‘So, Miss Henderson, beneath that marshmallow appearance of yours beats a heart of steel, does it?’

Poppy looked at him indignantly. ‘Marshmallow? What’s that supposed to mean?’

By now Fergus definitely looked as though he was enjoying himself. ‘All that pale, fluffy hair—and all that muck you’ve got plastered around your eyes. And that sticky-looking stuff on your mouth—you look just like a sugar-coated piece of confectionery!’

There was a long pause.

Well. She could tell him what he could do with his typewriter and head for the door. Or could she? No other agency would touch her, with such little experience. And she did need the job.

Poppy dropped her handbag over the back of the nearest chair with a fluid movement. She needed the job, and he needed a secretary.

She gave him the benefit of a sweetly innocent smile. ‘If I look like a sugar-coated piece of confectionery, Dr Browne, then your shirt looks like the crumpled-up bit of wrapper from it! And now, if we’ve finished our little chat, perhaps we could get on with some work?’

He opened his mouth, and shut it again. How wonderful to see him looking so nonplussed!

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…

Specialist in Love
Sharon Kendrick
writing as Sharon Wirdnam

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Gerald and

Gill O’Rourke

Contents

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVAN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVAN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

POPPY HENDERSON didn’t look particularly Irish; in fact at that moment she looked more like a hurricane gone out of control, thought Ella as she watched her flatmate whirl into the sitting-room, brandishing a piece of paper and whooping with joy.

She didn’t sound particularly Irish either; she just had an unusually soft voice which took on a gentle lilt if she was feeling tired or excited. Like now.

‘Tra-la!’ she sang. ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog!’

Ella glanced up again from her newspaper, only mildly perturbed—she was long used to Poppy’s excessive enthusiasm.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,’ repeated Poppy, grinning happily.

‘I should see your doctor about it if I were you,’ suggested Ella. ‘I always knew you were crazy—but now I’ve got proof!’

Poppy collapsed into an armchair, throwing her feet over the side. ‘No, silly. That was my typing test—do you realise that that particular sentence uses every letter of the alphabet?’

‘No, I didn’t actually!’

‘And this evening I got it word-perfect—over and over again—at fifty words a minute. I’m Mrs Johnson’s prize pupil and she’s even trying to fix me up with a job!’

Ella sighed and put the newspaper down, abandoning all attempts to read it. When Poppy was in this kind of mood she wouldn’t get a moment’s peace. ‘You’re not really going through with all this, are you? Throwing up your job at Maxwells and everything?’

‘It’s done! The deed is done!’ announced Poppy dramatically. ‘I’ve left. Seriously,’ she wrinkled her upturned nose, ‘I’m sick of being a beautician. Trying to convince women who need to lose thirty pounds that new Blanko face cream will make them look like Kim Basinger! Having to lie through my teeth every time they ask me whether such-and-such eye-shadow enhances their eyes—when a blindfold is about the only thing that would!’

‘Poppy!’

‘At least when I’m a secretary I’ll be doing something really useful.’ Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway expression. ‘Who knows? I could end up as the indispensable right-hand woman of some archaeologist—searching for ancient tombs somewhere in Egypt. . .’

‘Hasn’t it already been done in a film with Harrison Ford?’ interposed Ella drily. ‘You’re much more likely to end up typing invoices for some importer in a ghastly windowless office somewhere in the town.’

‘Honestly, Ella,’ Poppy reproached her, ‘you’re the world’s biggest pessimist!’

‘Realist, you mean.’

‘Anyway,’ she announced airily, ‘we shall see. I register at Trumps Temporary Agency tomorrow. Mrs Johnson’s friend runs it.’

‘I hope you’re going to tone your image down a bit first,’ said Ella, in some alarm.

‘Nonsense! They’ll have to take me as I am.’

Which was why Mrs Johnson’s old college friend, a Miss Webb, blinked slightly as Poppy breezed into Trumps Temporaries.

She had, in fact, toned her image down slightly, but Miss Webb wasn’t to know that. She saw across her desk a very slender young woman, her endlessly long legs encased in tight black leggings and topped with a huge fluffy mohair sweater on which Winnie-the-Pooh was licking from a jar of hunny.

The pale blonde hair obviously owed little of its abundance of curls and startling shade to nature, and the large violet eyes were enhanced by a subtle shading of at least three different coloured eyeshadows. Fromjier ears swung two enormous silver ear-rings, and Miss Webb privately wondered how she managed to walk on such high heels.

But within several minutes of talking to her Miss Webb knew that her old friend’s lavish praise had not been unjustified. The girl was indeed talented—bright, witty and quite overwhelmingly honest, a point which Miss Webb commented on.

