The Surgeon's Miracle / Dr Di Angelo's Baby Bombshell

by Caroline Anderson / Janice Lynn

  Libby swallowed and bit her lip, her hand still in Andrew’s, her eyes fixed on his brother. For the first time, Will wasn’t smiling, and she felt her heart miss a beat.

  ‘Well, what can I say?’ he began eventually. ‘I do public speaking all the time as part of my fundraising work, but this isn’t public, this is my mother, the woman who gave birth to me, who taught me all the things she taught Andrew—and, technically, she’s entitled to her pension now, but there’s no way I’m going to let her retire from the fray without a fight,’ he said, smiling briefly at the ripple of laughter through the room. But then his smile faded and he carried on.

  ‘She had no idea when she had us, as Andrew said, what she was letting herself in for. I’m sure we were vile to bring up. Two healthy young boys, hell bent on living as fast and as hard as possible, but then it all got a little more serious, and without Ma’s quick thinking I know I wouldn’t be here today, so I cannot—cannot—underestimate what she means to me, and to the charities for which she works so tirelessly.

  ‘It’s because of her,’ he concluded, ‘that I’m able to stand here in front of you today on my own two feet, to thank her, and to ask you to join with me in raising a glass to her and wishing her a very happy birthday. Happy birthday, Ma. And thank you.’

  Everyone got to their feet, the applause thunderous as Will turned to his mother and hugged her hard, then sat down, his eyes over-bright.

  She glanced up at Andrew and realised he wasn’t doing much better as he turned to her and held the chair for her to sit down again.

  ‘You OK?’ she murmured, and he smiled wryly and nodded.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just—he never talks about it like that. Not so openly, not to her. And it’s—’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please?’

  Sally was on her feet now, standing beside Will with an envelope in her hand, and she looked round at everyone, then continued as silence fell, ‘Her sons don’t know this, but Lady Ashenden asked not to receive any presents for her birthday. As she put it, “What on earth could a woman of my age possibly need that I haven’t already got?” And so, at her suggestion, anyone who felt that they would like to commemorate her birthday in this way was invited to make a donation to the charities they support for meningitis research and meningococcal disease, and I have to say you’ve been amazingly generous, because the total at the moment, not counting several last-minute donations, stands at twenty-seven thousand, six hundred and forty-five pounds.’

  Will’s jaw sagged, and beside Libby, Andrew sucked in his breath.

  He looked across at Will, realised he was beyond saying anything and got to his feet again, holding his hands up for silence. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he began when the cheers and clapping had died away. ‘Thank you, obviously. Thank you all so very, very much. The difference your generosity and the generosity of others like you all over the country makes to the children reached by these charities is immeasurable, and for them, for all the children who through donations like this one achieve a greater measure of independence and self-belief, we would all like to give you our heartfelt thanks. And, Mum, I guess we owe you lunch.’

  That brought laughter to a room filled with too much emotion, and moments later a huge birthday cake was wheeled in, blazing with candles, and they all—him, his brother, his father—had to go with her to blow the candles out.

  Lady Ashenden, near to tears but quietly dignified, thanked all her guests—for coming, for their enormous generosity—and then put her arms around both of her sons and hugged them hard.

  For Libby, sitting alone now on the top table, the whole event was deeply moving, and she felt incredibly privileged to have been invited. Will’s story had had a happy ending, but it wasn’t always like that. She’d seen it happen, seen the devastation caused by the disease. Not many. It wasn’t that common, but you never forgot the children you’d worked with in that situation, and even one was too many.

  Surreptitiously she wiped away her tears, sniffed hard and drained her wine glass.

  ‘Bit of a tear-jerker, isn’t it?’

  She looked at Sally, who’d perched on Andrew’s chair beside her, and dredged up a smile. ‘Yes. How did you manage to speak to everyone after that? I would have been in bits. I was in bits.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve heard him speak before, and it’s always very powerful. That’s how he’s so effective at fundraising. He does it every time—but this time, it was about his mother, and, well, to be honest I nearly didn’t make it! Still, it’s over now. They’ll bring the cake round, and she’s going to circulate while we all have coffee and eat the cake, then it’s dancing! And Will says you’ve promised him a dance, so don’t forget.’

