Roberta Leigh - It All Depends on Love

by Roberta Leigh

  Tessa thought fast. 'I'm perfectly capable of reading, and women's magazines are full of such stories.

  "That's exactly what they are,' he snorted 'Fiction!'

  'If you're going to joke about it,' she sniffed, 'there's no point talking. But I'll say one thing more. I met a woman doctor in London who has a big practice, a large house, four kids and a happy husband!'

  'She's an exception.'

  Exasperated, Tessa glared at him. 'Are you always pigheaded?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Sorry,' she mumbled. 'I meant obstinate.'

  The firm mouth curled in a supercilious smile. 'I'm neither obstinate nor pig-headed. Merely a realist.' He lay back in the lounger and folded his hands behind his head, his expression shuttered.

  'Does that mean you won't marry a career woman?' she found herself asking Mrs Withers had said as much, but Tessa wished to hear it from the horse's mouth, so to speak.

  'Got it in one!' he stated emphatically. 'When and if I give up my freedom, I'll want to be the centre of the lady's life.'

  Tessa searched his face for a glint of humour, but his eyes and mouth were deadly serious, and disappointment that he was so narrow-minded engulfed her.

  'Wipe that accusation off your face,' he stated. I'm only telling you what most men want. Unfortunately they haven't the guts to say it, or the strength of mind to stick to it. They fall in love and their intelligence goes walkabout! Not that I'd want a complete homebody. Merely a woman who'll love me enough to make my life hers.'

  'You must introduce me to this paragon when you find her,' Tessa said.

  'I haven't yet started searching. I enjoy my freedom too much to think of curtailing it.' He yawned and stretched, the gesture drawing her eyes to his flat stomach, and the narrow line of dark hair that disappeared into the figure-hugging swimming-trunks.

  With an effort she tried to view him dispassionately, as a surgeon, yet only saw him with the eyes of a woman—a woman who was uncomfortably aware of her femininity, of the years going by too fast, of the children she wanted to have, the passion she wanted to share. Hurriedly, she turned and walked away.

  'You look as if you've had a set-to with Mr Harper,' Withers commented as she entered the kitchen.

  'He annoyed me by making stupid remarks about career women.'

  'Why does that bother you?' Mrs Withers came into the conversation with a chuckle. 'You're not likely to be one!'

  'Maybe not. But I never imagined he was old-fashioned.'

  'He was teasing you.'

  Tessa was on the verge of saying she didn't think so when Withers spoke to his wife.

  'Don't forget Miss Rogers.'

  'Ah, yes.'

  Tessa's ears pricked up. 'Who's Miss Rogers?'

  Mrs Withers hesitated, reluctant to gossip, and Tessa gave the woman her most winning smile, which did the trick.

  'She was a close friend of Mr Patrick's. An interior decorator. That's how he met her—when she designed his office. We all thought she'd be the one.' Mrs Withers' tone made it quite clear what she meant. 'But then she was offered a job decorating some sheikh's palace in the Middle East, and accepted it.'

  'What was wrong with that?'

  'It meant her being away six months. In my day, a woman had more sense. Mr Patrick was real mad.'

  'Hurt,' Withers corrected. 'There's a difference, my dear.'

  'Six months isn't long,' Tessa defended the unknown Miss Rogers.

  'She'd probably have gone off again when another job came her way,' Mrs Withers added.

  'You think she should have given up her career, then?'

  'I think she could have found enough work to keep her in England.'

  'Why is it always the woman who has to sacrifice her career because of the man she loves?' Tessa questioned crossly.

  'Because it's usually easier for a woman, and it was certainly easier in Miss Rogers' case.'

  'I'd never jeopardise my career for a man.'

  'Wait till you fall in love,' Mrs Withers said.

  'Wait till you have a career,' Mr Withers added, a comment which successfully stopped Tessa in her tracks.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tessa's conversation with Patrick, and her subsequent one with Mr and Mrs Withers, gave her food for thought, and highly indigestible it was too.

  Mulling it over as she returned to Greentrees at mid-morning to feed Henry, she admitted that, though she now realised she wanted a husband and family, she hadn't even considered what an upheaval marriage would make in her life, having largely assumed everything would automatically fall into place. Yet things didn't fall into place unless they were arranged properly, and this meant making it clear to the man who shared her life that her patients were a very important part of it.