‘That’s one of the reasons why I want to leave,’ explained Poppy earnestly, leaning over the desk to emphasise what she was saying, silver bangles clanking like a brass band. ‘The whole business of being a beautician is one of deceit—people don’t want the truth. They want to believe that their skin is as soft as a rose petal. It’s one of the best kept secrets in the world that the only people lots of make-up looks good on are those who really don’t need to wear any.’

Miss Webb thought Poppy herself was one of those people, but refrained from comment. Instead she started to explain the uncertain world of ‘temping’.

‘I haven’t very much in at the moment, I’m afraid. The best I can offer you is going to be odd days here and there, which can be a little unsettling, but things should pick up soon.’

Poppy brightened a little on hearing this. ‘Oh, well. Just so long as I can pay the rent!’

Miss Webb began sorting through a box of cards in front of her. ‘Let’s just see what we have here. . .’ she began, when the telephone on her desk began to jangle noisily.

‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, and picked up the instrument. ‘Hello? Trumps Temporaries. How may I help you?’

Poppy then heard an intriguing one-sided conversation, peppered with half a dozen ‘oh, no’s!’ and several terse asides of ‘that man!’ When she eventually replaced the receiver, Miss Webb turned her eyes on Poppy.

‘I think we may be able to help one another, my dear. I think I have just the job for you.’

‘You do?’ Poppy sat up in her chair.

‘I do indeed, working for Dr Fergus Browne at Highchester Hospital.’

‘But I’m not a medical secretary,’ protested Poppy. ‘I couldn’t possibly work for a doctor.’

‘You’ll soon pick it up—a bright girl like you,’ said Miss Webb soothingly. ‘And besides, I have no one else to send—his latest girl has just walked out.’ She saw Poppy raise her eyebrows enquiringly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t deny he’s a difficult man, Miss Henderson. Very difficult. He’s used about seven girls from my agency, and not one of them has agreed to stay. Quite the opposite, in fact—they seem to leave in a flurry of tears. He seems to have quite a ridiculous effect on them, though for myself, I fail to see why. I’m being frank with you, Miss Henderson, because I believe you’re the kind of young lady who stands up for herself.’ She gave a kind smile. ‘And on no account are you to allow him to bully you.’

Poppy gulped. Did she have any choice? ‘OK, Miss Webb. I’ll do it. When do I start?’

Miss Webb gave another smile, more apologetic this time. ‘In about ten minutes?’

The hospital was within walking distance of the agency, and it was the first time Poppy had ever been inside. She shivered a little. The long corridor seemed to be very dark and draughty. She felt as though she needed a dregree in map-reading to find Dr Browne’s offices, and she was slightly taken aback by the information proffered by the jokey girl at the reception desk whom she had asked for directions.

‘Working for the Professor, are you?’ She pulled a face. ‘Rather you than me!’

Poppy set off in search of the lift. A Professor! Miss Webb hadn’t told her that. He must be really high-powered, and ancient, no doubt. What was he going to say when he discovered that the girl they had sent him had only recently passed her typing test after a year of going to evening classes?

The offices on the tenth floor of the building were like a labyrinth, and she got lost about four times, wandering around in circles through identicallooking corridors before eventually locating an undistinguished door which bore the legend ‘F. Browne—Dermatology’. Poppy was surprised. For a Professor’s it looked a very dismal kind of office. Why, when she had worked at Maxwells, even the catering supervisor had resided in a far grander-looking room than this one!

She knocked on the door and waited, but no one replied. She tried again, but there was still no answer. Well, there was no doubt that Professor Browne was expecting her. She turned the handle and walked in.

It was not as she expected—inside there was total chaos, with books absolutely everywhere. Poppy had never seen so many books. They stood in high piles on almost every inch of the floor, so that she had to pick her way over them gingerly. They almost obscured every bit of the surface of the enormous mahogany desk that stood at the far corner of the room. And there was still no sign of her new boss.

At that moment the door flew open, and Poppy turned round to confront a very tall, lean man who was staring at her as if he’d just seen an apparition. Light grey eyes came to rest first on her ear-rings, and then, with open astonishment, on the high black patent shoes she wore.

‘Good grief,’ he said faintly. ‘Don’t tell me you actually walked here in those things?’

She didn’t know who he was, but judging from the extremely crumpled shirt he wore and the faded cords she guessed he was one of the maintenance men. And one who needed putting in his place too—he needn’t think he could be so rude to the Professor’s new secretary!

‘How do you think I got here?’ she demanded. ‘Flew?’

