A Very Single Woman
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Caroline Anderson
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17,3K
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10
CHAPTER ONE
SHE was late, of course. It was absolutely the last thing Nick needed, at the end of a busy week and with the locum off sick and his partner on compassionate leave.
And Sam would be waiting at his grandparents’, champing at the bit because Nick had promised to build him the tree-house this weekend and they were going to start this evening. Correction, they had been going to start this evening, but he couldn’t leave until his interviewee arrived, and she’d phoned over an hour ago and said she was on her way.
If she hadn’t been such a perfect fit for their requirements, he would have told her she’d blown it by failing to arrive on time, but she was too good to miss.
He looked at the application form again, studying it grimly for weaknesses. There were none. Well, none that he could see. He turned over the page and read her CV, and was reluctantly impressed.
It seemed that the thirty-four-year-old Dr Helen Moore was clever, had wide experience in the areas that mattered and, even more unbelievably, apparently wanted to come to their quiet little neck of the woods and take the part-time job they’d advertised in a fit of blind optimism.
Why? Why would anybody in their right mind want to come to this sleepy corner of Suffolk? Never mind someone as well qualified as Helen Moore.
Except, of course, that she wasn’t here yet. She’d probably driven through the village and headed for home, like any sensible person would.
A car pulled up in front of the surgery, and a tall, leggy blonde unravelled herself from the seat, threw her long hair back away from her face and shook it out, then after a momentary hesitation smoothed her skirt, straightened her shoulders and headed for the door.
Her legs were bare in deference to the heat, long and tanned and sleek beneath the demure knee-length hem of her pale linen dress—and utterly gorgeous. Something slow and deep and elemental stirred inside him, fanning the last ember of a long-forgotten fire.
‘Behave yourself, for God’s sake,’ he growled at himself, and went out into Reception to greet her. ‘Dr Moore?’
‘That’s right. I’m so sorry I’m late.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said quickly. He would have forgiven her anything at that moment, he realised, and gave himself a swift mental shake.
He held out his hand, and hers vanished inside it, smooth and cool and firm, and the glimmering ember turned into a conflagration and threatened to engulf him. He dropped her hand like a hot potato and waved at the door of his room, struggling for air and the simple elements of polite conversation that had eluded him completely. ‘I’m Nick Lancaster. Come on in, Dr Moore.’
‘Please, call me Helen,’ she said, and her voice was like cream, rich and deep and mellow, with a tinge of huskiness that scraped over his nerve-endings and left him gasping for breath.
She can’t be this beautiful and clever, he told himself frantically. The CV must be a lie. And why isn’t she married?
He nearly asked her, nearly blurted out the question, but he bit the inside of his cheek and dropped into his chair, picking up a pencil and fiddling with it under the edge of the desk. ‘So, you had car trouble?’
She smiled apologetically. ‘Yes. I’m so sorry. It was really stupid—I had a fractured fuel line and ran out of petrol. I suppose I was lucky it didn’t catch fire, really. I might have gone up in flames.’
Join the club, Nick thought grimly. He dragged his eyes from the modest but hinting neck of the dress and the tempting swell of her breasts beneath. ‘Never mind, you’re here now,’ he said, his voice sounding rusty and a little gruff. He cleared his throat. ‘Ah—um, I see you’re working in Suffolk already, so why the move, and why the change to part time?’
She sat up a little straighter, her jaw firming. ‘Is there a law against it?’ she asked, and he blinked.
‘Of course not,’ he said hastily, conjuring up a smile. ‘It just seems—well, a little unlikely. I wondered if there was a reason, apart from the obvious one of not wanting to work all the hours that God sends and then some.’
She nodded, a slight tilt of her head in acknowledgement. ‘There is a reason, of course. I want to work part time so I can look after my child,’ she said quietly. Guardedly?
That threw him. There had been no mention of a child. ‘What about your partner, if you have one?’ he asked, treading on thin ice. He wasn’t allowed to ask these sorts of questions, but Nick didn’t care very much about what he was and wasn’t allowed to do—not if it got in his way. ‘Will he move, too,’ he went on, ‘or will you commute? It’s quite a long way.’
