Sold to the Surgeon (5 page)

Abigail smiled to herself. The new surgeon might be difficult to work with sometimes, but he was a different person with patients and patients' relatives. He had been so gentle and kind when he had been explaining to the worried mother and father, and Abigail knew that if he promised to come back in an hour, he would keep his promise. Not something that could be said for all hospital doctors, who with the best will in the world tended to promise things, but then rush off and do something else, forgetting all about their promises. Sometimes they kept patients and relatives waiting for hours; a thoughtlessness which always annoyed Abigail.

True to his word, Greg came back with the parents, and by the time they arrived young Steven was awake and demanding a drink. Abigail was just letting him have a sip of iced water when they arrived.

Greg smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges with pleasure at the sight of his patient sitting up. He came to the side of the bed. “That's much better,” he said. “How are you feeling, young man?”

“All right,” croaked Steven. “I'd like something to eat.”

“There's some ice cream in the ward kitchen,” said Abigail. “Shall I get him some?”

“Thank you, nurse, an excellent idea.” His sudden flashing smile had Abigail smiling back at him before she even had time to think.

Steven smiled too, at the prospect of his ice cream, but Abigail hardly noticed. She was too busy trying to control the ridiculous sense of warmth that had flooded through her, all because the dark man opposite her had flashed her a sudden smile. For goodness' sake, stop reacting like a gauche teenager! she scolded herself as she hurried towards the tiny kitchen.

Once Stephen had eaten his ice cream, Greg let the parents settle him down for the night, then escorted them from the ward, reassuring them that all would now be well. Abigail stayed on for another hour, just to make certain that all really was well. Having satisfied herself that Steven was well and truly asleep, she left the ward; pausing for a moment at the nurses' station where Joan was sitting writing.

“All's quiet now,” she said, “and I'm going home.”

Joan smiled gratefully. “Thanks so much for staying,” she said. “I felt happier too having you with him. The only other alternative was to put an auxiliary with him. Most of them are extremely good, but unfortunately we have Nurse Dowling on tonight.”

Abigail laughed, “Say no more,” she said. Nurse Dowling was the night equivalent of Sue Parkins, a walking disaster zone. A situation made worse by the very fact that at night there were many fewer nurses on duty, so her opportunity to create havoc was even greater than that of Sue's. “I hope for your sake the rest of the night is peaceful,” she said.

Once out of the hospital she made her way through the hospital grounds towards her little car. She suddenly felt very tired and hot; inside the hospital it had been hot and airless, but outside seemed equally hot. Abigail felt drained, the long day and the heat taking their toll.

Unlocking the car door, she heard the distant rumble of thunder; almost simultaneously large spots of rain began to splatter down from a rapidly darkening sky. A dismal start to the weekend, thought Abigail morosely, turning the key in the ignition. The engine coughed in an unresponsive way.

“Start, please, please!” she muttered under her breath, trying again. The engine spluttered half-heartedly, then remained stubbornly lifeless.

“Oh no!” she groaned out loud. “Don't fail me now! Not when I'm late and it's pouring with rain!” Crossing her fingers, she said a little prayer and tried again, but exactly the same thing happened. Just what I need, she thought in despair, leaning her head on the steering wheel—a car that won't go.

“Sounds to me as if you need a lift.” Greg's voice startled her. The now lashing rain had completely drowned the sound of his approaching footsteps.

Chapter Four

He was standing outside the car, the full fury of the thunderstorm lashing down around him. Droplets of water flicked over her as he stuck his head through the car window.

“You're getting wet,” said Abigail, somewhat needlessly.

“I know that,” he replied, opening the car door. “Lock up and come on. And for goodness hurry before I get completely drowned!”

In the circumstances it seemed the most sensible thing to do, and Abigail did as he commanded and scrambled into his large estate car. Once inside she turned towards him. He really was very wet; water was running down from his dark hair in little rivulets on to his face, and to make matters worse he was minus a jacket, so his shirt was completely soaked through, the wet cotton clinging to his tall, muscular frame.

In the close confines of the car Abigail was uncomfortably aware of the aura of his presence, and turned her head swiftly to look out of the window. But even as she did so, she found she was mentally comparing Rupert's fair skinned arms to the dark sinewy arms so close to hers. Rupert is completely different, she chided herself, there's no comparison, you're being unfair to him to even think about such a thing. But it was very difficult to ignore the musky smell of Greg's aftershave because it permeated the interior of the car; it caused a faint, almost imperceptible prickle of apprehension to run down her spine, and instinctively she moved away.

“It's very good of you to offer, but there's no need for you to take me home,” she protested, suddenly wishing she hadn't accepted his invitation. “I can easily get a taxi, and come back for my car in the morning.”

“Nonsense,” said Greg firmly, starting the engine of the large car. “I'm soaking wet, and you're pretty damp. It's no trouble to take you.” He turned towards her, and suddenly flashed a devastating smile in her direction, causing her heart to skip several beats. “Anyway,” he continued, “it's my way of saying thank you for staying with Steven Brown.”