‘I should think that if you shook your head violently enough, the centrifugal force generated by the momentum of those ridiculous ear-rings would be enough to propel you into the outer stratosphere!’ he returned.

She could see that sarcasm was going to be wasted on him. And on second thoughts, he didn’t sound a bit like a maintenance man—why, the sentence he had just snapped back at her sounded as if you would need an ‘A’ level in physics just to understand it! Surely he couldn’t be. . .?

No. She quashed the idea firmly. Well-spoken he might be, but a doctor he most definitely wasn’t. Doctors wore suits, and looked responsible. Staid and trustworthy—like dear old Dr Evans at home. They certainly didn’t tower at over six feet, lean and fit, making them look as if they’d be more suited to skiing down the side of some mountain. And quite apart from the crumpled shirt and the too-casual cords, no doctor on earth would be seen wearing a pink tie with purple spots all over it!

She decided to try a different tack. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked him, rather primly.

His mouth, which she automatically noted was quite a nice shape, set itself into a thin, uncompromising line. The light grey eyes allowed themselves a humourless glint.

‘I doubt it,’ he returned, continuing to stare at her with a kind of fascinated horror.

Time, without doubt, to let Mr High and Mighty know exactly to whom he was speaking. Poppy set her own glossy mouth into a line which unconsciously imitated his own.

‘Do you realise to whom you’re speaking?’ she enquired archly, anticipating his discomfiture with glee, when his lazy reply completely threw her.

‘Certainly. The latest in a long line of extremely unsatisfactory temporary secretaries which have been dredged up by your agency, I imagine.’ He raised his very dark eyebrows and smiled. ‘Am I correct?’

Poppy had rarely in her life been speechless, but she was now. Surely he couldn’t be. . .?

‘But you don’t look a bit like a Professor!’ she protested, her long, pink-painted nails gripping on to the table for support.

The dark brows grew together in a frown, and the grey eyes glared. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked coldly.

Poppy laughed nervously. ‘You! You aren’t what I expected! When they said I’d be working for the Professor, I imagined someone much older.’

What had she said to offend him? The grey eyes were sending out sparks which could have ignited the desk.

‘Are you trying to be funny?’ he demanded.

‘How so?’ She was genuinely bewildered and she knew that her reply was casual and ungrammatical, but she was still trying to forget that this brute of a man wasn’t someone who had come to tamper with the central heating.

‘Who told you I was a Professor?’ he snapped.

For a moment Poppy wished she was back at Maxwells, handing out sapphire eye-shadow to corpulent women of sixty who should have known better. She tried a smile which used to melt the general floor manager’s heart.

‘The girl on the reception desk,’ she explained. ‘I asked her where I could find Dr Browne and she said “working for the Professor, are you?”’ Poppy’s lips clamped hastily shut, as she recalled the next comment, which had been ‘rather you than me!’ She began to get a good idea what the receptionist had meant! ‘Have I said something wrong?’ she asked, fixing her huge violet eyes on his face.

‘It’s a joke,’ he told her flatly.

‘Well, you’re hardly doubled up laughing yourself,’ she quipped, and was rewarded with a look which could have rivalled Medusa’s.

‘A poor joke.’ He pulled one of the textbooks on the desk towards him, glancing down at the open page before returning his gaze to her. ‘It dates from my days as a student—Miss——?’

‘Henderson,’ said Poppy helpfully. ‘But you can call me Poppy.’

‘Miss Henderson,’ he continued, ignoring her friendly overture. ‘Do you have much experience of hospitals, Miss Henderson?’

‘None, I’m afraid,’ she said brightly.

‘I thought not.’ He gave a weary sigh. ‘Then allow me to enlighten you about some fairly typical behaviour. If, as a student, you tend to commit that awful sin of enjoying your work, and pursuing it with any degree of vigour, then you’re labelled a bore. Or a swot. I was known as the “Professor”.’

Poppy’s heart sank. Trust her to have revived some ancient and hated nickname!

‘If, on the other hand, you do as little work as possible, date every woman in your year, and are never to be seen without a glass of beer in your hand, you’ll win the admiration of your peers and be labelled a jolly good chap!’ The rather nicely shaped mouth twisted again, and Poppy tried, and failed, to imagine him in this second role.

Oh, well. It had been a good try, but poor old Miss Webb was going to have yet another temp leave—and this one was probably going to break the record for having been there the shortest time.

Grumpy seemed to have forgotten she was there—his attention had switched suddenly from moaning at her to scanning a page of the textbook he’d just moved, and muttering ‘mmm’ just as if he’d bitten into an unexpectedly delicious cake. Poppy began to hitch her bag over her shoulder, uncertain of how best to get out of there.

