t get the bloody lid off,’ he bit out through clenched teeth.
‘And, of course, it’s beyond you to ask for help.’
‘I didn’t want to wake you.’
‘And you think all this crashing around right under my bedroom wouldn’t have woken me, even assuming I’d been to sleep? Hell, it’s too damn quiet round here to sleep, anyway! I can hear every mouse skittering in the roof, and birds shuffling in their nests, and some—some thing snorted outside my window. I nearly died of fright.’
‘That would be Henry.’
‘Henry?’
‘A horse. He lives here.’
A horse? Of course. How obvious. She felt silly. She got back to basics. ‘Where’s the bottle?’
‘Here.’ He jerked his head at the worktop, and she picked the bottle up and studied it.
‘These aren’t the ones.’
‘They’ll do. I didn’t know where the others were.’
‘Beside your bed. I put two out.’
He closed his eyes and sighed harshly. ‘Right. Fine. Thanks.’
‘How’s the nausea?’
‘Gorgeous. I don’t even know if I’ll keep them down.’
‘Yes, you will,’ she said in her best comforting voice. ‘Come on, let’s get you back upstairs and into bed before you fall over. What was the crash, by the way?’
‘The hammer.’
‘Hammer?’ she said in disbelief. ‘What, did you think you’d tackle a few outstanding DIY jobs or something?’
He snorted in disgust. ‘I was trying to break the bottle. I couldn’t even hold the damn thing. It fell in the sink.’
Compassion filled her soft heart. ‘Come on,’ she said gently, putting an arm around his waist and steering him towards the stairs. ‘Bedtime. I’ll give you your painkillers and you can get to sleep.’
This time Bruno followed them, and with just the tiniest bit of encouragement he curled up across the foot of her bed and crushed her feet. She didn’t care. She felt safe with him there, and she knew he’d hear every move that Will made. Finally able to relax, she went to sleep at last.
Will slept for most of the next day. Lucie took advantage of it to go and rescue her car. The puddles had more or less drained away, and she found some old bricks and put them in the back of Will’s Volvo, then drove carefully—on the middle and the side—up to her car. She jacked it up, put bricks under the wheels and leading out of the puddle, then let the jack down and drove out.
No engine damage, or not obviously, and she’d done it herself. She felt disgustingly proud of her achievement, and couldn’t wait to see Will’s face. Leaving the bricks in situ to fill up the pothole a little, she headed back in her car, parked it in the yard beside the cottage and walked back for Will’s.
By the time she drove back into the yard the second time, she was hot and sticky and Will was up.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he asked crossly as she went into the kitchen.
‘Well, pardon me for breathing! I fetched my car.’
He cobbled his eyebrows together. ‘You did?’
‘Yup. I found some old bricks at the side of the barn—’
‘Bricks?’
‘Yes—you know, rectangular red things that they build houses out of? Except these are dirty yellow and grey.’
‘I know what you’re talking about,’ he snarled. ‘I just wonder if you do! They were floor bricks—carefully cleaned and ready to go down in the kitchen here, once I had a minute. How many did you take?’
She shrugged, feeling a twinge of guilt. ‘About forty or so?’
‘Forty!’ He rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh.
Whoops.
‘They’ll clean up again,’ she suggested. ‘They only need a wash.’
‘Good. You might go and fetch them and do it—and don’t put them all covered in mud into the back of my car!’
‘Well, what on earth am I supposed to do?’ she ranted, finally losing her grip on her temper. ‘Lick them clean?’
‘At least it would be something useful to do with your tongue,’ he shot back, and stalked out of the kitchen, the dog slinking anxiously at his heels.
Lucie thought she was going to scream. At the very least she was going to throw something! She stormed out of the door before she hurled a pan through the window, grabbed a pile of newspapers from the lobby—presumably he wouldn’t mind her using them—and headed off in her car to retrieve his precious floor bricks.
How was she supposed to know they were so special? Darn the man, he didn’t have to be quite so evil about it! Something useful to do with her tongue, indeed!
Will phoned Richard, his senior partner, and told him about his arms.
‘Lord! Are you all right?’ he asked, his voice full of concern. ‘Let me come round—’
‘Richard, I’m fine. I’ve got Lucie here, don’t forget.’
‘Lucie?’
‘Compton—our new registrar?’
‘Ah, yes. Lucie.’ Something shifted in his voice. ‘How is she? Dear girl.’
Will rolled his eyes. ‘She’s in fine form. She’s a tyrant. My house isn’t my own.’
‘Excellent. I’m sure she’s doing a grand job. Just don’t alienate her—she can do your locum work until you recover. You can train her—you are still well enough to do that, aren’t you?’
‘Barely,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘I can’t write—I can’t hold anything in my hand. I’ve got to go back to the hospital for a check-up and a cast—they’ve only put a back-slab on.’
‘Want me to come and take you?’
He was tempted, but for some perverse reason he wanted Lucie to do it. To torture him even more by exposure to her endless cheer and mindless chatter? Or was it something to do with the firm press of those taut little buttocks in her jeans, and the pert tilt of her breasts beneath that silky soft sweater?
