Recent titles by the same author:

SYDNEY HARBOUR HOSPITAL: ZOE’S BABY** THE HONOURABLE MAVERICK THE UNSUNG HERO ST PIRAN’S: THE BROODING HEART SURGEON† THE MARRY-ME WISH* WISHING FOR A MIRACLE* NURSE, NANNY … BRIDE!

**Sydney Harbour Hospital *Part of the Baby Gift collection †St Piran’s Hospital

These books are also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk

Falling for Her

Impossible Boss

Alison Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Lucy.

Thank you for your boundless enthusiasm,

wisdom and encouragement.

With love xxx

CHAPTER ONE

‘OH, NO… it’s you, isn’t it?’

Was that appalled-sounding male voice referring to her? Annabelle Graham turned her head just far enough to see the speaker and her heart sank like a stone. Later, she would realise she’d known who it was even before she turned her head. Those clipped private school kind of vowels that, for her at least, totally obliterated the sexiness such a deep voice should automatically have.

She would also realise that such an outburst was completely out of character so he must have been even more appalled to see her than his tone had suggested. Bella sucked in a long breath that she knew would get expelled in a resigned sigh as she turned her head far enough to be polite.

Oliver Dawson, eminent neurosurgeon here at St Patrick’s hospital, looked like he’d frozen in mid-step as he’d been passing by the dayroom of this ward. He almost looked as if he’d been hit by a bolt of lightning. Her breath came out in the anticipated sigh.

One of the only immediately discernible perks of finishing her run in Theatre and starting her new nursing rotation in the geriatric wards had been the thought of not looking like an idiot in front of this man again. Bumping into things. Not wearing her mask properly. Not being in the right place at the right time.

Just not being … good enough. At anything.

It should have occurred to her that he might have patients in this area of the hospital. Old people had strokes. They got brain tumours. They fell over and suffered head injuries. Bella’s heart sank even further. This was probably one of Mr Dawson’s most frequent ports of call now that she came to think about it.

And, yep, she was the ‘you’ he had to be referring to because he had her pinned with a glare that was in no way softened by the rich chocolate shade of his eyes. And heaven help her, he was even more intimidating in a three-piece pinstriped suit than he had been in loose-fitting theatre scrubs.

The appalled tone was distressingly familiar. Being bailed up to get told off was not a new experience by any means. Bella sighed again.

‘Yes,’ she confessed. ‘It’s me.’ She tried a bright smile. ‘How are you, Mr Dawson?’

The glare took on an incredulous tinge but Bella was distracted by realising that this was the first time she had seen the surgeon without his hair being covered by a theatre cap. It was even darker than his eyes and as immaculately cut as his suit. There was an air of precision and control about Oliver Dawson that was undoubtedly a huge asset as a surgeon but he was on another planet as far as the men Bella had ever tried to placate. The smile seemed to hit some kind of force-field and bounce straight back at her. Oliver not only ignored her polite enquiry about his wellbeing, he was looking past her now.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve just started my rotation on Geriatrics.’ Bella’s first run in St Patrick’s had been in Theatre. After her three-month stint in the dreaded area of the elderly and infirm, she had Paediatrics to look forward to—her all-time favourite. It was going to be a few years until she could start a family of her own so Bella had every intention of making the most of being with other people’s children until then. Her next run couldn’t come soon enough. Especially now. But neurosurgical cases were fairly common with children, too, weren’t they? Where would she be safe from failing to make the grade in Oliver Dawson’s eyes? Did they need a nurse in Dermatology Outpatients, perhaps? Obs and Gynae?

A single, curt shake of the man’s head told her that her response to his question had been incorrect. Well, no surprises there.

‘I wasn’t referring to the details of your employment roster,’ he snapped. ‘I would like to know what you are doing right now. With these patients.’

‘Oh …’ Bella turned back to find herself being watched with some sympathy by five pairs of eyes, most of which were behind fairly thick spectacle lenses. It was only then that Bella became aware again of the music coming from the cute little speaker she’d attached to her iPod. Good ol’ foot-stomping country music. She could understand that it would seem a little inappropriate. And loud.

‘I’ll turn it down,’ she offered hurriedly, following the words with action. ‘I had to turn it up because Wally’s pretty deaf and he couldn’t hear the beat.’

