by Amy Andrews
Patrick smiled. So she was single. ‘Would you believe me if I told you I don’t either?’
Miranda shook her head. ‘No.’ He looked exactly like he hung out in bars. And never went home alone. Drinks with colleagues after work. Flirting with the nurses. Smiling that sinful smile at the waitresses.
He gave her a faux wounded sigh. ‘Sad but true.’
And somehow she found she believed him. ‘So how come you’re here now?’
‘Can’t sleep.’ His drink arrived and he held his glass up. ‘To insomnia.’
Miranda clinked her glass against his. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said, taking a sip of her Shiraz, watching him over the rim as a slug of amber liquid slid down his throat.
Patrick felt the burn all the way down to his stomach. He placed his glass on the bar and turned to face her. Up this close her smoky green eyes and heart-shaped face, free of lines or any kind of adornment, were even more appealing.
He was attracted to her. But more than that, he wanted to talk to her.
There was no harm in that, right?
‘So where’s your daughter tonight? Lola, right?’
He watched her fiddle with the stem of her wine glass.
‘Her first sleepover. It’s why I’ve got Pinky. Lola didn’t want to take her favourite toy because she’s apparently a big girl now. But she didn’t want Pinky to be home all alone so...I have her.’ Her mouth kicked up around the rim of her wine glass as she took a sip. ‘Four-year-old logic is hard to explain.’
Patrick knew that intimately. He pulled up his sleeve a little to reveal the dyed macaroni bracelet Ruby had made him a month ago. ‘It’s okay. I speak four-year-old too.’
Miranda blinked at the lurid colours and before she knew it she was reaching out to touch the made-with-love creation. ‘Oh...that’s just gorgeous,’ she murmured.
It looked so sexy against the dark hairs of his wrist and she was reminded of how she’d admired his broad palm when he had held Lola’s miniature pink teddy bear.
Patrick cleared his throat as her light touch had an alarming effect on the artery that pulsed nearby. ‘The matching necklace had an unfortunate run in with the shower. Luckily Ruby understood.’
Miranda laughed, looking up from his wrist. His eyes were browny-gold, like autumn leaves amidst his olive complexion and they were staring right at her. She realised she was still touching him and quickly withdrew her hand, her cheeks growing warm.
‘Sorry...’
Patrick shook his head, liking how easily she blushed. ‘Don’t be.’
Miranda felt the breath in her throat grow thick as their gazes locked. ‘It’s very sweet of you to wear it.’
Patrick shrugged. ‘I’m a sweet guy.’
Miranda blinked, breaking the spell. Sweet was not how she would describe him. Sexy, charismatic, masculine. Sweet was too...passive for him.
She took a sip of her wine. ‘So...Ruby...that’s your daughter?’
Patrick nodded, grateful to Miranda for pulling them back from the edge. He barely knew her yet there was something very hypnotic about her. She was sitting in a bar at close to midnight in jeans, sneakers and a navy V-neck sweater—like Cinderella after the ball. She wasn’t loud or effusive like the table full of women over near the window. She wasn’t flashing a lot of skin or leaning in close and flirting.
If anything, there was a reserve about her that was intriguing. On the one hand she blushed like a girl but on the other she sat with quiet dignity of a woman well beyond her years.
‘Yes.’ He smiled when he realised she was waiting for an answer. ‘She’s five in January.’
‘Oh. Lola’s five then too.’
Patrick raised his glass to her. ‘A good year for babies, obviously.’
He pulled out his wallet and showed Miranda a picture he’d snapped a couple of weeks ago as Ruby had been running around the yard, trying to catch bubbles.
Miranda smiled at the laughing, rosy-cheeked redhead. ‘Cute. I can see why you called her Ruby. Does she take after her mother?’
Patrick nodded, caught up for a moment in those first few seconds his daughter had come into the world. ‘She has Katie’s hair.’
‘Katie’s your wife?’ Miranda asked casually, suddenly afraid to hear the answer. When he shook his head the need to clarify drove her to ask, ‘You’re not married?’