She cleared her throat, but he didn’t even look up. She coughed quietly, but still he took no notice, just carried on reading. The sooner she was out of there the better—the man was a lunatic!

‘Er—I suppose I’d better be going, Dr Browne.’

He looked at her then, and she got a good idea of how some poor unsuspecting mouse must feel before the cat pounces on it.

‘What?’ he demanded.

‘I said I’d better be going now. I’m sorry if I appeared rude. . .’

‘Going?’ He slung the book down, and Poppy blinked with surprise to see ‘Fergus C. Browne’ on the front of it. ‘And just where do you think you’re going, Miss Henderson?’

‘Well, you won’t want me now, will you?’ she asked bluntly. ‘Not now that I’ve reminded you of what a rotten time you had as a student.’

And suddenly he laughed, showing superb white teeth. The relaxed movement affected his whole stance, so that for the briefest second he looked so—so gorgeous, there was no other way to describe it, that her heart did a funny little dance all on its own. There was even a twinkle in the forbidding eyes.

‘On the contrary, Miss Henderson,’ he drawled, ‘I had a very happy time as a student. Very happy indeed.’

And, witnessing this astonishing transformation, she could well believe it.

‘As for my “wanting” you,’ the smile had switched off more quickly than the Christmas tree lights on Twelfth Night, ‘what I want, and what I’ve been wanting for over fourteen months now, is a secretary who can type without making a mistake every other word. Someone who can be pleasant on the telephone, and helpful. Someone who will listen to what’s being asked of her. Someone who will not terrify or intimidate my patients. Someone who will not sniff, or sulk, or file her nails and look bored. Someone who will not attempt to engage me in what I believe is popularly known as “chit-chat”.

‘I don’t care what you’ve watched on television. I am not interested in soap operas, or the Royal Family. I want someone with more than two neurones to rub together.’ He watched her questioningly. ‘Do you think that what I’m asking is unreasonable, Miss Henderson?’

Poppy could hardly believe what she was hearing. What an insufferable pig! She remembered Miss Webb’s parting words, that on no account was she to let him bully her. Damn right, she wouldn’t!

She glowered at him. ‘Yes, I do! And more than that—it’s the most patronising thing I’ve ever heard!’

The watchful eyes grew thoughtful. ‘You think I’m exaggerating the tendencies of your predecessors?’

He was regarding her with interest, as though he actually cared about what she might think, and she felt her cheeks grow a little hot, irritatingly flustered by this quirky individual.

‘They probably did do some of those things—if not all of them. But perhaps they filed their nails because they were bored. Have you asked yourself whether you gave them enough work to do? Maybe they tried to chat to you because you were so prickly and they were trying to cheer you up. Their bad telephone manner could have just been insecurity. They probably hated being here as much as you hated having them here.’

He had shoved a whole pile of books aside and had perched on the edge of the desk, his long cord-clad legs spread in front of him. Poppy had to concentrate very hard not to stare at his awful tie.

‘Do go on,’ he murmured. ‘This is fascinating.’

She glanced at him suspiciously. Was he being sarcastic? But what the hell? She’d finish what she was going to say now.

‘You obviously don’t like having a secretary,’ she offered, ‘being reliant on someone else—and so you treat them badly; and everyone knows that if you treat people badly then they behave badly!’

The eyebrows retreated still further into a lock of the light brown hair. ‘Do they, indeed?’

She couldn’t believe he could be so stupid! ‘Of course they do!’ she declared. ‘If you kick a dog, then the dog becomes bad-tempered and aggressive and neurotic. If you mistreat a child it won’t develop normally, and pu-punitive punishments handed out to juvenile delinquents are far more likely to have a bad effect—than involvement and hard work.’

‘Punitive, hm? That’s a good word, Miss Henderson,’ he remarked.

‘I read it in a newspaper last week,’ she told him proudly, before returning his gaze mulishly. Was he making fun of her?

The long legs had shifted slightly. ‘I trust that you’re not comparing yourself to a dog, or a child, or a juvenile delinquent? How old are you, by the way?’

She really couldn’t see the point of prolonging this interview. ‘Twenty.’

A brief smile. He should do that more often, she thought.

‘Well, you nearly qualified, didn’t you?’ he remarked.

‘What for?’

‘The juvenile part, naturally,’ and he began to laugh.

‘Very funny!’ The surprising thing was that she didn’t feel any awe about talking to him so frankly. She still couldn’t believe that he was really a doctor, to her he seemed more like some overgrown schoolboy, and one who had had his own way for far too long.

‘How old are you?’ she asked.

‘How old do you think I am?’

