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Amy Andrews
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Copyright
About the Author
AMY ANDREWS has always loved writing, and still can’t quite believe that she gets to do it for a living. Creating wonderful heroines and gorgeous heroes and telling their stories is an amazing way to pass the day. Sometimes they don’t always act as she’d like them to—but then neither do her kids, so she’s kind of used to it. Amy lives in the very beautiful Sam-ford Valley, with her husband and aforementioned children, along with six brown chooks and two black dogs. She loves to hear from her readers. Drop her a line at www.amyandrews.com.au
For Olwyn Deane and Lillias Jensen—
two wonderful women who have enriched
the fabric of my life since the day I was born
CHAPTER ONE
DR GRACE PERRY hated feeling unprepared. She’d happily lived her entire adult life totally prepared for all situations. She liked being prepared. Loved it, actually. It gave her power and a sense of control.
She loved control.
And order. And predictability.
Otherwise there was just chaos. And Grace hated chaos.
Unfortunately there’d been precious little order and too much chaos in the last eighteen months.
So today she planned to take back control.
All she had to do was get the job.
An interview she was feeling totally unprepared for after her early-morning flight from Brisbane and Tash’s door slamming condemnation from last night still ringing in her ears.
Grace sighed as she pushed the lift button. How could a sullen fifteen-year-old girl have defeated her—broken her—so utterly? Taken her nice, neat, ordered, controlled world and turned it totally on its ear.
Grace hated defeat.
The lift arrived and Grace put the rare moment of self-pity aside as she strode into it and pushed the button for the eighth floor.
Such negative thoughts did not bode well going into the interview of her life. And however hard it had been on her to become guardian to her niece and nephew, it had been a thousand times worse for Tash and Benji.
The doors opened at her destination and Grace took a moment to straighten the dark grey skirt that flared around her knees, balancing out the flare of very feminine hips. She did up the large buttons on her matching jacket.
You can do this, she lectured herself as her strappy pumps sank into plush carpet. You are a fantastic emergency physician with fifteen years’ experience and a respected manager.
You are outstandingly qualified.
Opposite the lifts was a large reception desk and she made her way to it.
‘Dr Grace Perry to see Dr John Wilkie,’ she said, injecting a note of calm assurance as if the interview was no more trifling than a sutured finger or a strep throat.
The starched-looking receptionist peered at her over half-moon glasses and frowned. She consulted her watch and then some paperwork. ‘You’re early.’
Grace blinked, feeling as if she’d committed some horrible transgression. ‘Yes. It’s a terrible habit of mine.’
Or it used to be anyway before chaos had taken over.
‘Sorry,’ she added, feeling the need to apologise to the un-amused woman in front of her. Then she smiled to reassure the receptionist it wouldn’t happen again and to vanquish the horrible feeling of being caught on the back foot.
The receptionist sniffed then stood. ‘Please follow me.’
Grace did as she was instructed—she didn’t dare not to—following the woman’s brisk march through a series of corridors until they reached a door and entered a lounge area.
‘Take a seat. Dr Wilkie’s conducting another interview.’ She sniffed again. ‘He may be a while.’
‘That’s fine,’ Grace murmured, sinking into the nearest lounge chair. ‘I have some work to do,’ she said, patting her bag.
The receptionist departed and Grace was left to her own devices. Self-directed as ever and rather than think about who was on the other side of the closed door opposite, making a play for her job, she hauled out her laptop, placing it on the low table in front of her. She adjusted her glasses and waited for it to power up.
Twenty minutes later she was fully engrossed in a report when her mobile rang. Distracted, Grace searched through her bag for it. Normally she’d have it attached to her waistband but she had this bloody impractical skirt on today instead of her regulation trousers with their convenient loops so she’d thrown it in her bag.
It trilled insistently as Grace pulled out the entire contents of her bag onto the table in an effort to locate it.
Where could one little phone hide, for crying out loud?
She finally located it and pushed the answer button. ‘Dr Perry,’ she said.
‘Hello, Dr Perry, this is Juanita from Brisbane City High.’
Grace gripped the phone harder as a surge of dread rose like a monster from the deep inside her. ‘What’s she done now?’ She sighed.
‘Natasha hasn’t shown up today. Again. That’s the third time this week.’
Grace shut her eyes. ‘I see.’ She knew her niece had been dropped at school. There’d been a text from Jo, the nanny, when she’d disembarked in Melbourne that morning, telling her so.
‘Right, thanks. I’ll deal with it.’
Grace’s hand shook as she tried Tash’s mobile. It went to the message bank and Grace left a terse message. She rang Jo next and informed her, then texted her niece.
Get your butt to school. Now!
Grace wasn’t overly worried about Tash. If her niece ran true to form, she’d be at the local shopping centre.