  Of course the mythical man of her recent dreams had understood this, but how would a real-life man act? Someone like Patrick, for example?

  No need for conjecture there! He'd made his opinion abundantly clear. She was almost tempted to march back and tell him exactly who she was. Except he'd then guess how furious he had made her. And she was darned if she'd let him know that!

  Greentrees came in sight, and she hurried the last few yards to the front door. As she opened it, she tensed. Someone was here. Her scalp prickled and she edged backwards, not sure whether to run or scream. Steps sounded above her head and her hand reached for the doorknob.

  'Is that you?’ called a warm voice.

  Tessa's breath came out in a gasp as Mrs Benson appeared at the top of the stairs. 'I thought you were a burglar! I wasn't expecting you back yet.'

  'It didn't stop raining, and I also kept worrying what you were doing.'

  'Having fun.'

  'At that poor man's expense.'

  'He has his money's worth out of me,' Tessa defended. 'Anyway, I'll probably give it up in a week.' She edged to the door. 'See you later.'

  'Why the hurry? You've just got here.'

  'I only came to find out if everything was OK. But it's not necessary now you're here.'

  Returning to the Hall, Tessa unexpectedly felt deflated. Maybe she'd make Mrs Benson happy and end her charade this afternoon. She'd set out the tea things, then take the bull by the horns and confess all to Patrick. Well, not all, and maybe not today—she didn't quite have the courage. Heavens, what a muddle she had got herself into!

  She was reflecting on this as she sat alone in the kitchen—Emmy having wheeled out the tea trolley— when Patrick strolled in.

  'I'm hungry,' he announced.

  'Emmy has a chocolate cake on the trolley.'

  'I'm talking of proper food.' He sat opposite her. 'I missed lunch.'

  About to ask why, Tessa remembered the think-tank was devising software for an international engineering company, and the staff were under orders not to ask it to stop for meals, but leave the heated trolleys in the main dining-room for people to help themselves. But Patrick often worked inthe west wing, existing on fruit, and coffee from a thermos, until he'd solved what he was working on.

  'It's bad for the gastric juices not to eat regular meals,' she said, going to the refrigerator and taking out a tureen of iced cucumber soup.

  'Don't bother with a plate,' he said.

  'Are you going to have all of it?'

  'I'm starving.'

  'Then have a proper meal.'

  'Bossy little thing, aren't you?'

  Recognising he was trying to rile her, she felt no annoyance. 'Ingrid's bossy, and she's tall as a beanpole.'

  'A willow,' Patrick corrected, amused. 'You don't like her, do you?'

  'It's mutual.' Tessa set the tureen in front of him.

  'That's a pretty watch.'

  Startled, she glanced at her wrist, heart racing as she saw the gold Rolex Uncle Martin had given her on her twenty-fifth birthday. Since working here she hadn't worn it, but this morning must have automatically put it on.

  'You'd never think it was a copy,' she said brightly. 'Looks like the real thing, doesn't it
?'

  'It certainly does.'

  Anxious for him not to regard it too closely, she swung round to the sink and busied herself there.

  'Getting back to Ingrid,' he said unexpectedly, 'it's part of her job to see everything here runs smoothly, and if she orders you around it's because she thinks it's necessary.'

  'Is it necessary to be unpleasant?'

  'It's her way. She's a first-class administrator and works non-stop.'

  'A first-class administrator wouldn't need to!'

  Patrick went to reply, then thought better of it, and Tessa hid a smile, well pleased with herself. 'Fancy cold meat and salad?'

  'I'd prefer a sandwich. Peanut butter and strawberry jam.'

  'Yes, sir.' Wondering if he'd dreamed up this combination to shock her, or if his taste in food was genuinely weird, she took a loaf of wholemeal bread from an earthenware crock and began slicing it. Hearing him chuckle, she glanced up. 'What's the joke?'

  'Those.' He pointed to the inch-thick slices. 'You're very heavy-handed for such a little thing.'

