‘This happens to be my flat.’ His voice was dangerously soft. ‘And now that we’ve established that my credentials are perfectly bona fide—I’ll repeat my question and ask again what you’re doing here?’

‘I live here, too. Or rather I did from about one hour ago,’ Louisa replied evenly. She gave him a superior smile. ‘It seems that I’m not the only one to make assumptions, doesn’t it? I am not a nurse, and I never have been.’

The turquoise eyes had narrowed and Adam was staring at her consideringly, comprehension beginning to dawn.

‘You mean—that you’re a doctor, too?’

‘Ten out of ten for perception,’ she replied sarcastically, pleased to see him at a disadvantage at last.

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

A Medical Liaison
Sharon Kendrick
writing as Sharon Wirdnam

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Tony Kendrick

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘HELL’S bells!’

Louisa jammed the brakes on just in time to see the scrawny black and white cat narrowly miss the front bumper. Now she knew why cats had nine lives! She watched as it tore off towards the main building before she restarted the engine.

She eased the car into the nearest space, next to the notice which said ‘Hospital—Staff Only’, and reached up underneath the rather battered glove compartment to open the boot. The boot catch was released with a distinctive squeak and she smiled affectionately. She just seemed to go on forever, this little car. Left out on bitter frosty nights, she always started first time. Scrimped and saved for by Louisa as a student, time and again she had proved well worth the money she had cost.

Louisa sat there for a moment or two in silence, just collecting her thoughts as she stared at the impressive structure of St Dunstan’s Hospital. It was an odd mishmash of buildings, many with monstrous time-blackened turrets. The main ward block was modern, though, its gleaming chrome and large plate-glass windows standing curiously at ease among its older counterparts.

As she watched in the gathering dusk, lights began to be flicked on, and she saw nurses scurrying from bed to bed with cups of late afternoon tea, a white-coated figure taking a stethoscope from his pocket, and a porter slowly pushing a trolley up the ward.

She sat very still, relishing her last few moments of anonymity—soon some of these people would be known to her—their foibles and their loyalties. She would be working alongside them, learning how this particular hospital did things. A new life, in a new hospital—far away from the tatters of her old one.

She was about to open her door when she noticed a movement in her rear mirror and she looked up and frowned, for a particularly expensive-looking car was flicking its headlights on and off, almost blinding her with its over-impressive array of illuminations.

She got out of her car slowly and turned towards the other vehicle, raising a rather resigned eyebrow. She couldn’t help it—she knew it was blind prejudice, but she despised such ostentatious displays of wealth.

The driver was getting out—an impossibly tall man who she was surprised could fit into such a cramped little machine. And, on further examination, he didn’t look in the least like the usual sports car owner. His cords were unpressed and his thick sweater had clearly seen better days. He looked as though he would be more at home behind the wheel of a Land Rover, she thought, noticing that he was now staring at her impatiently.

Returning his stare, she felt the jarring jolt of recognition—for she knew that craggy face, with its high cheekbones and narrow eyes. Yet she was positive that she had never met the man before in her life. Her memory was faultless—she would never have forgotten meeting someone like him, if not because of his looks then for his glowering expression alone!

She shook her head a little—the long drive had affected her and now she was imagining things! The tall man in front of her was a complete stranger—of that she was certain.

‘That’s my space you’re parking in,’ he began, a frown creasing his forehead above dark brows.

She sighed. Men were always so predictably proprietorial about parking. If they left their wretched cars in the same spot for two days running it mysteriously became ‘theirs’, and the more expensive the car, the more arrogant the owner. She gazed up at him sweetly.

‘Then I must either be blind or unobservant,’ she answered calmly. ‘Because I’m afraid I didn’t notice a sign next to it marked “Reserved”.’

Now it was his turn to raise his eyebrows, the composure of her reply making him look at her properly, as if for the first time.

She could see him taking in the pencil-slim grey skirt which just skimmed her knees, with its matching, rather severe jacket. The sombre colour of the suit provided a fitting backdrop for the living colour of her thick dark hair with its chestnut highlights which swirled in glorious waves around her shoulders. She couldn’t miss the brief flash of appreciation in his eyes, or the imperceptible change in his manner.

‘It isn’t actually reserved for me,’ he said grudgingly. ‘It’s just that I’ve kind of earmarked it for myself. You must be new here, or you probably would have noticed me using it before?’

The implication being that anyone who knew him wouldn’t dare park in his spot, she thought with amusement. Well, he had picked the wrong person to challenge in her. If the last few years had taught her anything, it was that never again would she allow herself to be intimidated.

‘Yes, I’m new here,’ she agreed politely, pulling open the boot and removing her only suitcase.

He appeared to be waiting for something.

‘Well? Aren’t you going to move it?’ he demanded.

She opened her eyes very wide. ‘Don’t be so absurd! There are dozens of other places you can park in, and anyway—I can’t guarantee that my car will start again. It’s a very old car!’

That was supposed to be a joke, she thought, as she met his unsmiling eyes. She wondered whose bed he’d got out the wrong side of that morning!

He gave her a final glare before turning away, but at least she might as well get some directions out of him.

‘Excuse me,’ she called after him. ‘I’m looking for——’

‘The tall building directly to your left,’ he interrupted rudely.