Hopefully not shoplifting this time.
Grace was pretty sure Tash had learned her lesson from her brief foray into petty crime. But that boy would probably be there too. What was his name? Hayden? Jayden? Braydon? Something like that … And that was cause for concern.
Caught up in the drama as she was and the sick feeling that had been fermenting in her gut for eighteen months, Grace startled when the door opened abruptly and two male voices intruded on her disquiet.
‘Thanks John, I look forward to hearing from you.’
‘No worries, Brent. The successful applicant will be informed by the end of next week.’
The hairs on the back of Grace’s neck prickled and it had nothing to do with the way the two men shook hands, slapped backs and generally interacted like the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
And everything to do with Dr Brent Cartwright.
Her first love.
She rose abruptly to her feet as if she’d been zapped by some sort of divine cattle prod. Shock waves buffeted her body as twenty years fell away in an instant and the memories flooded back.
His deep, rich voice. The rumble in his laugh. The way he’d looked at her like she was the only woman on the planet. How he’d enjoyed teasing her. The way he’d told stories. His generosity. His intellect. His attention to detail.
The heat of his mouth.
The smell of his neck.
The way he’d filled her more perfectly than any man ever had.
The way he’d shaken his head, his angry words when she’d broken their brief engagement. Broken his heart.
Broken both their hearts.
‘Ah, Dr Perry,’ John Wilkie greeted her from the door. ‘Edwina said you were here already. Give us a few minutes, would you?’ he requested as he backed through the door and shut it again.
Grace nodded dumbly, her pulse tap-dancing a frantic beat at her temples, but had eyes only for an equally stunned-looking Brent.
Brent stared. He couldn’t help it.
Grace Perry.
The one that got away.
He was momentarily speechless. Twenty years and yet the memories rushed out at him. Walking hand and hand through the uni campus as the leaves had changed and they’d fallen in love. Skipping classes. Staying in bed for days in a row. Talking endlessly into the night. Eating cold leftover pizza for breakfast too many mornings to count.
Drinking cheap cafeteria coffee as they swatted up for anatomy exams, desperately trying to catch up on the things they’d missed.
She’d been his first love.
He took a step towards her, reached out a hand. He felt as gauche as a schoolboy. As unsure as the eighteen-year-old man who had considered her way out of his league but had wanted her anyway.
He finally found his voice. ‘Gracie …’
She stiffened as his endearment yanked her back to the present. ‘It’s Grace,’ she said, taking a step back. ‘Just Grace.’
Brent stilled as her don’t-touch-me vibe sparked other memories. The cold stab of her it’s-over speech. The hard bite of the solitaire engagement ring she’d curled into his palm. The straightness of her spine as she’d turned away from him.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets, embarrassed by the impulse and surprised how, even after all these years, it was automatic for him to reach for her.
But if she could be cool and collected, so could he. ‘How are you?’ he asked politely. ‘You’re interviewing for the head of emergency?’
Grace nodded. ‘You too?’
‘Yes. I’ve been acting in it for the last four months.’
His voice flowed over her like warm butterscotch sauce oozing into long-forgotten places and Grace’s heart banged like a bongo in her chest. It had no right to betray her. It should be sinking in her chest, not thumping merrily along like it wasn’t aware of the implications of Brent’s words.
What hope in hell did she have of getting the job if there was already someone acting in it?
She groped around for another subject. ‘Have you stayed in Melbourne all these years?’
Brent nodded, keeping his face neutral. ‘Some of us don’t consider that a hardship, Grace.’
It had been twenty years but the slight clench of his jaw still gave him away. She’d pissed him off. She raised her chin and forced herself to shrug.
‘It wasn’t meant to be a criticism.’
Brent, oh, so familiar with that little chin lift, regarded her for a moment. She’d changed. And yet she hadn’t. Her hair was shorter. Her hips were even curvier. She wore trendy glasses instead of contacts. And fashionable clothes. Her make-up had been artfully applied.
But her grey eyes still looked at him the same steady way they always had. The same old frankness was there. And her full lips still parted softly the way they always had, as if silently begging to be kissed.
Her lip gloss was the same too, he noticed absently. It still glistened like dew on cobwebs and its heady vanilla essence curled delicious fingers around his gut. He didn’t have to try it to know it would still taste like honey.
But he wanted to.
He wondered how many years apart it would take to erase that tantalising aroma from his memory cells. The one that occasionally drifted elusively through his dreams.
Brent stared at her mouth for what seemed an age and Grace felt heat build everywhere as she ruthlessly suppressed the nervous—or was that wanton?—urge to trace the outline of her lips with her tongue.