  She bit back a laugh. If he saw her in the operating theatre, he'd be grinning the other side of his face! She eyed the slices. Definitely doorsteps, but that was because her concentration had lapsed. When it came to the scalpel, though…

  'Good girl,' he said.

  ‘Why?'

  'For controlling your temper. Normally when I refer to your size you bite my head off.'

  'I may do it yet.' She slapped peanut butter and jam on the bread. 'I find you extremely irritating.'

  'You don't mean that.' There was a noticeable gleam in his eye as she passed him his sandwich.

  Why is he staring at me? she wondered, and turned away before he noticed the flush staining her cheeks.

  'You were a bit mean with the jam,' he mumbled, mouth full.

  'Sorry.' Head still averted, she reached for his plate. But it was his hand she caught, and before she had a chance to pull away she was on his lap and he was pressing his mouth to hers.

  It was the first time he had touched her, and she was frighteningly conscious of every part of his body: his hands on her waist, his fingers kneading her skin in a gentle, insidious motion that sent little flames of desire shooting through her. His knees were hard beneath her own, his thighs firm against her soft buttocks, the hard wall of his chest straining against the roundness of her breasts, and his mouth, those two sensuous lips, covering hers and gently prising them open.

  She made no effort to resist him, and nestled closer, enjoying the taste of him, the special aroma that signified Patrick. She felt herself being carried away on a sea of passion that threatened to engulf her, and she exulted in it, waiting for the next wave.

  But the next wave didn't come. Instead, she found herself being set on her feet, and Patrick drawing away from her.

  'Sorry,' he said in clipped tones, his expression half contrite, half irritated. 'I don't normally go in for cradle-snatching.'

  Chilled by his swift change of mood, she felt hers change too. He might be angry with himself, but that was nothing to the anger she felt for him! How dared he kiss her and make her respond when he felt nothing in return? He deserved only one comment, and she let him have it.

  'You don't need to feel guilty,' she said flippantly. 'I left my cradle a long while ago.'

  'Oh, sure,' he said sarcastically. 'I can tell you're very experienced.'

  He had caught her on the raw, though she hid it by tossing her head, as if to show he was so unimportant in her scheme of things that she hadn't bothered resisting his kiss. Come to think of it, that was the right answer to give him.

  'I can't get worked up over a middle-aged man, Mr Harper, even when he's a handsome one.'

  'That's understandable,' he drawled. 'I've never before fancied a teenager. I prefer my women sophisticated.'

  'Like you?'

  'Don't you think I am?'

  She made herself laugh. 'No sophisticated man would apologise for a simple kiss. It was the kind you'd give your grandmother!'

  With a strangled sound he moved towards her, stopping abruptly as Ingrid sauntered in. Amazing how the girl sensed when she and Patrick were together, Tessa thought. Did she have hidden microphones or X-ray eyes?

  'Ah, Patrick,' she murmured. 'I'm glad you're eating."

  Without answering, he strode past her and out, and Tessa, expecting Ingrid to be annoyed, was surprised to find her watching his departing back almost tenderly.

  'When he's working on a problem, he can't think of anything else,' the girl murmured.

  Oh, yeah? Tessa thought, and derived great pleasure from silently telling Ingrid what she'd have seen if she'd come into the kitchen five minutes earlier.

  'I hope you weren't bothering him with your stupid chatter,' Ingrid went on.

  'I'm not sure. He was chuckling too much to tell me!'

  Ingrid's mouth thinned into a hard line. 'Patrick was chuckling at you, not with you. He finds you such an interesting specimen, he said he'd like to put you in a glass jar.'

  'In his bedroom?' Tessa asked, enjoying the flare of rage that crossed Ingrid's face before she turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her.

  Despite her victory over the Swedish girl, Tessa wasn't happy. Patrick's kiss had awakened emotions that had lain dormant for years, and she wasn't sure she could batten them down again. It wasn't a pleasant thought for a young woman who prided herself on her control, and she sensed there was a long evening of deep thought ahead of her.

  For the first time she didn't take the short cut home through the garden wall, for the gap was half closed and a pile of stones beside it was testimony to its completion tomorrow. Instead she walked down the long drive, arms swinging, and breathing deeply of the flower-scented air. She was nearing the wrought-iron gates when a car purred to a stop beside her.

