Playing the Joker. Caroline Anderson

      How could you be a woman without a womb?

       CHAPTER THREE

      FOR most of the people there it was just another party, but Jo was celebrating the end of her last day as an SHO prior to her forthcoming appointment at the Audley Memorial Hospital in Suffolk as a very junior registrar.

      Her new boss, Owen Davie, was probably one of the old school, but Jo was confident that she would get a good grounding in what was quite definitely an up and coming hospital.

      The long and gruelling year as SHO was finally ended, she had a new job to look forward to, and she was in the mood to party.

      Although she was on her own, she wasn’t truly on her own. The hospital community was a close-knit one, and she would know most of the people who would be there tonight.

      She had dressed with her usual flamboyant zeal, in a silky, figure-hugging sheath with a thigh-high split and a low back, in shimmering coral-pink silk that draped like a dream. With her red hair it should have been a disaster, but it was a devastating combination and she felt as good as she looked.

      By the time she arrived the party was already going with a swing, and she found herself a drink and a convivial group of friends and settled down to celebrate.

      An hour and a couple of glasses of cheap wine later, she was dancing with a bespectacled and rather amorous young doctor who was barely tall enough to look her in the eye when the door opened to admit another group of people.

      She noticed him immediately, something about him setting him apart from the group and attracting her attention with all the force of a powerful magnet.

      He was tall, taller even than her, and thin, his clothes rather loose as if he had lost weight recently or had been ill.

      Then he turned, and she was so shaken by the look of utter desolation in his eyes that her steps faltered and she stood quite still, her eyes locked with his.

      Her escort floundered to a halt and peered closely at her, asking if she was all right, but she excused herself absently and made her way across the room, elbowing her way through the crowd until she was by his side.

      ‘Hi!’ she yelled over the throbbing beat. ‘You’re a stranger—welcome to the local madhouse. I’m Jo.’

      She held out her hand, and after a second he took it and held it, his eyes meshed with hers again. Once again she was struck by the depth of pain in his soft brown eyes.

      ‘My name’s Alex,’ he said eventually, his voice deep and slightly husky, as if he hadn’t used it much recently.

      He was still holding her hand, as if he was almost afraid to let her go, and for a second it crossed her mind that he might be crazy. He lifted his other hand and touched her cheek lightly, his fingers cold.

      ‘Are you real?’ he murmured. ‘You look so lovely—so vibrant and alive. I’d forgotten people could look like that.’

      She laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle that triggered a convulsive movement of his jaw, almost as if it hurt him to hear her laugh. She realised he wasn’t crazy, just terribly, inexpressibly sad.

      ‘Oh, I’m real,’ she said wryly. ‘I’m celebrating—would you like to help me?’

      ‘I’m not sure I’m much use,’ he told her with a helpless shrug, but he kept hold of her hand.

      Someone decided it was time to change the tempo, and the lively music faded out, to be replaced by Roberta Flack singing ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’.

      ‘Dance with me,’ Jo murmured, and he looked startled for a moment, as if she had suggested they should fly.

      Then, releasing her hand, he drew her close into the circle of his arms and rested his forehead against hers. As they swayed together to the hauntingly beautiful melody, Jo felt the tension drain out of him and a new, more vibrant tension replace it, a tension that caught her up and drew her closer to him, so that she leant into his body and gave herself up to the sensation.

      Her hands were laid against his chest, and she could feel the unsteady thud of his heart beneath her palms. Sliding her arms round under his jacket, she eased nearer to him, and his hands pressed warmly now against her back, to cradle her closer to his chest. A small sound, half-groan, half-sigh, escaped him as the soft fullness of her breasts pressed against the solid wall of his chest.

      ‘God, you feel so good,’ he murmured, and his voice slurred slightly as if he was a little drunk.

      Jo didn’t care—who was she to complain? She snuggled closer and hugged him. ‘You feel pretty good yourself,’ she said huskily.

      She tipped back her head slightly and met his eyes. They were blazing, like a wildfire out of control, and she felt the heat licking at her, drawing her in.

      ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he rasped, and with a surprisingly strong grip he led her out of the room. ‘Where can we go?’ he asked, his voice harsh with desperation.

      ‘My flat,’ she told him, a trifle breathless. ‘Wait here, I’ll get my things.’