‘I’m alone,’ she said, and the pencil disintegrated, spraying his stone-coloured chinos with bits of lead and wood. He dropped the shattered remnants into the bin and swept the splinters off his legs surreptitiously, leaving a scatter of grey marks on the pale fabric. Damn. He pulled himself together and wondered if that was laughter he could see in the depths of her eyes—the pale grey-green eyes that so exactly matched her dress.
‘Snap,’ he said appropriately, and nearly groaned aloud. What an idiot. ‘I’m a single parent, too,’ he offered. ‘I’ve got a son, Sam. He’s eight. What about you? Have you got a boy or a girl?’
She hesitated momentarily, then seemed to stiffen her spine. ‘I don’t know yet.’
Of their own volition his eyes shot to her board-flat abdomen in the elegant, understated dress, and he felt one eyebrow crawl up into his hairline. He dragged it down and sat forwards, propping his elbows on the desk and staring down at the CV for inspiration. There was none to be found, so he looked her in the eye again and struck another blow for political incorrectness.
‘Pardon me for stating the obvious, but you don’t look very pregnant,’ he commented.
‘Well, no, I wouldn’t,’ she said enigmatically.
Great. It was all to come—morning sickness, days off for antenatal care—maternity leave, for heaven’s sake! He heaved a sigh and stabbed his fingers through his hair, rumpling it still further.
‘I’m sorry, I know I’m not allowed to ask these questions, but you have to see where I’m coming from. We need a person now—part time, granted, but regular, someone who’ll come in every day and do the job required of them, not disappear on maternity leave.’
‘Oh, I won’t be. Taking maternity leave, that is. I’m not pregnant.’
‘But you’ve got a child—or you’re going to have one, of indeterminate sex? That implies pregnancy—so if you aren’t pregnant now, presumably you intend to be so at some point in the near future?’
She stood up, her eyes firing pale green sparks. ‘Dr Lancaster, you’re right, you’re totally out of order, but for your information I’m actually intending to adopt—although since you clearly aren’t interested in having another single parent in the practice, I won’t take any more of your time—’
‘No! Dr Moore—Helen—wait!’
He all but vaulted over the edge of the desk and took her arm, preventing her escape. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—Oh, hell.’ He stabbed a hand through his hair again and met her eyes with a crooked and repentant smile. ‘Can we start again?’
‘What, now you know all the personal things you aren’t supposed to ask about?’ Her voice was chilling, and she looked down pointedly at his hand on her arm.
He dropped it and stepped back, carefully positioning himself so he was between her and the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, his smile slipping. ‘I was way out of line, but you know what it’s like in a small practice. There’s precious little room to manoeuvre. It’s hard enough making allowances for me and my son, and I have my parents here in the village to help me look after him. If you move here alone, without a support system, naturally it’ll be harder when things go wrong, but I’m sure we can work round it if necessary. Nothing’s insurmountable.’ He gave her his coaxing, little-boy grin again. ‘Please, let’s talk it through, let me show you the practice, then you can decide.’
She hesitated a moment, her even, translucent white teeth nibbling thoughtfully at the corner of her lip, and then she sighed and sat down again, and he felt the breath rush out of him, leaving him weak. He sat down in a hurry before his legs deserted him, and his mouth tilted up at one corner in relief.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and as she looked up at him across the desk their eyes met, and he felt the shock of it right down to his toes.
It was like being struck by lightning, Helen thought in a daze. Cobalt blue lightning, spearing through her and pinning her to the chair. What a smile—even if he did ask the damnedest questions!
She dragged her eyes from his and reminded herself that she wasn’t interested. She didn’t do relationships—and most particularly not with potential colleagues with eyes like a Mediterranean night sky and a smile that could melt the soles of her shoes.
‘So,’ he was saying, ‘you’re planning to adopt a child, and you want a part-time job. If I might say so, that’s very brave of you.’