‘Aye.’ The rotund, elderly man standing closest to Bella nodded vigorously. ‘Deaf as a doorknob, I am.’

Wally got ignored, something that was rude enough to irritate Bella enormously. Typical surgeon, thinking he was God’s gift and so important that he didn’t have to observe common courtesy. When he also ignored the other four elderly people standing in silence, looking decidedly nervous as the consultant in the suit flicked his glance across the whole line, her irritation mounted to active dislike. Maybe this man had become a surgeon because he preferred to deal with people who were unconscious. Maybe he didn’t really give a damn about how small he was making anybody here feel.

The raking glance finished with Bella.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

He was speaking slowly, with a tone that suggested her intellect was sadly below par. A bit like the way he’d told her she should be in a nursery if she was going to wear her surgical mask like a bib.

Dislike was firmly established now. Old. Rebellion bloomed.

‘We’re having a line-dancing class,’ she informed Oliver Dawson crisply. ‘To be precise, we’re learning The Electric Slide.’ She smiled at the inpatients she’d found looking so incredibly bored in the dayroom of this ward when she’d started working here last week.

It wasn’t as though she was forcing them to do something they didn’t want to do and she wasn’t supposed to be doing anything else herself. She was on her break, for heaven’s sake. She wasn’t doing anything wrong and they’d all been having fun until this pompous surgical consultant had interrupted them. Now she might have trouble persuading any of these oldies to get out of their chairs again judging by how confused poor Edna was looking. By the time Wally had looked from Bella to Mr Dawson and back again, he was huffing indignantly. He’d probably need his inhaler very soon. She smiled at them all reassuringly.

‘We were getting pretty good at it, too, weren’t we? Let’s leave it for now and we’ll have another go tomorrow. I’ll bet we can get that stomp and clap on four sorted by then.’

Verity, who’d been bravely attempting line dancing with the aid of her walking frame, was the only one who smiled back.

‘That will be lovely, dear. Remember not to come and get me until after I’ve fed the hens, though.’

Oliver shook his head with disbelief, turning away as he saw the nurse starting to assist her patients back to their chairs in front of the television soap opera running in the corner of the dayroom. He even heard her start to discuss the merits of different types of hen food with the confused old woman after telling the overweight gentleman to have a look in his dressing-gown pocket for his inhaler.

Line dancing? With frail, elderly patients who were at enough risk of falling and injuring themselves just getting through the activities of daily life?

Ridiculous. Irresponsible and … and airheaded. About what he would have expected from the nurse whose name he didn’t even know.

He’d remembered her, though, hadn’t he? Even in theatre scrubs she’d been distracting, with those unusually dark blue eyes and the wispy blonde curls that seemed incapable of accepting complete restraint within the confines of an elasticised theatre cap. She had a mouth that seemed permanently on the verge of laughter, too. Inappropriate in the serious environment of an operating theatre and he’d certainly noticed that when she’d had the nerve to wander into his theatre with her mask dangling around her neck like a damn bib.

Oliver stalked past the nurses’ station on his way up the back stretch of the U-shaped ward. He caught sight of another nurse’s uniform behind the counter.

‘Sally?’

The charge nurse looking up from the computer screen. ‘Oliver! You’re early for a visit today.’

‘I had an empty slot in my outpatient clinic so I thought I’d pop up.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Have you got any idea what’s going on in your dayroom?’

Sally grinned. ‘The line-dancing class?’

Oliver didn’t return the smile. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s great, isn’t it? She’s only been here for a few days but I’ve never seen anyone establish a rapport with patients quite the way she has.’

‘I can imagine.’

Sally didn’t seem to notice the dryness of his comment.

‘She’s getting people moving more than any of the physios or occupational therapists have simply because she’s making it so much fun. Daniel told me today that he’s thinking of incorporating line dancing into his future physiotherapy routines. He’s never thought of it before because he works with people individually. Diversional therapy for whole groups is something we associate with rest homes, not hospitals.’ Sally shook her head. ‘Who’d have thought? A junior nurse could be starting a revolution.’

Oliver pressed his lips together. There wasn’t much point in making his disapproval known if the physiotherapists and other professionals were happy about this. Would he have to wait until of the patients tripped over and broke a wrist or worse before he could step in and make sure the plug got pulled on this unconventional and very dubious activity?