  'You've finished early,' Patrick said.

  'Yes.' Turning her head, she stared into his blue, blue eyes, but resolutely refused to be swayed by their brilliance.

  'Until tomorrow, then,' he said.

  Was that a question or a statement? Instinct told her he wasn't sure if she had left because there was no more work to do, or was actually quitting.

  'I won't be in tomorrow,' she stated.

  'Dammit, Tessa! Do you want me to apologise again for kissing you?' He jumped from the car and took a step towards her, then thought better of it and leaned against the door. 'I told you it was an impulse and won't happen again.'

  She shrugged, in two minds whether or not to do as he'd thought, and quit.

  'From now on you'll be safe with me,' he assured her.

  Detecting faint amusement in his voice, she knew he thought she was over-reacting. And he was right too. Were she really the eighteen-year-old hippy she was pretending to be, she'd have thought nothing of his kiss. By waxing indignant, she was acting like the inhibited twenty-seven-year-old she really was. Hard on this thought came another chastening one: the realisation that most women her age were far more experienced than she was.

  Aware of his still leaning against the side of the car, casually elegant in black linen trousers and sweater, she felt herself responding yet again to his magnetism. ‘I’ll stay on,' she heard herself say.

  'Good. And you have my word I'll keep my distance.'

  'You'd better.' She walked past him.

  "See you tomorrow,' he called.

  'I told you I'm not coming in.'

  'But I thought you——-'

  'I'm taking the day off.' It was a sudden decision, but she felt the need to put distance between herself and this man.

  'Going to London?'

  'Where else? It's the only place to be if you want a good time.'

  'I imagine you always have a good time,' he said sourly, slipping back into the car and switching on the ignition.

  She continued on her way to Greentrees, curious as to why Patrick was put out at the thought of her going to town, and wondering if he was more attracted to his teen
age helper than he cared to admit!

  It was an amusing thought, and it led to others that were less amusing, though considerably more interesting.

  And also more dangerous.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Having committed herself to a day in London, Tessa resisted the urge to call on Sir Denis—aware that if she set foot in the hospital she might succumb to the temptation of returning to work—and decided instead to visit Bobby Millet, keen to discover how he was progressing with his work for the silver and wood exhibition he and a friend were mounting.

  Reaching the bench under Uncle Martin's favourite oak, she perched on it. Yes, she'd visit Bobby. He always made her feel good, which couldn't be said of Patrick— and definitely not of Ingrid! Leaning against the bark, she thought back to the start of her friendship with her erstwhile patient…

  An infection had set in the day after she had operated on him for peritonitis, and, looking up from examining him, she saw a broad smile on the face of this extremely ill young man.

  'You can't be feeling as good as your smile,' she said.

  'I'm fine,' he whispered—with a temperature of a hundred and four!

  'Tell Nurse when you're in pain and she'll give you another injection.'

  'It's not necessary. I'm OK.'

  It was the same each time she saw him: he was always 'fine' and always cheerful. Then, a week later, when his temperature was near normal, she was greeted with, 'Hi, Doc. If you attach me to any more tubes I'll feel like a steam-engine!'

  'What do you know about steam-engines?’ she teased.

  'Lots. They're my hobby.'

  It was an unlikely hobby for a young man with dyed blond spiky hair and an earring. 'I thought they were extinct.'

  'Not quite. A few are used in India and South America, and one day I plan to see every one of them.'

  'That's a tall order.'

  'It gives me a goal to aim at. One day I'll make my fortune and travel!'

  'What do you do?'

  'I make wood carvings and sell 'em in street markets.'

  'I'd like to see them,' she said idly, not meaning it.

  'Come to Battersea and you can. I live with two pals of mine. Ain't Buckingham Palace, but it keeps out the wet!'

  A week later Bobby left hospital, and a month afterwards dropped her a note inviting her to tea. Deciding it was rude to refuse his invitation, she wrote back saying she was free next Saturday afternoon, and so found herself—on her one day off in a month—outside a decrepit Victorian house in a back street in Battersea. Her first instinct was to turn tail and run, but, taking her courage in her hands, she knocked on the battered front door.