‘Taking on a child alone? Lots of people do it.’
‘Lots of people have to,’ he pointed out, his eyes clouding slightly. ‘Most of us don’t do it out of choice.’
She wondered what had happened, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking, or open the floodgates to any further penetrating questions. ‘I don’t have a choice either,’ she said flatly, and wondered if the bleak tone in her voice was audible only to her own ears, or if Dr Lancaster would hear it and pick up on it.
‘About the practice,’ she said, dragging the interview firmly back into line, and for the next few minutes the talk was all of patient numbers and targets and clinics and frustrations and the limitations of the job, and she found herself totally in agreement with him. If only he would stick to business and not pry, she was sure they’d get on fine.
If.
She didn’t think there was a lot of chance. Dr Nick Lancaster, with his laughing blue eyes and evident passion for his job, wasn’t a person to stick to the rules or stay behind lines drawn in the sand. Still, it was a lovely part of Suffolk, not too far from her mother and sister, and it seemed a safe little place to bring up a child.
And, with a part-time job instead of full time, she’d be more likely to be given the go-ahead to adopt.
‘Have a look round,’ he said, shooting back his chair and getting to his feet. He held the door for her, and as she passed through it she was suddenly utterly aware of him, of the very essence of him—the sheer power of his body, the faint scent of soap and warm skin, the way his shirt moved over the lean, muscled contours of his shoulders, the neat hips and long legs encased in trousers so well cut they merely hinted at all that masculinity.
Stupid. She wasn’t interested. She didn’t do relationships with colleagues—with anyone, she corrected herself. Not now. Not any more. Too messy, too heartbreaking, too dangerous, especially if there was a child involved. She particularly didn’t do relationships where there was a child involved.
She followed him out into the surgery, and they went into all the other consulting rooms, the clinics and the office, pausing to collect a plastic cup of chilled water from the dispenser before moving on. The huge plastic bottle gurgled to a halt, and he sighed and changed it, hefting the new bottle into place effortlessly.
Helen sipped her cool, refreshing water and tried not to look, not to notice the ripple of muscle under his shirt, but her eyes had decided not to obey her today and it was a fruitless task. Perhaps she should just dump the cold water on her head to settle herself down.
He turned to her with a grin. ‘Now I won’t be in trouble with the reception staff tomorrow morning,’ he said, as if it was likely that anyone with that smile would be in trouble with anyone for long.
‘God forbid,’ she murmured, and he chuckled, propping up the counter behind him and eyeing her thoughtfully.
‘So, Dr Moore, what’s the verdict? Can you forgive me my intrusive questioning and work with us?’
‘Are you offering me the job?’ she asked levelly, suddenly realising that she wanted him to, desperately, because for no very good reason that she could think of it had suddenly become very important to her to be here, in this village, working in this surgery.
No good reason. Just a very bad one, she realised, and he was standing in front of her, about as bad as they came, looking rumpled and sexy and as safe as a rumbling volcano. All that latent masculinity, the coiled energy, the extraordinarily lively intelligence in those astonishing blue eyes—it all added up to a very potent and dangerous package, and she had a terrible urge to unwrap it.
Foolish, silly girl. Run! her mind screamed. Get out!
‘I think we could work together,’ he said, serious now. ‘We’re looking for a woman to achieve a little balance in the practice. Some of our female patients prefer to see another woman, and many of the children are happier. It makes sense. You’re the only woman that’s applied who we’d consider, and you’re more than adequate for the job, as you must be aware.’ He shrugged. ‘Sure, I’m offering you the job. I’d be an idiot not to. I just hope you’ll take it.’
‘What about my child-care arrangements?’ she asked, reminding him that she wasn’t, in fact, the perfect candidate.
He shrugged again. ‘It’ll work if you want it to. I have no doubt there’ll be hiccups, but we can deal with that. We’re flexible. It cuts both ways. There are times when I can’t be one hundred per cent reliable either. That’s OK. We’re human.’