He dragged his mind back into order. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll bribe Lucie with a take-away,’ he told Richard, and went and watched her from the bedroom window.
He could see her in the distance, struggling with the bricks, hauling them out of the puddles and plopping them into the car. Hers, thankfully, not his. She was going to be furious, of course, and he could have been a bit kinder about it, but his arm hurt and he was frustrated by the pain and the disability.
She came back an hour later, muddy and dishevelled, and hosed the bricks off on the yard. She looked even madder than she had yesterday, and he lurked quietly out of the way, his conscience pricking. Then Amanda came down to ride her horse, and introduced herself to Lucie, and moments later was heading for the kitchen at a lope.
Damn. Lucie must have told her about his accident. Amanda had been fussing round him already, and would, no doubt, seize this opportunity to ingratiate herself with him. She knocked on the door and came in, her eyes anxiously scanning him for signs of damage.
‘Are you all right? You poor love! Fancy falling off the ladder! Anything I can do for you?’
He shook his head. ‘No, really, I’m fine. Lucie’s looking after me.’
Something that could have been jealousy flashed in her eyes. ‘There’s no need for that—you don’t want strangers doing those sorts of things for you. I could help—’
‘No, really,’ Will cut in quickly. The very thought of Amanda ‘helping’ him chilled his blood, and he didn’t dare to hazard a guess at what ‘those sorts of things’ might be. He suppressed a shudder. ‘I’ll be fine. My left hand’s good—see?’ He held it up and waggled it, stifling a moan of pain, and grinned convincingly. He hoped.
‘Oh. Well, OK, then, but if there’s anything I can do, you will ask, won’t you?’
‘Of course—and thank you.’
She paused at the door. ‘Is she staying in the cottage?’
A hellion in him rose to the surface of the scummy pond that was his integrity. ‘Lucie?’ he said innocently. ‘Ah—no. She’s staying here—with me.’ He winked, just for good measure, and Amanda coloured and backed away.
‘Um. Right. OK. Well, take care.’
He felt guilty. She was a nice enough girl, but she was so—well, wholesome, really. Earnest and energetic and frightfully jolly.
And he was a rat.
He sighed. He was thirsty, and the orange juice in the carton was finished. He contemplated the scissors, and got another carton out of the fridge, wincing and juggling it onto the cast to support the weight. He dropped it on the worktop, picked the scissors up in his left hand and proceeded to mash the corner of the carton, not very effectively.
Of course, a decent brand of orange juice would have a pull tab, but that would probably have been beyond him, too, he was philosophical enough to realise.
He managed to chew a small hole in it with the scissors, then squeezed it out over a glass. Typically, he ended up with juice soaking down inside the back-slab and drenching the Tubigrip on the other hand. There was damn all in the glass, of course.
Disgusted, he balanced the carton on his cast, tipped it to his mouth and drank it through the mangled hole.
And of course that was how Lucie found him moments later.
She cocked a brow at him, squeezed past and washed her hands and arms in the sink. ‘Couldn’t you wait?’
‘No. I was thirsty. Want some?’
She gave him a withering look, took a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water, then drained it in a couple of swallows. How did women manage to find their way around kitchens so damned fast?
‘Do you want to drink that out of the carton leaking all over your shirt, or would you rather I put some in a glass for you?’
One day, he thought, his pride was going to choke him. He hesitated, then gave up. ‘Would you mind?’ he said meekly.
She shot him a suspicious look and relieved him of the carton, trimming the opening straight and pouring it neatly into a fresh glass. ‘Don’t you have to go for a check-up today?’ she asked as he drank.
‘Mmm.’
‘So shouldn’t we go?’
‘Probably. I’ve got juice all over these, I could do with some fresh supports.’
‘I’m sure they’ll oblige.’
She helped him into his sweater, then led the way to her car. He eyed it in dismay.
‘Your car? Really?’
She paused in the act of getting in, one hand on the roof, the other on the top of the door. ‘Really,’ she vowed, refusing to relent. Yesterday had been quite enough. ‘You can move the seat back,’ she conceded.
She leant across and opened the door, pushing it ajar for him. He folded himself into the seat with much grunting, and slid it back when she lifted the adjustment lever.
‘Are you in?’
‘Just about,’ he muttered ungraciously, and she leant across him to pull the door shut.
Hard, muscled thighs tensed under her weight as she sprawled over him, and she regretted not getting out and going round to close it. She hoisted herself upright, conscious of the heat in her cheeks and the gimlet gaze of Amanda watching them from beside the barn, and fastened his seat belt.
‘That woman’s got the hots for you,’ she said candidly, watching Amanda in the rear-view mirror as they pulled away and hoping Will didn’t misconstrue her remark as jealousy.
Apparently not. He rolled his eyes and groaned. ‘Tell me about it,’ he muttered. ‘I’m afraid I rather exaggerated our—er—relationship. She was offering to help me in all sorts of hideously personal ways, so I’m afraid I used you as a way out. No doubt she’ll hate you.’