‘Pardon?’

‘The Nurses’ Home.’ He pointed as he walked away. ‘It’s over there.’

She almost laughed aloud as she locked the door, popping the key into a slim black leather clutchbag. She had long stopped being offended when people mistook her for a nurse, even if they did think that she was an unqualified one! It was a common enough mistake in an institution where seventy-five per cent of the females were indeed nurses. And perhaps it had something to do with her smallness, or the kittenish appeal of her looks, which made it hard for people to believe that she was not a nineteen-year-old nurse, but in fact a qualified doctor of almost twenty-five!

She guessed that he was a doctor, too. He had the same kind of careless arrogance which she had encountered often enough among the male members of the profession. She had been reluctant to disclose that she was a member of the same profession, and see the speculative look change to one of wariness as he acknowledged an equal, rather than a subordinate.

As she watched him disappear into the distance she decided to seek directions from someone else—someone with less of an axe to grind!

She soon found a porter who insisted on carrying her suitcase to the Doctors’ Residence for her.

Inside the building she took the lift to the fifth floor and peered at the numbers on the doors in the dimly lit corridor until she found flat fourteen. She had been told that she would be sharing with another doctor, but there was no sign of life as she let herself in and thankfully dumped her case in the hall.

Her own room was immediately to the left of the front door and marked ‘Dr L. Grey’ and she sighed as she noted that they had spelt her name incorrectly. She pulled the card out, intending to change it later, and took the suitcase into her new abode.

The room was small, but perfectly adequate for her needs with a single bed and locker, a bookcase and a narrow desk with an Anglepoise lamp on it, which she would be using a great deal. She intended to be successful in her chosen profession, and to be successful meant lots of hard work.

She quickly unpacked her clothes, her shoes and toiletries, and lined the few textbooks she possessed neatly in the bookcase. When she had finished and closed the wardrobe door, the room looked scarcely different than it had when she had first set foot inside it. The photo of her Aunt Beatrice in its silver frame added the one personal touch. She had once cared passionately about her surroundings, but no more. Mentally and physically she liked to travel light.

The other occupant of the flat seemed to share few of the same characteristics—the sitting-room was a conglomeration of messy disarray, with bright cushions spilling from the sofa on to the floor, and magazines and newspapers jostling for space on the coffee-table. The kitchen looked as though someone had attempted to start World War III in there—two empty wine glasses and an almost empty bottle of Chianti were lined up on a cluttered draining-board, where a pan lightly covered with hardening strands of spaghetti stood next to a saucepan of congealed bolognese sauce.

The general air of chaos reminded Louisa of Megan, her scatty ex-flatmate—the two girls had shared a flat for several years, and Louisa was going to miss her.

She automatically squirted some washing-up liquid into the bowl, filled it with hot water, and began washing the glasses and plates methodically. Glasses first, cups second, plates and crockery next, then pans. Strange how so many of her peers despised housework, she reflected as she rinsed the suds off one of the glasses and placed it carefully on the draining-board. She wouldn’t go so far as to say that she actually loved washing-up and cleaning, but she found the repetition and the mindlessness of it curiously relaxing. And it was in such contrast to the taxing mental nature of her job.

Not that she would ever have dared admit it to anyone, she thought delightedly as she pulled the plug out and dreamily watched the water begin to drain away. The image of career girl and hausfrau did not exactly marry very well together!

She heard the front door slam and footsteps stop as their owner must have paused to notice the light on in the kitchen. She turned around with a welcoming expression as she heard a sound behind her, the smile quickly changing to a gape of astonishment as she found herself staring at a very tall, newly familiar man. It was the driver of the Porsche!

He stood, hands on his hips, his eyes glancing over to the just washed plates and then back again, his height seeming to fill the small kitchen. She had never felt so unwelcome in her entire life.

‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ he demanded in disbelief, looking at her as though she had broken into the place.

‘You’ve got eyes in your head, haven’t you?’ she snapped back at him. ‘What do you think I’m doing? It’s called washing-up!’

There was something about him which was making all her hackles rise. It wasn’t just his earlier rudeness or the way he was regarding her, although that was irritating enough. It went much deeper than that. It was something about being at such close quarters to a man again—and a man who seemed to exude such a raw masculine sensuality from every pore—which made her want to run away from him. As if his very proximity could do her harm.

‘And anyway——’ she stuck her small chin out belligerently ‘—I’d like to know what you’re doing here, if it comes to that.’

A look of intense irritation flashed across his face. ‘I’ll give you three guesses,’ he said silkily.

That was easy enough.

‘I assume,’ she replied tartly, her words measured, trying hard to keep the bitterness out of them, ‘I assume that you are the boyfriend of the occupant of this flat, a contributor to the messy plates I’ve just cleared away, and that you have your own key to come and go as you please.’ Something which will have to stop now that I’m here, she wanted to add—but didn’t quite have the courage to do so.

They stood facing one another and she noticed for the first time what an unusual colour his eyes were—an extraordinary shade of icy turquoise—the colour of a swimming pool on a sunny day. Film star eyes. Again came the niggling thought that she was sure she knew his face.