Poppy sighed. ‘If you knew how many times I’d heard that! I’d say you were about thirty.’

‘Excellent! You’re a year out—I’m thirty-one.’

‘I’m good on ages,’ she said smugly, remembering the countless times that crêpe-lined faces had been thrust over the counter towards her at Maxwells with a plea for a foundation to hide the blemishes, usually accompanied by the lie that ‘I’m only just forty’.

She blinked after her little reverie to find him tapping one long finger on the side of the desk. He wore no gold band and she found herself wondering whether or not he was married. Pity the poor woman who found herself saddled with Dr Browne!

‘So, Miss Henderson, beneath that marshamallow appearance of yours beats a heart of steel, does it?’

She looked at him indignantly. ‘Marshmallow? What’s that supposed to mean?’

By now he definitely looked as though he was enjoying himself. ‘All that pale, fluffy hair—and all that muck you’ve got plastered around your eyes. And that sticky-looking stuff on your mouth—you look just like a sugar-coated piece of confectionery!’

There was a long pause.

Well. She could tell him what he could do with his typewriter and head for the door. Or could she? Hadn’t Miss Webb told her that this was the only job she had? And Miss Webb was a good friend of her tutor; she had gone to her highly recommended. No other agency would touch her, with such little experience. And she did need the job. She had left Maxwells now, and it might have been boring but at least it had paid very well. How else was she going to find the rent?

She dropped her handbag over the back of the nearest chair with a fluid movement. She needed the job, and he needed a secretary. She would work for the obnoxious man, but she was going to take Miss Webb’s advice literally—and damn the consequences!

She gave him the benefit of a sweetly innocent smile. ‘If I look like a sugar-coated piece of confectionery, Dr Browne, then your shirt looks like the crumpled-up bit of wrapper from it! And now, if we’ve finished our little chat, perhaps we could get on with some work?’

He opened his mouth, and shut it again. How wonderful to see him looking so nonplussed!

‘You’ll have to do it without me,’ he said carelessly. ‘I’m off to a meeting now. Perhaps you’d like to tidy up a bit?’

The way he said it suggested that she was little more than a skivvy, and Poppy gritted her teeth, but said nothing.

‘I’ll be in early Monday morning, so I’ll show you the ropes then. That is, if you’re coming back on Monday?’

Put like that, it sounded like a challenge. There was nothing more she would have liked than to have told him she was never going to set foot in his dark, untidy mausoleum of an office again, but she was not going to give him that pleasure. That was what was known as cutting off your nose to spite your face.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that, Dr Browne,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be back.’

She bent over her handbag as if she’d found something tremendously important in it, and didn’t look at him once as he strode out of the room.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER he had disappeared, Poppy heaved a huge sigh of relief and sat back in one of the chairs to survey the contents of his office more closely. Thank heavens she had worn her leggings! There was dust everywhere—generated, no doubt, by the heaps of books. She picked up the book he had been reading and regarded it with interest. It was entitled Diagnostic Dermatology and was indeed written by the man for whom she now worked.

The book was new, the dust cover shiny, and the whole volume had that delicious smell which all new books have. Poppy loved books. She lived for them. And books had taught her almost everything she knew. When you’d missed chunks of your education because teachers would never stay in the remote part of the country you’d grown up in, you quickly realised that there was a lot of catching up to do!

On the inside of the dust cover there was a short piece about the author. It told her that Fergus C. Browne—she wondered idly what the ‘C’ stood for—had been educated at Cambridge and then at King’s College Hospital. That, as well as being one of the youngest consultant dermatologists in the country, he had also written papers on infectious diseases, and the psychological effects of having a chronic skin condition diagnosed.

Poppy frowned. It was a pity he didn’t apply some psychological reasoning to the way he treated his staff—or, better still, use a bit of common sense. What was it going to be like working for such a capricious individual? Were they going to be engaged in running verbal battles all day long? Would he continue to be so incredibly rude about the way she looked?

She gave a long sigh. Better stop being so pensive and get on with the job. She wouldn’t put it past him to come breezing back in here after an hour, just to check what she had accomplished in his absence!

But how to go about tidying up his disgusting den? She didn’t want him accusing her of misplacing all his books, but clearly she couldn’t set up an efficient workplace if she had to keep stepping over haphazardly sited piles.

In the centre of the room was an enormous, old-fashioned fireplace, with a large recess on either side. The two spaces were just crying out for bookshelves. She scrabbled around on his desk and eventually found an unused notepad and Biro, and began to make a list.

