The Surgeon's Miracle / Dr Di Angelo's Baby Bombshell (8 page)

She sagged against the wall, hugging her arms around her torn nightdress, staring at him blankly, trying to imagine what it had been like for this young man in the prime of his life to find out something so devastating. ‘So—what did they say? Your friends?’

‘Nothing. They didn’t know. I accidentally contaminated my sample from someone else’s Petri dish—not very honest, but I was reeling, really. I needed time to take it in, and I certainly wasn’t ready to go public with that lot.’

‘Oh, Andrew,’ she said softly, her heart aching for him. ‘That must have been awful.’

His mouth tugged down at one side. ‘It was. But then I thought, later that day when I’d calmed down a bit and it had sunk in, I’d had glandular fever after I started uni, I’d had mumps really badly at seventeen, and Will had only just been discharged from hospital. It had been a comprehensively bloody four years, what with one thing and another, and I thought, well, it’s just temporary. It’ll recover. But it didn’t.’

‘You got it tested properly?’

He shook his head. ‘What’s to test? Either they’re there, swimming, or they’re not. I managed to wangle my way out of the sperm donor thing and checked again, a few weeks later. Then periodically until eventually I gave up. It seemed pointless, going on, there’s a limit to how often you want to remind yourself of something like that.’

‘And you’ve never got anybody pregnant?’

‘I’ve never had unprotected sex before last night,’ he said softly, then breaking eye contact at last, he turned back to the basin and started to shave, and she watched him for a moment, let his words play through her head, and she felt warmth flood her body—warmth, at his gentle admission of this new intimacy, and then, perversely, regret that it could have no consequences. And relief, because there was no way she could afford to get accidentally pregnant.

Not yet, at least. Not until she knew…

S
HE
left him to it, going back to the bedroom and sitting on the bed, staring at the rumpled sheets where she’d lain in his arms all night.

Infertile.

She shook her head, struggling to take it in, and then lifted her case and put it on the bed and started to pack. She found clean underwear, packed all the things she didn’t need, then when he was out of the bathroom she showered quickly, wrapped her hair in a towel and packed her wash things.

She knew he wanted to get away promptly this morning, the condition of the child in PICU worrying away at him even though he hadn’t admitted it last night, and anyway she had to get back to feed the cat.

She was glad they were leaving early before anyone else would be about. She was still feeling the shock of his revelation all the way down to her toes, and she was sure it would show in her eyes—quite apart from the whisker burn on her top lip and the softness around her eyes, a dead giveaway of how they’d spent the night. And sitting with his family over breakfast while they sized her up as potential material for a daughter-in-law
and mother of the future Lord Ashenden would be too much. His poor parents were so desperate for him to give them grandchildren, and the fact that Sally was pregnant didn’t alter that.

His parents, Jane especially, wanted him settled with a wife and children; she’d gathered that much from the odd hint and joke over the course of the weekend, and now she knew the truth, her heart ached for him. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to come home for the house party! It was a miracle he ever came home at all.

‘Leave your case on the bed, I’ll come up and get it in a minute. I’m going to make tea,’ he called through the door.

‘Don’t worry, take it now,’ she said, coming out of the bathroom in a towel and throwing her wash bag and nightdress into the top of the case and zipping it shut. ‘I’ve got everything I need.’

Everything except him, but that was never going to happen. She reached for his arm, meeting his eyes, seeing the pain still echoed there, dragged back to life by their conversation.

‘Andrew, I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It doesn’t matter.’

‘You don’t want children?’

His smile was sad. ‘I’m a paediatrician, Libby. What do you think? But we don’t always get what we want, and I have a fulfilling and very rewarding life. Besides, I’m still single. And I don’t need children to make me happy.’

‘But your mother does. She’s desperate for you to settle down—and it’s why you’re still single, isn’t it? Does she even know?’

He shook his head. ‘No. And she doesn’t need to know. Nobody knows.’

‘Not even Will?’

He gave a short laugh. ‘Especially not Will.’

So he didn’t even have his brother’s comfort or support.

‘Ah, Libby, no, don’t cry for me,’ he said softly, and drew her into his arms. ‘Hush now, come on. It’s all right, truly. I’m OK. And I’ll marry one day, someone who’s already got children so she doesn’t feel tempted to leave me because there’s something missing in her life.’

‘Do you really think all women are that shallow?’ she demanded, but he just laughed softly.

‘No. Not shallow, not at all. But the drive to procreate is a strong one, and I wouldn’t ask any woman to give up her right to be a mother. It wouldn’t be fair.’

‘And what about you, Andrew? What about what’s fair to you?’

He didn’t answer, just turned away after a moment, picked up her case and left the room.

