Rescuing Dr Ryan

by Caroline Anderson

  'Oh.' And that was the end of that attempt at conversation. She switched to Mrs Brown and her triplets. 'I saw your triplet lady,' she told him. 'She's worried about how she'll cope.'

  'She needs to,' he told her bluntly. 'Her husband's quite demanding, and I can't see him tolerating slipping standards. He didn't want her to have one— pressed for a termination before they even discovered it was three.'

  Lucie was shocked. 'She didn't tell me that,' she murmured slowly. 'How sad. I wonder if they'll survive?'

  'The triplets, or the Browns?'

  'I meant the Browns, but all of them, really. The babies seem quite small.'

  'Triplets often are, especially at term, and who knows what'll happen to them all? In their financial situation three babies is the last thing they need. Sometimes I'm glad I'm a GP, not a social worker.' He leant back, easing the kinks out of his shoulders and wincing. 'Right, what's next? No surgery tonight—no more calls to make. Do you have paperwork to deal with, or can we go?'

  She blinked. 'No surgery?'

  'Nope. Not on Tuesdays. Not for me, anyway.'

  'Oh. Well, we can go, then. I'm all up to date. How about you? Are you supposed to go back to the fracture clinic?'

  He held up his arm, and for the first time she saw the brand-new lightweight cast. 'Oh! You've been!'

  'Ten out of ten,' he drawled sarcastically. 'Took you long enough to notice. I went while you were doing the antenatals.'

  'That was very quick.'

  'I charmed the plaster nurse,' he said, deadpan, and she wondered how on earth he'd done that. There was precious little sign of his charm being exercised around her. She pushed back her chair and stood up.

  'Shall we go, then?'

  'Sounds like a fine idea.'

  He winced again as he threaded himself back into the car, and hit his head on the doorframe as he sat down. She ignored the muttered oath, and let him struggle with the seat belt for a moment before helping him with the clip.

  'You really are rather big for this car, aren't you?' she conceded.

  'Oh, the penny's dropped,' he said with thinly veiled sarcasm. 'Of course, a less obstructive person...'

  He let the rest of the sentence hang, and she snapped her mouth shut and declined to comment. She was damned if she was going to tell him now that she'd decided to take his car in future. Let him stew on it for the night.

  Talking of which...

  'Should we call into a supermarket on the way and pick up some food? There's not a lot in your fridge.'

  'Good idea. We can buy some ready meals so you don't have to cook.'

  She shot him a sideways glance. Was that guilt after his reaction to her spaghetti dish last night, or a dig at her choice of menu? Whatever, if he chose the food, he couldn't complain that it was the last thing he wanted.

  Besides, she didn't like cooking anyway—not your everyday meat and two veg stuff. She liked tinkering about with fancy ingredients and playing with dinner party menus, but that was all. Anything else was just basic nutrition to keep body and soul together, and it bored her senseless. She didn't normally succumb, but she had to admit that just for today an instant meal sounded fine.

  Convenience foods, Will decided, were not all they were cracked up to be. He pushed the soggy pasta twirls round in the over-seasoned sauce and sighed. It didn't smell anything like as good as the Bolognese she'd made last night—the Bolognese she'd fed to the dog.

  Still, Bruno didn't complain when he put the cardboard dish on the floor and let the dog finish it. Twice running, Will thought. The dog would be huge.

  'Don't you like it?' Lucie asked, and his stomach growled.

  'I'm not really hungry,' he lied. 'I'll make myself something later.'

  She gave him a searching look. 'Do you want me to make you something? A bacon sandwich?'

  His stomach growled even more enthusiastically, and he gave a wry, bitter little smile. 'Why would you do that?'

  She stood up, dumped her plate on the floor in front of the bemused but receptive dog and headed for the fridge. 'Because I want one and it would seem churlish not to make yours? Because I don't like instant food any more than I imagine you do? Because I need you alive if I'm to finish my training? Take your pick.'

