‘You’re kidding.’
‘No. No, I’m not kidding. I’m looking for a tall Nordic type with white-blond hair, blue eyes and good bone structure, so you can relax, you don’t qualify.’
‘I might feel a bit insulted by that,’ he said, still trying to work out if she was joking.
She smiled, her eyes mocking. ‘Oh, don’t be, it’s not personal. I have very specific criteria and you don’t fit them.’
He frowned at her, but she was so deadpan he didn’t know whether she was completely off her trolley or winding him up. He turned and scanned the men in the room and this time he didn’t stifle the laugh.
‘OK,’ he murmured in a low undertone. ‘Nor does anyone else in this room. So far you’ve written zero out of ten against everyone, and the nearest candidate is white-blond because he’s twice your age. He’s also about three inches shorter than you and twice as heavy. And the lady on the next table looks utterly terrifying, so frankly I reckon we’re done here. I’m starving, I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I don’t suppose you have, either, so why don’t we get the hell out of here, go and find a nice pub and have something to eat? And that way I can apologise properly for being rude and patronising.’
‘Won’t your wife mind?’ she asked, clearly fishing, and he raised an eyebrow and gave her the short answer.
‘I don’t have one. So—dinner?’
She hesitated for so long he thought she was going to say no, but then the bell rang, the lady at the next table was eyeing him hungrily, and she looked at the man heading to take his place, grabbed her bag and stethoscope and got to her feet.
‘Sorry. We have to go,’ she said, squeezing round from behind the table, and they headed for the door amid a chorus of protests. From both sexes. He stifled a smile.
‘Right, where to?’ he asked, and she shrugged.
‘What do you fancy? Thai, Chinese, Mexican, Indian, Asian fusion, pub grub, Italian, modern British—’
‘Good grief. All of those in Yoxburgh?’
She chuckled. ‘Oh, yes. They might be busy, though, it’s Friday night.’
He had a much better idea. ‘How about a nice, cosy gastro-pub? There’s one right round the corner from my house that comes highly recommended, and we’ll definitely get a table there.’
‘Is it far? Can I walk back? My car’s at home.’
‘No, it’s a bit out of town, but that’s fine, I’ll drive you home. Look on it as a hire charge for the use of your stethoscope.’
Again she hesitated, a wary look in her eyes, but then she nodded as if she’d finally decided she could trust him. ‘OK. That sounds good.’
* * *
To her surprise—and slight consternation—he headed out of town and turned off the main road down a lane so small it didn’t even have a signpost.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, wondering if she should be worried and trying to convince herself that she shouldn’t, that he was a doctor, he was hardly going to harm her—
‘Glemsfield,’ he said. ‘It’s a tiny village, but it has a great pub and a thriving little community.’
‘It’s in the middle of nowhere,’ she said. Even quieter than where her parents lived, and that was pretty isolated. And it was getting dark. Was she mad? Or just unable to trust any man to have a shred of decency?
‘It is. It’s lovely, and it’s only three miles from Yoxburgh and much more peaceful. Well, apart from the barking muntjac deer at night. They get a bit annoying sometimes but I threaten them with the freezer.’
That made her laugh. ‘And does it work?’
‘Not so you’d notice,’ he said drily, but she could hear the smile in his voice.
They passed a few houses and dropped down into what she assumed must be the centre of the village, but then he drove past the brightly lit pub on the corner, turned onto a drive and cut the engine.
Although it was only dusk the area was in darkness, shrouded by the overgrown shrubs each side of the drive, and the whole place had a slight air of neglect. She suppressed a shudder of apprehension as she got out of the car and looked around.
‘I thought we were going to the pub? You just drove past it.’
‘I know, but the car park’ll be heaving on a Friday night so I thought it was easier to park at my house—well, actually my aunt’s house. She’s in a home and I’m caretaking it for her and trying to get it back into some sort of order. It’s going to take me a while.’
‘Yes, I think it might,’ she murmured, eyeing the weeds that had taken over the gravel drive.
‘I’ll get there. Come on, my stomach’s starting to make its presence felt.’
He ushered her across the road, and as they walked back towards the corner she could hear the hubbub of voices growing louder.
‘Gosh, it’s busy!’ she said as they went in.
‘It always is. I’ll see if we can get a table, otherwise we might have to get them to cook for us and take it back to mine.’ He leant on the bar and attracted the eye of a middle-aged woman. ‘Hi, Maureen. Can you squeeze us in?’
‘Oh, I think so. If you don’t mind waiting a minute, I’ve got a couple just about to leave. Here, have a menu and don’t forget the specials board. Can I get you a drink while you wait?’
‘I’m going to splash out and have tap water, but I’m driving. Iona? How about a glass of Prosecco to celebrate your first REBOA?’
‘It was hardly mine.’
‘Ah, well, that’s just splitting hairs. Prosecco? Or gin and tonic? They have some interesting gins. And tonics.’
She wrestled with her common sense, and it lost. She smiled at him. ‘A small glass of Prosecco would be lovely. Thank you.’
‘And some bread, Maureen, please, before I keel over.’
‘Poor baby,’ Maureen said with a motherly but mildly mocking smile, and handed them their drinks before she disappeared into the kitchen.
‘So, the menu. The twice baked Cromer crab soufflé with crayfish cream is fabulous. It’s a starter but it makes a great main with one of the vegetable sides.’
‘Is that what you’re having?’
‘No. I’m having the beer-battered fish and chips, because it’s absolutely massive and I’m starving.’ He grinned wickedly, and it made him look like a naughty boy. A very grown-up naughty boy. Her pulse did a little hiccup.
Maureen put the bread down in front of him. ‘Is that your order, Joe? Fish and chips and mushy peas?’
‘Please. Iona?’
‘I’ll go with the crab soufflé, please. It sounds lovely.’
‘Have sweet potato fries,’ he suggested. ‘They’re amazing.’
‘I don’t suppose they’ve got a single calorie in them, either,’ she said, laughing.
‘Calorie? No. Ridiculous idea. They do great puds, as well,’ he added with another mischievous grin, and sank his teeth into a slice of fresh, warm baguette slathered with butter.
She couldn’t help but smile.
‘WOW. THAT WAS