Claire couldn’t quite see the connection.
‘I’ve been here for days,’ Louise explained, ‘and nothing’s changed. It stands to reason that if I leave, he’ll sit up and start talking.’
A worrying sensation roved along Claire’s spine and she had to resist the urge not to wince. ‘Medicine doesn’t really work that way, Louise,’ she said gently. ‘Would you like me to contact your GP about the sleeping tablets? And I can ask the ward clerk to call you a taxi.’
‘Thank you. That would be great.’ Louise leaned over, brushed the hair from Ryan’s forehead and kissed him. ‘See you soon, buddy.’ She smoothed his hair back into place and then stood up. ‘Promise me, Claire, you’ll telephone if he wakes up.’
‘I promise,’ Claire said easily. ‘Wild horses couldn’t stop me from giving you good news like that.’
* * *
Alistair high-fived Tristan Lewis-Smith. ‘Way to go, Tris,’ he said with a grin.
The kid had just whooped him at virtual tennis—twice—but he didn’t care. He was too busy rejoicing in the fact that the ten-year-old had been seizure free for a week. That hadn’t happened in two years and it was moments like these that reminded him that what he did each day mattered. Hell, it reinforced his mantra that every single day mattered and life should be lived to the full.
He’d almost lost the opportunity to do that, and when he’d woken up in the coronary care unit, he’d vowed never to forget how life could change in a heartbeat—or the lack of one as the case may be—and how close he’d come to death. He’d been blessed with a second chance and he never took it for granted. He was thrilled to be able to give Tristan a second chance at a normal life.
‘Right-oh, mate.’ He pulled down the sheet and patted the centre of the bed. ‘Time to tuck in and pretend to read or the night sister will have my guts for garters.’
Full of beans and far from quiet, Tristan bounced onto the bed. ‘You’re just saying that because you’re scared if you play another game I’ll beat you. Again.’
‘There is that,’ Alistair said with a grin. ‘Hurry up. I’ve got somewhere I need to be.’
Tristan scrambled under the covers. ‘Nurse Saunders said you couldn’t stay long because you’ve got a hot date.’
‘Did she now?’ Funny that Lindsay appeared to know more about this hot date than he did. He found himself automatically tucking the sheet around the little boy, only this time an odd feeling of something akin to emptiness accompanied it.
He immediately shook it off. He had no reason to feel empty or lonely. Life was good. He had a job he loved and a spacious and light-filled apartment just off the Portobello Road that he’d filled with curios from his world travels. Three years ago, he’d added to his property portfolio and bought a pretty stone cottage surrounded by fields of lavender in Provence. When he was there, he revelled in the sensory delights of sunshine, hearty Mediterranean food and great wine. He visited at least once a month, either alone or with a companion depending on whether or not the woman he was dating was still focused on having fun. The moment a woman started dropping hints about ‘taking things to the next level’ she was no longer welcome in France. Or in Notting Hill for that matter.
He loved women but he didn’t do next levels. It was better to break a heart in the early days, well before things got serious, than to risk shattering a life, or worse, lives. His childhood was a case in point, and furthermore, no one ever knew precisely the duration of a second chance.
Surprised by the unexpected direction his musings had taken him—he didn’t do dark thoughts and he certainly wasn’t known for them—he left Tristan’s room and contemplated the hour. It wasn’t quite eight. As it was a Thursday night there’d be a sizeable hospital crowd at the Frog and Peach and he’d be welcomed with open arms for his dart skills. Oddly, the thought didn’t entice. He had an overwhelming urge to do something completely different. Something wild that would make him feel alive.
Parkour in the dark?
Alive not dead, thank you very much.
Still, parkour in daylight this coming weekend was worth investigating. He pulled out his phone and had just brought up a browser when he heard, ‘G’day, Alistair.’
Astonished, he spun around at the sound of the broad Australian accent. Although he’d heard Claire Mitchell use the informal Aussie greeting with other people, she’d always been far more circumspect with him. Well, with the exception of one or two lapses. In general, he knew she tried to be polite with him and that she found it a struggle. Did it make him a bad person that he enjoyed watching her keep herself in check? The woman was always buttoned up so tightly it wasn’t surprising she cracked every now and then.
Now she stood in front of him with her hands pressed deep into the pockets of her once starched but now very end-of-day limp doctor’s coat. Her hair was pulled back into its functional ponytail and a hot-pink stethoscope was slung around her neck. A tiny koala clung to her security lanyard along with a small pen on retractable elastic. Her utilitarian white blouse and medium length black skirt were unremarkable except that the skirt revealed those long shapely legs that taunted him.
Her feet were tucked into bright red shoes with a wide strap that crossed her instep just below her ankle and culminated in a large red button that drew the eye. He suddenly understood completely why Victorian gentlemen had waxed lyrical over a fleeting glimpse of a fine ankle.
He scanned her face, looking for clues as to why she was suddenly attempting a colloquial greeting with him. ‘G’day, yourself,’ he intoned back, with a fair crack at an Aussie accent.
Behind her sexy librarian-style glasses her eyes did that milk and dark chocolate swirly thing he always enjoyed and—was she blushing?
‘Do you have a minute?’ she asked, quickly pushing her glasses up her nose as they continued walking towards the lifts.
‘Always. Problem?’
‘Um.’ She surreptitiously glanced along the corridor, taking in the nurses’ station that was teaming with staff. She suddenly veered left into the treatment room.
Utterly intrigued by this uncharacteristic behaviour, he followed. ‘Shall I close the door?’
She tugged hard at some stray strands of her hair before pushing them behind her ears. ‘Thanks.’
He closed the door and flicked the blinds to the closed position before leaning back against the wide bench. Claire stood a metre or more away, her plump lips deliciously red. He shifted his gaze and—Damn it! His eyes caught on a fluttering pulse beating at the base of her throat. She really had the most gloriously long, smooth neck that just begged to be explored.
That’s as may be, but remember, most of the time she’s a pain in the ass. Not to mention she’s your trainee.
‘Alistair,’ she started purposefully, and then stopped.
‘Claire.’ He couldn’t help teasing back. He’d never seen her at a loss before and it was deliciously refreshing.
She took in such a deep breath that her breasts rose, stressing the button he was pretty certain sat just above her bra line. Was it delicate sheer lace or plainly utilitarian? It was his experience that plain women often wore the sexiest underwear.
With that mouth, she’s hardly plain.
As if on cue, the tip of her tongue peeked out, flicking the bow of her top lip.
His blood leapt.
She cleared her throat. ‘I hope you won’t take this the wrong way but...’
Trying