Patrick looked down at his bare left hand, absently stroking the place where his wedding band, gone for almost three years now, had sat. ‘Not any more.’
Miranda, conscious of the occasional brush of his arm and the heat radiating from his thigh to hers, almost sagged against him in relief. She may not be experienced at picking up men in bars and it certainly hadn’t been her intention when she’d come to the symposium but she was pretty sure there was an undercurrent between them.
An undercurrent she probably would never have explored under normal circumstances. But Lola was at a sleepover and, thanks to the generosity of her grandmother, she was staying the night at a swanky hotel.
Also, she was extraordinarily attracted to Patrick Costello. And if she wasn’t very much mistaken, the feeling was mutual.
This wasn’t some seventeen-year-old-girl crush. This was all grown up. And she wanted it. Her pulse tripped at the thought of doing something a little reckless for a change.
She drained the remnants of her glass. Maybe she could have one crazy night?
‘Would you like another wine?’ he asked.
Miranda met his gaze, felt it rove over her face and settle on her mouth. She’d been a single mother since she was seventeen. She wasn’t up on the rules of this situation but the part of her that was female, that responded to his maleness, knew that another wine implied much more than just a second glass.
If she was sensible, she’d walk away right now.
But she was so tired of always being sensible.
She lifted her chin and looked straight into his golden-brown eyes. ‘Yes, please.’
* * *
They stayed in the bar for another hour talking about their kids and Miranda couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard. Patrick regaled her with funny anecdotes about Ruby’s lisp and she told him about Bud, Lola’s goldfish, who regularly died, usually just after Lola went to bed, and was reincarnated the next morning thanks to the local pet shop.
‘I’m not joking,’ Miranda said as his deep laugh drew her closer and closer. ‘I have Kevin from the Pet Connection on speed dial.’
By tacit agreement neither of them strayed into personal territory about their circumstances but she did gather that Ruby was with him full time and his ex-wife didn’t seem to be around. Also that he had permanent live-in help, which sounded like bliss to Miranda. Her grandmother was wonderful but she was getting on and Miranda had been so gung-ho proving she could raise her child by herself that she hadn’t leaned on anyone more than had been absolutely necessary.
But for all their chatter, Miranda had the strangest feeling that she and Patrick were just marking time. There’d been a sense of inevitability to the night since he’d walked into the bar and it tugged more insistently as the minutes ticked by. But she liked it that he wasn’t rushing her back to his room. It felt kind of old-fashioned—in a modern way—and gave him another layer of sexy.
But her yawn at somewhere past midnight spoiled the build-up. ‘Sorry,’ she apologised, covering her mouth. ‘I’m normally passed out cold by nine o’clock.’
He groaned. ‘I envy you. I feel like I haven’t had a decent sleep since Ruby came along.’
Patrick had enjoyed talking with her. He liked her entertaining stories and easy laugh. He liked how relaxed he felt. He liked how she hadn’t outwardly flirted but he still knew she was into him. He also liked it that any other woman would have jumped in a
nd said ‘I can help you with your sleep situation’ but Miranda had just smiled at him.
‘Shall we go?’ he asked, his voice surprisingly husky.
Miranda nodded. ‘Yes.’
They didn’t talk as they walked through the bar and across the lobby. They didn’t exchange a word as they waited for the lift. Or even inside the lift. Although Patrick leaned on the opposite wall and didn’t take his eyes off her for a second. Miranda’s belly went into freefall but she held his gaze, anticipation pumping her heart rate higher.
The lift doors opened and he said, ‘Yours or mine?’ as he ushered her out.
‘Mine,’ she replied.
She knew zip about one-night stands but she’d heard enough staffroom chatter from other nurses to know she really did not want to be the one doing the walk of shame in the morning.
Patrick stopped outside the door and turned to her. ‘Key?’
