Alistair rubbed the back of his neck, slightly bewildered and definitely disconcerted by this version of Claire Mitchell sitting next to him on the couch. Her reaction to what had been a routine craniotomy was out of proportion and out of character. When he’d first met her, he’d picked her as being meticulous, ambitious and with a ‘take no prisoners’ approach to work. It wasn’t that she didn’t care—she was indeed empathetic—but she always put the medicine first. Surely Ryan Walker’s unexpected deterioration couldn’t have been the first time she’d been faced with an unanswerable medical conundrum?
Whatever it was, it was obvious it had upset her greatly. As her consultant, it was his job to help her work through it. But how? He sipped his tea and pondered the matter until a possible solution came to him.
‘Would it help if we took Ryan’s case to peer review? I doubt they’ll disagree with our treatment plan but the process will reassure you that we did everything we could.’
‘Peer review doesn’t have to deal with Ryan’s parents,’ she said, her voice cracking. Her shoulders slumped. ‘Louise Walker hates me.’
Ah. So Claire Mitchell wasn’t just about protocol and paperwork after all. Underneath her automaton tendencies and prickly exterior existed a regular person. For whatever reason, something about Ryan’s case had got under her skin. He knew all about that. At some point in every doctor’s career, one patient would touch them more than the others. ‘Louise Walker is a terrified mother.’
‘I know.’
Her eyes, now as round as huge saucers of warm caramel, looked at him. He got an unanticipated urge to dive right in. That won’t help matters. You don’t really like her. Baffled, he blinked and then as his vision came back into focus he saw her beseeching distress urging him to understand.
‘I made Louise leave the hospital today. I insisted on it.’
He rushed to reassure her and at the same time get himself back on solid ground. ‘And rightly so. The woman was exhausted.’
Her fingers plucked at invisible balls of lint on her scrubs. ‘She made me promise to call her if Ryan woke up.’
Worry pulled tightly behind his eyes. ‘Promises are always fraught...’
Her chin, which he’d noticed tended to tilt up sharply whenever she felt under attack, barely lifted. ‘I’m not a novice.’
‘No.’
‘And of course I’d have called her if Ryan woke up. It was hardly an unprofessional assurance.’
Suddenly, his veil of confusion lifted. With piercing clarity, he saw exactly where this was going. He felt for her—he really did. ‘When you rang Louise just before, she thought—’
‘That I had the first piece of good news in two weeks.’ She sucked her lips in tight and blinked rapidly. It wasn’t enough to prevent a tear escaping and running down her cheek beyond the reach of her glasses. She crooked the forefinger of her uninjured hand and brushed it away.
Bloody hell. Unlike a lot of men who froze in the presence of a distressed woman, he was always moved to assist, which was why he’d already made his registrar a cup of tea. But now, seeing the usually stitched-up and almost too-together Claire Mitchell falling apart in front of him sent a visceral spike of pain into him, cramping his gut. ‘Why didn’t you ask me to make the call?’
Her free hand curled into a tight fist and her chin dropped towards her chest. ‘You were very clear about it being my job.’
‘Bloody hell, Claire,’ he said softly, the words coming out on a puff of air. He felt like the worst boss in the world. ‘I don’t understand. You’ve queried me and judged my opinions more than once in the past few weeks. Why on earth did you decide this telephone call was the one thing you weren’t going to question?’
‘All I know,’ she said so softly he needed to strain to listen, ‘is that I’ve destroyed Louise Walker. I’ve made her pain ten times worse.’
Her head rose and her woebegone expression ate into him like acid on paper. It was as natural as breathing to put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You haven’t destroyed her,’ he said quietly.
Her head fell forward onto his shoulder and he patted her gently on the back. ‘Deep down you know that. You’re just having a rough night.’
She made a muffled noise that sounded half like denial and half like a hiccough. He smiled at the very normal snorting sound coming from someone he’d thought kept a wide distance between work and her emotions. He found himself stroking her hair, the fine strands like silk against his palm. With her head now resting under his chin, the scent of cinnamon and apples drifted upwards.
Memories flooded back—a large homey kitchen warmed by the continually heating Aga, the beatific, round face of Cook and the aroma of brown sugar and butter. Everything he associated with the comfort of childhood was centred on that kitchen. Not once in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined it wouldn’t always be there waiting for him when he returned home from boarding school. Twenty-six years had passed and he still missed it.
Claire raised her head, her cheeks blotchy and her eyes red-rimmed. Her gaze was fixed doggedly on the wet patch on his shirt and her small hand patted it as if the action was enough to dry it. ‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry.’
The pads of her fingers warmed his skin through the fine cotton. ‘No need to apologise,’ he said, intending to sound hearty and encouraging, but the words came out husky as if he was suffering from a cold. ‘Worse things have happened to my shirts.’
‘The thing is, I’ve never done anything like this at work before.’ She sounded utterly poleaxed. ‘You must think I’m a total basket case.’
‘No.’ He knew he should say more. He should tell her that everyone has a bad day occasionally, that doctors are human too, and some cases have a deeper impact than others. But her heat was weaving through him and creating so much havoc that he was having trouble remembering his own name, let alone articulating anything beyond a single syllable. In a desperate attempt to regain his equilibrium, he caught her hand, encasing it in his, stopping her jerky strokes.
She stilled for a moment and stared at his white hand covering her tanned one and then, slowly, she lifted her face to his. Her liquid eyes were a mirror to her embarrassment, confusion and sorrow. Once again, he wanted to make her feel better, because anyone who worked in medicine had spent time in that dismal place and it was dangerous to linger there too long. He was about to say, ‘Tomorrow’s another day,’ when he glimpsed something indefinable beyond the chaotic swirl of emotions. The shadows told him it wasn’t new. In fact, it had the intransigent look of an indelible stain that no amount of soap, salt or methylated spirits could remove.
Was it doubt? Fear? Inadequacy? Surely not. But whatever it was, it hit him hard in the solar plexus and held on tight like a lasso. Whatever it is, it’s wrong. It shouldn’t be part of her. It doesn’t belong there.
The need to vanquish this malignant thing and banish it from her eyes—from her soul—pulled him down towards her. His lips touched her damp cheek in a consoling kiss and the tang of salt zipped into him. He was about to pull back when her head turned and suddenly his mouth was softly touching those plump, ruby-red lips. They were soft and tear-cooled. He tasted the heady essence of bergamot.
Stop now.
He was about to pull back when her lips opened infinitesimally. He was immediately rushed by the unexpected spicy zap of chilli. Hot. Sizzling. One hundred per cent aroused woman. His breath left his lungs and for a moment he was rendered utterly still, unable to think, move or feel.
The tip of her tongue flicked against his lips so lightly and so quickly that his brain couldn’t decide if it had even happened or if he was imagining it. But his body knew. Good God, it knew. He dropped his arms to her waist and hauled her in against him before opening his mouth and welcoming her in.
She