Anyone Can Dream
Caroline Anderson
Table of Contents
HE WAS all man.
From the soft, gleaming strands of his almost black hair, down past the frankly assessing, clear blue eyes, over the stubborn chin, the very male throat, the cluster of dark curls that crowded the V of his theatre pyjamas, down again, past the broad shoulders and deep chest, the lean hips propped negligently against the table, over long, strong legs to the big white antistatic boots that clad his feet, he was completely, entirely, unequivocally a man.
He threw back his head and laughed at something the ward sister said, and Charlotte swallowed. That laugh, rich, deep, full of enjoyment—this was clearly a man who reached out and seized what life had to offer.
She just hoped to God he didn’t think she was on the menu, because he was also a work colleague, and as the senior registrar, probably more her boss than the consultant would be. They would work closely together—sometimes very closely, she thought, and a moan rose in her throat, threatening to suffocate her.
No! her mind screamed. Why not a woman? Or a wimp? Or one of those safely married, charming but very non-threatening men that the department was lousy with?
Why him? And why her, for God’s sake? What had she done to deserve it?
He tipped back his head and drained the cup in his hand, and she watched, riveted, as that masculine throat worked.
He dropped the paper cup in the bin and turned to the ward sister, saying something to her.
Charlotte missed the words, hearing only the voice—deep, mellow, like bitter chocolate, it seemed to melt inside her, swirling into the deepest recesses of her subconscious, calling to something long-buried and detrimental to her peace of mind.
The ward sister turned towards her and said something, but she couldn’t focus on it. All her senses were in confusion, her whole psyche thrown into chaos by his voice.
She heard the voice again, but this time, she realised, addressing her.
‘Earth calling Charlotte—come in, please.’
She looked up—straight into that mesmerising blue gaze. She swallowed again. ‘Mr Parry—I’m sorry, I was miles away.’
A smile—slow, teasing, too damned understanding—touched his lips, lending them a sensuous curve. ‘I noticed. I hope this isn’t an omen, Dr Jennings?’
‘Omen?’ she croaked.
‘Yes—a portent of things to come.’ He shrugged lazily away from the table, growing even taller. ‘I hope,’ he said slowly as he approached her, ‘that your concentration is usually a little sharper?’
‘Um—much.’ She came to an abrupt halt, backed up against the door-frame.
‘Good. I’m going round the ward in ten minutes, when I’ve got out of this fancy dress. You’ve just got time to acquaint yourself with the notes. Oh, and by the way …’
‘Yes?’ The word sounded strangled.
‘Call me William.’
She drew in a breath as he squeezed past her in the doorway.
The breath lodged, then eased out slowly in a deep, anguished sigh as he strode out of sight. He hadn’t touched her—not quite—and yet every nerve-ending had been alerted to his nearness. Though why she should feel anything—and how she could, after all that had happened—escaped her fuddled senses.
‘I should stir your stumps,’ the ward sister told her, cutting through her reverie at a stroke, and pushed the notes trolley towards her. ‘He’s got the patience of a saint with the mums, but with the medical staff he can be a bit of a tartar. You’re looking for the notes with the blue tabs.’
And she left her to it. Rapidly, feeling the imminent press of time and not wishing to be on the wrong side of such an overwhelmingly powerful personality, Charlotte dived into the notes. She was still reading when there was a firm, light tread in the corridor and a shadow darkened the door.
‘OK?’
‘Um—yes. Who are you seeing?’
‘No one at the moment. How about you?’
She stared at him blankly. ‘What?’
He grinned and propped his hip on the table, disturbingly close to her.
‘I thought you were getting straight to the point,’ he teased, and it dawned on her that he had deliberately misread her question.
Hot colour chased up her cheeks, and she ducked her head so that her dark hair slid round her face and concealed her embarrassment.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she mumbled, and she heard a low chuckle.
‘Ah, Charlotte, don’t spoil my fun. It’s been a lousy weekend—aren’t I even allowed to tease you a little? How about a smile—just a tiny one, for me?’
She was over-reacting, of course. She knew that, but some sorts of conditioning went so deep they were difficult to set aside. Still, try as she might the smile refused to come.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘My social skills are a little rusty.’
His face was still smiling, but his eyes were searching, piercing, analysing.
She felt naked inside, and she looked away awkwardly. ‘Which patients are you seeing this morning?’ she tried again.
‘Ah. Well, let’s see all of them, shall we? Have you had time to skim through the notes?’
‘Only briefly. I wouldn’t like to have to make any decisions