Rescuing Dr Ryan

by Caroline Anderson

'For you,' he said, holding out the phone to her.

  She took it, puzzled. Who on earth could it be?

  'Hello?'

  'Lucie? It's me.'

  It took her a moment, she was so far away from the reality of London. 'Fergus?' she said, puzzled. 'Hi. How are you?'

  Behind her she heard a chair scrape, and Will retreated to the sitting room, the dog following, nails clattering on the bare floor.

  The room seemed suddenly empty, and she had to force herself to concentrate on Fergus. He was missing her. He said so, over and over again. He missed her company. He missed her smile. He missed sitting in her flat watching TV. He even missed her temper, he said.

  'Do you miss me?' he asked her, and she was shocked to realise that, no, she didn't, not at all. She hadn't given him so much as a passing thought. She made some noncommital reply, and it seemed to satisfy him, probably because his ego was so undentable that he couldn't imagine she wasn't desolate.

  'I thought I'd pop down and see you this weekend,' he told her.

  'Ah, no. Um. I'm coming to town. I'll see you— I'll ring you from the flat.'

  'We'll do lunch.'

  'Lovely. I have to go, my tea's getting cold,' she said, and hung up after the briefest of farewells. It was only as she cradled the phone that she realised how cavalier it had sounded.

  Poor Fergus. Still, he just wouldn't take the hint.

  Her eyes strayed to the sitting-room door, open just a crack. Had Will heard her conversation? And if so, what had he made of it?

  And what, in any case, did it matter?

  Lucie wasn't sure. She knew one thing, though— it did matter. For some reason that wasn't really clear to her she wanted Will to have a good opinion of her, and it was nothing to do with her professional role and everything to do with a man with a body to die for and the temper of a crotchety rattlesnake.

  Oh, dear. She was in big trouble...

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Will was annoyed.

  Lucie was going back to London for the weekend, and seeing Fergus, whoever the hell Fergus was. It was none of his business, of course, and he kept telling himself that, but it didn't stop it annoying the life out of him all week.

  He had a phone call from Pam, to say that Dick had seen the cardiologist and was booked in for angioplasty. The angiogram had shown that he was a suitable candidate, and didn't need the more extensive intervention of open-heart surgery and a bypass operation.

  On a professional level Will was pleased for them. On a personal level he was irritated that after all the time he'd spent cajoling Dick, it had been Lucie who'd talked him into taking this final step.

  He told himself he was being a child, but she was getting to him. Getting to him in ways he didn't want to think about. Ways that kept him awake at night and then, when he finally slept, coloured his dreams so that even the memory of them made his blood pressure soar.

  Crazy, because she drove him mad, but there was just something about her that made him restless and edgy, and made him long for things he couldn't have.

  Like her, for instance.

  Damn.

  He forced himself to concentrate. She was in the middle of surgery, and he was sitting in, keeping an eye on the time and watching her wheedle and cajole and sympathise and generally make, everyone feel better.

  Except young Clare Reid, who had come in on Monday with a cough and a disbelieving mother, and was back today with much worse symptoms and a mother who now was berating herself for not listening.

  'I knew there was something wrong,' Mrs Reid was saying. 'I can't believe I didn't pay more attention. Whatever is wrong with her?'

  Lucie checked through the notes, but the results weren't back. 'I'll check with the lab,' she promised. 'I'll call you back later today, because, I quite agree, it isn't right that she should be feeling so rough.'

  Clare coughed again, and Lucie frowned and looked at Will.

  'Sounds like whooping cough,' she said thoughtfully, and he frowned. Whooping cough? Although she could have a point...

  'Let me ring the lab. If you two could wait outside while Dr Compton sees her next patient, I'll see what I can find out for you, and then we can have you back in and let you know if there's anything to report, OK?'

  They nodded, and he went through to another room to make the call.

  'Oh, yes, we were just sending that out to you. It's not whooping cough, but it's a related virus. Unfortunately it's not proved susceptible to any of the anti-virals. Sorry. Oh, and by the way, it's not notifiable.'

  He thanked them and went back to Lucie, and after she'd finished with her patient, he told her the result.