They were gone half an hour later, without disturbing anyone. He’d already said goodbye to his parents the night before, and he’d ring Will later. He’d understand—and, anyway, he was probably still in bed with Sally, sleeping off his excesses, or else he’d be out riding.

‘I need to go straight to the hospital. Is it OK if I just drop you off and shoot away?’ he asked, and she nodded.

‘Of course it is. Anyway, I’ve got things to do.’

‘Laundry?’ he suggested, his smile wry.

She laughed. ‘You guessed it. And dusting. And vacuuming up the drifts of cat hair.’

He pulled up outside her little modern terraced house and cut the engine, then lifted her case out of the boot
and put it down in her hall. ‘Thank you for coming with me,’ he said softly. ‘And I’m sorry—it really wasn’t meant to end up the way it did. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you last night.’

‘Excuse me?’ Her mouth kicked up in a smile that unravelled something deep in his gut. ‘I don’t remember you taking advantage—if anyone did, it was me. I seem to remember I kissed you first.’

‘OK,’ he said at last, giving her a fleeting smile. ‘I’ll give you that. But—Libby, I meant what I said. I’m not in the market for a serious relationship. I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t want to get hurt myself, and I think it might be all too easy to fall into a relationship that hurts us both in the end.’

Her eyes clouded, and she gave a slight nod and stepped back. ‘That’s OK. I understand. We’re just friends. Not even that, really. Colleagues. We’ll just pretend it never happened.’

He nodded, kissed her cheek and left her there, getting back into the car and driving away, his eyes on the rearview mirror until he couldn’t see her house any longer.

Colleagues. What a curiously unpalatable thought.

‘Oh, Kitty, how could I be so stupid? I’ve gone and fallen in love with him,’ she told the cat. Scooping her up, she sat down on the sofa and tried to cuddle her, but the cat was hungry and not having any of it, so she fed her, unpacked her suitcase and hung up Amy’s dress.

The pashmina was crumpled, but she put it on a hanger and sorted out her washing, started the first load off and then emptied the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen and got the vacuum cleaner out. She’d be fine if she kept busy, she told herself, but then she realised
she couldn’t see, so she gave up, had a howl, blew her nose and made a cup of tea and went to phone Amy.

She’d be gagging to know how it had gone, but she’d only get a very edited version of the truth, and she could always talk about Will. Amy would be fascinated.

Except Amy wasn’t there. Amy was obviously out having some fun of her own, and so Libby put the phone back in the cradle and flicked through the television channels.

Nothing. There was never anything on, and in the middle of a Sunday there was hardly going to be anything riveting. A film she’d seen dozens of times, some sheepdog trials—she threw the remote control down in disgust and went out to the kitchen, dragged the washing out of the machine, loaded it with the next lot and carried the pile of wet clothes upstairs to hang in her bathroom—because, of course, today it was raining.

April showers, torrents of rain falling like stair-rods, hammering on the windows and bouncing off the roof of her little conservatory. Nothing would dry outside today, and precious little would dry inside. And she’d let it drift for too long.

Oh, damn, she thought, and decided to have a bath. A nice long, hot soak, a cup of tea and a book. And who cared if it was the middle of the day?

‘How’s he been?’

‘Good.’ The PICU charge nurse talked him through the charts, and he went and spoke to the parents—exhausted, drained, but still fighting—and bent over the bed with a smile.

‘Hi, Jacob. How are you doing?’ he asked, although
the boy was unconscious and on a ventilator. ‘I’m just going to have a look at you, see what’s going on here.’

He scanned the monitors, examined the damaged limbs for swelling, checked the pulse in his feet and nodded. ‘His legs and pelvis are looking good,’ he said to the parents.

‘Do you think so?’ Jacob’s mother Tracy said, hope in her voice. ‘We can’t really tell, but his toes are nice and pink and he’s been—I don’t know, quieter, somehow. More as if he’s resting, more comfortable.’

He felt the tension ease a fraction. Not completely, he would never become complacent, but Jacob seemed more stable.

‘He’s making progress. I’m happier with him than I was before the weekend, and I think we’ll get a good result.’

Then he headed to the ward and had a chat to the boys, checked with the nursing staff that they had no problems or queries and then left the ward, hurrying to get back out into the fresh air again, restless and uncertain about how to fill the rest of the day.

Which was absurd, because he had a mountain of paperwork to deal with on his desk at home, his laundry was in no better a situation than Libby’s—although to be fair that was because he hadn’t got round to dropping it into the dry cleaner’s for them to deal with—and he ought to go to the supermarket before it shut at four.

He’d do that first.

He must be crazy.

Andrew sat at the end of Libby’s little cul-de-sac and stared at her house pensively. He’d told her the situation, told her he didn’t want a relationship, and he
didn’t, he really didn’t, so why the hell was he here, hovering outside like some kind of bloody stalker?

