A Very Single Woman

by Caroline Anderson

  Stupid. She wasn’t interested. She didn’t do relationships. Not anymore.

  “So, Dr. Moore, what’s the verdict?”

  “Are you offering me the job?” she asked levelly, suddenly realizing she wanted him to—desperately—because for no good reason that she could think of it had become very important to her to be here, in this village, working in this office.

  No good reason. Just a very bad one, she acknowledged, and he was standing in front of her. That latent masculinity, the coiled energy, the extraordinarily lively intelligence in those astonishing blue eyes—they all added up to a very potent package, and she had a terrible urge to unwrap it.

  Foolish, silly girl. Run! Get out!

  “Sure I’m offering you the job. I’d be an idiot not to. I just hope you’ll take it.”

  “Great. Thank you. I’ll take it,” she said, and found her hand enveloped in his, their eyes locked.

  Heat shot through her and any doubts she’d had about her sanity were instantly dispelled. She was definitely, certifiably, off her trolley.

  Dear Reader,

  Writing is a weird process, full of threads from all sorts of places drawn together to weave a cloth. I’ve often had a pang for all the children without parents who need a loving home. I’ve felt reticence about single women using men to give them a child without a loving relationship as their foundation. I’ve pondered on how it must be to be a single parent, and hoped it would never happen to me. And I love houses.

  This book is a mish-mash of all these threads, triggered by a lovely June day last summer when a neighboring village held an “open gardens” day for charity. And there was this wonderful garden surrounding a modest little bungalow, and over the fence a truly gorgeous house, converted from the base of a windmill and its adjoining barns. So, because I can, I dispensed with the bungalow and made it a cottage, ruthlessly killed off the charming owner and gave it to Helen. And Nick, of course, lived in the beautiful house at the end of her garden….

  The rest, as they say, is history. I hope you enjoy their story as much as I enjoyed weaving it for you.

  Caroline Anderson

  A Very Single Woman

  Caroline Anderson

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHE was late, of course. It was absolutely the last thing Nick needed, at the end of a busy week and with the locum off sick and his partner on compassionate leave.

  And Sam would be waiting at his grandparents’, champing at the bit because Nick had promised to build him the tree-house this weekend and they were going to start this evening. Correction, they had been going to start this evening, but he couldn’t leave until his interviewee arrived, and she’d phoned over an hour ago and said she was on her way.

  If she hadn’t been such a perfect fit for their requirements, he would have told her she’d blown it by failing to arrive on time, but she was too good to miss.

  He looked at the application form again, studying it grimly for weaknesses. There were none. Well, none that he could see. He turned over the page and read her CV, and was reluctantly impressed.

  It seemed that the thirty-four-year-old Dr Helen Moore was clever, had wide experience in the areas that mattered and, even more unbelievably, apparently wanted to come to their quiet little neck of the woods and take the part-time job they’d advertised in a fit of blind optimism.

  Why? Why would anybody in their right mind want to come to this sleepy corner of Suffolk? Never mind someone as well qualified as Helen Moore.

  Except, of course, that she wasn’t here yet. She’d probably driven through the village and headed for home, like any sensible person would.

  A car pulled up in front of the surgery, and a tall, leggy blonde unravelled herself from the seat, threw her long hair back away from her face and shook it out, then after a momentary hesitation smoothed her skirt, straightened her shoulders and headed for the door.

  Her legs were bare in deference to the heat, long and tanned and sleek beneath the demure knee-length hem of her pale linen dress—and utterly gorgeous. Something slow and deep and elemental stirred inside him, fanning the last ember of a long-forgotten fire.

  ‘Behave yourself, for God’s sake,’ he growled at himself, and went out into Reception to greet her. ‘Dr Moore?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m so sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said quickly. He would have forgiven her anything at that moment, he realised, and gave himself a swift mental shake.

  He held out his hand, and hers vanished inside it, smooth and cool and firm, and the glimmering ember turned into a conflagration and threatened to engulf him. He dropped her hand like a hot potato and waved at the door of his room, struggling for air and the simple elements of polite conversation that had eluded him completely. ‘I’m Nick Lancaster. Come on in, Dr Moore.’

  ‘Please, call me Helen,’ she said, and her voice was like cream, rich and deep and mellow, with a tinge of huskiness that scraped over his nerve-endings and left him gasping for breath.

  She can’t be this beautiful and clever, he told himself frantically. The CV must be a lie. And why isn’t she married?

  He nearly asked her, nearly blurted out the question, but he bit the inside of his cheek and dropped into his chair, picking up a pencil and fiddling with it under the edge of the desk. ‘So, you had car trouble?’

  She smiled apologetically. ‘Yes. I’m so sorry. It was really stupid—I had a fractured fuel line and ran out of petrol. I suppose I was lucky it didn’t catch fire, really. I might have gone up in flames.’

  Join the club, Nick thought grimly. He dragged his eyes from the modest but hinting neck of the dress and the tempting swell of her breasts beneath. ‘Never mind, you’re here now,’ he said, his voice sounding rusty and a little gruff. He cleared his throat. ‘Ah—um, I see you’re working in Suffolk already, so why the move, and why the change to part time?’

