Serves you right, she was thinking a few moments later, attempting to shrug off a mingled feeling of disappointment and self-consciousness as she tried to follow the conversation of a prominent anaesthetist she knew only vaguely and liked less.
And then…
He was there. Saunders couldn’t see him, certainly wasn’t about to turn around to look, but suddenly she knew Fordon Landell was there, knew that he knew she was there, that he was deliberately looking at her, touching her with his eyes, consciously trying to make her aware of his presence.
And succeeding!
He couldn’t have succeeded better if he’d dropped an ice-cube down the back of her dress, and indeed the sensation was spookily similar. She could feel little tendrils of ... something, clawing their way up her spine on icy feet.
The words of the anaesthetist fogged around her, as vague and hollow-sounding as if they came from some great distance. She smiled politely, nodded politely when it seemed appropriate, and comprehended none of it.
It wasn’t fair, she was thinking. Nobody should be able to have that effect on a person. Spooked, she took the first opportunity to ease out of the conversation, never turning round, fighting to keep her composure as she drifted away, moving slowly but surely to get the bulk of the crowd between herself and…
Too late.
‘You’re trying to avoid me, and I wonder why?’
The voice was low, husky, and too, too close to her left ear. But not a surprise; she had felt his presence, had somehow known he was moving through the crowded room with her, moving deliberately to counter her escape bid.
‘Why, Mr ... Landell, isn’t it?’ She turned to face him, forcing surprise into her voice, into her expression, knowing even as she did so that she was fooling neither of them.
‘I certainly hope so,’ he replied cheerfully, throwing her a shamelessly cheeky grin. ‘Unless, of course, you’ve been trying to avoid somebody else entirely?’
‘Are you all right?’ she countered, retreating into boldness to try and cover the sudden fluttering in her tummy as she met the intensity of those black, black eyes, ‘I mean ... you’ve only got diabetes — not a persecution complex as well?’
Which gained her only a moment’s respite and a quizzical glance with it. Then, a soft-spoken but definite warning. ‘Neither of which would be an acceptable subject for public announcement, if you don’t mind."
The intensity of the remark made her look again at his eyes, and she also caught ... something, in his posture, in the slightly off-balance way he seemed to be holding himself.
‘You are all right?’ And now her concern was genuine. Because he wasn’t; Saunders was certain of that.
Her glance wavered from his too-bright eyes, dropped to the glass in his hand, flashed round the room evaluating the typical party savouries, returned to find Landell’s eyes still fixed upon her, but no answer forthcoming.
She looked down at his glass again; not a wine-glass. Whisky? It would, she thought, suit the man.
‘How long since you’ve had a proper meal?’ she demanded, sliding into her nurse persona without breaking stride in her thoughts. His too-casual shrug was reply enough.
‘Even money says you’ve had your evening tablet but you didn’t eat tea,’ she insisted, mentally kicking herself but quite unable to stop now. ‘And you’ve had a glass or two; I know Peter’s idea of hospitality."
‘What are you on about?’ He spoke now, but there was an edge to his voice, a firm, almost stroppy stubbornness.
Saunders thought wildly, almost angrily, He mightn’t even have had lunch, for all she knew. And now the alcohol was aiding the pills in driving down blood sugar levels quicker than he was probably used to.
‘Have you eaten anything proper in the last little while?’ she asked, ignoring the increasingly stubborn gleam in his eye. She knew intellectually that she was handling this all wrong, knew that if he really was becoming hypoglycaemic she was more likely just fuelling his stubbornness, making him less likely either to admit it or do anything about it.
She looked up to find his black eyes fixed on her, heard him growl, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’d just swapped that rather spiffy dress for your uniform. Don’t you ever give it a rest?’
‘You really ought to eat something.’ she replied, keeping her voice calm as she looked swiftly around for some type of finger-food that had a bit of substance to it. If she was right, and she was becoming increasingly certain that she was, Fordon Landell needed some quick boost of sugar, that would bring him right and do it quickly. But then he would need something substantial, something high in carbohydrates, that would keep him from lapsing into another hypo all over again.