His words, too, were measured, sounding like those of someone who was holding on to his temper with extreme difficulty. ‘Then your assumption is incorrect.’ His voice was dangerously soft. ‘I am not the occupant’s “boyfriend”, to use your rather schoolgirlish vernacular—this happens to be my flat. Yes, indeed.’ He had noticed her start. ‘And now that we’ve established that my credentials are perfectly bona fide—I’ll repeat my question and ask again what you’re doing here?’

‘I live here, too. Or rather I did from about one hour ago,’ she replied evenly, her mind racing to try to grasp the situation.

Now it was his turn to look surprised.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! What are you talking about? You’ve obviously been given the wrong keys—you’re a nurse, for goodness’ sake!’

She gave him a superior smile. ‘It seems that I’m not the only one to make assumptions, doesn’t it? I am not a nurse, and I never have been.’

‘But you said——’

‘I said nothing,’ she interrupted coldly. ‘I agreed that I was new here and you took that to mean that I was a nurse. Presumably,’ she added, ‘because I’m female.’

The turquoise eyes had narrowed and he was staring at her consideringly, comprehension beginning to dawn.

‘You mean—that you’re a doctor, too?’

‘Ten out of ten for perception,’ she replied sarcastically, pleased to see him at a disadvantage at last.

He didn’t remain at a disadvantage for long, however; he glowered at her and marched out of the kitchen into the hall, where she heard him pick up a telephone. She followed in his wake slowly, drying her hands on the tea-towel, amused to hear what would now transpire.

He glanced up at her briefly, then away, ignoring her completely.

‘Mrs Jefferson, please,’ he said shortly into the receiver. There was a pause. ‘Adam Forrester.’

She looked up in surprise. So that was it! No wonder she had thought she had known him—who, both in and outside the medical profession, hadn’t heard of Dr Adam Forrester?

He’d been considered a prodigy, mainly because he’d written a book while still at medical school which had become required reading for all students—she’d read it herself.

But it had been work done during research for his thesis which had aroused the interest of the general public. He had fed some laboratory mice some of his watercress salad and had discovered that it had made them sexually more active. The tabloid press had had a field-day—the News of the World had run a full-page story with banner headlines claiming ‘Doc says watercress makes you sexy!’ Watercress sales had soared; he had been invited on to a chat show and had proved so popular that a television series had followed.

Here’s Health had run for almost two years, a popular and light-hearted Sunday evening show—and then it had suddenly stopped, at the height of its popularity, and Adam Forrester had disappeared from view.

Louisa surreptitiously glanced around the walls of the hall they stood in. What on earth was he doing living in a place like this? It was bright enough, with pale magnolia walls, but they were bare of adornment. It was just not the kind of place you imagined a wealthy and successful doctor living—he looked to be in his mid-thirties, so why wasn’t he residing in some stone-built mansion in the countryside?

‘I don’t care that it’s Sunday evening,’ he was saying. ‘I need to speak to her now.’

It was the kind of tone which did not invite argument, and she could just imagine a flummoxed telephonist agreeing to his request.

He looked up again. ‘There’s no need for you to hang around,’ he told her. ‘I can sort this out.’

‘Oh, but I’d like to listen,’ she said sweetly. ‘If that’s all right with you?’

Clearly, it was not all right with him, but as he couldn’t actually eject her physically, especially while talking into the phone, he was forced to content himself with an exaggeratedly loud sigh.

After a couple of minutes of silence he was connected.

‘Mrs Jefferson?’ he barked. ‘It’s Adam Forrester here.’ He listened for a moment. ‘Yes, of course I realise it’s a Sunday evening,’ he exploded. ‘And if you’re trying to make a point about being disturbed, don’t bother—it’s about time you administrators sorted out a legitimate problem, instead of trying to disrupt the running of the wards!’

Louisa could hear an indignant reply.

‘I’d like to know just why I happen to have a woman doctor sharing my flat with me?’ He spat the word out as though it were poison.

The expression on his face as he listened to the reply was almost comical.

‘I see,’ he said coldly. ‘I must say that I have never heard such a load of pretentious old claptrap in my life!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Perhaps it is too late to do anything about it this evening, but you can be sure that first thing in the morning—I want this thing sorted out!’

He slammed the receiver back into its hook, so that the whole phone shook, and turned to face Louisa.

‘It seems,’ he said heavily, ‘that some of your more eloquent predecessors are responsible for your being here.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about a group of female doctors who took it upon themselves to complain about being given flats in the Nurses’ Home, on the grounds of sexual discrimination. When it was pointed out to them that this might mean sharing flats with the male doctors—they apparently replied that this was how it should be. That they were not helpless maidens who needed protecting, and did not expect to be treated any differently from their male counterparts. Typical!’ he finished disgustedly.

There was a short tussle as loyalty to this radical group of females struggled to overcome the natural abhorrence she felt at living in such close quarters to a man again. And not just any man. This man! But it would simply remove any dignity she had to get into an argument with him about it. He was right, it could all be sorted out in the morning.

‘Don’t worry, Dr Forrester,’ she said haughtily. ‘I find the situation as unappealing as you obviously do. But no doubt I can tolerate it for one night.’

‘I suppose so,’ he grunted. His eyes swept over her assessingly again, as they had done in the car park, and there was something about the look which made her feel totally exposed and vulnerable.

She met his eyes defiantly, determined that he should not see how much his presence disturbed her.