  Libby laughed. ‘Yes—he says he’s a better dancer than Andrew, and I have to check it out.’

  ‘Does he, indeed? We’ll see about that,’ Andrew murmured from behind her, and she felt his hands settle warmly on her shoulders and pull her back against him. She tilted her head back to smile at him, and he dropped a kiss lightly on her forehead. She’d been about to reply, but the words dried up instantly and she forgot her own name as he scooped her up and sat down, settling her back on his lap with his arms looped round her waist.

  Instinctively she put her arm around his shoulders to steady herself, her hand splayed over his shoulder, feeling the play of muscle beneath her fingertips through the fine wool of his tailcoat. She could feel the warmth from his muscular legs seeping through her dress, the solid bulk of his chest against her side, and the fact that they were doing it all for Cousin Charlotte’s benefit seemed neither here nor there.

  Her heart skittering in her chest, she ate her cake perched on his lap, sipped her coffee, laughed with them all when Will came over and cracked an endless succession of dreadful jokes, and then finally it was time to dance. The doors through to the ballroom were rolled aside, the music started and Andrew patted her on the bottom.

  ‘Up you get, it’s time to go and check out Will’s theory,’ he said, his eyes challenging his brother’s, and her heart, which had only just settled, lurched against her ribs. She realised she’d been waiting for this since Will had issued the challenge the night before, and at last she was going to know what it was like to be held in Andrew’s arms.

  There was no question in her mind who would win. Will was fabulous—funny, sexy, outrageous—but he did nothing for her. Andrew, on the other hand…

  The four of them headed to the dance floor in time to see Lord and Lady Ashenden have the first dance, and when Libby saw the string quartet, she felt a bubble of delighted laughter rise in her throat.

  ‘Oh, proper dancing!’ she said softly, enchanted.

  He grinned. ‘Well, we can make it improper if you like, but it’s a little public.’

  She punched his arm lightly and laughed, trying to ignore the little shiver of anticipation. ‘You know what I mean. I just haven’t ever done it except at dance classes. I didn’t think people still did except on television. ’

  ‘Only sometimes. And one of the advantages of a stuffy, classical education is that I’m unlikely to step on your toes too often,’ he said with a wry smile, and held out his hand to her, sketching a mocking bow as his eyes sparkled with challenge. ‘So, shall we show my brother what we’re made of?’

  He’d been aching to hold her in his arms all night, longing for the moment to come, and he discovered to his delight that she was a beautiful, natural dancer. She followed his lead without a hitch, her hand light on his shoulder, her body just a fraction too far away for his liking—but that was probably just as well, given the total lack of privacy.

  And when the time came he was reluctant in the extreme to hand her over to Will.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ Sally said, smiling up at him as he led her to the side of the dance floor and settled her into a chair so that she could rest. ‘A real sweetheart. I’m so glad you’ve found her.’

  ‘Don’t jump the gun,’ h
e warned. ‘She’s just a friend.’

  ‘Of course she is,’ Sally said calmly. ‘She’s pretty, though. Delightful. And very intelligent. Will likes her a lot.’

  ‘I can see that,’ he growled, watching his laughing brother and the woman who was supposed to be his girlfriend twirling past in a flutter of shimmering silk and coat tails. Damn him, if he held her any closer…

  ‘It’s about time you found somebody nice,’ Sally murmured, and he grunted. If only, he thought.

  If only…

  ‘So who’s better?’

  Torn by loyalty and honesty and a dislike of conflict of any sort, Libby looked from one brother to the other, and shook her head. ‘Technically, I don’t have the expertise to choose between you, so I would say you’re quits. Andrew’s very easy to follow, and Will might have the edge when it comes to fancy moves. You’re both extremely good, and neither of you trod on my toes, which rates an A star in my book.’