  She sat up a little straighter, her jaw firming. ‘Is there a law against it?’ she asked, and he blinked.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said hastily, conjuring up a smile. ‘It just seems—well, a little unlikely. I wondered if there was a reason, apart from the obvious one of not wanting to work all the hours that God sends and then some.’

  She nodded, a slight tilt of her head in acknowledgement. ‘There is a reason, of course. I want to work part time so I can look after my child,’ she said quietly. Guardedly?

  That threw him. There had been no mention of a child. ‘What about your partner, if you have one?’ he asked, treading on thin ice. He wasn’t allowed to ask these sorts of questions, but Nick didn’t care very much about what he was and wasn’t allowed to do—not if it got in his way. ‘Will he move, too,’ he went on, ‘or will you commute? It’s quite a long way.’

  ‘I’m alone,’ she said, and the pencil disintegrated, spraying his stone-coloured chinos with bits of lead and wood. He dropped the shattered remnants into the bin and swept the splinters off his legs surreptitiously, leaving a scatter of grey marks on the pale fabric. Damn. He pulled himself together and wondered if that was laughter he could see in the depths of her eyes—the pale grey-green eyes that so exactly matched her dress.

  ‘Snap,’ he said appropriately, and nearly groaned aloud. What an idiot. ‘I’m a single parent, too,’ he offered. ‘I’ve got a son, Sam. He’s eight. What about you? Have you got a boy or a girl?’

  She hesitated momentarily, then see
med to stiffen her spine. ‘I don’t know yet.’

  Of their own volition his eyes shot to her board-flat abdomen in the elegant, understated dress, and he felt one eyebrow crawl up into his hairline. He dragged it down and sat forwards, propping his elbows on the desk and staring down at the CV for inspiration. There was none to be found, so he looked her in the eye again and struck another blow for political incorrectness.

  ‘Pardon me for stating the obvious, but you don’t look very pregnant,’ he commented.

  ‘Well, no, I wouldn’t,’ she said enigmatically.

  Great. It was all to come—morning sickness, days off for antenatal care—maternity leave, for heaven’s sake! He heaved a sigh and stabbed his fingers through his hair, rumpling it still further.

  ‘I’m sorry, I know I’m not allowed to ask these questions, but you have to see where I’m coming from. We need a person now—part time, granted, but regular, someone who’ll come in every day and do the job required of them, not disappear on maternity leave.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be. Taking maternity leave, that is. I’m not pregnant.’

  ‘But you’ve got a child—or you’re going to have one, of indeterminate sex? That implies pregnancy—so if you aren’t pregnant now, presumably you intend to be so at some point in the near future?’

  She stood up, her eyes firing pale green sparks. ‘Dr Lancaster, you’re right, you’re totally out of order, but for your information I’m actually intending to adopt—although since you clearly aren’t interested in having another single parent in the practice, I won’t take any more of your time—’

  ‘No! Dr Moore—Helen—wait!’

  He all but vaulted over the edge of the desk and took her arm, preventing her escape. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—Oh, hell.’ He stabbed a hand through his hair again and met her eyes with a crooked and repentant smile. ‘Can we start again?’

  ‘What, now you know all the personal things you aren’t supposed to ask about?’ Her voice was chilling, and she looked down pointedly at his hand on her arm.

  He dropped it and stepped back, carefully positioning himself so he was between her and the door.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, his smile slipping. ‘I was way out of line, but you know what it’s like in a small practice. There’s precious little room to manoeuvre. It’s hard enough making allowances for me and my son, and I have my parents here in the village to help me look after him. If you move here alone, without a support system, naturally it’ll be harder when things go wrong, but I’m sure we can work round it if necessary. Nothing’s insurmountable.’ He gave her his coaxing, little-boy grin again. ‘Please, let’s talk it through, let me show you the practice, then you can decide.’

  She hesitated a moment, her even, translucent white teeth nibbling thoughtfully at the corner of her lip, and then she sighed and sat down again, and he felt the breath rush out of him, leaving him weak. He sat down in a hurry before his legs deserted him, and his mouth tilted up at one corner in relief.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and as she looked up at him across the desk their eyes met, and he felt the shock of it right down to his toes.

  It was like being struck by lightning, Helen thought in a daze. Cobalt blue lightning, spearing through her and pinning her to the chair. What a smile—even if he did ask the damnedest questions!

  She dragged her eyes from his and reminded herself that she wasn’t interested. She didn’t do relationships—and most particularly not with potential colleagues with eyes like a Mediterranean night sky and a smile that could melt the soles of her shoes.

  ‘So,’ he was saying, ‘you’re planning to adopt a child, and you want a part-time job. If I might say so, that’s very brave of you.’

  ‘Taking on a child alone? Lots of people do it.’

  ‘Lots of people have to,’ he pointed out, his eyes clouding slightly. ‘Most of us don’t do it out of choice.’

  She wondered what had happened, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking, or open the floodgates to any further penetrating questions. ‘I don’t have a choice either,’ she said flatly, and wondered if the bleak tone in her voice was audible only to her own ears, or if Dr Lancaster would hear it and pick up on it.