Miranda reached into her back pocket, slid the piece of plastic out and handed it over. He went to take it but, suddenly nervous, Miranda didn’t let go for a moment. He raised an eyebrow. ‘You okay?’
The question was low and slid into all the places that were suddenly reminding her how good it felt to be touched. ‘I don’t...usually do this,’ she murmured.
Patrick smiled. ‘I figured.’ He watched her looking at the door, obviously torn. ‘Would it help to know that I don’t either?’
Miranda smiled. ‘Yes.’
‘We don’t have to do this, Miranda.’
She blinked at him, searching his face for signs of disingenuousness. Relief flooded through her when she found none. Patrick looked like he was perfectly willing to say goodnight and leave things as they were.
And he’d be gone tomorrow and she’d never see him again.
But she’d always wonder.
She smiled at him, dropping her hand from the key. ‘I want to.’
Patrick kept his arm in place, the key still extended in her direction. ‘Are you sure, Miranda? Really, really sure?’
She grinned at him. She’d never been surer of anything. ‘Open the damn door, Patrick.’
He grinned back then turned towards the door, swiping the card through and hearing the click as the lights turned green. He pushed the door open and said, ‘Ladies first.’
Patrick’s gut clenched as she brushed past him on the way in, his pulse picking up in anticipation. The door closed behind him and then it was just him and her in the darkened alcove and she was standing there looking at him with possession in her eyes. His groin throbbed in response.
He walked two paces until their bodies were almost touching. She smelled like soap and Shiraz and the combination was intoxicating. He dipped his head to capture her mouth, to savour her taste and to slowly explore her mouth, her neck.
But a little whimper from somewhere at the back of her throat was his undoing and he was deepening the kiss, and her arms were twining around his neck and pulling them together, and before he knew it he’d pushed her up against the wall and they were both breathing hard.
Her hands found the hem of his shirt and it was suddenly gone. Her shirt followed. As did her bra. And as her nipples ruched beneath the pads of his thumbs, his zip was tugged down and her hand was finding its way inside.
He tore his mouth from hers and bit down on a groan. ‘Bed,’ he said, swinging her up in his arms, kissing her ravaged mouth again as he strode in the general direction, stopped at the mini-bar and panted, ‘condoms,’ satisfied when she snagged the pack of three that sat propped next to the salted nuts, barely breaking contact.
In four more strides he’d reached the bed and Patrick threw her on the mattress grateful that she’d thought to leave on one of the subdued down lights so he could see her breasts jiggle enticingly.
She was bare to her waist and breathing hard, her hair was spread out in a wild tangle on the white sheets around her.
Three condoms were never going to be enough.
CHAPTER TWO
February
THE LOCKER ROOM was unusually empty for this time of the morning as Miranda climbed into her scrubs. The novelty of scoring a job in the operating theatres at St Benedict’s had still not worn off and she inhaled the fresh, clean smell of the shirt as she pulled it down over her head like it was the latest from Versace.
The last few months had been a steep learning curve and she was excited today to be starting her anaesthetics rotation. This was where she was hoping to specialise eventually. Scrubbing in on operations and being a surgeon’s right hand was all well and good but she missed the patient contact. At least anaesthetics gave her an opportunity to talk to the people undergoing surgery, even if they were worried and anxious.
Miranda shoved her socked feet into the theatre clogs she’d been issued and grabbed a paper cap from the stash in her locker. She tied it at the back of her head, pleased that she’d decided to cut her hair short rather than have to manage long hair in a theatre cap all day.
The door burst open and two of the more experienced scrub nurses entered, filling the silence. ‘I tell you he’s hot,’ Lilly Martin said. ‘The man wears pink scrubs, pink, for crying out loud and still manages to look like a sex god.’
‘Isn’t he married?’ Denise Grady queried, nodding at Miranda as she went past.
‘Ah, but there’s married, then there’s married, isn’t that right, Miranda?’