But even more dangerous to her equilibrium was the storm surge of emotions welling inside her. Feelings she’d long since buried spluttered to the surface. The sense of rightness and belonging he’d always stirred inside her. The feeling of completeness when he’d held her.
All of which she’d rejected twenty years ago.
Maybe emotions like that were just too strong to ever truly forget?
She shook her head, fighting to wrest back control.
This was crazy.
Certifiable!
It had to stop …
And then the door behind Brent opened abruptly and John Wilkie was smiling and calling her in, before disappearing back into the room.
‘Coming,’ she said, dragging her gaze from the searing heat of Brent’s.
She turned back to her bag, the contents still strewn over the table, stuffing it all back in, shutting her laptop lid and shoving it in too. Aware of Brent’s heavy stare the entire time—feeling it in her breasts and her belly and her thighs.
But mostly in her heart.
Items slipped through her useless fingers, dropped to the floor, rolled out of reach. Grace wanted to weep she felt so clumsy and …
Out of control.
Chaos reigned again.
Damn it!
She forced the last item in and stood, taking a couple of deep, calm breaths. This interview was important. And she was the best one for the job. She needed to be composed. Prepared. In control.
She drew in three more cleansing breaths before turning to face Brent again. ‘It was … nice … seeing you again,’ she said politely, before gathering all her bravado and walking past him, her head high.
And her knickers twisted into the mother of all knots!
Nice? Nice! Brent stared after her until the softly shut door completely obscured her.
Nice?
It had been surprising. Shocking. Startling.
Cataclysmic.
He sat down on the nearby lounge and shook his head.
Nice? Damn, it was anything but nice.
Even now his body was stuck back in first-year uni, skipping class to stay in bed with her all day. It was a wonder the two of them hadn’t contracted a vitamin D deficiency. Or turned into vampires.
They’d certainly had insatiable appetites!
Brent absently rubbed his jaw as the memories played like an old film reel in his head. He’d never quite managed to erase the images of her. Not through twenty years of distance or even two impulsive marriages and their subsequent fallouts.
And here she was. At Melbourne Central Hospital.
Déjà vu.
Confounding him again. Making him feel things again. Challenging all his assumptions about her being firmly in his past.
He dropped his head in his hands and shut his eyes. For some reason he’d been so sure they’d never cross paths ever again. Her goodbye had been so final—he’d never doubted she meant it even when he’d wasted two years harbouring secret fantasies about a reconciliation.
Meeting her today had been a huge jolt.
And very far from nice.
Dear God. What if she got the job? His job. What if he had to see her every day? Hear that laugh he’d loved so much. Watch that sway to her hips.
Smell that damn lip gloss?
Brent opened his eyes on a silent groan, his gaze falling on an object near his foot. He reached for it, realising it was a photograph. Grace must have dropped it from her bag when she was stuffing everything back in.
He stared at the image for a long time, trying to comprehend what he saw. Two children, a boy and a girl. The girl looked about twelve. The boy four, maybe five. Brother and sister?
They were laughing at the camera, their arms slung around each other’s necks. Trees and a clothesline could just be seen in the background. They looked happy and loved.
And remarkably like Grace.
The girl more so. They both had her grey eyes but the girl had long blonde hair that fell in a white-blonde curtain to her waist, just as Grace’s had back when he’d first known her. The boy looked more like Grace around the mouth. He laughed like her.
Grace had children.
His brain tried to reject the notion but he knew it somewhere deep in his gut. Just like he’d known all those years ago that she’d meant it when she’d said she was never coming back.
Grace had children.
Was she married also? Had she been wearing a ring?
A storm of emotions built inside him and he gripped the corners of the photograph hard. What the hell had happened to remaining childless? To never, ever?
That’s what she’d said the day she’d given him back his ring. The day she’d received her second-year anatomy results and discovered she’d failed the subject. The day she’d totally flipped out, blaming them—blaming him—for derailing her career.
‘I’m the eldest of ten children, Brent. I’ve lived in chaos and clutter and noise all my life. I’ve fed and changed and bathed and rocked and carted and carried and kissed skinned knees and babysat my entire life. And they’re my family and I love them but I don’t want that for me and I never want to do it ever again.
Never, ever.
I’m done with it all. I want to go far away. Live and work and experience somewhere else. Somewhere different. I want to be totally selfish for the rest of my life. To not have anyone but me to worry about. I’m going to make a great aunty—the best—but no babies for me.’
Brent stared at the picture—she’d lied.
Grace felt confident as she shook John Wilkie’s hand half an hour later. Facing a panel interview was always nerve-racking and with the fates conspiring to knock her totally off balance before she’d even begun, she could have easily messed it up.
But she’d clicked into doctor mode, treating the interview like a multi-trauma case, drawing on the focus for which she was known. And she’d nailed it.