Frustration bubbled. It wasn’t even his call really, was it? He could, of course, have a word with his senior colleagues in Geriatrics. Yes … that was the way to go. He didn’t usually tap into the influence he had always been able to exert but maybe this was a case of having to override the professional with a more personal status. The thought should have been satisfying but, instead, it led to a very disturbing thought. The muscles around his lips strengthened their hold.

‘Lady Dorothy?’ The query was succinct. Surely his mother wouldn’t have been tempted to not only make a fool of herself but endanger her fragile health by cooperating with the blonde bimbo nurse and her outrageous activities?

Sally’s face softened. ‘She’s in her room,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry, Oliver, but she’s still refusing to try anything in the way of rehab or social activities.’

With a nod, Oliver was on his way to the private room at the end of the corridor. Refusing to participate in social activities in an environment like this was perfectly understandable but some form of rehab was essential if his mother wasn’t going to lose an enormous amount of quality of life. He paused for a moment in front of the closed door of the private room and the curtains on the corridor side windows were pulled shut. How many people would be walking past without even realising that one of most revered society matrons in Auckland was an inpatient of St Patrick’s?

Lady Dorothy Dawson was in bed. She was resting against a mound of pillows with a silk shawl around her shoulders and the silver waves of her hair brushed and shining but she looked pale and unhappy. Her face brightened as Oliver moved to her bedside.

‘Oliver! What a lovely surprise!’

Kissing the soft skin of his mother’s cheek, Oliver realised that part of her pallor was due to the fact that Lady Dorothy was not wearing any make-up. She’d probably allowed a nurse to brush her hair but to let a stranger do something more personal like applying foundation or lipstick would be galling, wouldn’t it? Especially to a woman who’d always been as proud and independent as his mother.

‘How are you, Mother?’

‘I’m fine, darling. I’d like to go home.’

‘Soon.’ His smile hid an increasing anxiety as Oliver took a seemingly casual glance around the room. He was becoming very good at assimilating the information he needed at lightning speed.

The joints in his mother’s hands were still swollen and angry from the vicious recurrence of her arthritis. She looked as if she was still losing weight, probably because she was refusing to allow anyone, even him, to help her eat and for days now her only intake had been smoothies or cool soups that she could sip through a straw. The weight loss wasn’t the main worry, however. The combination of reduced food intake and her illness was playing havoc with her blood-sugar levels, making control of her insulin-dependent diabetes very difficult.

‘How’s the pain?’

Lady Dorothy simply gave him a look and Oliver had to smile. It was exactly the kind of look he remembered from when he’d been a small child and he’d hurt himself in some fashion. The ‘suck it up and get on with it’ look because pain was an inconvenience that couldn’t be allowed to interfere with life being lived. Or duty being done. It was the way Lady Dorothy had been raised and the way she’d raised her only son.

His mother might look like an ultimately pampered member of the most elite social circle to be found in the young country of New Zealand but he knew she had the strength of a tiger and a heart of purest gold. Her fundraising efforts were legendary and St Patrick’s had benefited along with countless other institutions and charitable organisations. Lady Dorothy was seventy-three years old and had never needed to work for financial reasons but she put more time and effort into her passion than some forty-year-old CEOs of large corporations ever did.

If being able to be hands on for her work had come to an end, Lady Dorothy would be devastated but right now she wouldn’t be able to make a phone call, let alone hold a pen. And if her blood-sugar levels couldn’t be stabilised she wouldn’t be able to drive her car or be left alone at any time due to the risk of her falling into a diabetic coma. While she’d always had help running their enormous property with the help of a housekeeper and gardener, more intrusive staff had always been spurned. An invasion of privacy that simply wasn’t acceptable.

Changes were coming, that was for sure. For both of them. Oliver could also be sure that his mother would fight them every step of the way. Achieving them would be no kind of victory either. Not when each one would be so painful for her to accept, removing more and more of her independence and dignity.

He summoned a smile for his mother. ‘It’s a glorious day. If you got dressed, I might be able to take you for a ride in a wheelchair when I’ve finished work. It would do you good to get a breath of fresh air.’

His mother shook her head. He clearly needed to find more of an incentive than fresh air. And quickly. A glance at his watch told him he was running out of time and his registrar would be looking for him in Outpatients.

