Claimed: One Wife

by Meredith Webber

  Sally woke slowly, bits of her body coming to life in a random sequence. Her shoulder hurt. Her mind felt woozy but somehow contented. Her toes were tingly, but her neck ached, and there was a more pleasant ache deep inside her. Her back was warm where it nestled against a firm body.

  Her back was warm where it what?

  The question fairly shrieked through her mind and she froze, too afraid to move in case she woke the firm body.

  Details of the previous evening's conversation came back with alarming clarity.

  Uh-oh!

  How could she have sat there on her boss's lounge and calmly asked him to please take her to bed?

  What must he have thought when she'd virtually insisted?

  What could he have done but oblige?

  She bit her lip to stop the loud wail of regret that welled up inside her.

  Not that she hadn't enjoyed it, but—

  No regrets, she'd promised him, and she had none. Well, none if you discounted the fact that what they'd shared had made her feelings for him worse, not better.

  But was she sorry it had happened?

  She couldn't lie to herself about something so important.

  No.

  So no regrets!

  Or complaints for that matter, the part of her that was reliving the experience suggested slyly. This man knew things Greg had never dreamt of.

  But their professional life? All the tomorrows?

  Could she meet him in the corridor and not think of how she'd cried out...?

  Operate beside him and not remember how he'd made her feel?

  And all this with a man who was against staff fraternisation?

  She closed her eyes and wondered if it was possible to will oneself into oblivion. If she tried hard enough, could she transform herself into a puddle of ectoplasm and simply melt through the mattress?

  You can pretend! she told herself firmly when will-power had failed to dematerialise her. Pretend it never happened.

  And for starters, you can get out of his bed and go home. It's daylight, and as he's come from Sydney he's sure to own a lightweight overcoat. You can borrow it and scurry home and think about everything else some other time.

  Like next century!

  Totally spooked by her thoughts, Sally eased off the bed and slipped out of his bedroom. Remembered her need for cover and slipped back in to ransack his wardrobe.

  No regrets! she'd promised him.

  Hell, they hadn't even used protection. Had she really assured him it was quite safe? Given him the impression she was on the Pill?

  After the way she'd talked about it being a woman's prerogative to indulge in one-night stands, he'd probably assumed it anyway!

  Probably assumed a lot of things she'd prefer he didn't think about her.

  She found a soft, camel-coloured coat and eased it off the hanger.

  Mutual satisfaction, she'd said to him.

  She hoped he'd had that.

  But why had it happened? Why had her control broken last night of all nights?

  Could fear have sent so much adrenalin pumping through her body that it hadn't only overcome her inhibitions about casual sex but had actually made her ache for that ultimate expression of close human contact?

  'Let's hope you don't get attacked before a visit to the dentist,' she muttered grimly to herself, thinking of the overweight and, to her, unattractive dental surgeon who was always asking for a date. 'Or the accountant!'

  He was tall and lean and bald, and treated her with an irritating benevolence!

  But thinking about dentists and accountants was a mental ploy, she realised, to prevent her thinking about the real problem. Six feet something of super-sexy male who'd had her hormones in a frazzle even before she'd been stupid enough to leap into his bed.

  Hell!

  She pulled on damp underwear—pleased a determination to feel clean after the attack had prompted her to wash it last night—and the torn red dress. Wrapped the coat around her and tiptoed into the kitchen, seeking pen and paper.

  Somehow, she had to make working with him again possible. And in order for her to face him without blushing a fiery red with mortification, she had to convince him the night had meant nothing to her.

  That she'd meant what she'd said about it being nothing more than a release, a one-off interlude of mutual satisfaction.

  But how?

  'Borrowed your coat,' she wrote. 'Will bring it into work Monday.'

  That was good. Practical and to the point, while making it obvious there'd be no post-mortem of the events later today.

  She stopped and sucked on the end of the pen for a moment.