‘I usually take a shower around ten. So you’d better scurry back to your room by then. Unless——’ he grinned for the first time, a roguish grin which left her in no doubt whatsoever as to his thoughts ’—unless,’ he continued, ‘you’d care to appreciate the delights of my naked body?’

She knew that his words were mocking, but she flushed scarlet, mentally trying to block out the images which came rushing into her mind at his words.

‘Not if I want my stomach to retain its contents!’ she snapped, hoping that the sharp words would detract from her discomposure.

She made as if to leave, but he caught her arm, the turquoise-blue eyes boring holes into her. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he whispered, emphasising each word as if to impress its meaning on her. ‘I never play this close to home.’

He released her arm. ‘By the way—do you realise that I still don’t even know your name?’

She angrily pushed a thick wave of chestnut hair back from her face. ‘And you don’t need to either. After tonight, Dr Forrester—I hope I never set eyes on you again!’

She would have loved to have stabbed the heel of her neat black court shoe into his ankle, but she contented herself with a final glower before walking back to her room and slamming the door shut very loudly behind her.

CHAPTER TWO

LOUISA stood in the centre of the room, still breathing heavily in anger, looking at the surroundings which such a short time ago had been her ‘home’, but which she would now almost certainly be moving out of.

What a start! And what a man! She remembered how tranquil her thoughts had been in the car this afternoon, on the long drive up from London, anticipating her first job as a qualified doctor. And now this. Not the most auspicious of beginnings.

She walked over to her desk and tapped her fingers restlessly over a medical textbook. What was it the Dean had said about her as he had handed her the coveted Bailey prize for biochemistry in her third year? That she was calm, and unflappable, and dedicated. Oh, and ambitious. She mustn’t forget the bit about ambition—Mike would certainly be disappointed if she left that bit out. It was a quality which was lauded if possessed by a man, yet seemed to be greatly despised in a woman.

Men. They stood in your way and they got under your skin with their demands for more time, more meals, more of everything, until you had precious little left for yourself.

She had come to St Dunstan’s to forget men and to begin a new life in her chosen field of medicine. She had set herself various goals, and one of them was to start work for her MRCP examination as soon as she possibly could. Membership of the Royal College of Physicians was essential if one planned to make a career in hospital medicine. It was a tough exam, and the pass rate was low, but Louisa was determined to pass first time.

She switched on the Anglepoise lamp and sat down at the desk. She was going to have to work very hard indeed to get on—women in medicine didn’t have to be as good as their male counterparts, they had to be better. She had heard from older women doctors that even when you did land a good job, there were often the snide comments, that you’d fluttered your eyelashes in the right direction, flirted with the boss. Prejudice was alive and well in the 1990s!

She opened up the textbook, chuckling gently to herself as she did so. She could just imagine the smouldering resentment which must have led a group of her peers to campaign for sexual equality in the matter of accommodation—what a brave lot they must have been! Not that she had anything personally to thank them for—they were partly responsible for her having blushed for the first time in years.

Never mind, even if he had noticed her pink cheeks, it would be of little account in the morning. He could think what he jolly well liked.

Opening up the colossal tome which lay before her, she found the page on ‘Cardiological disorders in young adults’, and after a few moments was thinking of nothing else.

She came to with a start and, glancing down at her watch, realised that she had been reading for almost two and a half hours. Almost a quarter to nine. She was willing to bet that the canteen would have shut by now and she hadn’t brought any provisions with her.

As if in protest at her thoughts, her stomach gave a loud rumble. Lunch had been a hurried sandwich and a coffee in a motorway service station. Naturally slim, never having to diet, she could not, however, imagine surviving without anything more to eat until the morning.

So she had but two options—she could either wander around this unfamiliar hospital in the dark in search of a meal which she could not even guarantee being able to get at this time of night. Or she could be sensible and* ask Adam Forrester to loan her something until the morning.

So why did she recoil from the most sensible option? Was it because Dr Forrester had already had the most strange effect on her normally unruffable composure?

She stood up, stretching slowly. It was of no matter—she would do the most practical thing and go and ask him.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror as she clicked off the desk lamp. She had stupidly sat down to study in her grey suit, and the narrow skirt looked crumpled. It would need pressing before she could wear it for work.

She pulled the jacket and the skirt off, and the white silky shirt which she wore underneath—and pulled a pair of old jeans from out of the drawer. Some colours were difficult to wear with her pale skin, but the jade-green angora sweater she pulled over the dark red hair suited her perfectly, while the casual clothes had the effect of making her appear even younger, and much softer.

She let herself quietly out of her room, listening out for him, but the sitting-room and the kitchen were empty. She could see light shining from the crack underneath his door and so, rather reluctantly, she raised her fist and tapped twice.

There was no reply and it occurred to her that he might actually be ignoring her—but surely he wouldn’t be so childish? She raised her hand to knock for the last time when the door was flung open and he stood there, staring down at her with what looked like his habitual impatient expression.

He too had changed into jeans, and had removed the thick jumper he’d been wearing—instead he had on a thin shirt, unbuttoned at the neck and showing a great deal of very dark hair on his chest. And his feet were bare. She found herself staring at them.

‘Yes? What is it?’ he demanded perfunctorily.