Very human. Human and male and dangerous. Run!
‘Great. Thank you. I’ll take it,’ she said, and found her hand wrapped in his, their eyes locked.
Heat shot through her, and any doubts she’d had about her sanity were instantly dispelled. She was definitely, certifiably off her trolley.
Nick couldn’t believe it. She’d accepted—even after his somewhat unorthodox interview and the litigation he’d nearly got himself involved in. He glanced at his watch and tunnelled his hand through his hair again.
‘Look, I have to go and pick up my son, because my parents are going out to the theatre tonight, but if you aren’t in a hurry we could pick up a take-away and go back to my place and finalise a few details.’
He held his breath while she vacillated. Those pretty little teeth nibbled her lip again in the unconscious gesture that sent blood rushing through his veins with unseemly haste. He scrubbed a hand over his chin, aware of the stubble and the slight salty stickiness at the end of a long, scorching June day.
What he really wanted was to go home and get into a shower, pour himself a gin and tonic and sit down in the garden with his feet up. Instead, he was either going to end up taking Helen home for a Chinese or grovelling about in the woodpile with Sam and building a tree-house.
Guilt and need gnawed at him in equal parts, but he was used to that. Used to both, although the need thing usually didn’t trouble him too much during the day. It normally waited for the small hours of the night, or if he was watching a romantic film late in the evening after Sam was in bed.
It had been years since he’d even noticed a real woman, but he’d noticed this one, and he suddenly regretted issuing the invitation. He had to work with her, had to treat her as a colleague and not embarrass himself in front of her every time he saw her.
And taking her back to his house so she could imprint herself on it in a series of tormenting images was about the most foolish thing he could think of doing. Maybe she’d say no.
‘That would be lovely, actually,’ she said in her soft, well-modulated voice that played hell with his nerves. ‘I missed lunch and I’m ravenous.’ Her smile was spontaneous and open and landed right on target. He nearly groaned aloud.
‘What do you fancy—Chinese? Indian? We’ve got both in the village, miraculously.’
‘Chinese, if that’s OK?’
‘Fine. Any preference for dishes?’ he asked, reaching for the phone.
She shook her head, and he stabbed in the number of the take-away and ordered a set meal for three and extra rice.
‘Great, let’s go. Do you want to follow me?’
She nodded. ‘Fine.’
He shut the window in his room, checked the surgery once more and locked up, setting the alarm on the way out. He phoned his parents on the way there, and they were waiting on the kerb with Sam as he pulled up.
‘Hi, Sam,’ he said with a smile, but his son just looked at him.
‘You’re late,’ he said accusingly. ‘We were going to build my tree-house.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. The lady who was coming for interview was held up. In fact, she’s coming back to the house with us because she’s hungry, and we’re going to get a Chinese. How does that sound?’
‘Horrible. I wanted to do the tree-house—and anyway, Granny gave me supper,’ he said flatly, and Nick’s heart sank.
‘I’m sure you can manage a bit of lemon chicken,’ he coaxed, but Sam just shrugged.
‘We’ll do the tree-house tomorrow, after my morning surgery, I promise.’
Sam just made a disparaging noise and sat back, turning his head away, and Nick left him to it. He’d come round. He usually did. Nick pulled up outside the take-away and ran in, grabbed the over-large order and ran back to the car, throwing Helen a smile.
She smiled back, and his body slammed into overdrive again. Hell, he’d have to stop doing this. He was going to embarrass himself—and her, and anybody else around. And just then the anybody in question happened to be his son! It was totally inappropriate, he told himself. Totally.
Except, of course, that she was single, and for some reason she was going to adopt a child. Why? She was beautiful, clever, she had attitude—maybe too much attitude. Maybe she couldn’t keep a man because she was just too prickly, but that didn’t figure. Her references had emphasised her people skills and her good relationships with her colleagues.
So why was someone like that alone? It was wrong. She shouldn’t be, any more than he should, and there was no reason on God’s earth why he shouldn’t react to her. He found himself wondering if she had fertility problems and if she was alone because of that.