‘We could even find something nice for your dinner.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I happen to know where a fast-food joint is.’ His smile broadened as he took out the big guns and tapped into his mother’s most secret vice. ‘Cheeseburgers,’ he suggested. ‘And French fries.’

The idea was brilliant. Even with her fingers so stiff and useless, Lady Dorothy might be able to manage that kind of food and it would pack enough calories for even a small amount to be helpful. To his horror, however, his mother’s eyes shone with sudden tears. They were gone by the time she had shaken her head in a negative response but Oliver could feel her anguish. He touched her hand gently.

‘What’s wrong, Mum?’

‘Sophie,’ his mother said, her voice wobbling.

‘Who’s Sophie?’

Was that the name of the clumsy, line-dancing blonde who was masquerading as a nurse? If she’d done something to upset his mother this much then she wouldn’t know what hit her. It occurred to him that defending his mother so vigorously in public might brand him as some kind of mummy’s boy, but there was no way he wouldn’t protect his mother with everything he had. She was the only family he had. The only person that really mattered in his world, come to that. And did he care what a junior nurse with oversized blue eyes thought of him?

Of course he didn’t. The idea was laughable.

‘She’s the occupational therapist,’ Lady Dorothy told him. ‘She came in this morning with the kind of clothes she said were ideal because I’d be able to learn to get dressed by myself.’

‘Oh?’ Oliver was assimilating more than the information. Was he relieved that this Sophie wasn’t the nurse and he wouldn’t have to verbally rip her to shreds and watch those ready-to-laugh lips wobble when she began to cry?

That he wouldn’t be in danger of revealing something as personal and vaguely shameful as the fact that he was a thirty-six-year-old man who still lived with his mother? Well, it could hardly be considered living with his mother when they both had entirely separate wings of the house but he was still living at home, wasn’t he?

And why was he even thinking about how that might appear to some nurse whose name he didn’t even know? It was bizarre.

‘They were … track pants, Oliver. With … an elasticised waist.’

‘Oh …’

Track pants. A kind of symbol that his mother equated with fluffy slippers, going out with a chiffon scarf covering hair curlers and a cigarette dangling from a mouth corner. It wasn’t that his mother was a snob—she had genuine friends from all walks of life—but self-discipline was everything and meeting personal standards was a matter of pride. Wearing track pants would be as degrading as putting Lady Dorothy into a nappy.

Something had to be done. But what? This was new territory for both Oliver and his mother. He needed to think. In the meantime, he needed to find a way of helping his mother cope somehow.

‘How ‘bout I bring the burgers and fries in here? Disguised in a plain brown paper bag?’ An old joke for a treat that was deemed illicit.

The flicker of amusement was only for his benefit. ‘Thanks, darling, but don’t go to any trouble. I don’t expect I’ll be very hungry.’ She had turned her head away very slightly. ‘It really is time we stopped that ridiculously unhealthy habit, don’t you think?’

Oliver was taken aback by the strong realisation that he didn’t agree with his mother’s suggestion.

The disturbing awareness that something was happening that might prove to be beyond his control was less than pleasant.

The occasional foray into the dark side of healthy eating was hardly a habit for either of them. It was a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of thing, in fact, but it had been a part of their lives for a long, long time. So long that it had become one of his earliest memories. A rare, good memory. One that had bestowed a little pleasure in a life that had often been less than joyful for both himself and his mother.

OK, maybe it was an ancient ritual associated with childhood and no longer of any significance but losing it would be …

As sad as seeing his mother like this?

He heard Lady Dorothy’s intake of breath. A determined, suck-it-up kind of breath.

‘Don’t let me take up too much of your time, Oliver. I’m sure you must have far more important things to be doing.’

‘I’ve got a clinic to finish, that’s all.’ Oliver could feel his frown steadily deepening. There had to be a way through this. ‘And then a theatre slot this afternoon. And you have to eat, you know that. I’ll be back later.’

With French fries, at least. He wasn’t ready to let go of the past to that extent. He didn’t think his mother was either. This was just a sign of how miserable she was feeling right now. With a bit of time, she might get over the upsetting episode of the track pants.

Coming back later was a good idea in more ways than one. If that extraordinarily annoying and probably incompetent nurse was on duty now, she would be due to finish her shift by three p.m.