Miranda was a little intimidated by Lilly’s brashness. She’d learned a lot about being a scrub nurse under Lilly’s tutelage but she was uncomfortable around the other woman’s forceful personality. Lilly was only a couple of years older than her but Miranda felt like a gauche seventeen-year-old again in comparison.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she murmured, not wanting to get into a debate with Lilly, who could be very opinionated. Married was married as far as she was concerned. No qualifiers. It certainly made people off limits in her books.
Not that she spent all her spare time on the prowl, as Lilly seemed to do. Or even had any spare time. Between shift work and a five-year-old, her hours were well and truly occupied.
Except for that one night.
Her mind drifted to Patrick. A very naked Patrick sprawled in her hotel bed, smiling that satisfied smile. Her cheeks warmed and her stomach rolled over. It had been everything she could ever have hoped for—she had no regrets.
‘Edna said she’d be in Theatre one when you’re done here,’ Lilly said, breaking into her delicious thoughts of a truly wonderful morning glory.
‘Oh, right.’ Miranda gave herself a mental shake, dragging her brain back to the present. ‘Thanks.’
She left Lilly and Denise to their gossip session and headed down the long corridor that separated the theatres on one side from the storerooms, staffrooms and offices on the other. St Benny’s had eight operating theatres. Six were running today with the morning procedures all about to get under way.
Goose-bumps pricked her bare arms as the frigid environment caused her to shiver. The theatres seemed to have only two temperatures—freezing cold or, if you were scrubbed and gowned under huge operating lights, boiling hot.
Miranda pushed open the swing doors to theatre one’s anaesthetic room. Edna, an ex-army nurse, who had been at St Benny’s since Eve had been a child, looked up from a trolley and smiled.
‘Miranda, my dear, how are you?’
Miranda smiled. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
Edna was the stereotypical mother figure, round and jolly and protective of her brood of new grads, though it had taken Miranda only a few days to figure out that you could take the woman out of the army but not the army out of the woman. Edna ran whichever theatre she was in charge of like a military operation and did not suffer fools gladly.
Including prima donna surgeons.
‘Right.’ Edna
smiled. ‘Let’s get started. All this week will be spent familiarising yourself with machinery and drugs and some theory,’ she said, waving a thick booklet in the air, ‘then you’ll have a couple of shifts teamed up with a mentor and next week you’ll be on your own. How does that sound?’
‘Terrifying?’ Miranda admitted.
Edna chuckled. ‘You’ll be fine, dear. Just remember, if in doubt, ask. The anaesthetists won’t bite.’
Miranda nodded. Sage advice she fully intended to take.
The anaesthetists at Benny’s were experienced and very open to teaching and formed part of the great team atmosphere Miranda loved so much. Patients always raved about their surgeons and took the poor old anaesthetist for granted. If only they understood it was the anaesthetists who had the most important job—they were the ones keeping the patients alive during the operation!
Miranda absently hoped that the new guy—the god in pink scrubs—was also a team player. It only took one rotten apple to make a workplace insufferable.
Half an hour into her orientation the swing doors opened and Genevieve Cowan, the director of anaesthetics, entered, chatting to a man in pink scrubs.
A very familiar man in pink scrubs.
Patrick?
Even with his hair hidden by his blue theatre cap, she recognised him instantly. And even if she’d been suddenly blinded her traitorous cells would have whispered his presence to her anyway. Every single oxygen molecule inside Miranda’s lungs seemed to burst in unison and for a moment she struggled to catch her breath.
‘This is Edna,’ Genevieve was saying. ‘I don’t think you’ve met her yet.’
Miranda watched as Patrick extended his hand and shook Edna’s saying, ‘Nice to meet you.’
Patrick was the sex god in pink scrubs? It was all falling into place now. And then a truly horrifying thought fell into place.
He was married?
‘Edna has been here for ever and she knows where every single thing in this place lives. If you need something, she’s the woman for the job.’
Miranda barely heard Genevieve as her gaze flew to Patrick’s left hand. The macaroni bracelet that had adorned his wrist six months ago was gone. But a plain gold band on his ring finger was out and proud.