There was nothing of his earlier manner about him now, his attitude was brisk and businesslike, almost as if they had never spoken before.

‘I’m afraid I’ve been working and didn’t realise it had got so late,’ she began, attempting to give him a pleasant smile.

‘Get to the point, will you?’

She bit back an angry retort to his rudeness—she was, after all, asking him a favour!

‘I’m very hungry, and think I must have missed the canteen—and wondered if you’d lend me something to eat? I could repay you tomorrow.’

There was something so very un-English about asking for favours, particularly from a comparative stranger, she thought, interpreting his frown as one of irritation at her request.

He looked at his watch. ‘Yes, you will have missed supper.’

Behind him she could see into his room—a replica of her own—but it shared none of the untidiness of the sitting-room she had seen earlier. She wondered who he had been sharing a meal with.

She could see everything neatly arranged, the bed smooth, books in neat lines on the shelves, and, judging from the light at his desk and the open books, he too had been studying.

‘There isn’t anything very much,’ he said ungraciously. ‘I was planning to make myself an omelette—you’re welcome to share that if you like.’

She had definitely not anticipated dining with him, but she couldn’t really insist on taking his food and then eating it in the privacy of her own room!

Instead she nodded. ‘An omelette will be fine, thanks.’

She stood there for a moment hesitantly, and he must have taken the hint because he closed his door and led the way through into the kitchen.

‘Do you want me to do anything?’ she asked.

‘I think I can just about manage an omelette,’ he said sarcastically.

What a bad-tempered man he was, she thought as she sat down at the kitchen table, tucking her slim legs underneath. She would much rather he had given her the eggs and she could have cooked for herself after he had finished. It seemed a bit of a farce to eat a meal together when he obviously couldn’t stand the sight of her.

She watched as he cracked the eggs into a glass bowl, and beat them with milk and salt and pepper.

‘Cheese OK for you?’

She nodded. ‘Thanks.’

He was certainly very organised—he melted butter in the pan and swirled the mixture on to it like a past master of the art, even browning the omelette under the grill so that it puffed up to twice its size.

When he placed the plate before her she smiled up at him—however crotchety he was, her stomach was certainly grateful!

He reached down into the bottom shelf of the fridge.

‘Do you want a beer?’

In fact she rarely drank much at all, but the hassle of requesting a cup of coffee from someone so unforthcoming was too much to contemplate.

‘Yes, please.’

He poured her out a glass of lager, and sitting down at the table opposite her, drank his own straight from the can. She sipped thirstily in between mouthfuls of omelette and brown bread.

She finished her meal to find that his own was scarcely touched, and he was regarding her with almost a glint of amusement in his eyes.

‘Why, you’ve hardly eaten any of yours!’ she exclaimed. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

He actually smiled at her! ‘Not as hungry as you were, obviously! Do you want something else? Yoghurt? Fruit?’

She finished off the last of her beer. ‘No, thanks—that was plenty. I might just make a cup of coffee in the morning—if that’s all right?’

He indicated a cupboard by the cooker. ‘Sure. It’s all in there. Help yourself.’

She stood up a little unsteadily; the glass of unaccustomed alcohol on a virtually empty stomach had affected her more than it should have done.

She cleared her throat, and the icy turquoise eyes glanced at her questioningly.

‘I’m sorry there’s been this mix-up,’ she babbled. ‘I’ll come and collect my things tomorrow, when they find me somewhere else.’

He gave her the faintest of smiles and she could have kicked herself—she hadn’t meant it to sound as if she was apologising for being here. She paused in the doorway, the beer seeming to have given her an uncontrollable urge to talk.

‘I don’t expect you are very hungry.’ She smiled, remembering the dishes she had washed up on her arrival. ‘It looked a delicious bolognese sauce!’

What had she said to offend him? He looked absolutely furious. He stood up suddenly and stared at her as witheringly as if she had been some small mollusc on the floor in front of him.

‘How like a woman,’ he muttered in disgust. ‘Even when there’s nothing to say, she’ll always come out with some meaningless babble. What is it they say about empty vessels?’

She stared at him, speechless for a moment. She had never in her life been spoken to in such a rude, dismissive manner by a virtual stranger. What God-given right did this man have to behave in such an unpleasant way?

She regarded him coldly, suddenly completely sober again.

‘You seem to have a problem with communication, Dr Forrester. How surprising for someone who has worked so much in the media! You are rude and boorish. And a bully,’ she added, thinking of how he had snapped so unnecessarily on the telephone. ‘Personally, I’d get something done about it if I were you—it can’t make you a very good doctor, now can it?’

She didn’t bother to wait around for his reply, but she saw that her barb had definitely reached its target, for his face was as black as thunder.

The short walk back to her room seemed to last forever. It felt as though she was walking the plank. She didn’t know what she was expecting him to do—rush after her and blast her out—but, in fact, he did nothing.

Once inside, she waited until she heard him go back to his room before she hurried in to use the bathroom. She bathed and brushed her teeth and wrapped her dressing-gown around her tightly before going back to her room, remembering his words and feeling stupidly afraid that perhaps she might come face to face with his naked body.

She read her book for a while longer, and decided to turn in for an early night before starting her new job—she wanted to be refreshed and rested to face all the hard work which lay ahead of her.