  ‘Very prettily put, but you didn’t answer the question,’ Will said, grinning. ‘I knew you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Equal first?’ she offered. ‘I can’t choose between you.’

  ‘Or won’t.’

  ‘Oh, Libby, just tell him he’s better,’ Andrew groaned. ‘Let him win. He won’t give up until you do. It’s not worth it.’

  ‘OK, he’s better. Is that what you want to hear?’

  ‘Yes!’ Will said smugly, and punched the air.

  Andrew rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘He’s going to be insufferable. Take him away, Sally.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Sally said, hoisting herself out of the chair and rubbing her back. ‘It’s past my bedtime and it’s certainly past his.’

  ‘Oh, promises,’ Will murmured with a grin, and he slung his arm round Sally’s shoulders, winked at them and steered her towards the door, looking slightly the worse for wear.

  ‘So, who is better?’ Andrew asked softly, wondering what she’d say now they were alone, and she turned and met his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know. I think I need to check a few things out again,’ she said deadpan.

  His mouth quirked in a fleeting smile, and he held out his hand. ‘Check away,’ he murmured, drawing her into his arms and easing her closer.

  The tempo had slowed, and he rested his cheek against her hair and breathed in the curiously intoxicating scent of apples. Her body settled gently against his, so he felt the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the light brush of her thighs, the curve of her waist under his hand.

  He could feel himself responding, felt her breath catch, then ease out again as she settled yet closer, and suddenly he couldn’t take it any more. He was too tired to control his reaction, too tired to fight the need to hold her; the lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him, and he didn’t count the few hours he’d spent trying not to fall off the miserable excuse for a bed in the dressing room, so he forced himself to ease away and meet her eyes. ‘To be honest, I could call it a night, Libby, unless you want to stay up? I’m bushed.’

  ‘I’m more than happy to give up. These shoes are killing me,’ she murmured. Her eyes were soft, luminous, and he wasn’t sure if she’d misunderstood his intentions. He hoped not. He really had meant it when he had said no strings.

  They made their way upstairs, and at the bedroom door he hesitated. He couldn’t go in there with her—not now. Not yet. He couldn’t trust himself while his arms still held the memory of her body swaying against him for dance after dance after dance. ‘I just want to say goodnight to my parents,’ he said a little desperately. ‘I need to head off in the morning early and we probably won’t see them before we go. Don’t wait up for me.’

  And turning on his heel he left her there, walking swiftly away before he gave in to the temptation to usher her through the door, strip off that dress that only he had seen the top of, and make love to her until neither of them could move another muscle.

  So that was her told.

  Don’t wait up for me, indeed. Of course not. Why would she? After all, she wasn’t really his girlfriend, and she’d done her job now, fended off the girls all evening, smiled and laughed through one dance after another in his arms so he didn’t have to dance with them.

  Show only, just a smokescreen, a deflector for the poor, love-lorn Charlotte and her cohorts, Libby thought wearily, and unpinning the orchid from her shoulder and removing the shawl, she peeled off the dress, pulled on her nightdress and took off her make-up, cleaned her teeth and slid into the chilly bed.

  It would have been nice if he’d been in it with her, she thought, and then laughed softly to herself. Nice? There would have been nothing nice about it, it would have been amazing. Incredible. And utterly not going to happen.

  She turned over so her back was to the door, and waited for him. She’d turned out the light in her room, leaving on the dressing-room light so he could see, and lay there in the semi-darkness waiting for his return, knowing that when he came back to the room he’d expect to find her sleeping, but she couldn’t sleep, for some reason. Not until he was back.

  Eventually she heard him moving quietly around, heard the click of the switch as the light went out and the room settled into darkness, and then at last, exhausted, she drifted off to sleep…

  It was pitch-dark when she woke.

  She could hear him moving around, and she sat up and peered towards the noise.

  ‘Andrew?’

  ‘Oh, Libby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I was going to get a drink from the kitchen.’