Abigail made no reply, as he turned the car and drove out of the hospital grounds, the rain now coming down in sheets, turning the dust of the past few days into muddy puddles. The peals of thunder seemed to get louder with every successive rumble.

Taking advantage of his concentration on the road, Abigail sneaked a sideways glance and covertly studied his face. His dark hair seemed to have an unruly life of its own, she noticed, the heavy forelock always falling forward, even now when it was wet. His rugged face with its determined and somehow slightly sensual mouth was attractively tanned; indicating that he must spend as much time as possible in the open air. Probably to make up for having to work on stuffy wards, and the even more claustrophobic confines of the operating theatre, thought Abigail. Perhaps he was aware that she was studying him, for he turned again suddenly, flashing her that same heart-stopping smile.

Nervously she flashed a brief smile back at him, then looked hastily away, discomfited at being caught staring. “You must be careful not to miss the turning,” she said hurriedly, “otherwise you'll end up going miles out of your way.”

“And that would never do, would it?” he replied, laughter lurking in the depths of his voice. Abigail knew that he had seen her discomfiture, and was amused; it had the effect of making her feel even more disconcerted, and she wished yet again she had refused the offer of a lift.

At last they reached the gate of her cottage, the roses around the gate bowing their heads as if in sorrow at the fierce onslaught of the storm. Greg pulled the car to a halt.

“Are you going to ask me in?” he asked abruptly.

The abruptness of the question startled her, she hadn't even thought about it, for a moment she hesitated. Then common sense took over. After all, it was merely of matter of courtesy to do so.

“Of course, you can dry yourself off a little. Perhaps by then the storm will have abated.”

“It certainly hasn't at the moment,” he observed, adding as he looked at the length of the garden path. “We're going to get quite a bit wetter by the time we reach the cottage.”

Abigail nodded in agreement, and then together they ran the whole length of the path as fast as skirting the deep puddles would allow. Even so, it was impossible to avoid being completely drenched all over again, by the time they reached the shelter of the brick porch.

Exhausted from running, Abigail inserted the key into the lock and pushed open the front door. “Well, at least we're in the dry now,” she said breathlessly, “and to think I'd planned to do some gardening tonight!”

“Is that
all
you'd planned to do?” asked Greg teasingly.

Abigail blushed, and was immediately annoyed with herself. Any other man's teasing wouldn't have caused her to react like a sixth-form schoolgirl! What was the matter with her?

“Rupert's away until Wednesday,” she heard herself blurting out defensively, “and I…er”…Her voice trailed off, as she found herself studiously concentrating on a button in the middle of his shirt. “You're
very
wet,” she finished lamely.

“I could say the same about you.” His voice seemed extra low and husky, or was it her over-active imagination?

Abigail looked up quickly, but then tried to look away again as she caught a disturbing glance from his enigmatic coal-dark eyes. But his hand caught at her chin, determinedly tilting her face back towards him.

For a brief moment, she resisted pushing her slender hands against the warm wetness of his soaked shirt. Then the persuasiveness of his mouth on hers melted her resistance, causing strange unknown emotions to stir within her, spreading through her veins with a warm glow.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he commanded, his lips warm against her cheek.

Meekly Abigail slid her willing arms around his neck. The pressure of his long sensitive fingers against her body was strong, and long-dormant emotions she hadn't even known she possessed instinctively made her raise her face to drink in his deepening kiss. Fleetingly, Rupert's face flashed before her, but she couldn't retain it. Greg's dark face was there, warm and close, blotting out everything and everyone else.

At last he drew back his head and smiled gently down at her. “Do you like me a little better now?” he asked slowly. “Or do you still regard me as that ‘pushy' American?”

Abigail felt her cheeks staining pink with embarrassment, as she realised the interpretation he was probably placing on her response to his kiss. “I'd better get you that towel I promised,” she muttered quickly, evading a reply to his question.

He laughed softly, a faint hint of mocking amusement in his laughter. “Is that a way of telling me to stop?”

With the relative safety of two yards now separating them Abigail felt more confident, “Yes, and it's also a way of telling you that if we don't both dry ourselves we shall catch pneumonia.” With that, she skipped smartly up the stairs not waiting for his reply. Hurriedly grabbing two warm bath towels from the airing cupboard, she leaned over the banister and threw one down to him.

“Catch!” she called. “Dry yourself as best you can, I'll be down in a moment.”

Having thrown down one towel, she dashed into her bedroom, immediately going over to the mirror to peer anxiously at herself. Wonderingly she touched her lips, the lips Greg Lincoln has just a moment ago kissed so thoroughly.

What was she going to do? She should never have let him kiss her, she realised that, of course.

“He caught you by surprise,” she whispered out loud, trying to excuse herself. But that was no reason to respond in such an abandoned manner! her conscience reminded her. What about Rupert…yes, what
about
Rupert? Why was it that his kisses didn't have the same effect? It was a question she couldn't answer, and she felt miserably confused. Usually cool-headed and in complete command of her emotions, she felt uncertain and hesitant, unsure of what to do next.