There was no chance she would be anywhere in the vicinity if he slipped in quietly this evening with some fast food to try and tempt his mother’s appetite and that suited Oliver very well.

Very well indeed.

CHAPTER TWO

‘LADY who?’

Bella was somewhat distracted from what Sally was telling her because she’d spotted Oliver Dawson leaving the ward. He wore the suit very well, she had to admit albeit grudgingly. If only he was a bit … nicer, she would go as far as thinking he was very good looking. OK, gorgeous, then.

‘Lady Dorothy,’ Sally said.

‘Doesn’t she have a last name?’

‘Of course she does, but nobody uses it. And she’s a very well-known personality who doesn’t want her admission to hospital being broadcast so it’s important that you’re discreet.’ Sally frowned at Bella. ‘Can you be discreet?’

‘Of course I can.’ Bella straightened her back. She was being given a new responsibility here. Never mind that it probably had something to do with the ward being even more short-staffed than usual. Bella wanted to prove herself. Partly because she was finding the work here far more enjoyable than she had anticipated but it was also the sight of Oliver Dawson’s retreating back that was firing her new ambition.

She was good at her job. Maybe now people around here would have the chance to find that out.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘She’s due for a BGL test. We’ll hold off on her insulin until I’ve talked to her doctor. That’s more of an excuse to get you into her room, though.’ Sally hesitated for a moment and then spoke quietly. ‘Lady Dorothy’s pretty down at the moment and nobody has been able to get her motivated about the rehab she needs to get started on urgently.’ The charge nurse gave her new recruit a thoughtful glance. ‘You might be just the person to manage it. I mean, anyone that can get Wally up and dancing has got to have an approach that’s drastically different. Just … tread carefully, OK?’

With that rather odd warning echoing in her head, Bella set off for the private room she’d been curious about ever since she’d arrived. The closed door and curtains had fuelled her overactive imagination and she’d decided there was somebody in the room who had some terrible disfigurement they didn’t want anybody to see. She’d told her Aunt Kate that she thought it was probably the hunchback of Notre Dame in there.

It was a bit of a disappointment to find it was an elderly woman. An extraordinarily beautiful woman, in fact, with skin that looked like it belonged on a peach and the most amazing silver hair Bella had ever seen. She kept stealing glances as she went through the routine of finger pricking and collecting a drop of blood to put on the end of the testing strip that was fitted into the glucometer. She did the job as gently as possible. Poor Lady Dorothy had a very nasty case of arthritis affecting both hands. Her joints were red and swollen and it looked as though she couldn’t move her fingers at all.

Her patient wasn’t talking either. As the glances added up, Bella could see the sadness and her heart went out to the old lady. A real lady, no less.

‘Why do you keep looking at me like that?’

Bella jumped. ‘Sorry, was I being rude? It’s just that I love your hair. If you could bottle a colour like that, you could make a fortune.’

‘It’s just grey.’

‘Oh, no …’ Bella shook her head emphatically. ‘It’s pure silver. And it sparkles. I had a pair of Lycra dance tights that were just that colour. I loved them, too.’

But Lady Dorothy had lapsed back into silence. She was just sitting there, against her pillows, staring into space. Bella moved around the room, tidying things here and there. Heavens, it was hardly going to impress Sally if she didn’t get anything more than a disparaging comment about hair colour as a response when she was supposed to be cheering this patient up.

The huge vase of fresh flowers probably needed some water but when Bella walked towards them, she caught her foot on a chair leg and sent something flying.

Thank goodness Mr Dawson wasn’t around to witness her clumsiness. She could almost hear his voice saying something scathing like how typical of her that was.

With an exasperated huff, Bella reached down to scoop up the bright pink object. Why on earth should she even care what he thought of her anyway? She wasn’t going to go back to being a theatre nurse. He’d put her off for life.

The huff became a gasp as she realised what she was holding.

‘Oh, my God!’ She held up the thick, fleecy track pants with the wide elasticised waistband and viewed the item of clothing with horror. And then she felt her cheeks getting hot and whirled around to face the woman in the bed. ‘I do apologise, Lady Dorothy,’ she said. ‘These must be yours.’

The look she got was pure ice. ‘They most certainly are not mine.’

‘Oh … thank God for that.’

Lady Dorothy was still glaring at her. Bella tried a tentative smile.