In her rather rounded script, she wrote:

1. Have bookshelves erected ASAP!!!

2. Phone library re. most effective way of classifying books.

3. Buy a plant!

The hospital telephonist gave her the number of the maintenance department, and Poppy had to bite back a giggle when she remembered how she’d mistaken the illustrious Dr Browne for one of them. Thank goodness she hadn’t blurted that out!

A bored voice answered the phone and informed her that there was no one in the department who could help at that time, but if she left her number then they would get back to her later that afternoon, and with that Poppy had to be content.

Next she rang the local library and spoke to a very helpful girl there who explained that, as most large libraries were computerised, their systems would be inappropriate for a small, private collection of books. She suggested that alphabetical filing by author would be best, with a cross-reference file for subject matter. She also advised a marker system, in case any of the books were lent out.

While she waited for the maintenance department to ring her back, Poppy sorted all the books out into alphabetical order and placed them in neat groups around the room. It took her over an hour to do this, and by the end of it her mouth felt dry and her clothes were covered in a fine layer of dust. She had long since removed her mohair sweater, and her pink T-shirt proved plenty warm enough. She brushed her hands down the side of her leggings and glanced around. Some order had been restored, at least. She hunted around for something to drink, but found nothing, and since she didn’t want to risk missing the telephone call regarding the bookshelves she did without, but added, ‘Buy a kettle!’ to her list.

At five minutes to five they rang back and she explained her predicament, but not even all her charm could sway the dour-sounding man at the other end, who seemed the worst kind of petty bureaucrat, and obviously relished refusing her request.

‘If we put shelves up for you, then everyone would want them,’ he droned.

‘But we’re not everyone!’ wailed Poppy. ‘And if you don’t tell anyone, we won’t.’

He was now not only impervious to pleading, he was disapproving.

‘We have to work within the system, miss,’ he said sternly. ‘And as for not letting anyone know—I have to complete my work sheets in triplicate, so everyone would know.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ said Poppy crossly. ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life! Talk about a spirit of co-operation! Thanks for nothing!’

She put the phone down. Now what was she going to do? She had almost barricaded her desk in with the wretched things, and she could just see Dr Fergus Browne storming in tomorrow and accusing her of mucking around with his precious books—he was just the kind of contrary person to do that!

But wait a minute—he wasn’t going to be in tomorrow, and neither, officially, was she. Tomorrow was Saturday and the day after was Sunday. Which gave her two clear days to get the shelves up!

She gave a small smile as she mentally applauded her brilliant brainwave, and at five-thirty she set off home, to tell Ella all about what had happened.

Ella slammed her way into the flat at just gone seven to find it strangely silent. Poppy usually had music blaring out from the sitting-room.

‘Poppy?’ she called hesitantly.

‘In here! I’m in the bathroom.’

Ella hung up her jacket and left her basket on the table and, picking up an apple which she began crunching into, walked into the bathroom, where she found Poppy, clad only in a black lace bra and knickers, bending down and peering at herself in the badly placed mirror.

Without turning round she spoke in a gloomy voice.

‘Do I remind you of a marshmallow?’

Ella swallowed a pip by mistake. ‘What? I knew this would happen. I always said it—one day Poppy Henderson will finally flip!’

‘Shut up—I’m serious. Do I or do I not remind you of a marshmallow?’

‘Of course you don’t. You remind me of Marilyn Monroe—everyone says so.’

‘Marilyn Monroe was fat.’

‘She wasn’t fat, she was curvaceous. Nice bust, small waist, good legs—just like you.’

‘Fat,’ muttered Poppy dejectedly. ‘Do you think I wear too much make-up?’

Ella shifted uncomfortably. ‘It is a bit much, sometimes—especially by day.’ She saw Poppy’s face and hurriedly changed her tack. ‘I mean, it was different when you were working at Maxwells—that whole look was part of your job. But you’ve got such lovely skin and eyes that it seems rather a shame to cover them up. And if I had hair as shiny as yours I certainly wouldn’t dye it blonde.’

‘You would if it was mousy,’ Poppy pointed out, the harsh light falling on her finely-boned face to cast deep shadows under her cheekbones.

‘It’s golden-brown, not mousy—and what the hell has got into you tonight, Poppy? I’ve never known you to be so negative. Do I take it that you’re one of the many unemployed, and that this is responsible for a face as long as your arm?’

Poppy shook her head, so that the pale curls flew like angry snakes around her face.

‘Not at all—I’ve got a job, and that’s the problem.’

Ella’s face broke into a huge grin. ‘What are you talking about? You’ve got a job, that’s fabulous! You should be jumping up and down for joy and offering me a large glass of wine to celebrate.’

Poppy sighed. ‘Wait till you hear! I’ve got a job working for the most bad-tempered doctor you could ever imagine.’

