Fever Cure

by Phillipa Ashley

  The road to heartbreak is paved with honorable intentions…

  After a year dealing with her mum’s health scare and the end of a bad relationship, Keira Grayson was looking forward to kicking up her heels at her best friend’s wedding. Until she kicks off her (spare) knickers in front of the trifecta of perfection. Tom Carew. Son of an earl, honorable doctor and possibly the hottest man on the planet.

  One look at Keira’s delightful embarrassment, and Tom’s hormone meter spins off the charts. Trouble is, his bags are already packed to return to the jungles of Papua New Guinea. He has patients waiting—and amends to make for a terrible choice that left devastation in its wake.

  They both reason that indulging in a one-time dinner date won’t hurt…until their inhibitions melt away in the heat of their lethal sexual chemistry. Leaving Keira wondering if a sizzling fling is just what the doctor ordered, or another prescription for relationship disaster. And Tom fighting a battle against inner demons that could shatter both their hearts.

  Warning: This book contains a hot aristocratic doctor, sparky heroine, new uses for a chaise longue, a steamy shower scene and a knicker-ripping encounter in a four-poster bed.

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  Fever Cure

  Copyright © 2011 by Phillipa Ashley

  ISBN: 978-1-60928-499-2

  Edited by Linda Ingmanson

  Cover by Kanaxa

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: July 2011

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  Fever Cure

  Phillipa Ashley

  Dedication

  To John and Charlotte, with love.

  Chapter One

  “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  Keira Grayson heard the man’s voice and knew what it meant without having to look. Even though she was crouched down, rooting among the fallen leaves by the notice board, she knew what he had in his hand. Not the pants, she pleaded silently, please let it not be the pants.

  “They are yours, then?”

  That voice again. It was two parts James Bond to one part Royal Shakespeare Company, and she just knew that this was going to be excruciating. Wincing as her thighs protested, she began to push herself to her feet. Goose bumps dimpled her arms as the wind whipped across the church steps. Her fingers were numb, and only her face felt warm and glowing.

  “Forgive me for the intrusion, but do you need any help getting up?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks. Really.”

  Keira turned like a snail, trying to put off the moment she had to face the owner of that voice as long as possible. It was just what she didn’t need when she was late for the Wedding of the Century. Then again, it was a tiny humiliation compared to the way the year had turned out so far. What was losing your knickers in front of a handsome stranger compared to all that? She stuck on a smile, but her heart still pounded as she saw the stranger who’d picked up her thong from the church steps. Why couldn’t he be some harmless old gentleman with weak eyesight? Why did he have to be tall and dark and totally gorgeous?

  He also had very dark blue eyes, a lovely natural tan (most likely from wintering in the Caribbean, like you do when you have a cut-glass accent like that) and an interesting nose. It would have been a boringly straight nose, but it had definitely seen some action at some point. Keira had seen similar noses before, but she doubted if Mr. Scarily Handsome’s had been damaged in a gang fight or “a bit of bovver down the boozer”, as her next-door neighbour liked to put it.

  She doubted if Mr. Scarily Handsome had ever been in the boozer in his life. He looked made for sipping a single malt in some tweedy pub or propping up his college bar with a pint of real ale. It didn’t stop him from being hot, though, and right now he was gazing down at her with a look that flirted between amusement and politeness.

  “If you aren’t sure,” he went on, “perhaps it would be best if I kept hold of it? We wouldn’t want the bride to find it here on the steps, would we?”

  Keira was torn between curtseying and melting in a pool of drool. She went for the middle ground as usual: polite and friendly. Even her mum would have been proud of her. “No, er… We wouldn’t, and it does, um, appear to be mine. It was in my handbag, you see, it’s so small, the bag, that is, and there’s hardly any room for a mobile, and I was looking for my lipstick and…”

  “…it just fell out?” he said, like a teacher who’d found her up to no good behind the bike sheds. Not that Victoria Lane Primary had bike sheds since a disaffected ex-pupil had set fire to them. Not that many of the kids had bikes. Whatever, thought Keira. Mr. Scarily Handsome hadn’t been near Victoria Lane; she’d have bet her gas bill on that.

  He managed a small smile, his eyes doing that sexy crinkly thing at the corners. Keira’s stomach did a sexy crinkly thing too, which annoyed her immensely.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Ah.” As he held out his finger, the thong wiggled tantalizingly and her cheeks heated up again.

  “Thanks,” she said, holding out her hand to take her knickers off the cheeky sod.

  Her heart skipped a long, slow beat, and it was all she could do not to stare. It was his hands. Up close, she could see the myriad of tiny scars dusting his fingers and knuckles, like the sprinkles on a child’s cupcake. She dragged her gaze upward to his eyes. Dark blue, they were, like the indigo at the end of the rainbow, and right now they were looking puzzled. She felt a blush of shame flame her cheeks, and she smiled reassuringly.

  “Is there anything wrong?”

  She shook her head and gave him an even bigger smile. He must think she was a grinning idiot, but it didn’t matter. He was probably self-conscious enough without her making it worse, and besides, everyone had scars. It’s just that hers were buried deep inside.