‘I shouldn’t say that because it’s no joke that my grandfather murdered my grandmother, but you know what?’

Lady Dorothy continued to stare but her eyebrows were moving slowly. In an upward direction. ‘What?’ The query was understandably wary.

Bella lowered her voice to a confidential tone. ‘If she’d been wearing pink track pants like this it could well have been a motive.’ Her lips twitched. ‘If I’d been on the jury and these were exhibit A then I’d certainly consider them to be an exonerating factor.’

Finally, there was a response from the elderly lady. A lip twitch that mirrored Bella’s. She unceremoniously rolled up the offending pants and put them back on the chair.

‘So, if they’re not yours, what are they doing in here? Shall I get rid of them for you?’

‘Best not, dear.’

‘How come?’

Lady Dorothy’s sigh was weary. ‘The occupational therapist brought them. I’m supposed to wear them because I’ll be able to put them on by myself.’

‘What? Is she trying to drive you to drink or something? What’s wrong with the kind of pants you usually wear? Oh …’ Bella grimaced. ‘Sorry, I’m putting my foot in it again. You probably don’t wear trousers at all. I’d imagine you wearing beautiful skirts and jackets or elegant dresses.’

‘I do wear trousers. I was wearing my favourite pair when I came in here. They’re hanging in the wardrobe.’

Bella opened the small closet. A pair of crisply pressed, pale grey linen pants could be seen. She lifted out the hanger and eyed the garment. ‘You know, I’m no expert but the only problem I can see with these is the zip and buttons and that could be easily fixed with an invisible strip of Velcro.’

Lady Dorothy was watching her closely now. ‘What about pulling them up?’

‘You could use one of those stick gripper things. Has the occupational therapist shown you all the aids you can get now?’

‘She showed me a lot of things.’ Lady Dorothy’s tone suggested she hadn’t been impressed.

‘Anyway,’ Bella added cautiously, ‘you’ll probably get a lot of movement back when the inflammation goes down. As long as you’re not as silly as my nanna was, that is.’

Lady Dorothy blinked. ‘What’s your nanna got to do with this? I thought you said she got murdered.’

‘That was Grandma. On my dad’s side and I never knew her. She was the skeleton in my family closet. Nanna was Mum’s mother and she lived with us for a while when she couldn’t manage any more. I loved her to bits.’

‘You said she was silly.’

Bella nodded, happy to finally have the old lady’s full attention. She wasn’t even looking sad any more. ‘She had a high horse. We used to tease her about getting on it so often.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘She was very critical of people she didn’t like—especially doctors. She didn’t believe in drugs of any kind. When she was diagnosed with her rheumatoid arthritis her GP told her to get off her high horse for once and do as she was told because if she didn’t take the painkillers and anti-inflammatories and do her exercises, she’d end up totally crippled by the disease.’

‘And did she?’

‘No. She went home and flushed all the pills down the loo and, of course, she couldn’t keep moving because her joints were all too swollen and sore and she did end up crippled and had to come and live with us.’ Bella sighed. ‘I wish she’d been put somewhere like here when she got sick. She would have loved my line-dancing classes. That would have got her moving.’

There was a sparkle in Lady Dorothy’s eyes now. A look of real interest. Determination, even? ‘What on earth is line dancing?’

Bella’s grin was mischievous. ‘I’ll come and get you tomorrow and you can find out.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘I wouldn’t be dressed for it.’

It was Bella’s turn to raise her eyebrows significantly. ‘But you’ve got your clothes right there in the wardrobe. I’m not asking you to wear shocking pink trackie daks. In fact,’ she put on a stern face. ‘I’m quite sure they not allowed for line dancing.’

‘But …’

Bella could see a fear she could understand in this beautiful woman’s face. The fear of loss of dignity. Of losing herself in her disease. Without thinking, she went and perched her hip on the side of the bed and took one of Lady Dorothy’s hands in her own.

‘I do understand,’ she said softly. ‘I had to help my nanna with things that were just plain embarrassing for both of us until we got used to it but I learned something. Something important.’

She could see the effort it took Lady Dorothy to swallow and then speak. Her voice was a whisper. ‘What was that?’

‘That the physical stuff like being able to get dressed or even go to the loo by yourself—it’s all on the outside. If you can get past the inconvenience of needing help it doesn’t change a thing that really matters—the person you are on the inside.’