  How about, Because I'm sorry I gave your dinner to the dog? Will wanted to suggest, but he thought he'd quit while he was winning. 'A bacon sandwich sounds fine,' he muttered, and then sighed inwardly. Did that sound a bit grudging? Oh, hell. He wasn't used to being dependent, and he didn't like it. 'Please,' he added, too late to be spontaneous, and caught her stifled smile out of the corner of his eye.

  'While you do that I think I'll go and change,' he said, and went upstairs and struggled one-handed out of the trousers he'd been wearing for work. They had a hook fastening that was possible even with his reluctant arms, and a little easy-running nylon zip, but the belt was more of a problem. He shut the end in the door, tugged gently until the buckle was free and then slid the end out.

  He was getting resourceful, he thought as he squirmed and shuffled his way into his jogging bottoms. Learning to adapt. One thing that was almost impossible, though, was washing. He'd managed so far—more or less—by removing the support on his left wrist and using his left hand, but it wasn't satisfactory and it hurt like hell. And it relied on Lucie to put the support back on.

  He thought of the bath longingly. What he wanted more than anything in the world was a long, hot soak, but he didn't think he could manage without help, and he was damned if he was asking Lucie Compton to supervise his ablutions!

  Perhaps he should ask Amanda, he thought with a wry twist of humour, and shuddered. The thought was terrifying. She'd probably rub him down with a dandy brush, to get his circulation going.

  A wonderful smell of frying bacon drifted up the stairs, and he arrived back in the kitchen just as she set two plates down on the table. 'There you are,' she said cheerfully. 'Wrap yourself around that.'

  He did, wondering idly where his five portions of fruit and veg were coming from that day, but there was no point in worrying. He'd eat an apple later. He'd rather have an orange, but he couldn't work out how to peel it.

  'Um—about washing,' Lucie said, and he nodded his head towards the washing machine.

  'Help yourself. Powder's in the cupboard.'

  'Not clothes—you,' she corrected, and he felt a skittering moment of panic and anticipation.

  'Me?' Will croaked, almost choking on a bite of sandwich.

  'Well, you must be in need of a good long soak, I would have thought. Do you want me to wrap your cast up in plastic bags and run you a bath?'

  Was she a mind-reader, or did he smell worse than he realised?

  He sniffed experimentally. 'Is it that bad?' he asked, groping for a light note and managing instead to sound defensive.

  Lucie gave a pitying smile. 'I just thought, by now, you must be feeling pretty dreadful. Of course,' she added lightly, 'there's always Amanda—perhaps you'd like me to give her a call and ask her to come over? I'm sure she'd be more than willing...'

  'That won't be necessary,' he growled, not quite knowing how to take her teasing. 'I think I can manage—and before you offer, I don't need my back washed.'

  Her lips twitched. 'I'm sure I'll live. Still, you can always yell if you get stuck. I don't suppose you've got anything that everybody else hasn't got.'

  Except a body that even in adversity seemed hell bent on betraying his baser feelings! He focused on his sandwich. 'Thanks. Maybe later,' he said, knowing full well that he was going to take her up on it. He just hoped he didn't get stuck, because the consequences didn't bear thinking about!

  Lucie's imagination was running riot. He'd been ages, and she was hovering in her bedroom, listening to every splash and groan. The door wasn't locked, of course. Not even Will Ryan was that bent on self-destruction.

  'Are you OK?' she called.

  'Fine,' he yelled, then added a belated, 'thanks.'

  She shook her
head and smiled. He really, really hated this. He was so stubborn and fiercely proud, and it was all so unnecessary. She was quite happy to help—if he only could bring himself to be at least civil about it!

  While she waited, she thought it might be interesting to have a look at the rest of the house. So far she'd only seen the rooms they were using, and there were some intriguing doors...

  'Can I look round the house?' she asked, pausing outside the bathroom, and there was a splash and a stream of something not quite audible. She decided she should be probably grateful for that.

  'Sure,' he said shortly. 'Be careful upstairs, there's no light. There's a torch just inside the door. Mind the holes.'

  Holes? Her curiosity well aroused, she opened the door and went through, flicking on the torch. Its powerful beam pierced the gloom, slicing through the dusty air and highlighting the cobwebs. She suppressed a shudder and looked around. It was all but derelict, or it had been. The roof was obviously repaired now—she could see that through the gaps where the ceiling had fallen down.