  “Nothing. Really. It’s just a bit…chilly out here. Thanks for finding, er…it. I’m staying at my friend’s after the wedding, and I hadn’t got time to collect any proper underwear—”

  “Quite.”

  “I grabbed it at the last minute,” she said patiently. Whew, this was like explaining a maths problem to one of the less able pupils. “It was a joke Christmas present from a friend, you see, and I was in a rush to get to the wedding, and I just stuffed it into my handbag and…” She sucked in a breath, desperate to tell him they were just so not her kind of pants. “It even has the price tag on,” she added, then instantly wished the words back. Okay, that was it. She was going to curl up and die, right here and now, on the steps in front of him.

  “Really. It’s fine. It could have happened to anyone.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not teasing me, are you?”

  “I wouldn’t dare, believe me.”

  She didn’t. Opening her bag, she squashed the pants in the bottom as best she could, hoping Mr. Scarily Handsome would carry on up the church steps without saying anything else. When she glanced up from her bag, she found him still gazing down at her in an intense way that made her want to look away or melt on the flagstones in a puddle of shame.

  A cool
gust of wind blew round the corner, and she tugged her wrap tighter. “I suppose I’d better get inside.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Yes, better not risk hypothermia. Or pneumonia.”

  Keira bridled. This dress wasn’t that low. “You think so?”

  A smile touched his lips. “Not really. Bride or groom?”

  “The bride, Carrie. She’s a colleague from school.”

  “Then you’ll want the pews to the left of the altar.”

  “Is it really that important?” she asked as the wind pasted her dress to her legs and goose bumps raced up her thighs.

  “Absolutely vital. Particularly if the bride decides to get herself abducted by another man. That’s where the tradition comes from. In medieval times, women were often forced to marry. The groom needed his right hand free to defend his bride from other suitors.”

  O-kayy, the man was mad as a fish as well as scary. “I don’t think that’s likely to happen,” sniffed Keira. “Carrie and Matt are crazy about each other. I think we’d have known by now if she was going to be swept off her feet at the altar.”

  “Even so. Better to be safe than sorry.”

  “Quite.”

  Mr. Scarily Handsome narrowed his eyes and pushed back the cuff of his jacket to uncover a tanned wrist with a chunky watch. It was all dials and gold case and thick leather strap, just like the one she’d once dreamed of buying for Alex, back in the day when she’d thought he was worth it.

  “Ah. At last. Here she is.”

  Keira followed his gaze to the bottom of the church lane. A silver Rolls Royce had pulled up at the kerb, the paintwork gleaming in the pale October sun.

  “I must be getting back to the groom,” he said, adjusting the creamy rose in his buttonhole. “And tell him his bride has just arrived.”

  “So you’re the best man, then?” she asked.

  Best man? Tom Carew gazed down at the achingly sexy girl in front of him and caught his breath. Her question had momentarily floored him, and that didn’t happen very often. Almost never, in fact. Tom didn’t allow himself to be caught off balance by anyone these days, let alone a woman. But how, he asked himself, could he ever be described as a “best man”? He wasn’t even sure if he was a good man, let alone the best. All morning he’d expected someone to come up, tap him on the shoulder and say, “Excuse me, sir. Aren’t you here under false pretences? We hardly think you qualify for the position.”

  They hadn’t, of course. No one at the wedding, apart from perhaps his friend, the groom, thought he was anything but a gentleman. In fact, only two people on the planet knew the real and very ugly truth.

  “You are the best man, aren’t you?” the girl asked again, pushing a strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes.

  “Well observed,” said Tom, not caring whether she thought he was an arrogant, over-privileged cliché. And yet, she was looking up at him with an encouraging smile that made him feel like he was ten years old and about to get a medal for a race he hadn’t run in.

  “Now I know you’re winding me up,” she said.

  Tom’s heart skipped a beat as she shivered and flushed at the same time. He knew he shouldn’t have teased her, but he just couldn’t resist it. Her embarrassment was just so, well…so damn sexy. She was one of those old-fashioned girls, a dying breed with a slim waist, lush bottom and… He gave himself a mental slap on the face and tried to look intimidating again. It kept people at a distance, and that’s what he wanted right now, no matter how cute the girl’s blushes were, and the flush was spreading down her neck and into her cleavage. Tom was getting hot himself in the bloody penguin suit.

  “I really think you’d better go inside,” he said gruffly as she tugged the wrap around her shoulders. “Don’t forget what I said about sitting on the left.” Pushing open the heavy oak door, he held out an arm. “After you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  Tom hesitated for a moment. Should he…shouldn’t he? Hell, why not? He thrust out his hand. “Tom Carew,” he declared.

  The girl wavered too, before curling her cold fingers around his warm ones. “Keira Grayson,” she murmured, “world’s most embarrassing guest.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Keira,” he said, standing aside so she could duck into the porch. “And forgive me, but next time, try to be more careful where you mislay your underwear.”