  She should say thank you for his comfort—without detailing which bit had helped her most. But she couldn't figure how to word it, as everything she tried had connotations she didn't want to consider.

  Thank you for taking me in?

  No way!

  In the end she settled for the two words.

  'Thank you.'

  Then she left the note where he'd see it, and quietly left the apartment.

  'So she'll give the coat back Monday, will she?'

  Grant ground the words out with a savagery that didn't begin to express his feelings.

  Though why he'd been so furious to find Sally gone, he couldn't fathom.

  Frustration was part of it. She'd been warm and responsive and alarmingly sexy, and his body had woken him with some extraordinary memories, and a strong desire to see if it had been as good as he remembered it.

  So to find no warm body curled against his had been the first shock.

  To find she'd disappeared completely had been the second. That's when muttered words about cheek and ingratitude had fuelled his anger.

  Well, she could stay gone as far as he was concerned.

  She'd been the one who'd insisted it was a one-night thing. No strings. No regrets.

  And if that's what she wanted, that's what she'd get! Not by a flicker of an eyelid would he betray how he felt.

  Which was how?

  He groaned aloud when he realised he couldn't answer that question.

  Confused, certainly. A little bit cheated.

  Missing her?

  Certainly not!

  It had been purely sexual. He'd woken wanting more, and she'd been gone. Well, that was for the best. He'd go for a run instead. Get the paper. Enjoy a leisurely morning at home.

  No complications.

  Apart from an ache in his groin and a sense of loneliness he'd never felt before.

  He reached for the phone. After all, Tom had to take some responsibility for this. It had to be his sudden and apparently overwhelming attraction to Sam that had prodded lust to life in Grant's usually controllable body.

  'Do you believe women can think the same way men do about sex?' he demanded.

  If Tom was startled by the request, he didn't show it.

  'In what way? Enjoyment? I think the feminist movement finally convinced women it was OK to enjoy it.'

  'I mean casual sex. With no strings? No hang-ups? No expecting lifelong commitment after a one-off bit of pleasure?'

  There was a silence, then Tom said, 'Who is she? Tell me it's not Jocelyn who's got your gonads tied in knots.'

  Grant glared at the phone.

  'Why couldn't it be a purely rhetorical question?'

  Tom's laughter echoed through the earpiece.

  'Is she still there? In the bathroom? How did you meet her? What's her name?'

  'She's not still here,' Grant told him crossly, then realised he'd given himself away. No longer a rhetorical she. 'And it doesn't matter who she is—all I want to know is whether you think it's possible for a woman to understand the concept of a one-night stand. No strings, no regrets.'

  More silence, then Tom asked, 'Are you still so afraid of commitment you make these rules before you even begin a physical relationship with someone? Before you give things a chance? Did Erica mess you about that much?'

  Glaring at the pho
ne no longer seemed enough. Grant felt like strangling it.

  'I didn't make the rules, as you call them,' he stormed down the line. 'As a matter of fact, she did!'

  He heard his brother's bark of laughter and slammed the phone back into its cradle.

  Hoped he'd punctured the bastard's eardrum!

  But why did it matter?

  Why shouldn't a woman seek physical pleasure from sex without wanting more?

  Wouldn't that be an ideal situation?

  The answers that came to him were totally unsatisfactory. Theoretically he accepted women had as much right to physical enjoyment as men had and, therefore, yes, they should be free to indulge in whatever form of sexual pleasure turned them on.

  Though why he should be hoping Sally Cochrane wasn't like that, he couldn't say.

  Sally made it her business to stay out of her boss's way. She'd dropped off his coat at his office Monday morning, avoiding both him and Miss Flintock by going in very early and leaving it, wrapped in brown paper but clearly labelled with his name, outside the outer office door.

  Avoiding him on the official ward rounds, or in other situations where their paths inevitably crossed, was impossible, but she'd learned enough of his routine to steer clear of the ward at times he was likely to pop in, and she lengthened her own days so she could make earlier and later visits to patients both there and in the ICU.