  Beneath the holes in the ceiling were areas of rotten boards, some taken up, others just gaping and twisted. Some showed evidence of recent repair, to her comfort. She looked at the untouched parts, and rolled her eyes.

  'Mind the holes' didn't even begin to scratch the surface! It was on a par with 'a bit rough in places', and typical of Will's under-estimation of the awfulness of a situation. She had visions of him telling a dying patient he'd feel 'a little bit dicky for a day or two'.

  Mind the holes, indeed. She picked her way carefully down the long room, sticking to the patched bits, and peered out of the windows towards the distant river, eerily silvered with moonlight.

  It would be a beautiful view in daylight, and the windows were positioned to take full advantage. She could see it would be a lovely room once it was repaired. Rooms, in fact. It would easily make two.

  She glanced round again. No wonder he was frustrated with inactivity, if this was waiting for him! She wondered if he'd done the work himself in the rest of the house, or if he'd had the builders in.

  Poor builders, she thought pityingly, and went downstairs. Beyond the hall was the room below the one she'd just investigated, and she opened the door cautiously.

  It was a mess. Well, to be exact it was a paint and tool and timber store, and was obviously where he kept everything for the work in progress. Again, it was a lovely room, with a huge inglenook fireplace on one wall and windows on three sides, and at least this one had a light that worked, after a fashion—if you counted a dangling bulb on the end of a bit of flex.

  It was heavily timbered, and there was a smell of preservative in the air when she sniffed. Preservative and mice. Lovely.

  She shuddered and backed quickly out, bumping into the dog and making herself jump.

  'You scared me half to death, you stupid mutt!' she told him with a nervous laugh, conveniently ignoring the fact that it had been her fault in the first place. Conscious of the time, she went back upstairs and listened at the bathroom door, Bruno at her heels.

  She could hear nothing. She knocked lightly. 'Will? Are you OK?'

  Absolute silence.

  'Will?'

  Oh, lord, what if he'd slipped and drowned while she'd been downstairs out of earshot? She called his name again, then, when he still didn't reply, she pressed the lever down and inched the door open, her heart in her mouth.

  Please, God, don't let him be dead, she prayed silently, and, pushing the door open, she took a step in.

  He was asleep, his plastic-wrapped arm propped up on the side of the bath, his head lolling back against the end of the tub, his lashes dark against his pale cheeks. He was out for the count. Unable to help herself, she let her eyes wander over him—purely professionally, of course, to see how his bruises were progressing.

  The water was soapy, but not that soapy. Not so cloudy that she couldn't see every inch of his beautifully made body. Where his chest and knees protruded from the water, wiry curls clung enticingly to the damp, sleek skin, emphasising his maleness.

  Not that it needed emphasising, not with the water as clear as it was and none too deep, either. Oh, lord.

  She backed away, retreating to safety, and took a long, steadying breath before rapping sharply on the door. 'Will?' she called. 'You all right?'

  There was a grunt and a splash, and another oath. His language was taking a battering, she thought with a smile.

  'Yes, fine,' he said groggily. 'I'll be out in a minute.'

  She hovered, listening to grunts and clonks and the odd cuss, until she heard the creak of a board and a sigh of relief that signalled his safe retreat from the bath.

  Heaving a sigh of her own, she retreated with Bruno to the safety of the kitchen, turned on the radio and tried not to think about Will and his delectable naked body while she cleared up after their supper. It didn't work, of course, because she just managed to hit the love-songs happy hour, or that's what it sounded like.

  One husky, softly crooned love song after another, all her old favourites, and, of course, she knew the words, so she sang along, misty-eyed and wistful, and for some reason an image of Will kept superimposing itself on her mental pictures, just to add to the delicious torture.

  She wiped down the worktop, humming absently, her mind full of him. He'd looked so—oh, so male, so virile, so incredibly potent. A powerful aphrodisiac. The image was so clear she could have reached out and touched him, felt the smooth silk of his skin, the slight roughness of the hair, the taut, corded muscles beneath—

  'Oh, hell,' she groaned, throwing the packet of bacon back into the fridge and trying to put him out of her mind. Not easy. She found herself singing again, the words she knew so well coming naturally to her lips.