What a wicked shame. All that beauty and intelligence should be passed on to the next generation, not locked up inside her and allowed to go to waste.
‘It’s none of your business,’ he told himself fiercely.
‘I didn’t say a word!’ Sam protested, and he realised he’d spoken out loud. Oh, hell. What else had he said?
‘Sorry, son, just a bit distracted. Ignore me.’
‘Only if you do my tree-house.’
‘Tomorrow,’ he vowed, and wondered if it really would happen or if yet again something would get in the way.
Oh, Sue, he thought helplessly, why? Life’s just so damned complicated without you.
He turned onto the drive and cut the engine, and Helen’s car glided to a halt beside him. Sam was out and off, and he called him back.
‘Sam! Come and meet Dr Moore.’
He turned, defiance etched in every inch of his little body, and walked back to his father’s side.
What a beautiful child, Helen thought with a pang of envy, and got out of the car. Beautiful and furious. She dredged up a smile. ‘Hi. You must be Sam. I’m Helen. I’m really sorry I’ve made your father late. I understand you were going to build a tree-house together and I’ve got in the way. I’m so sorry.’
He scuffed his toe in the gravel and shrugged.
‘’S’ all right. Doesn’t matter. It always happens.’
Beside him Nick shrugged helplessly, a sad smile in his eyes, and Helen’s soft heart went out to him. She hadn’t asked about his wife—personal questions weren’t in her repertoire. She didn’t invite intrusion into her life, and so she didn’t intrude into others’, but now she wished she had, because they were obviously still hurting from whatever had happened to them, and she didn’t want to put her foot in it.
Still, she didn’t know, so she’d just have to work her way round it. She focused her attention on the house instead, and instantly found herself fascinated and enraptured. Built in soft old red bricks, it was curious and interesting, long and low, with a strange round blip on the end.
‘What an amazing house,’ she said, following Nick in through the broad double door into the entrance hall.
‘It used to be a windmill, hence the name. It’s called the Old Post Mill. This bit was the grain store. Come on through to the kitchen, I’ll find some plates.’
Helen followed him, conscious all the way of the baleful, resentful look she was getting from his son, but she ignored him. There was nothing she could say that would make it better, and he’d get over it in time. Anyway, it wasn’t her problem, it was Nick’s.
Besides, she had other things to think about—like Nick’s fabulous kitchen. It was wonderful, oddly enough a real cook’s kitchen, clean and functional but obviously busy, the walls lined with solid pale oak units, the worktops black granite, often-used utensils hung on racks in easy reach. It was just the sort of kitchen she’d always wanted but had never been able to afford, or owned a house worthy of it, and she sighed softly. Sam hitched himself up onto a tall stool and glowered at her across the breakfast bar.
She tried a smile, but his eyes just slid away, so she focused her attention on his father. That was a mistake. His movements were smooth, efficient, and spoke of a body well honed by exercise. Her mind ran off all on its own, and she dragged back forcibly.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she asked, needing something concrete to do to occupy her mind.
‘I think I can probably manage to unwrap a Chinese,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘You could find us a drink, though. What do you fancy? Have a look in the fridge.’
The fridge was astonishing—one of those amazing American contraptions with a crushed-ice dispenser in the freezer door. She had a look inside the other door. There was a bewildering array of bottles in the door rack, white wine, fizzy drinks, mineral water—too much choice.
‘Any preference?’ she asked a little helplessly.
He shot her a crooked a grin. ‘Personally, I fancy iced water—gallons of it. Sam probably wants something fizzy. What do you fancy, son?’
Sam shrugged awkwardly. ‘I dunno. Water.’
His father arched an expressive brow, and Sam’s mouth turned even further down at the corners. ‘Please,’ he said ungraciously, and Helen had to suppress a smile.
‘I guess that’s three waters, then,’ she said brightly. ‘Where do I find the glasses?’