  As Keira dashed into the church, clutching her handbag as if her pants might try to escape again, Tom allowed himself a wry smile. He hadn’t been able to help notice her rather lovely curves—no, correct that, stunning curves. Nice and generous, just how he liked them. Not that he looked at women these days, unless it was in the professional sense, but there had been something about her, something sassy yet sweet, that had fired his blood and made him want to behave very badly indeed.

  He took a deep breath before stepping into the porch. Even if he did have a mind to look at a woman unprofessionally, this one was certainly not going to give him a second glance. He knew damn well he’d come across as sarcastic and arrogant, when really he was just amused and intrigued and, let’s be honest now, bloody turned on. He just couldn’t stop thinking of how wicked that sliver of Lycra had felt between his fingertips. Or how good the diamante string would look against its owner’s bottom.

  Down, boy.

  This is wholly inappropriate. It’s not the time or place and—

  He felt a sudden stab, an acid jab in his stomach, and took a deep breath. Not now, he pleaded with himself. It’s a happy day, Doctor Carew, let’s keep it that way.

  Squashing onto the end of a pew next to her best friend, Su Sharma, Keira glanced down at her shoes. The heels already had grass and mud clinging to them, and she was sure she could feel a blister erupting on her big toe. “Great,” groaned Keira under her breath. A blister was just what you wanted when you’d got a fieldtrip with a class of nine-year-olds on Monday morning.

  She also felt decidedly underdressed and leaned closer to Su’s ear. “You know, I really wish I’d worn more dress.”

  “Rubbish, hon. You needed a boost, a touch of glamour…especially after the year you’ve had,” hissed back Su.

  Keira knew Su meant well, but it was going to take more than a quick haircut and a low-cut dress to haul her fragile self-esteem off the floor. Worse, this was threatening to be one of those “moments”. The ones when she was in serious danger of feeling sorry for herself, which was pathetic. Keira tried never to feel sorry for herself. She’d thought she was strong—she was strong, growing up without a dad, having to support her mum—but when it came to what Alex had done, it had been hard not to crumple into a heap and just howl at times. He’d managed to smash through her defences like a bulldozer, and she wasn’t sure she’d picked up the pieces yet.

  “Uh-oh, it’s him,” murmured Su.

  Keira stopped fumbling in her bag for a tissue. “Him who?”

  “Posh Tom. The guy Carrie was telling us about at the hen party. You must remember.”

  Looking up, Keira saw a tall, broad-shouldered figure taking his place beside the groom. Thick dark hair crinkled softly at the nape of his neck, his tan contrasting with the stark white of his wing-collar shirt. Even from behind, she recognised him.

  It was the thong-snatcher.

  Her heart thumped. “I’d have remembered Carrie mentioning someone like that.”

  “Maybe you were at the bar or trying to see if hunky Carlos had arrived.”

  Keira smiled to herself. Carlos, the stripping “fireman” booked for Carrie’s hen night, had warmed everyone up with his routine, especially Carrie. Carlos hadn’t done a lot for Keira. She didn’t go a bundle on fake-tanned blonds with thongs even smaller than hers.

  But as for Tom… She shot a discreet glance in his direction as he tapped the pocket of his jacket and nodded at the groom. Hmm, thought Keira, he was checking if he’d got the wedding rings, by the look of it. One thing was for sure, he definitely wasn’t going to lose anything
today.

  “Quite cute, isn’t he? If you’re available, that is.” Su twisted her engagement ring just to show she wasn’t.

  “Cute’s not the word I’d have used. If you ask me he’s…he’s a bit”—Keira pretended to study her order of service—“scary’s the word that comes to mind…”

  “How do you know? You’ve never even met the guy.”

  Maybe it was better not to tell Su about the thong, she decided, especially not if she wanted to avoid it being used in evidence against her on every girls’ night out for the next twenty years.

  “I just do. Now, shhh. Carrie’s coming.”

  As the church organ boomed out, Keira teetered to her feet and risked another glance at Tom. Her look was not quite sneaky enough this time, as he chose the moment to turn round and reach for his service sheet. He glanced at her and nodded politely. It wasn’t exactly a smiley gaze, but it wasn’t unpleasant, either—just intense and unflinching, thought Keira. Either that or he’d forgotten to put in his contacts.

  He was giving the groom a pat on the back now, in that embarrassed, blokey way men use to show affection that they’d rather die than admit to. The organ was rising to a crescendo as she dug her nails in her palm. She couldn’t help thinking, for a moment, of what might have been. If she could have been that happy with Alex. If he had loved her enough to meet her halfway. If he hadn’t…

  “Carrie looks amazing,” whispered Su as the bride swept past on her father’s arm.

  “Yes, she does.” She bit her lip, wincing at the sharp pang. It did the trick. That scary feeling of being full to the brim, of being just on the very edge, had passed, and now all she had to do was get through the ceremony without her mascara running.

  It was too many hours later at the reception that she finally got to ditch the shoes and scrunch up her toes in the velvety pile of the hotel carpet. What she’d seen of Tom Carew had been at a distance as he organised photographs after the ceremony, made small talk with people he’d never met and gave a speech that had taken her aback by its warmth. One look at Matt’s and Carrie’s beaming faces had told her how much they appreciated it.