‘A doctor? But you can’t. . . I mean, you don’t. . .’

‘Exactly,’ agreed Poppy grimly. ‘I know nothing about medicine. I don’t understand what he does, and I certainly haven’t got a clue how to spell the words.’

‘Then how come. . .?’

‘I’m the agency’s last hope. He’s driven away countless others. And that’s the second bad thing—he hates secretaries. From what he’s said I can imagine that a slug eating his prize cabbage would get more respect and affection!’

‘He sounds ghastly.’

‘Believe me, he is. Then there’s the third awful thing,’ added Poppy.

‘Go on.’

‘Someone jokingly told me that he was a professor, and so that’s what I called him—after, I might add, I mistook him for one of the maintenance men.’

Ella stifled a giggle. ‘Oh, Poppy!’

‘How was I to know that “Professor” was the nickname he hated which he’s had since medical school?’

‘You’re making all this up!’

‘Oh, that I were! And now I’ve got to try and get some shelves up in his room before Monday, or else he’ll hit the roof when he sees how I’ve rearranged his blessed books. Do you have Mick Douglas’s number?’

‘It’s in the book,’ replied her friend with a fond but sinking heart. Why had Poppy insisted on rocking the boat in order to do a job that she clearly wasn’t suited for?

Professor indeed! She couldn’t see this job last the week out.

Fergus left the side room and walked quickly into the office, his professional demeanour of calm assurance crumpling into brief despair. It never got any easier. How could it?

The charge nurse looked over at him sympathetically. ‘Coffee?’ he asked.

Fergus shook his head. ‘No, thanks, Geoff.’ He began to write in the patient’s notes ‘systemic lumpus erythematosus’. In his untidy hand he scrawled the inevitable syptoms—the outaneous signs which included the well-known ‘butterfly’ erythema on the face, frontal alopecia, mucosal ulceration. He refrained from writing the two words which the disorder signified to most of the staff on the ward—potentially fatal.

Today was Sunday and he shouldn’t even have been here, but how could he not be here? He had come in himself as if to lessen the blow of the news he’d had to impart.

But how did you tell a young girl of twenty-three, poised on the brink of her professional and emotional life, that she might not see the year out? A beautiful young girl with the face of a Madonna, a classical pianist with so much life and talent in those hands, whose equally young husband had stared at him with bewildered eyes, as if he were some idiot who had made some fundamental and terribly wrong mistake, not the consultant in charge of his wife’s case.

He finished writing in the notes and stood up slowly.

‘What are you up to today, Fergus?’ asked Geoff. ‘Nice day for a country pub!’

Fergus half smiled. ‘No such luck, I’m afraid—I’ve an article waiting at home which won’t write itself.’

Geoff groaned. ‘Rather you than me!’

Fergus left the ward, mentally agreeing with the charge-nurse. He wished he had arranged something today, something which was a million miles away from this damned job.

Still, he’d feel good once it was written, and afterwards he’d reward himself with the luxury of all the Sunday papers and a plate of spaghetti alla carbonara while Vivaldi played gently in the background. An almost perfect evening.

He was just about to leave by the main entrance when he remembered the book. Blast it! His run-in with the latest dizzy blonde secretary meant that he had left the office on Friday without Jacob’s definitive work on skin diseases, without which he couldn’t hope to write the kind of well-founded article the Journal would naturally expect from him. Thank goodness he’d remembered before he’d gone all the way home.

He was pleased to be able to arrive at the door to his office without encountering anyone he knew. He had been dreading running into Veronica Entwistle—the staff nurse on one of his wards, who had told him at least four times that she was on an early Saturday, followed by a late on Sunday, ‘so if you’re short of company, Fergus. . .’ The woman was about as subtle as a sergeant-major!

As he turned the handle of the door he became aware of two discrepancies—a muffled expletive assailed his ears and he heard some tinny kind of banal rubbish playing, which he assumed was the radio.

He flung the door open and the first thing he saw was the sight of a very long, very slender leg, clad in faded denim so clinging that he was immediately convinced that the wearer’s circulation would be seriously affected. The shapely thigh became an extremely attractive bottom and in turn a tiny waist topped by the most splendid bust he’d ever seen.

Fergus had been many things in his life, but he had never before been quite so taken aback, and it took a few seconds for it to dawn on him that he was standing staring like an idiot at the curvaceous shape of his new secretary. She was standing frozen into immobility, screwdriver in her hand. In the corner stood a worried-looking fair-haired young man whose huge shoulders and stature marked him out as a born rugby player.