  ‘About the practice,’ she said, dragging the interview firmly back into line, and for the next few minutes the talk was all of patient numbers and targets and clinics and frustrations and the limitations of the job, and she found herself totally in agreement with him. If only he would stick to business and not pry, she was sure they’d get on fine.

  If.

  She didn’t think there was a lot of chance. Dr Nick Lancaster, with his laughing blue eyes and evident passion for his job, wasn’t a person to stick to the rules or stay behind lines drawn in the sand. Still, it was a lovely part of Suffolk, not too far from her mother and sister, and it seemed a safe little place to bring up a child.

  And, with a part-time job instead of full time, she’d be more likely to be given the go-ahead to adopt.

  ‘Have a look round,’ he said, shooting back his chair and getting to his feet. He held the door for her, and as she passed through it she was suddenly utterly aware of him, of the very essence of him—the sheer power of his body, the faint scent of soap and warm skin, the way his shirt moved over the lean, muscled contours of his shoulders, the neat hips and long legs encased in trousers so well cut they merely hinted at all that masculinity.

  Stupid. She wasn’t interested. She didn’t do relationships with colleagues—with anyone, she corrected herself. Not now. Not any more. Too messy, too heartbreaking, too dangerous, especially if there was a child involved. She particularly didn’t do relationships where there was a child involved.

  She followed him out into the surgery, and they went into all the other consulting rooms, the clinics and the office, pausing to collect a plastic cup of chilled water from the dispenser before moving on. The huge plastic bottle gurgled to a halt, and he sighed and changed it, hefting the new bottle into place effortlessly.

  Helen sipped her cool, refreshing water and tried not to look, not to notice the ripple of muscle under his shirt, but her eyes had decided not to obey her today and it was a fruitless task. Perhaps she should just dump the cold water on her head to settle herself down.

  He turned to her with a grin. ‘Now I won’t be in trouble with the reception staff tomorrow morning,’ he said, as if it was likely that anyone with that smile would be in trouble with anyone for long.

  ‘God forbid,’ she murmured, and he chuckled, propping up the counter behind him and eyeing her thoughtfully.

  ‘So, Dr Moore, what’s the verdict? Can you forgive me my intrusive questioning and work with us?’

  ‘Are you offering me the job?’ she asked levelly, suddenly realising that she wanted him to, desperately, because for no very good reason that she could think of it had suddenly become very important to her to be here, in this village, working in this surgery.

  No good reason. Just a very bad one, she realised, and he was standing in front of her, about as bad as they came, looking rumpled and sexy and as safe as a rumbling volcano. All that latent masculinity, the coiled energy, the extraordinarily lively intelligence in those astonishing blue eyes—it all added up to a very potent and dangerous package, and she had a terrible urge to unwrap it.

  Foolish, silly girl. Run! her mind screamed. Get out!

  ‘I think we could work together,’ he said, serious now. ‘We’re looking for a woman to achieve a little balance in the practice. Some of our female patients prefer to see another woman, and many of the children are happier. It makes sense. You’re the only woman that’s applied who we’d consider, and you’re more than adequate for the job, as you must be aware.’ He shrugged. ‘Sure, I’m offering you the job. I’d be an idiot not to. I just hope you’ll take it.’

  ‘What about my child-care arrangements?’ she asked, reminding him that she wasn’t, in fact, the perfect candidate.

 
He shrugged again. ‘It’ll work if you want it to. I have no doubt there’ll be hiccups, but we can deal with that. We’re flexible. It cuts both ways. There are times when I can’t be one hundred per cent reliable either. That’s OK. We’re human.’

  Very human. Human and male and dangerous. Run!

  ‘Great. Thank you. I’ll take it,’ she said, and found her hand wrapped in his, their eyes locked.

  Heat shot through her, and any doubts she’d had about her sanity were instantly dispelled. She was definitely, certifiably off her trolley.

  Nick couldn’t believe it. She’d accepted—even after his somewhat unorthodox interview and the litigation he’d nearly got himself involved in. He glanced at his watch and tunnelled his hand through his hair again.

  ‘Look, I have to go and pick up my son, because my parents are going out to the theatre tonight, but if you aren’t in a hurry we could pick up a take-away and go back to my place and finalise a few details.’

  He held his breath while she vacillated. Those pretty little teeth nibbled her lip again in the unconscious gesture that sent blood rushing through his veins with unseemly haste. He scrubbed a hand over his chin, aware of the stubble and the slight salty stickiness at the end of a long, scorching June day.

  What he really wanted was to go home and get into a shower, pour himself a gin and tonic and sit down in the garden with his feet up. Instead, he was either going to end up taking Helen home for a Chinese or grovelling about in the woodpile with Sam and building a tree-house.

  Guilt and need gnawed at him in equal parts, but he was used to that. Used to both, although the need thing usually didn’t trouble him too much during the day. It normally waited for the small hours of the night, or if he was watching a romantic film late in the evening after Sam was in bed.

  It had been years since he’d even noticed a real woman, but he’d noticed this one, and he suddenly regretted issuing the invitation. He had to work with her, had to treat her as a colleague and not embarrass himself in front of her every time he saw her.