‘What are you saying — that I’m drunk or something?’ And the slightly belligerent tones made her all the more certain.
‘No, I’m just wondering if… ‘She broke off, turned swiftly away as her eye caught sight of a tray of chocolates on a nearby side-table. She dashed over and grabbed two of them, returning to find Landell staring owlishly at her, shaking his head.
‘Here,’ she said firmly, ‘get these into you.’
‘Are you daft, woman? I can’t eat those. Hell ... you ought to know that.’
‘Just do it.’
‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘No.’ And now he was getting decidedly stubborn; Saunders was sure of her ground now, if totally unsure of how to force the food into this infuriating man without causing a scene.
She paused, drawing a deep, steadying breath. Diabetics going into a hypoglycaemic state, even those who had suffered the problem before and were totally aware of the consequences, could be amazingly unpredictable, seeming to deny the problem with a mulish stubbornness if the process had gone too far.
‘Well, I’m going to. What are you — afraid?’
She had the first chocolate almost at her lips before it was snatched from her grasp in a gesture so quick it surprised her. If he was having a hypo, it certainly hadn’t affected his reflexes.
‘The hell you are. Not until you explain to me in words of one syllable just what the devil you’re up to.’
‘You’re having a hypo, or starting to. You have to—’
‘The hell I am!’ Decidedly stroppy now.
‘And you’re being repetitive.’ Saunders was trying to be patient, knew she had to be patient, but…
‘I’ll give you repetitive,’ he growled, is that what this is all about — you think I’m having a … whatever?’
‘Well, you are!’ Except that she was no longer quite so certain; in fact, she was no longer certain at all.
‘Am I? Or am I, perhaps, getting just a little bit … tiddly?1 he replied, with an almost sinister insistence. ‘More than tiddly, even? Maybe fair-dinkum, three sheets to the wind—’
‘I am not even suggesting you might be drunk! Just that ... Well, you seem to me to be acting a bit…’
‘Strange? My goodness, Nurse,’ he countered in a voice alive with sarcasm. ‘How truly, amazingly observant of you.’
And his black, black eyes mocked her now, laughing at her but laughing without real humour. Saunders had to force herself to meet his eyes, could manage that, but couldn’t get her tongue round any suitable words of reply.
‘Maybe I only get ... strange in your presence?’ he continued, eyes still laughing but now with top lip curled in what she could only interpret as a sneer of satisfaction at having got beneath her guard. He didn’t give her a chance to interrupt.
‘Maybe…’ and his voice slid into soft tones of deliberate seduction, ‘…maybe I just get drunk on your eyes?’
Whereupon he laughed at what Saunders was certain must be the quite startled expression on her own face. But now, at least, the laughter was genuine, and after a moment’s uncertainty she couldn’t help but join in.
‘I think you’re in danger of believing our own bulldust,’ she replied finally. And then, more seriously, ‘But are you quite sure y
ou’re feeling all right? A moment ago you honestly did seem just a bit off ... off-balance or something.’
‘Not surprising,’ he replied. ‘If this wasn’t quite so public a place I could show you the bruises that account for it. I fell off a dirty great cliff the other day and I’m still just a bit stiff, that’s all. Although,’ and he was kind enough to dilute his grin just a tad, ‘I do have to admit that I actually have had quite enough to drink, and it is about time I got some “proper” tucker into me. You may not believe it, but your rather charming dietician did make a good bit of sense during her part of my reconstruction process.’
Then he grinned again and continued. ‘Just wish I could say the same about the podiatrist; I don’t think I’d dare let her lay hands on me in my present condition.’
Saunders nodded sagely, suddenly quite relaxed with this weird man, but not sure exactly why. ‘I’d have thought you’d enjoy Yvonne’s ministrations,’ she said. ‘Most men do, I’m told.’