Fergus set his mouth in a grim line. ‘Perhaps you’d care to explain what you’re doing hanging off a step-ladder, Miss Henderson? No, don’t tell me, let me guess! Your local amateur dramatic society is holding auditions for its production of Peter Pan, and you’re just getting in a bit of practice?’

Sarcastic so-and-so! thought Poppy as she carefully picked her way down to his level, peering up at him with a fixed smile on her face.

‘I’m putting up some bookshelves for you, Dr Browne,’ she informed him brightly. ‘Do you like them?’

It was true. He could see symmetrical shelves, four rows of them already in place on one side of the fireplace, and at the same moment he realised that she’d changed his whole office round.

‘What?’ he boomed, so loudly that Poppy took a step back. ‘What have you done with my books?’

Poppy smiled as patiently as if she were dealing with a simpleton. ‘I’ve been sorting them out for you, Dr Browne. Obviously we couldn’t have them lying around in piles on the floor, could we?’

‘Oh, couldn’t we?’ he snapped petulantly. ‘Well, I want a copy of. . .’ He rattled the name of the textbook off quicker than a laser. ‘And I don’t want it next week—I want it now. So either you produce the book within the two minutes I’m giving you, or you find yourself back in the dole queue first thing in the morning!’

Damn cheek, thought Poppy rebelliously as she scurried over to the alcove—she’d never been in a dole queue in her life.

The silence in the office was like a time-bomb waiting to go off. Fergus stood looking out of the window, his back to the giant in the corner, studiously avoiding all contact with him.

Mick Douglas watched as Poppy scrabbled to find the list she’d made of all the volumes. To think he could have been down the pub with his mates, instead of stuck in this chilly room with this hotheaded maniac! The guy needed locking up. Fancy speaking to her like that! Mick sighed. Poppy had a lot to answer for. She had a way of looking at you that made it impossible to refuse her anything, and she had meant it when she’d said that she wanted to put the shelves up, not him. ‘You’re just here in an advisory capacity,’ she had told him grandly. Mick eyed the brooding figure by the window warily. He must be a good twenty pounds lighter, but he’d hate to get on the bad side of him.

Fergus had begun drumming his fingers on the windowsill as the final seconds ticked away, when Poppy gave a great shout of delight.

‘Here we are! Dermatological Disorders Discovered by Professor Donald Jacob.’ She held the book out with smiling eyes, the laughter quickly leaving them when she saw the expression on her boss’s face as he strode over from the window to take the book from her.

‘I wonder if you’d be good enough to step outside for a moment?’ he asked in a deliberately polite voice which did nothing to disguise his ill-humour.

‘Certainly, Dr Browne. I shan’t be more than a moment, Mick,’ she called to her friend. I hope. She had been reading 1984 by George Orwell last night, the bit where they had recited the old nursery rhyme: ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head’. How appropriate that seemed just at this moment, following old Grumpy out into the corridor. ‘Chip-chop. Chip-chop. The last man’s. . .’

‘Miss Henderson?’

‘Dead!’ she blurted out, before she could stop herself.

He frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’ She realised what she’d said. ‘I’m so sorry, Dr Browne—I was miles away.’

‘Obviously.’

He looked as if he’d spent the morning sucking a lemon—he was so sour-faced, she thought as she waited. He was bound to get rid of her now.

He was about to tell her not to bother coming in tomorrow when he caught a glimpse of such a resigned expression on the nave young face that he felt strangely touched. If you took away all the face paint and the fashionable clothes, underneath wasn’t she a girl like any other, trying her best to survive in an increasingly hostile world?

And hadn’t he rather admired the spunky way she had spoken to him on Friday? It was a sad but inevitable fact that the higher up your particular ladder you got, the more distance it created between you and the people around you. He disliked people toadying to him—simpering sycophants who thought that tacking ‘yes, sir’ on to the end of every sentence would make them an instant crony.

Apart from Catherine, he couldn’t remember anyone who had spoken to him as directly as this girl in a long time.

He forced himself to be pleasant. ‘It was good of you to give up your weekend to rearrange my office, but I would have preferred it if you’d consulted me first. . .’

‘I will in future,’ Poppy butted in eagerly.

Fergus sighed. She was like an exuberant young puppy, completely unsquashable. He rearranged the softer expression which had crept over his features and looked down at her sternly.

‘In future, however, you will not bring your boyfriend into my office, not without my permission.’

‘But he’s not my. . .’ she protested, but he shook his head.

‘I’m not interested in your private life, as I hope you’ll be uninterested in mine. And, now if you’ll excuse me, I have an article to write. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow morning.’

Weakly she nodded, leaning against the wall of the corridor as she watched him walk away, unsure whether to cheer or howl.

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