And then she did something she’d never done in all the time she’d lived away from home.

Turning the key in the door, she locked herself in.

CHAPTER THREE

LOUISA awoke with that curious feeling of disorientation which accompanied the first night spent in a strange bed. Even before she opened her eyes she seemed to sense the unfamiliar surroundings, and she came to slowly, seeing the pale light of the winter morning come creeping through the ghastly hospital curtains of orange and brown.

She sat up and clicked off the alarm clock she had not needed—she was so used to waking before seven that it had now become second nature to her. Her fears of the night before now served only to niggle her with an embarrassed shame. No doubt the women doctors who had fought for this particular equality would be appalled if they’d known that she had barricaded herself in her bedroom like some medieval virgin—but then, they had probably never met Adam Forrester!

Nevertheless, she sat still in bed for the moment, clad in one of the baggy T-shirts she always wore, listening out for any signs of life or, more specifically, any indication that the man himself might be roaming around the flat in his threatened lack of attire.

But she heard nothing, and so swung her legs out of the bed, pulled on her dressing-gown and headed for the bathroom with a youthful exuberance which was hard to dispel.

The irritating events of the afternoon and evening before slid into their correct place in the rational light of a new day—the bickering between herself and that mixed-up man were of little consequence to her today. She scrubbed her face with vigour, heart beating faster than usual, longing to start her new job.

She dressed with care. Unfair though it might seem, the clothes that a woman doctor wore were important. In many hospitals jeans or indeed any kind of trousers were out. It was a rule which was unstated, but a rule none the less which most of the women adhered to. Anything too frivolous, too obviously feminine, was frowned upon as well, so frills or very short skirts would not find favour with the hierarchy. The idea, she had decided long ago, was to sublimate their sexuality in as attractive a way as possible!

She donned a knee-length black skirt, teamed with a dark green shirt of shot silk which she had picked up in the sales. Matching dark green woollen tights and slim black patent shoes gave her a neat, co-ordinated appearance and she tied her dark chestnut waves into a pony-tail at the nape of her neck with a broad black velvet ribbon.

That done, she pulled on her white coat and checked the pockets for the equipment she would need each day on the wards. Stethoscope, patella hammer, ophthalmoscope and auroscope. She carried a book which listed all the commonly used drugs, their side-effects and contra-indications, and a thick black pocket notebook which she would shortly begin filling in with the names and diagnoses of all her new patients.

She was to report to Dale Ward at eight-thirty, where she would meet the rest of the team for a ‘breakfast’ meeting. Her new consultant was Dr Stanley Fenton-Taylor and she couldn’t wait to meet him. She had been interested in cardiology since her pre-clinical days as a student, reading the erudite yet intriguing books on this specialist subject with fervour. When she had learned that she had gained a job on his firm, she had been disbelieving, then overjoyed, and it had made up for her decision to leave Barts. It had been a prize which had come at the end of the worst period of her life—and if it hadn’t completely compensated for the events which had occurred, then it had certainly made her view her future with an entirely different attitude.

The flat was deserted, and she made herself some coffee which she drank down quickly and afterwards washed and dried the cup up. All was neat and tidy, so he must have washed up after their omelette last night. Well, she wouldn’t have to tolerate such a touchy flatmate for much longer. And, by the end of her first day’s work she would be able to come and pick up her belongings and move to somewhere more congenial.

It was a bleak, dull October morning with a fine grey drizzle in the air, and by the time she had walked over to the main building to Dale Ward a few wispy curls had escaped from the stark lines of her pony-tail, giving her face a sweetly feminine appearance.

She found the ward easily enough, and tapped on the door of Sister’s office. She wanted to follow all the protocol of hospital life correctly; she knew from experience how first impressions counted and if she wanted to be liked by the ward staff, then she must make sure she was suitably polite and likeable.

‘Sister’ turned out to be surprisingly young—possibly even younger than Louisa herself, a tall girl with luminous green eyes smiling at her from behind dark-rimmed glasses. She stood up as Louisa entered the room and held out her hand.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You must be our new house officer—I’m Amanda Patterson—known as Mandy—we don’t stand on ceremony much here!’

Louisa shook the proffered hand. ‘I’m pleased to hear it! Louisa Gray—nice to meet you.’

‘The breakfast meeting has already started,’ explained Mandy. ‘I think they always tell you to come along a little later on your first day. It’s held in the large interview room at the end of the ward. Come with me and I’ll show you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Louisa, following her out of the office and on to the ward, trying to quash the feelings of nervousness which had suddenly arisen. She didn’t really like the thought of trooping in late in front of the whole team.

‘Has Dr Fenton-Taylor arrived yet?’ she enquired.

Mandy turned to her in surprise. ‘Oh, but he’s in America until Christmas—didn’t you know?’

Louisa digested this surprising piece of information. ‘No, I didn’t know.’

‘But don’t worry,’ smiled Mandy. ‘One of the Research Fellows is standing in for him.’

They walked down the highly polished floor of the aisle between the beds and she could see patients watching her curiously. As they passed one elderly woman’s bed she heard her comment to her neighbour.

‘Bit young for a doctor, ain’t she?’

Louisa had to hide a smile and Mandy grinned at her conspiratorially.