Lucie spluttered with laughter, and Will’s lips twitched. Not a smile—quite—but almost.
Maybe working with him wouldn’t be so bad after all…
‘Right, you met Richard at your interview, and this is Kathy, and Simon’s about somewhere, and then there are all the receptionists, the practice manager, the practice and community nurses, the midwives…’
Lucie smiled and nodded and hoped she could remember a tenth of what he was telling her.
It all made sense, of course, and in many ways it was just like her city-centre practice had been, but in other ways it couldn’t have been more different.
Take the setting, for example. Her London practice had been in a converted Victorian house, with a rabbit warren of rooms and corridors and odd little corners. This was modern, purpose built and astonishingly unprovincial.
All the equipment and methods in both were right up to date, of course, as they had to be in a training practice, but of the two environments, she had to say this was lighter and more spacious. Whether that was better or not she wasn’t sure yet.
She had a pang of nostalgia for the untidy pile of anomalies she’d left behind, and a moment of fear that it wouldn’t work out. She would have stayed in the other practice, given a choice, but she hadn’t been. The trainer had had a heart attack and had had to take early retirement, and that had left nobody in the practice to take over.
It was only by luck that this vacancy had come up when it had.
She just hoped it was good luck.
Will had finished the introductions, and they went into his consulting room and settled down to start her first surgery. ‘I’m going to sit in for a few days, make sure you’ve got all the referrals and so on at your fingertips and that you’re up to speed on the way we do things. Then, if we’re both happy, I’ll leave you to it,’ he said.
Great. An audience. And she’d thought driving the car had been bad!
Her first patient was a girl of fifteen, whose mother had brought her in ‘because there’s nothing wrong with her and I want you to tell her so, Doctor.’
Lucie and Will exchanged glances, and Lucie smiled at the girl. ‘Let’s see, you’re Clare, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She coughed convulsively, and Lucie frowned. She’d already noticed that the teenager had been short of breath when they’d come in, and, unlike her other practice, there were no stairs here to blame!
‘Tell me what seems to be wrong,’ she coaxed, but the mother butted in again.
‘She should have gone back to school today, but she’s been flopping about and coughing for the last week, and she’s got exams coming up—she’s doing her GCSEs and she can’t afford to have time off!’
‘So what’s the matter, Clare?’ Lucie asked again. ‘Tell me in what way you aren’t feeling quite right.’
‘My cough,’ she began.
‘She’s not eating. She’s starving herself to death—I think she’s got anorexia or something. I think the cough is just a big put-on, but if you give her antibiotics she won’t have any excuse, she won’t be able to swing the lead. I’ve given her a good talking-to about this eating business. Dr Ryan, you tell her.’
Will shook his head and smiled. ‘Dr Compton is quite capable of making a diagnosis, Mrs Reid. We’ll let her see what she comes up with first, shall we?’
Lucie felt like a bug under a microscope. Will had thrown his support behind her, but almost in the form of a challenge, and now she had to find something wrong. She was just warming up to her ‘we can’t give out antibiotics like sweets’ talk, when Clare coughed again.
Listen to her chest, her common sense advised, and, to her huge relief, there was a crackle. Her face broke into a broad smile. ‘There’s your answer—she’s got a chest infection. No anorexia, no skiving, just a genuine sick girl who needs antibiotics.’
‘Well, that was easy. I thought you didn’t dish them out these days?’ Mrs Reid said sceptically, looking to Will for reassurance.
‘Only when necessary,’ Lucie confirmed, ‘and with all those crackles in her chest, trust me, it’s necessary. It sounds like someone eating a packet of crisps in there.’
Clare giggled, clearly relieved to have been taken seriously, and Lucie smiled at her. ‘You’ll soon feel better. You need to rest, drink lots and get back to school as soon as you feel right. When do you do your exams, is it this year or next?’
‘Next year, the real thing, but we’ve got end-of-year ones coming up after half-term, and Dad’ll kill me if I don’t do well.’ She pulled a face. ‘He’s a teacher.’
Lucie laughed. ‘I know the feeling. My father’s a teacher, too. He used to look at me over his half-glasses and say, “You don’t seem to be doing very much homework these days.” It drove me nuts—especially as I was working my socks off!’
‘I bet he’s pleased with you now, though,’ Clare said thoughtfully. ‘I want to be a doctor, too, but I don’t know if I’m clever enough.’
‘You know, there are lots of things you can do apart from medicine in the medical field. Wait and see how it pans out. Your grades might be good enough, and if not, there are lots of other options.’
Will cleared his throat quietly in the background, and Lucie looked at him. He was staring pointedly at the clock on the wall, and she gulped guiltily and brought up the girl’s details on the computer, printed off her prescription and sent her and her over-anxious mother away.
Then she sat back and waited for the lecture.
He said nothing.
She looked at him. ‘Aren’t you going to criticise me?’
He smiled smugly and shook his head. ‘Oh, yes—but later. I think your next patient has had to wait quite long enough, don’t you?’
She stifled the urge to hit him.