Alistair couldn’t fault her surgery but he was struggling with her personality. Take this morning, for instance. Everyone on the ward had been having fun except for Mitchell, who’d looked like a disapproving schoolmistress complete with her sun-kissed blonde hair coiled into a tight knot. Like so many of his nonmedical decisions, it had been a spur of the moment thing to call out to her to wave. The moment the words had left his mouth he knew he’d done the wrong thing. It had put her on the spot and focused attention on her. He was learning that she wasn’t the type of person who welcomed the spotlight.
In his defence, he’d only asked her to join in the fun because he’d found their little patient in bed, scared and trembling. He’d scooped her into his arms hoping to reassure her, and then to take her mind off things, they’d room hopped, visiting the other kids. The parade had just happened—a combination of kids being kids, some hero worship, a packet of squeakers and a little girl needing some TLC. Now Claire Mitchell had the audacity to judge it. Judge him.
‘Hyped up?’ he repeated, feeling the edges of his calm fraying like linen. ‘Actually, I’d call it being the opposite of terrified. Lacey’s spent a week being prodded and poked. She’s had an MRI and a CT scan. Hell, she was attached to the EEG for two days while we recorded epileptic events so we knew which surgery to perform.’
Despite being known around the castle for his calm and relaxed approach, his voice had developed a plummy and patronising edge. ‘And after enduring all of that, you’d deny Lacey a bit of fun?’
Claire’s eyes flashed golden brown. ‘Of course not. I’d just plan a more appropriate time for the fun.’
Her tone vibrated with her absolute conviction that her way was the right way. The only way. He remembered how once he’d been a man of absolutes and certainties and how he’d never countenanced anything ever getting in the way of what he wanted. And hadn’t fate laughed itself silly over that naïve belief? Hell, it was still chuckling.
With more force than necessary, he pulled his now full coffee mug out from under the machine. Pale brown liquid spilled down the steep white sides leaving a muddy residue. ‘There’s a lot to be said for spontaneity, Claire.’
Her eyes dilated as if he’d just shocked her by using her first name. ‘We’ll have to agree to disagree on that, Mr—’ She quickly corrected herself. ‘Alistair.’
Good God. Frustration brought his hands up, tearing through his hair. He’d been telling her from day one to call him ‘Alistair.’ She’d never called him ‘sir’—probably the anti-establishment Australian in her prevented her from doing that—but she’d stuck with ‘Mr North.’ Every time she called him by his title he responded by calling her by her surname to drive home the point. He knew it was childish and very public school, but even so, she still didn’t seem to be getting the message.
He really didn’t understand her at all. Hell, he couldn’t even get a read on her. Every other Australian he’d ever met or worked with tended to be laid-back, easy-going and with a well-developed sense of the ridiculous. When he was a kid, he’d grown up listening to his great-grandfather recounting the antics of the ANZACs during the Second World War—brave men who didn’t hesitate to break the rules if they thought any rule was stupid. What in heaven’s name had he done in a previous life to be lumbered with the only dour and highly strung Aussie in existence?
‘Would you like to insert the ventricular peritoneal shunt in Bodhi Singh?’ he asked, returning his thoughts to work, which was a lot more straightforward than the enigma that was Claire Mitchell.
‘Really?’ she asked, scrutinising him closely as if she didn’t quite believe his offer.
That rankled. How was it that the woman who normally couldn’t detect a joke now misread a genuine offer? ‘Absolutely.’
Her mouth suddenly curved upwards as wonder and anticipation carved a dimple into her left cheek.
So that’s what it takes to make her smile. For weeks, he’d been trying all the wrong things.
‘Thanks,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I’d love the opportunity.’
The tightness that was so much a part of her faded away under the brilliance of a smile so wide it encompassed her entire face. Along with her tension, all her sharp angles disappeared too, softened by the movement of her cheeks and the dazzling sparkle in her eyes. It was like looking at a completely different person—someone whose enthusiasm was so infectious that everyone vied to be on her team.
Pick me! Pick me!
What the hell? This was worse than a momentary thought about her gorgeous legs. Utterly discombobulated, he dragged his gaze away from her pink-cheeked face that danced with excitement, and far, far away from that come-hither dimple that had his blood pumping faster than necessary. He’d spent weeks trying to make her smile, and now that he had, he knew he must make it stop. It was one thing to wish that for the good of the patients and workplace harmony his speciality registrar be a little more relaxed. It was another thing entirely to find himself attracted to her as a woman. Hell, he didn’t even like her. Not. At. All.
He’d never been attracted to someone he didn’t like before, but that conundrum aside, there were many reasons why any sort of attraction was utterly out of the question. First and foremost, nothing could happen between them because he was her boss and she was his trainee. Fortunately, he knew exactly how to quash any remaining eddies of unwanted desire and kill off all temptation without any pain or suffering to himself.
‘Good,’ he said to her, tossing the dregs of his coffee into the sink. ‘I’m glad you’re on board, because I promised to have lunch with the new and very attractive burns-unit house officer. Inserting the VP would make me late.’
Her tension rode back in as fast as the cavalry into battle and her eyes flashed so brightly he needed sunglasses to deflect the glare. ‘You’re having lunch instead of operating?’
He gave a practised shrug—one that said, What of it? ‘I’ve got complete confidence in your ability, but please, do page me if you need me.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of interrupting you,’ she snapped.
Her previous lush mouth was now a thin, hard line and Alistair was thankfully back in familiar territory. Nothing about this Claire Mitchell was remotely attractive and his body reacted accordingly, which was to say, it didn’t react at all. ‘Excellent,’ he said, as much to himself as to her. ‘I’m glad we’ve got that sorted.’
Without another word, he left the room and strode towards the lifts. He’d spend the unexpected extra time with Ryan Walker’s parents. It was the least he could do.
* * *
A few days later, Claire was handing out her morning coffees to the dawn crusaders at the hospital gates when she got chatting with a delightful man in his seventies. With his Cockney accent that reminded her of Eliza Doolittle’s father in Pygmalion, he told her he’d been born ‘a blue baby.’
‘Me ’art’s plumbing was all wrong like. Lucky for me, the castle ’ere had a pioneer in ’art surgery, otherwise I’d ’ave been dead a long time now.’ Reg flicked his thumb towards the original ornate building. ‘I’ve got a lot of love for the old girl. She gave me a chance to ’ave a bloody good life. One of me kids was born ’ere when she come early and the docs patched up the others when they broke bones. Me grandkids were all born ’ere and me first great-grandkiddy’s due on Guy Fawkes.’
‘It sounds like the castle is your family’s hospital,’ Claire said, thinking about the affection in the man’s voice.
He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Too right. That’s why I’m ’ere every mornin’. All us Landsburys