‘Don’t worry, they’ll soon get used to you. They keep telling me that I’m too young to be a sister—it’s obviously not just policemen who start to look younger as one gets older!’ They were both laughing as she pushed open a door and Louisa was confronted by the sight of about nine men in white coats, sitting around in easy chairs in a circle and drinking cups of coffee.

‘Good luck,’ whispered Mandy. ‘Gentlemen—this is your new house officer!’

Louisa smiled nervously and looked around, trying to take it all in. As with all large groups of people, it took a moment for her mind to clear enough to look at them as individuals.

Some warning sound was clicking furiously in her mind, and her eyes travelled to the centre of the group, to the man who was obviously in charge of the proceedings. Now getting to his feet, moving his long legs reluctantly, watching her with an expression on his face which was not quite a smile—she found herself staring into the face of Adam Forrester.

‘Dr Gray, I presume?’ he asked and she nodded automatically, still too shocked by his appearance to say anything.

‘I shall be standing in for Dr Fenton-Taylor until he returns from the States. Shall I introduce you to the rest of the team?’ he was saying smoothly, guiding her by the arm until she stood in the centre, with all the uplifted, interested masculine faces greeting her. She hardly took a word in.

‘Basil James is my registrar and Huw Lloyd is our SHO. The other reprobates you see before you are a handful of medical students, who I’m afraid will be astounding you with their appalling lack of knowledge over the next few weeks.’ There were cries of dissent at this. ‘Oh, and by the way—I’m Adam Forrester, Research Fellow.’

The turquoise eyes were hard and cold as they stared at her and her heart sank. Of all the unfair twists of fate. She had been rude and retaliatory to a man who was effectively going to be her boss for the next eight weeks or so. And while she didn’t consider her response to his bad temper to be unjustified, she was far too intelligent to put her career on the line just in order to get her own back verbally. What on earth would he say to Dr Fenton-Taylor—the man on whom she would be relying for a reference? Damn, damn and damn!

Refusing a cup of coffee, she sat down to join in the meeting. She would just have to work like a Trojan. She imagined that the brittle Adam Forrester could be a hard taskmaster—she had better give him no opportunity to criticise her.

He had seated himself in a chair opposite her. ‘We’ve almost finished discussing the patients—the main ward round isn’t until tomorrow afternoon, so you’ve time before that to get to know some of the diagnoses. After we’ve finished here, I’ll show you where our other ward is and you can meet the staff there.’

She nodded and listened while he began talking about a patient who was suffering from the rare condition of Takayasu’s disease. One of the students hadn’t heard of it and asked a question. She watched with interest as he changed the tack of his talk, switching from esoteric deliberation to a simple yet unpatronising explanation which the student appeared to grasp quite easily. It seemed that he knew his stuff.

The dark head had turned in her direction. ‘Perhaps Dr Gray might be able to enlighten you on the aetiology of this syndrome?’

All the heads had swivelled in her direction—talk about being put on the spot! She began to rack her brain for the causes, when suddenly, to her relief, the facts came rushing back to her in the same smooth sequence that she’d learnt them from her textbook. Facts. Reliable, conclusive facts. Thank heavens for facts!

She recounted all that he had asked her fluently and at the end of her talk she saw that she had their total attention—she even thought she had noticed a rather grudging nod from Dr Forrester—but on that she could have been mistaken! At any rate, she had passed her first test with flying colours.

‘Not bad,’ he remarked, getting to his feet. ‘I think that’s all for today, everyone. Let’s go over to Belling now, Dr Gray.’

She followed him up the ward, having to move quickly in an effort to emulate his long-legged stride. As he passed the ward office, Mandy came out with a drug chart for him to sign which he did willingly enough, even muttering an aside which produced a wide grin from the ward sister. Mandy, for one, seemed to find him pleasant enough, Louisa thought.

The lift doors slid open and they stepped inside. It was empty save for them, and she was immediately aware of the enforced silence and lack of eye contact which travelling in a lift always seemed to provoke, but she wanted to clear the air.

‘Did you know that I was going to be working with you?’ she asked, staring up at him.

He shrugged. ‘I knew that I had a new houseman starting, yes, and I knew that it was a woman. Once I’d found out that you were a doctor, I didn’t need the ability of Einstein to work out that you were most probably that person.’

She was furious. ‘But you didn’t think it prudent to tell me that you were my new boss?’ she demanded.

‘Slightly difficult, as you refused to tell me your name!’

He had conveniently forgotten that the reason for that was because he had embarrassed her so hatefully. ‘This is going to make things very difficult, isn’t it?’

He frowned. ‘On the contrary—if you’re moving out and our only contact is through work, then provided you do your job properly, I can anticipate no problems. I have no intention of letting a personality clash jeopardise your future—if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

It took the most monumental effort on her part not to snap back at him, but she forced herself to concentrate on why she was here—not to engage in a bickering match with some egocentric ex-media star, but to work!

She cleared her throat. ‘Would you mind telling me exactly how many medical beds we have?’

He clapped his hand to his forehead in an expression of mock amazement.

‘Unbelievable! It only took you three minutes to get your mind back on to the job—not bad for a woman!’