The get-the-job plan was looking up.
The last thing she expected when she exited the room was to find Brent waiting for her.
He gave her a rather grim look and stood. Grace’s breath caught in her throat as he unfolded himself. She’d forgotten how he redefined the whole tall, dark and handsome thing. How broad his shoulders were. How his hazel eyes looked tawny in some lights. How his cleanly shaven jaw was impossibly smooth.
‘How did it go?’
Grace blinked at the terseness of his tone. He seemed annoyed with her and she felt her hackles rise. Just because he was already in the damn job it didn’t mean it was his. She really didn’t have enough time or room in her life for his male ego.
‘I nailed it,’ she said bluntly.
Brent snorted. Of course she had. Grace had always done everything well. Failure was not acceptable to her—he’d learned that the hard way.
He passed the photo that had been eating a hole in his gut back to her. ‘You dropped this.’
Grace frowned and took it. Her expression softened as she realised what it was. Tash and Benji. Back before their world had been turned upside down. Before Benji had cried himself to sleep every other night. Before Tash had dyed her hair black and pierced her nose.
They’d been so innocent.
She looked back at Brent, who was looking at her expectantly. Like she owed him some kind of explanation. And suddenly his terseness made sense.
It wasn’t about the job at all.
She lifted her chin. ‘Thank you.’
Brent scrunched his fingers into fists by his sides to prevent himself from reaching out and shaking her. ‘You have kids.’
It wasn’t a question and Grace hesitated for less than a second. She did. She did have kids. She may not have given birth to them, she may not have a clue how to deal with them, but they were blood and they’d been living under her roof for eighteen months.
And she loved them.
So, yes, she had kids. ‘Yes.’
Brent nodded, shoving his fists into his pockets. Part of him had been hoping she’d deny it. ‘You’re married.’
Again, not a question. ‘No.’
Brent rejected the slither of hope her denial engendered. ‘Divorced?’
‘No.’
‘Widowed?’
‘No.’
‘In any kind of a relationship with their father?’
‘No.’
Brent regarded her for a moment. She looked so aloof behind her glasses and her salon-styled hair. It was all layered and shaggy at the back with multi hues of blonde and brown. Her bangs swept across her forehead and the sides neatly tucked behind the ears. She looked like a poster girl in an optometrist’s window.
Gorgeous but untouchable.
‘In any kind of relationship at all?’
Grace raised her chin. None of this was his business and she was damned if she was going to unload the whole sorry story on him just because once upon a time he’d been a really good listener. Even if she did feel absurdly like doing just that.
The details of her personal life were on a need-to-know basis only. And he did not need to know.
‘I hardly see that as being relevant, do you?’
So that was a no …’I thought you never, ever wanted kids.’
Grace did not appreciate his accusatory tone. ‘I was twenty years old, Brent.’ God, had she ever been that young?
He nodded. ‘I do believe I made that point at the time but you were pretty adamant.’
Grace was weary. She spent most of her days arguing with a recalcitrant teenager. She didn’t have the emotional energy to play one-upmanship with an ex-lover.
Even if he’d been her first.
And the best.
She shrugged. ‘It was two decades ago, Brent. So sue me.’
Right now suing her was the last thing on his mind. Shaking her, on the other hand, was looking more and more viable. Putting her over his knee and spanking her even more so.
But there was a tiredness to her words, to the set of her shoulders that gave him pause.
She was right.
It had been twenty years. An age ago. They’d been kids. Young and in love and foolish.
And it belonged in the past.
He sighed. ‘Would you like a tour of the department?’
Grace eyed him warily. The doctor in her was exceedingly interested in a tour of Melbourne Central’s state-of-the-art Department of Emergency Medicine. She was, after all, hopefully about to become its director.
But the woman inside was urging her to run away. Fast. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.
Do not do anything that prolonged their time together.
Do not be foolish.
She’d been foolish with him before and where had it got her?
Flunking medical school.
She thought back to that day, that horrible day when she’d got her anatomy results. The fail had viciously yanked the blinkers from her eyes. Burst the happy little love-is-enough bubble she’d been floating around in.
She’d been on a scholarship, for crying out loud. With twelve mouths to feed her parents hadn’t been able to afford to send her to uni and she’d worked her butt off to earn that full scholarship.
One that had demanded academic success. Not failure.
She’d known right then it was medicine or Brent. Both of them were all-consuming. Both of them demanded a singular focus.
She’d had to choose.
She’d wanted to be a doctor since she’d been eight years old and had had her appendix out.
She’d loved Brent for two years.
And in those two short years he’d made her forget all her career aspirations and long-term goals. He’d made her fail anatomy. He’d put her scholarship on the line.