And yet...Damn. She kept seeing Eliot Slater in her mind’s eye. The kindness on his face as he explained procedures to a distraught parent. The gentleness in his eyes as he treated a tiny baby. Worse, her mind supplied other images. His pupils widening as he looked at her. Those beautiful green eyes darkening with passion. His mouth parting as it lowered to—
No. This wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t she have had a female locum? Or a man who was silver-haired, the favourite-uncle type? But, no, she got a man two years younger than she was, with film-star good looks. Dark curly hair that he kept cut short and tamed for work, fair skin, beautiful green eyes and a mouth that promised a mixture of passion and vulnerability.
But, as she’d said to Tilly, Eliot Slater was probably already involved. She couldn’t remember what it had said on his file, but even if he wasn’t spoken for, she had a feeling that Eliot had his own ghosts to deal with. According to his résumé, he was thirty. By now, she’d have expected him to be a registrar. But he was still a senior house officer, and he worked as a locum. A locum who only did day shifts. Maybe he was looking after an elderly parent and had to fit in work around day care?
But that was none of her business. She wasn’t going to get involved. All she had to worry about was whether Eliot Slater did his job properly. And so far he was doing just fine. He’d picked up a case of potential sepsis—and as they’d caught it early enough, little Ricky Peters stood a good chance.
* * *
Eventually Leona stopped crying, and Eliot mopped up her tears and called her husband to explain the news. He was just about to leave the ward when he heard Claire’s voice. ‘Can I have a quick word, Dr Slater?’
As long as it was quick. ‘Sure,’ he said, willing himself not to look at his watch.
‘I just wanted to say thanks. You did a good job with Ricky Peters,’ Claire said.
Praise indeed from Claire Thurman...but her face said the rest of it for her.
Eliot couldn’t stop himself. ‘For a locum, you mean.’
She frowned. ‘I’m not with you.’
‘I overheard you talking to Tilly earlier.’
‘Oh.’ Her face was impassive. ‘Well, you do leave dead on the dot. And you don’t do nights.’
He nearly said, ‘Locum’s privilege,’ but stopped himself just in time. He needed Claire on his side, not against him. ‘I’m committed to my job, Dr Thurman. While I’m on duty, I’ll give a hundred per cent. But I can’t work longer hours, for personal reasons.’
Claire waited, as if giving him time to explain, but Eliot had no intention of doing that. He didn’t want pity from anyone. And he particularly didn’t want pity from Claire.
Though he wouldn’t allow himself to speculate about what exactly he did want from her. It was way too dangerous.
‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, and walked out of the door.
CHAPTER TWO
OH, GREAT. He would have to get stuck in a traffic jam. Eliot rang home and the answering-machine kicked in. He stifled the panic that lurched in his stomach. Of course Fran hadn’t left Ryan on his own. She wasn’t Malandra. She’d wait until he got home. Probably she hadn’t heard the phone, or she was busy cooking Ryan’s tea or something.
The message ended with a long beep, and Eliot gabbled his message. ‘It’s me—I’m on my way but I’m stuck in traffic. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
By the time he finally walked through the front door, he could feel his blood pressure simmering. He took a deep breath and reminded himself to stay calm, for Ryan’s sake.
Ryan was in front of the TV, half watching a cartoon and half concentrating on a complex model of a robot that he’d made from K’nex, snapping the rods and links together as if he instinctively knew the right pattern. Eliot always marvelled at how his son could produce an intricate three-dimensional jet or helicopter with a moving rotor in such a short space of time.
‘Hi, son.’
Ryan didn’t look up, he just muttered, ‘Hi, Dad,’ the way he usually did. Eliot suppressed the yearning to have his son run to him and hug him and look into his eyes and laugh. Hello, Dad. I missed you. I love you. Followed by lots of chattering about what happened at school today, what he’d been doing with Fran, what he wanted to do this evening.
Dream on, Eliot told himself savagely. You know that’s not going to happen. And it’s not his fault or yours. It’s just the way it is and you have to live with it.
‘Fran? I’m back.’
Fran appeared at the kitchen doorway. ‘I was just making Ryan’s tea,’ she said. ‘Chicken nuggets, chips and spaghetti.’
Not exactly the best nutrition in the world, Eliot knew—but he’d learned the hard way not to make food into a battleground. Nowadays he gave Ryan what he knew the seven-year-old would eat, and tried to sneak fruit and vegetables into his son when he could. ‘Thanks, Fran. I owe you an extra hour. Plus overtime,’ he added guiltily.
She didn’t look even remotely mollified. ‘You said you’d be home by half past.’
‘I know. And I would have been, but I got stuck in traffic.’ Eliot sighed. ‘I am trying, Fran.’
‘I’ve got a life, you know. I’m never going to be ready for my date tonight.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry is as sorry does.’
Eliot almost snapped back at her—but thought better of it at the last moment. If he didn’t keep Fran sweet, she’d leave. And that would be a disaster. It had taken him four months to find Fran. Four months of Ryan being unsettled at the constant changes in his child care, four months of interviews and wondering if he’d ever find the right person to look after his child between school and his job, four months when he’d had to stop working and he’d lived on home-made vegetable soup and toast because it was cheap.
‘Look—have a drink or what have you on me tonight,’ he said, taking a note from his wallet.
‘Ta.’ Fran pocketed it swiftly. ‘The spaghetti’s in the microwave and the nuggets and chips are in the oven. They’ll be ready in ten minutes. See you tomorrow.’ She paused at the living-room doorway. ‘Bye, Ryan.’
Ryan didn’t acknowledge his childminder, simply continued with his model-making. Two others were neatly lined up and there was a space next to them ready for the one he was making now.
‘Tea’s in ten minutes,’ Eliot told him.
‘Mmm,’ was the response. Ryan was focused completely on his model.
Ten minutes later, they were sitting at the dining-room table. Eliot had managed to find the right knife and fork, made sure none of the three types of food touched any of the others and were on the right plate, and he’d filled Ryan’s mug with milk to precisely one centimetre from the top.
His thanks were simply that Ryan ate without fuss or comment. Apart from once, when he looked at his father’s sandwich. ‘Fran didn’t get you any bacon.’
‘That’s OK. Tuna salad’s cool.’ Actually, Eliot was sick to the back teeth of bacon sandwiches. Maybe he was pandering to Ryan’s little routines too much. The psychologist would tell him he had to fight more battles. Though Eliot didn’t want to fight his son. He only wanted to love him.
‘What happened at school today?’
‘Maths.’
Amazing how Ryan could