She deserved it, she knew that—but it did not make the criticism any less easy to bear. She had been tittle-tattling like an overgrown schoolgirl and that, on top of everything else, would do little to improve his opinion of her. He probably had her firmly registered in his mind as a vacuous, immature female doctor who couldn’t keep her mind on her job for more than a second. And she knew how much first impressions counted. . .

‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

The lift shuddered to a halt and he stood aside to let her pass.

‘We have forty beds, divided into the two wards—twenty on Belling, which is male, and twenty on Dale, which is female. In addition we have a five-bedded coronary care unit attached to Belling—and Dr Fenton-Taylor guards these jealously.’

‘What’s he like?’ she asked.

She saw a small frown cross his forehead while he considered the question.

‘Like?’ There was a pause. ‘He’s like most consultants of his generation and ability—brilliant, autocratic, occasionally intolerant.’

A suprisingly honest appraisal, she decided as she walked up the wide corridor beside him, but he spoilt it all with his next comment.

‘He likes good-looking women around,’ he said, his lip curling in an expression of derision. ‘So you should be all right.’

He was not going to get away with that.

‘You’d better get this straight,’ she stated forthrightly. ‘I have never traded on being a woman to get on in life, and I don’t intend to start now!’

He laughed. ‘No? A woman who doesn’t flutter her lashes and squeeze out every bit of sex appeal she’s got? Surely a contradiction in terms, Dr Gray?’

How bitter he sounded. She turned flashing dark blue eyes on him.

‘A medical version of the casting couch, you mean? Hardly, Dr Forrester—or else I might have been tempted to hang around the sitting-room late last night to take you up on your. . .er. . .offer.’

Their argument was abruptly terminated by their arrival at the ward, but she couldn’t miss the look he gave her. It seemed that he was very good at dishing out nasty little comments, but not so good at taking them!

He marched on to Belling with her at his side, taking her straight into the office to meet Sister. The cold-eyed blonde who jumped to her feet to greet him could hardly have been more different from the cheery Mandy Patterson. Her sister’s uniform of dark navy with white spots looked as though it were a size too small since it clung provocatively to her body in a way that no functional nurses’ uniform was supposed to.

The ash-coloured hair was drawn back from her face and neck in the regulation manner, but small fair tendrils had been teased out, so that it looked more like the coiffure on a classical Greek statue than the working hairstyle of a busy ward sister. Large eyes of the palest grey were skilfully made even bigger by the expert use of sooty shadow and mascara.

Irreverently, Louisa was reminded of the old nursery tale ‘Oh, Grandmama—what big eyes you have.’ Now here, she thought, was someone who did use sex appeal almost as second nature. It would be interesting to see whether Adam Forrester objected to this kind of treatment.

The husky voice matched the body and the hair and the eyes perfectly.

‘Adam!’ she exclaimed warmly, the glossy lips glimmering into a perfect smile. ‘I’ll come round with you.’

It sounded as if she were conferring the highest honour in the land on him, Louisa thought with amusement, watching to see what the interaction was between them, surprised and slightly disappointed to see him return her treacly smile with an amicable grin.

‘I’ve brought along my new house officer, Magda. I’d like you to meet Louisa Gray. Louisa—this is Sister Magda Maguire.’

She must have noticed Louisa standing at Adam’s side, but the grey eyes turned towards her now for the first time, the smile dimming fractionally, the eyes frankly assessing. Or was she just being paranoid? Had Adam Forrester’s unwelcoming behaviour made her expectations of St Dunstan’s totally unrealistic—and was she misinterpreting a simple look?

But she knew that many nurses resented female doctors, resented their proximity and relationship with their male colleagues. Lots of nurses still behaved in a very territorial way towards doctors, and in years gone by women doctors had posed little threat—their numbers had been so small. But today, when they comprised almost half the intake of medical students. . .Well, Magda Maguire need have no concern on her account—she would rather spend a weekend with a man-eating tiger than spend an evening in the company of the foul-tempered Dr Forrester.

‘Hello, there!’ smiled Magda. ‘Louisa, wasn’t it? You must tell me all about yourself. Where did you do your training?’

‘At Barts.’ Louisa prayed that she didn’t sound too much on the defensive.

‘Really?’ The other woman looked interested. ‘I am impressed! One of London’s most famous hospitals—and yet you decided not to do any of your house jobs there?’

The inevitable question. ‘No. I wanted to come to St Dunstan’s.’

‘Oh?’ Magda seemed to be expecting more, but she could whistle for it, thought Louisa stubbornly, knowing all the time how weak and feeble her explanation sounded. Because, although St Dunstan’s was a well-respected and busy general hospital, it carried none of the élitism and status attached to St Bartholomew’s—known to its staff as ‘God’s own hospital’.

The grey eyes stared at her reproachfully for a moment, then turned to gaze fondly on Adam.

‘Would you like me to show her the ward? Leave you to have your coffee and do your paperwork in peace?’

He looked at Louisa for a moment, then nodded his agreement.

‘That would be a great help. Is that all right with you, Dr Gray?’

How formal he was with her! ‘Perfectly. Thanks, Sister.’ She was aware that her voice sounded stiff, starchy even.

She left the office, following the neat, swinging rear of Magda Maguire, feeling disgruntled. The day had got off to a bad start, and there was no doubt in her mind who was responsible.

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