  So bumping into him, almost literally, in the library late the following Saturday afternoon was totally unexpected.

  And seeing him in casual clothes, tailored trousers and a soft knit shirt in a dark blue colour which did wondrous things for his eyes, wasn't what she needed.

  'Well, well,' he said. 'If it isn't the elusive Dr Cochrane.' His smile, false though she suspected it might be, made her pulse race. 'Is it my deodorant?' he added, still smirking at her as she skittered backwards.

  'Your deodorant?' She sniffed suspiciously. 'What do you mean? Is it new? Overpowering?'

  The smile widened, lighting up the eyes she found so beguiling—and sending her nerves into a quivering dither of delight.

  'Certainly not overpowering,' he said, with dry emphasis on the final word. 'In fact, I've been wondering if it was falling down on the job. If my proximity was to be avoided at all costs, but even my friends wouldn't tell me?'

  She forgot quivering dithers of delight and frowned at him.

  'What on earth are you talking about?'

  'An old ad campaign my parents talk about. Even his friends wouldn't tell him. I thought it might have been body odour keeping you away from me.'

  'D-don't be ridiculous,' she stuttered, but she couldn't stop herself sniffing the air again and adding candidly, 'Actually, there's no trace of body odour, and whatever aftershave you wear has a very pleasant lemon-grass tang to it.'

  'So?' he persisted.

  'So what?' she asked, scanning his face for some clue to this probing.

  'So why are you avoiding me?'

  'I'm not avoiding you,' she told him. 'In case you don't remember we did a ward round together this morning.'

  'And operated together a few days back,' he reminded her. 'But unless I specifically make a time to see you, or it's a rostered duty, you're a flash of skirt disappearing around a corner, or a hint of flowers in the air after you've whisked from a room before I reach it.'

  'A hint of flowers?' Sally repeated. 'Getting a bit poetic for a man who doesn't encourage fraternising in his team.'

  'There's a difference between fraternisation and the occasional pertinent discussion between colleagues, Dr Cochrane.'

  The ironic tone skated along Sally's nerves, but there was no way she intended weakening in her resolve to keep out of his way. Just being in the same hospital was enough to prod memories of 'that night', while operating near him had become a kind of agony.

  But little meetings, one-on-one discussions in the privacy of Grant's office, were most definitely to be avoided. They provided far too much opportunity for delicate subjects to be raised.

  Plus the possibility that she'd forget herself and gaze with longing at his lips, remembering...

  'Was there anything in particular you wished to discuss? Some patient problem? Is it Craig? I would have thought you'd be pleased with his progress.'

  He made a strange noise—part growl, part tooth-grinding—and glared at her, and something in his expression reminded her of the other man she'd met—the carbon copy.

  'How's your brother?' she asked. 'Has he had scans? Is there any lingering after-effect of his concussion?'

  Another strangled sound suggested it wasn't the best question to have asked, so she turned away to close the book she'd intended reading, knowing she'd find concentration impossible with him in the room.

  But with the book closed there was nothing to pretend to read. Nowhere to look, except at Grant.

  'Shall we begin again?' he said, then he held up a hand. 'And before you ask "begin what?" in that innocent voice of yours, which, incidentally, doesn't fool me for one instant, I mean begin this conversation. I'll admit I introduced the note of levity to it, and that it was a mistake so now I'll go the direct route. Are you deliberately avoiding me?'

  Much as she disliked lying, Sally decided it was the only option.

  'No,' she said, and looked directly into his eyes as she said it in the hope she'd make it more believable.

  'That's it? No?'

  The man sounded stunned—which made two of them, really, as the conversation was certainly throwing her for a loop.

  'What else do you want me to say?' she demanded. 'I mean, if I'm not avoiding you then there's no reasoning to tack anything onto the statement, is there?'