There was a long moment of silence. Bella shut her eyes for a moment to gather her courage.

‘We could have a go with your clothes now, if you like. That way we could find out what needs a bit of adjustment in the way of fastenings and things.’

More silence. It was obvious that some time was needed. ‘Have a think about it, anyway,’ Bella suggested. ‘In the meantime, I could tell you about something really funny that my kitten did this morning. Do you like cats?’

‘I used to.’ The tone was wistful. ‘I haven’t had a pet for many years.’

Bella smiled. ‘Well … I live with my aunt Kate who’s very particular about stuff and Bib—that’s the kitten—decided she wanted to see what was on top of the window and the quickest way up was to use the net curtains, only her claws got stuck and she got scared and started shouting.’ Bella was using her hands as she began her story but Lady Dorothy wasn’t watching. Her gaze kept straying to the wardrobe door that Bella had left open accidentally. The linen pants were in clear view.

She bit back a hopeful smile and went on with her story.

Oliver took a very roundabout route to make his way to the geriatric ward at seven that evening. It hadn’t been possible to locate a plain brown paper bag, so the bag of hamburgers and fries he carried was emblazoned with the red and yellow logo of the world-famous fast-food chain.

A bag he almost dropped when he entered his mother’s room. He had expected to find her in her bed. Not sitting in the armchair by the window—wearing her day clothes.

It was nothing short of a miracle.

‘You got dressed!’

‘Yes … and I feel so much more like myself.’ Lady Dorothy smiled at him.

‘How on earth …?’ The query trailed into silence. He’d been going to ask how she’d managed by herself but that would only be rubbing in the fact that she couldn’t. But she hadn’t been allowing anybody to help so how …?

‘I had some help.’ His mother nodded. ‘I met the most astonishing girl this afternoon. Bella. Simply delightful.’ She gave her son a thoughtful gaze. ‘Very pretty, too.’

‘Mother!’ Oliver shook his head but he was smiling. How could he not smile? This was a major step forward. ‘You know my rule about dating nurses. Or doctors. Or anyone else from work. It’s a no-go area. Always has been, always will be.’

It wasn’t as if he didn’t meet countless eligible women through the lavish fundraising occasions he was obliged to attend with his mother and it was rare to find any single woman who wasn’t eager to date the Dawson heir. Sex had never been a problem. Finding a woman suitable to produce the grandchild his mother yearned for was quite a different matter, however. It was a search that, quite frankly, Oliver was getting seriously bored by. Or maybe he was resisting because it wasn’t just that his mother was yearning for the next generation but that everybody expected it to happen.

‘Hmmph.’ Lady Dorothy sighed. ‘Anyway, this Bella used to look after her grandmother who had terrible arthritis so she knows all about it. She helped me and … and she managed to do it without making me feel like some kind of oversized infant.’

Oliver made a mental note to find the nurse called Bella and show his appreciation.

‘Oh …’ His mother bit her lip. ‘I meant her nanna, not her grandmother. She got murdered.’

‘Good grief.’ Oliver was setting out the food he’d brought on the end of the bed.

‘By her grandfather.’

Oliver’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘Comes from a good family, then?’

‘Don’t be a snob, Oliver. She can’t help her family any more than any of us can. And she made me laugh.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Oliver said, and meant it. He screwed up the big paper bag and went to put it in the rubbish bin. There was something large and bright pink filling the metal bucket. He peered closer and then lifted the item out to see what it was.

His mother giggled.

Bella sneaked through the hospital corridors very carefully on her way to the geriatric ward at seven-thirty p.m., a box in her arms.

‘Shh …’ she said occasionally. ‘If we get caught, we’re going to be in big trouble, Bib.’

Amazingly, she made it to the ward without meeting anybody. The planned treat of letting Lady Dorothy play with a kitten for a few minutes could go ahead. It didn’t matter how frozen and sore her hands were right now. She would still be able to feel the softness of this fluffy kitten’s fur and have the pleasure of hearing the tiny animal purr.

She tapped softly at the closed door and then let herself in without waiting for a response.

‘Surprise,’ she whispered gleefully.

Except the surprise was hers. Perched on the end of Lady Dorothy’s bed, stuffing a hamburger into his mouth, was Oliver Dawson.

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