But he wanted her. Wanted to see her, wanted to talk to her, wanted to hold her. He could take her out to dinner, bring her back, leave her at the door. He didn’t have to make love to her—

Who was he kidding? His body was getting hard just thinking about her. And she knew the score. And she, as she’d pointed out, had been the one who’d made the first move. She’d reached for him.

And even if it had only been a split second before he would have reached for her, nevertheless, she
had
made the first move.

But she hadn’t known the truth then. If she had, would it have made a difference? He’d never know. And he had bags full of food that needed to go in the fridge. He’d taken enough of her time.

And then her front door opened and she came out, dressed in jeans and a thick cream jumper with a binbag in her hand, and she looked up and saw him and stopped in her tracks.

He got out of the car and walked over to her slowly, and her eyes searched his face.

‘What? What is it? Not the kid in PICU?’

He shook his head. ‘No. He’s looking better—well, slightly. I just—I’ve been to the supermarket, and I was virtually passing, and—’

He scrubbed a hand round the back of his neck, then smiled at her, and Libby felt her heart turn over. ‘I know I said a load of stuff this morning about not having relationships, but—are you busy?’

She felt herself smile before she could control it, and shook her head. ‘No, Andrew, I’m not busy. Come
in. Have you got anything that needs to be in the fridge?’

He shook his head. ‘It’ll keep. It’s not exactly hot out here, and the temperature’s starting to drop already. It’ll be fine—ah. Except for the ice cream.’

‘You bought ice cream? What sort?’

‘Belgian chocolate. Is there any other sort?’

She laughed. ‘You’d better bring it in, but don’t blame me if you don’t get to take it home.’ And dumping the binbag in her wheelie bin, she went back into the house and left him to follow.

‘Oh. You’ve brought a bag. Does that all need the freezer?’

He shook his head. ‘No. It’s the bag with the ice cream in it, but I’ve got other things in here—things I was going to cook tonight. I just wondered, if you really aren’t busy, if you’d let me cook for you. But if you are, just tell me to take a hike.’

‘I’m not busy,’ she said, taking the bag out of his hand, extracting the ice cream and putting it in the freezer, then putting the bag in the fridge. ‘Tea?’

‘Lovely. I haven’t had a drink for hours.’

‘Neither have I. I’ve been in the bath and I fell asleep.’

Oh, hell, he thought. Why had she told him that? Now all he could see was her beautiful, curvy body lapped by warm water, and desire, hot, hard and far from slaked by last night’s all too brief interlude, came screaming back to life.

This was such a profoundly lousy idea, he thought, but then she put the kettle on and turned towards him, propped herself against the worktop and smiled a rueful smile and he thought, She feels the same. She wasn’t going to do this, but she wants to just as much as I do.

And there was no way he could walk away.

Libby studied him for a long moment. There was a muscle working in his jaw, and she could see the throb of his pulse just above the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. She reached into the cupboard above the kettle, took out two glasses and filled them with water, handing him one.

He tilted his head in puzzlement, taking it from her and lifting it to his lips.

‘You didn’t really want to wait for tea, did you?’ she murmured, and he choked on the water.

Laughing helplessly, she took the glass out of his hand and slapped him on the back, then as he straightened, eyes streaming, his mouth curved with self-deprecating humour, she slipped her hand into his and led him out of the kitchen, through the living room and up the stairs. By the time she turned to face him, they were standing by her bed and all trace of the smile was gone, replaced by a burning urgency in his eyes that stole her breath away.

‘I think you’re trying to kill me,’ he said softly as she peeled off the white sweater and dropped it on the floor. She’d kicked off her shoes, unfastened her jeans and started to slide them down her hips before he moved, then he tore his shirt off over his head, buttons pinging in all directions, kicked off his shoes, shucked his trousers, boxers and socks in one movement and eased her slowly up against him.

‘Oh, that feels so good,’ he muttered, then his mouth found hers and she sighed with relief.

She’d really thought it was over, that they’d go back to being colleagues, that the weekend would be put aside as if it had never happened—but no. He kissed her
as if he’d die without her, slanting his head to get a better angle, one hand threaded into her hair, his fingers splayed, cradling her head, the other hand sliding round behind her and cupping her bottom, groaning as he hauled her closer, so she felt the hard jut of his erection against her abdomen.

Then he lifted his head and stared down into her eyes, easing away fractionally, his chest heaving. ‘Libby, I—I bought condoms,’ he said gruffly. ‘I didn’t know if you were worried about it—you know, for other reasons.’

She shook her head. ‘No. I trust you, and I’ve always been really careful, so if you don’t think it’s necessary I don’t want anything between us.’