  He made the groaning noise again and turned away, taking several steps before swinging back to say, 'And my brother's fine, thank you. Yes, he did have a scan and, no, so far there've been no nasty repercussions.'

  Then, with a nod that told her nothing, he disappeared behind a stack of files.

  Sally's first impulse was to flee, but that would give credence to his suspicions, so she sat down and reopened the book, leafing through until she found the reference she'd already read. The one that had started her in search of a second text.

  'Are you interested in Parkinson's as a subject for further study?' The sudden question made her start, then she felt a warm hand rest steadyingly on her shoulder.

  'I'm sorry if I startled you,' Grant added.

  The warm hand remained where it was, as if he'd forgotten he'd left it there. But Sally couldn't forget its presence—or ignore the little shimmy of excitement so casual a touch had generated.

  'It's OK,' she managed to say. 'I'd become absorbed in what I was reading and thought you'd gone.'

  'Of course!' he told her, his tone more dry than ironic this time.

  'You asked about Parkinson's. About study.' She shifted so his hand slid from its position, forcing him to retrieve it. 'Not really. I mean, I'm not contemplating further detailed study of it, but the use of surgery to alleviate the worst of its symptoms does interest me. You know Harry? Harry Strutt? The anaesthetist who works nights?'

  She was aware she must sound demented. Firing words and mini-sentences at him like scatters of lead from a shotgun. But the man's return, just when she'd managed to shut him out of her mind, had seriously damaged her composure.

  Perhaps permanently, if the way she felt right now was any indication.

  'Harry who did the anaesthetic for Craig's operation?'

  Pleased he'd been able to follow her babble, Sally nodded.

  'His wife has Parkinson's and Harry's her primary carer. Over the years, when I've been on nights, we've got into the habit of discussing it—new trials of drugs, alternative treatments. Harry actually knows a lot more than I do but I can't help feeling that eventually surgery will offer more than drugs.'

  'Spoken like a true surgeon,' Grant said, then he leant across and lifted the book she'd been reading. 'But this isn't new. It's the standard text. Written wh
at, twenty years ago?'

  'Yes, but I remember reading somewhere a list of toxins suspected of causing the reduction of dopamine in some people.'

  'Resulting in the onset of Parkinsonian symptoms?'

  He sounded interested, and Sally, pleased to be able to discuss her thoughts, even with a man she was trying to avoid, nodded.

  'Manganese? Carbon monoxide? Cyanide? Methanol?' he recited. 'They're the ones I can recall offhand, and a number of prescription drugs come into it as well. Why the interest in the toxins?'

  His smile invited a response and, reluctantly, she let her lips relax.

  Returned his smile.

  'It was something I noticed on the website you mentioned. Apparently, one of the suggestions for further research is to test people for reactions to the known dopamine-reducing toxins as an early-warning system.'

  'Seems a bit extreme to me. Have you tried Hurst? For the list?'

  Sally shrugged at the mention of the book she'd failed to find.

  'It's gone walkabout,' she told him. 'I suppose one copy could be out on loan but as it's a reference there should be a spare here at all times.'

  'I've a copy at home,' Grant said, the words slipping easily into the air between them. 'I'm heading that way now and you're welcome to come over and borrow it. Or, if you prefer, I can bring it into work on Monday.'

  Now he was scattering words like lead shot. Regretting the offer?

  No! He sounded more anxious than regretful.

  Anxious for her to say yes or no?

  She didn't puzzle over that question for long. After all, if she had the book, she could spend tomorrow looking up the possible side effects of the toxins listed and give some thought to producing a paper oh the dangers of taking theoretical research too far.

  And going back to his apartment might kill some of the ghosts currently haunting her dreams. It would prove, both to her and to him, that she'd meant all the things she'd said. That it had been nothing more than a night of mutual pleasure.

  No regrets.

  Like hell!

  But that was for her to know, and him not to guess.