Briskly towelling herself dry, she changed into a T-shirt and jeans. Keep cool, she advised herself firmly, and don't let him get too close! After all, you can't exactly blame him if he's drawn certain conclusions, you didn't exactly give him the old heave-ho!

Eventually, firmly suppressing all her nerves, she marched purposefully down the stairs, with an outward show of confidence; keeping her fingers crossed that she would be able to keep the charade for the duration of Greg's stay.

She found him in the kitchen. He had taken off his shirt and laid it across the hot water boiler. “Do you mind?” he asked matter-of-factly. “It's thin cotton, and should only take a few minutes to dry.”

“Oh, no…of course not,” said Abigail, as casually as being faced with an enormous, half naked man in her kitchen would allow! “Are you sure you won't be cold?” she added. “I'm sure I could find a sweater to fit you,” she finished in a rush.

“I don't need a sweater,” replied Greg, not in the least embarrassed. “But I wouldn't say no to a drink or something to eat.”

She hadn't been expecting him to invite himself to supper, but rose to the occasion nevertheless. “How about some wine and pizza?” she asked quickly. “I've got some in the deep-freeze, they won't take long to cook.”

“Sounds great,” said Greg, adding with a grin. “I was beginning to think you were going to throw me back out into the rain, because you still didn't like me!”

“Of course I like you, silly,” said Abigail lightly, determined to keep the conversation at a lightly bantering level. She delved into the depths of the deep-freeze, searching for the pizzas. “And even if I didn't, it would be very ungracious of me to throw you back into the night, especially as you rescued me and brought me home.”

“Ah yes,” said Greg, raising his eyebrows in his customary manner, “those impeccable English manners of yours. I was forgetting those.” Then he added softly, so softly it was almost inaudible, “I was thinking that perhaps you regretted kissing me.”

“No, I don't regret it,” said Abigail carefully, forcing a casual smile to her lips as she turned to him, “but of course, I never place too much importance on a little thing like a kiss! Do you?

“No, of course not,” agreed Greg, a strange quizzical look lurking at the back of his eyes, “but then I hadn't realised quite what a woman of the world you obviously are.”

“Oh, there's a great deal you don't know about me,” said Abigail gaily. “A woman of the world”—oh, if only he knew just how dull she really was!

“Here catch,” she threw two frozen pizzas at him, which he caught deftly. It broke the tension, and they both laughed. “We ought to open a bottle of Italian wine,” said Abigail turning to the little wine rack she kept in the corner of the kitchen. “What would you like, Orvieto or Chianti?”

“Chianti,” replied Greg, without a moment's hesitation. “I have some Italian relatives living in Tuscany, so Chianti is my favourite.”

Abigail handed him the bottle to open and took the pizzas from him, placing them in the oven. “I've never been to Italy,” she said wistfully. “Perhaps one day I'll go, when I've paid for all the repairs needed for the cottage.

Greg's gaze flickered over her with a questioning expression for a moment, but he made no comment other than to tell her that Italy was a magic place. His voice had taken on a soft note when he had spoken. “Magic,” he said, “almost as magic as England.”

“Oh, I was beginning to think you preferred America,” said Abigail without thinking.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” He sounded surprised, then he smiled, twisting his lips into a lobsided grin. “Is it because of the ward rounds?”

“Well, yes, I suppose it is partly that,” admitted Abigail. “You do seem to like to do everything the American way.”

“I like to do everything the
best
way,” he said firmly. “It's immaterial to me whether it's the English or American way, just as long as it's the best.” He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Do you object to the ward round too?”

Abigail burst out laughing at his look of concern. He looked genuinely hurt. “No, of course I don't, I happen to think it's good medical practice, and it's a pity our other consultants don't do it. But I can't help feeling sorry for Sister Collins, it isn't easy for her to change her ways.” Glancing across, she saw a stubborn look settle on his face. “You could try being a little bit nicer to her,” she ventured. “It would help to make all our lives more pleasant.”

“It's the patients' lives I'm concerned with,” said Greg uncompromisingly, as he uncorked the Chianti bottle, “not Sister Collins' complexes, or anyone else's, for that matter.”

Abigail bit her lip angrily. It was a snub. She had only been making a friendly suggestion, something she was surely entitled to do? He was, as she had observed before, one moment friendly, the next distant and aloof. But she held her tongue, although she couldn't resist giving him an angry glower out of the corner of her eye as she went across to the oven to check on the pizzas.

As she opened the oven door, she was suddenly aware that he was standing very close behind her. “I've said something to annoy you again,” he said.

Abigail didn't answer, she was far too conscious of his nearness, too conscious of the ridiculous hammering of her own heart. Her hand on the oven door handle trembled, as slowly he placed his large hand over hers and pushed the door shut. Without releasing her hand, he turned her slowly round to face him. But a flickering tinge of fear made her stiffen, as she reminded herself that she was engaged to Rupert, and she was
not
the woman of the world Greg Lincoln thought her to be.

Greg responded immediately to her faint movement of withdrawal. “Abigail?” his voice was questioning.

“I'm engaged to Rupert, I don't want to…” her voice faltered, it sounded hypocritical after the way she had responded to his previous embrace.