  ‘I could do with one, too. Can I come with you?’

  ‘Sure. We can make a cup of tea, if you like.’

  She turned on her bedside light and then regretted it instantly, because he was wearing a pair of loose cotton scrub trousers and nothing else. They hung low on his hips, showing the taut, firm abdomen, the broad, deep chest and wide shoulders she’d found so fascinating the previous morning when he’d emerged from the shower in his towel, but that had been before she’d danced with him, before she’d felt that solid, muscular body against hers, felt his masculine response, and she felt her tongue dry up and stick to the roof of her mouth.

  ‘Did you steal them from the hospital?’ she asked, raising a brow at the impromptu PJs and trying to remember how to breathe, and he chuckled.

  ‘No, they’re from college. I found them in the drawer. I don’t—ah…’

  He trailed off, and she felt warmth brush her cheeks. He didn’t—what? Wear anything usually? She closed her eyes for a second and turned back the bedclothes, tugging her nightdress down over her legs even though it was more than respectable, and trying very hard not to think about him wearing nothing.

  ‘Do you have a dressing gown?’ he asked, and when she shook her head, he handed her the one off the back of the door and pulled on the jumper he’d been wearing the previous day. Better, but not much, she thought, the image of him burned on her retinas.

  She shrugged into the dressing gown and realised instantly it was his. His scent was on it, her warmth releasing a heady mixture of his signature cologne and that subtle masculine essence that was his alone. It was like having him wrapped around her, holding her close, she thought, and her heart picked up speed.

  She followed him through the house, along the dark corridor and down the stairs to the warm, cosy kitchen where they’d had breakfast the previous morning. The dogs greeted them sleepily, and Andrew sat her down at the table and put the kettle on the Aga, then pulled out another chair and stretched out his legs towards the warmth, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

  ‘Bliss. I love the house when everyone’s asleep,’ he murmured.

  ‘I get the feeling that being awake at night is a habit for you, or am I wrong?’

  He shrugged. ‘No, you’re not wrong. I don’t tend to sleep well. Too busy, I suppose. I just felt thirsty, and my mind was working.’

  ‘Jacob?’

  He opened his eyes and levered himself upright again. ‘No. Well, a bit, b
ut mostly family stuff. I was thinking about Mum, about all she’s done over the years.’

  About how she’d put him in the same room as Libby and left him to die of frustration…

  The kettle boiled and he got to his feet and made them tea—green tea for him, chamomile for Libby, so they weren’t awake for the rest of the night—then leant over Libby to put her cup down and got another drift of apples from her hair.

  Damn, he was going to embarrass himself at this rate, he thought, and turning the chair so he was facing the table, he sat down and propped his elbows on the scrubbed pine surface and sipped his tea until he was back under control.

  They didn’t talk, just sat in a comfortable silence as they had over their picnic, and drank their tea until it was finished. And then the tension, suddenly, was back.

  ‘I suppose we ought to get some more sleep,’ she said eventually, and he nodded.

  ‘Yes, we probably should.’

  They went back up to his room, the tension somehow ratcheting up with every step, and as they reached the door Libby’s heart was in her mouth. Would he kiss her? No. Why would he?

  But he hesitated, closing the door and standing there, his eyes locked with hers, and she could see the need in them.

  ‘Andrew?’ she said softly, his name an invitation, should he choose to accept it, but he closed his eyes fleetingly.

  ‘Libby, no,’ he murmured. ‘I promised you—’

  ‘I won’t hold you to it.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t—Libby, there are all sorts of reasons.’

  ‘Such as? Are you married and I don’t know?’

  He laughed at that, the sound soft, a little raw. ‘No, I’m not married.’

  ‘Then stay with me. Please?’

  ‘Libby, I—’ Oh, God, she didn’t know what she was asking of him. He saw the uncertainty in her eyes, knew how much it had taken for her to ask him, and he couldn’t do it, couldn’t leave her, couldn’t turn away from her in that moment no matter how stupid it was to stay. How dangerous.