  Swaying gently to the music, she turned to clear the table, and there he was, standing in the doorway watching her, his face inscrutable.

  The song died on her lips. Colour streaming up her cheeks, she turned hastily away, dumping the mugs and plates into the sink and busying herself with the kettle. Lord, she must have looked such a fool! 'Cup of tea?' she suggested briskly, and, stabbing the 'off button on the radio she killed the slow, sexy song. In the shocking silence that followed she heard him coming towards her, his bare feet padding softly on the floor.

  His voice was deep and husky, right behind her, and made all the little hairs on the nape of her neck stand to attention. 'Please. Could you put this on for me first and take off the plastic bag?'

  Reluctantly she turned back to him, avoiding his eyes. Careful not to touch his fingers, she took the support bandage from him and gathered it up to slide it over his left arm. It was still swollen, but less so, the skin discoloured where the bruising had come out. She had an insane urge to kiss it better, and stifled it. She felt enough of an idiot without adding insult to injury.

  'How is it?' she asked, easing the support over his fingers and trying still not to touch him.

  'Still sore—ouch!'

  'Sorry. It would be easier with one of those sleeve things to gather it on.'

  'It's fine. Just pull it up. It doesn't hurt that much. I'm just a wimp.'

  She gave a soft snort of laughter and eased the bandage into place, smoothing it down with hands that wanted to linger. His arm trembled under her fingertips, and she released it, glad to break the contact that was doing her no good at all.

  'Want to do this yourself, or do you want me to do it?' she asked, indicating the shopping bags stuck over the cast to protect it from the water.

  'Could you? I tried but I couldn't get the end of the tape.'

  'Sure.' She found the end, managed to lift it with her nail and started to peel it off, but he yelped and yanked his arm away.

  'Hell, woman! Mind the hairs!' he protested, and she gave him a syrupy smile and took his arm back in an iron grip.

  'Now you know how it feels to have your legs waxed,' she said unsympathetically, and eased off another inch, holding down the hairs with one h
and and peeling with the other.

  He bore it in grim-lipped silence, and when the bags were off and consigned to the bin, he massaged his sore skin gingerly and gave her a baleful look. 'Next time,' he said clearly, 'we'll use elastic bands.'

  She had to turn away to hide the smile. 'How about that cup of tea now?' she said, feeling sorry for him despite herself.

  He sighed. 'What I feel like is a damn great Scotch, but I suppose you're going to veto that on medical grounds?'

  She arched a brow in surprise, 'Me, with the right of veto? I hardly think so. Since when was I your mother?'

  He snorted. 'Doesn't stop you having an opinion on everything else,' he told her bluntly, and she felt a wash of guilty colour sweep her cheeks.

  'It's entirely up to you what you do to your body,' she said virtuously. 'Don't hold back on my account.'

  'I won't,' he retorted, reaching past her for a glass. He was just lowering it to the worktop when he caught his elbow on the bread crock and the glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the hard floor.

  Bruno rushed forwards to investigate, and as one they turned and yelled, 'No!' at the poor dog. He stopped in his tracks, and Lucie looked down at Will's bare feet covered in sparkling slivers of glass.

  'I should stand right there if I were you,' she told him.

  'You don't say,' he murmured drily, and she shot him a look before fetching the dustpan and brush.

  She swept carefully around his feet and then went over the whole floor before mopping it to pick up the last tiny shards.

  'Right, you can move,' she told him, and with a sigh he sat down at the table and gave a resigned, wry smile.

  'I'll settle for tea,' he said, picking a sliver of glass off his foot with his uncooperative right hand. 'God obviously didn't want me to have that Scotch.'

  'Apparently not,' Lucie said, returning his smile. She made the tea, put the mugs on the table and they sat together in what could almost have been called companionable silence.

  A truce? Wonders will never cease, Lucie thought, but her luck was about to run out. The phone rang, shattering the stillness, and Will answered it.