He shrugged, somehow making the gesture more than it seemed. ‘I’m more partial to a proper massage than to clammy hands round my ankles,’ he replied. ‘Especially cold clammy hands; you ought to speak to her about that.’ Then he shrugged again. ‘Still, she did say I’ve got excellent pulses. Is that a virtue, I wonder?’
And in the face of his wondrous expression of innocence, Saunders could only grin.
‘It suggests, as I’m sure you know, that you’re not having any great circulation problems in your feet,’ she replied. ‘Yet!’
‘There seem to be an awful lot of “yets” and “maybes” involved in this ... condition we share, Nurse White."
And there was something there, not so much in his words but in his tone, and perhaps in the depths of those damned black eyes, that told Saunders he was saying a great deal more than the mere words conveyed. But what?
Best avoided, she thought. This man was far too deep, too complicated. His blatant flirting she could laugh at, perhaps even share, but when he started getting subtle…
Their mobile conversation had drifted them into the thick of the cocktail party and she suddenly realised she was gradually being pressed closer and closer to him; they might almost have been dancing.
And, as if picking her brains, reading her thoughts, he reached out to her, the half-grin on his wonderfully mobile mouth the only warning she got.
Her right hand automatically moved to meet his gesture, only to halt mid-way as she caught the unholy glee in his eyes and, for the first time, felt the stickiness as she started to open her fist.
Fordon Landell shook his head soberly, but the laughter flowed from him as he reached up with his other hand, this one waving a handkerchief, to pluck the remains of the second chocolate, now a sticky, congealed mess, from her grasp.
‘Just so you don’t go wiping it on your dress or anything,’ he said with a chuckle, producing the first chocolate, the one he’d snatched from her only moments ... hours ... earlier, unsullied. He wrapped it into the handkerchief with the mess of the other, then trapped her wrist in an iron grasp while he scrubbed away at the film of chocolate on her fingers.
‘You’re a grot, Nurse White,’ he grinned. ‘A proper little grot! I’ll bet when you were a child you ran around in mud puddles and fell out of trees and came home with smudges on your nose.’
He reached out with the handkerchief in a playful swipe at Saunders’ nose that would have had her rearing back in surprise if she’d had room to do so. As it was, she could only stare at him, no longer worried about him being hypoglycaemic, more wondering if he was actually sane!
Even more so when he tucked the handkerchief into the side pocket of his expensive, exquisitely-tailored sports jacket without apparent regard for the potential consequences.
‘Evidence,’ he said, I shall produce this for mine host when I complain about you on the way out.’
He glanced quickly to ensure his own hands were clean, then reached out to put the cupped fingers on each of her shoulders.
‘Can you twirl?’
‘Can I what?’
‘Twirl,’ he insisted, lifting one hand away only long enough to spin it in an unmistakable gesture before returning it to her shoulder.
Frowning, totally confused by this point, Saunders shook her head at the ludicrous suggestion, then accepted the pressure of his fingers and did as he requested.
‘Right,’ he said when their eyes met once again. He flicked his hands in yet another gesture that hardly required explanation. ‘There goes your uniform: you are officially, definitely, totally off duty now, and I forbid you to so much as mention diabetes, illness, hospitals, or anything else of that depressing nature. I propose to take you out of this den of iniquity and go find some “proper” tucker. Agreed?’
Saunders met his gaze, a curious mixture of seriousness and frivolity, with a grin, finding herself both amused and entranced by it all.
‘Agreed,’ she said with a nod.
‘Good,’ he said. Then cast an approving eye over her, making the journey a deliberately slow, leisurely one that took in every detail of her clothing and the body wearing it. His dark eyes were hooded, but the intention was clear enough, and Saunders thrilled to the implicit flattery.
‘You’ll do,’ he finally said, meeting her eyes again with an expression she simply could not interpret with any accuracy. ‘But — dare 1 say it? — you’ll have to eat better than I suspect you usually do, or my friends at this place we’re going to will be mightily put out!"