Nick pointed at the cupboard, and carried on opening packets. She sniffed appreciatively. ‘Smells good.’
‘Hopefully it’ll taste good. I hope you’re hungry. I seem to have ordered rather a lot and Sam tells me he’s eaten.’
Right on cue, her tummy rumbled, and he gave a low chuckle. ‘I guess that’s a yes, then.’ He smiled, and she smiled back, unable to resist his good nature.
She gave an inward sigh. She wished Sam had as little trouble resisting her good nature.
‘Are you all right in here or do you want to eat in the dining-room?’
‘Here’s fine. It’s a lovely kitchen, I’m jealous.’
‘Tough, it’s mine. Sam, go and wash your hands.’
Sam slid off the stool and stomped out of the room, and Nick sighed and rammed a hand through his hair. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said softly. ‘I end up disappointing him all the time, because things get in the way, but it can’t be helped. Life’s a steep learning curve for kids with single parents. You really want to think very carefully about it before you embark on it.’
‘I have,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t worry, I am aware of just how difficult it can be. My mother brought me up on her own, so I know just how steep that learning curve really is.’
She was conscious of his thoughtful look and wondered if he’d follow up on it, but he didn’t, not really. At least, he didn’t ask any penetrating and awkward questions, merely said, ‘Just bear it in mind. Now, come on, dig in. I’m not eating the rest of this for breakfast.’
‘Shouldn’t we wait for Sam?’ she asked, still concerned for his son, but he shook his head.
‘He’ll come back when he’s ready.’
He handed her a spoon, and she helped herself to the various dishes from the little metal cartons. She didn’t even give a thought to the calories. She was far too hungry to care. Nick didn’t seem to be counting calories either. He piled his plate, speared a king prawn and eyed her over the top of it. ‘I haven’t yet asked you when you’ll be able to start work.’
She paused, the forkful of rice hovering in front of her mouth. ‘Any time,’ she said. ‘I’m on holiday as from today, but I need to arrange accommodation and move nearer, obviously.’
‘Do you have a house to sell?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No. My buyer was in a hurry to complete, so I’ve already moved out. I’m in a bed and breakfast at the moment, for my sins. I thought it was better to be ready to go than to get stuck in an endless chain.’
‘What sort of thing are you looking for?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Somewhere nice to bring up a child. I don’t mind doing a bit of work, I quite enjoy it. Nothing too expensive, though. I don’t want a big mortgage, not on a part-time job.’
‘I wonder,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I had a patient—she died a couple of months ago. Her cottage is nice—it’s only tiny, and it certainly needs a bit of work, but with a bit of imagination you could see that it would be lovely, and it’s got a super garden. I’ve still got the key, actually—forgot to give it back. The auction’s on Monday evening, and I think the guide price is pretty low. Fancy a look?’
‘Tonight?’ she said. ‘Is it far away? Only I have to get back.’
‘It’s only round the corner, but the easy way is over the fence at the end of the garden. That’s why I’ve got the key. I used to keep an eye on her.’
She shrugged. Why not? She had to live somewhere—and the sudden flicker of interest she felt was nothing to do with the fact that it backed onto Nick’s garden. Of course not!
‘Sounds good,’ she said.
He waved his fork at her. ‘Eat up, then. You aren’t allowed to see it until you’ve had at least two platefuls.’
She ate. She ate till she thought she’d burst, and then she looked up at him and smiled. ‘Is that enough?’
He grinned. ‘It’ll do for starters.’
She gave Sam’s plate a thoughtful look. ‘Is he coming back?’
‘I don’t know. Probably not. He’s sulking. He’ll get over it. He’s had supper anyway, so I’m not worried. He can have some later. Ready to go?’
She looked down at her pencil skirt and high heels. ‘Can I get over the fence in these?’ she asked, and he grinned.
‘I should think so. There’s a gate—well, a panel that lifts out of the way. Much more dignified. Your shoes might get a bit muddy, though.’
‘They’ll clean,’ she said, suddenly eager. ‘Let’s go.’