And before she could reply he had gripped her above one elbow and was expertly swivelling his way through the crowded room. Within moments, they had said farewell to their hostess, waved a goodbye to Peter Mahoney from across the room, collected Saunders’ coat, somehow disposed of the chocolate- filled handkerchief and Saunders was being handed into the passenger seat of Fordon Landell’s station wagon.
He waved away her suggestion that she take her car too, so as to avoid having to come back for it.
‘We’re not going that far, and besides, I’ll have an excuse, then, to stretch the evening a bit further,’ he said with a cheeky grin. Saunders didn’t dare to mention that she was habitually early to bed, and that a long, long evening in his mercurial company might send her own blood sugar levels into orbit.
His chosen restaurant wasn’t, it turned out, all that far away, and, from the reception they got upon entering, it seemed clear that Fordon Landell was a cherished customer of long standing. He was greeted as an old friend; Saunders was also greeted, not so subtly examined, and, it seemed, approved before they’d been guided through to a private table near the rear of the small establishment.
The blackboard menu listed a wide range of appealing pasta offerings, but Fordon Landell gave Saunders no chance to worry about making difficult choices.
‘Just bring us whatever’s best tonight," he told their waiter, who had already arrived with a bottle of wine that was obviously his usual choice.
And here he observed etiquette, by asking Saunders if she approved, a gesture that was, she thought, largely wasted; she seldom drank, and wouldn’t have known one wine from another, although she discreetly avoided mentioning that by merely nodding her acceptance.
His faith in the chef brought a grin from the waiter and, some time later, a gigantic divided platter displaying an intricately prepared variety of pastas and accompanying sauces.
‘Where are the other six people you invited?’ she had to ask, staring in partial disbelief, her nostrils singing with the tantalising aromas but her mind blocked by the sheer volume.
‘Wait until you get into this,’ was the reply. ‘Besides, you need feeding up a bit; I know you have to be careful of your weight, but there are limits.’
‘I am exactly the same weight I have been since I was ... well ... I’ve been just this size for a long time,’ she replied, unsure if his remark was a compliment or a complaint.
‘And I’ve been exactly this weight, give or take a kilo or two, since I
was eighteen years old, but when I told that to a certain dietician not so long ago, in a certain unmentionable clinic where I was discussing a certain unmentionable ... condition, she had the audacity to tell me I was ten kilos overweight. And logically, therefore, had been so virtually all of my adult life!’ he replied. ‘Can you imagine such a cheek? I very nearly slapped her down and sat on her.’
Which would have been the highlight of Diane’s year, Saunders thought, attempting to stifle a giggle at the thought of Fordon Landell sitting on top of the diminutive dietician. But she didn’t tell him that.
Her thoughts grew increasingly personal as she watched him manipulating his cutlery with an expertise she couldn’t begin to match. It was the same type of dexterity she had so often observed from top surgeons, many of whom, she knew, could construct the most delicate of joinings with nearly-invisible threads but could barely manage to tie their own neckties.
This brought another hidden smile as she applied similar logic to Fordon Landell while desperately trying to emulate his skill with noodles that defied her at every twist and turn.
‘There’s a trick to it, you know’ he said, grinning as if he recognised and enjoyed the ability almost to read her mind. And, to her surprise, he rose from his seat and moved around behind her, reaching down to take her hands in his own, guiding her fingers so that spoon and fork were properly positioned.
But the effort, however well meant, was wasted. Saunders was too aware of him, of the warmth of his body against her shoulders, the firm strength of his fingers on her own, the sheer, almost overpowering presence of him that seemed to flow into a cloak around her.
Instead of learning, her fingers trembled, fumbling the cutlery as a combination of embarrassment and uncertainty overwhelmed her.
‘For goodness’ sake, people are watching,’ she hissed, trying in vain to free her fingers and managing only to tumble pasta all over the table. ‘I’m not a child, after all.’
‘No, I can see that,’ he replied, removing his hands only to let them slide up her arms, to, incredibly, poise them on her shoulders, touching, caressing. The voice that had been so calmly directing now changed, took on a softer, more subtle tone as his fingers worked some strange magic.
An Irresistible Flirtation Page 5