  'So what can we do for her? An anti-viral?'

  He shook his head. 'Apparently not. Anyway, I should imagine she's past the acute stage of the illness. Any treatment now will be palliative. I would send her to a good pharmacist for advice on cough remedies, and tell her to sit in a hot, steamy bath and hang wet towels on her radiator at night and sniff Olbas oil.'

  'Gorgeous. I wonder if she was still infectious on Monday?' Lucie said drily, and he grinned despite himself.

  'Maybe. If so, knowing how my luck's running at the moment, I'll get it. AD I need now is a good dose of mumps or chickenpox and my happiness will be complete.'

  Lucie chuckled, and he looked at her and thought how incredibly sexy she was with that wide smile and her eyes crinkling with humour. It was just such a hell of a shame they weren't like this with each other all the time, but they weren't. For some reason he couldn't fathom, they seemed to rub each other up the wrong way the entire time.

  He stifled a sigh. Probably just as well, really. He didn't need any more complications in his life, particularly not complications that he had to work with, and, like it or not, he and Lucie were stuck with each other for almost six more months.

  And, he reminded himself, she was about to go back to London for the weekend to Fergus. Good. He'd have the house to himself again.

  Bliss.

  * * *

  The flat seemed incredibly noisy. Lucie packed up the remainder of her things, and put what she didn't want with her into a cupboard in her room.

  Her flatmate's partner was moving in—well, had moved in, more or less, some time ago, and was officially taking over her portion of the rent now, which was a relief. It also meant she could come back and stay for a while until she found another place, and she'd have a bolt-hole if necessary.

  And it might well be necessary if Will Ryan was as grumpy for the next six months as he'd been for the last week. She sighed and threw the last few things into a case, clipped it shut and stood it by the wall. She didn't want to put it in her car until she left. Security wasn't London's strong point, and there was no point tempting fate.

  She rang Fergus to arrange to meet for lunch, and he was round within minutes. Not quite what she'd had in mind, but he'd insisted on escorting her to their venue.

  He spoiled her. He was rich enough to do it, but still, he spoiled her and took her to one of those exclusive places where you had to book weeks in advance. A man of power and influence, she thought with humour, but it didn't influence her at all. All the pomp and ceremony and discreet yet ostentatious service just got on her nerves, and she found herself thinking of eating bacon sandwiches in the kitchen with Will.

  Not a good start to their lunch. Lucie forced herself to concentrate on Fergus, and realised that he was talking about himself as usual.

  Finally, as they pushed aside the remains of their dark chocolate baskets with summer fruits in Kirch, topped with a delicate trail of cream and chocolate sauce in a puddle of raspberry coulis garnished with a sprig of mint, Fergus asked about her.

  'So, how's life in the boonies?' he said, sitting back with an indulgent smile. 'I've missed you, you know.'

  'You said—and it's fine,' she lied. 'There's a horse that grazes outside my bedroom window, and a dog called Bruno and a cat called Minnie—and my trainer's fallen off a ladder and broken his arm, so
at the moment I'm helping him out a bit in the evenings and doing all the driving to work and back.'

  'Poor old boy,' Fergus said kindly, and Lucie thought of Will, dark and irritable and pacing round like a wounded grizzly, and stifled a smile. Poor old boy? Not in this lifetime! Still, she didn't bother to correct Fergus. If he realised that Will was only thirty-three, he'd be down there like a shot, getting possessive and territorial, and Lucie would be forced to kill him.

  And that would stuff up her Hippocratic oath and probably interfere more than a little with the progress of her career.

  Oh, well. She'd have to keep them apart, which was no hardship. She couldn't see Fergus on Will's farm, picking his way through the puddles and pushing the dog aside when he was muddy and bouncy and over-enthusiastic—and for some reason she didn't care to analyse, she didn't want Fergus there anyway.

  'So, how are the patients? Do they all chew straw and say, "Ooh, aa-rr"?' Fergus asked her with a patronising smile.

  She thought of Pam and Dick, lovely people— people she'd been able to help by her presence there. 'Only half of them. The others are mostly inarticulate.'

  He laughed as if she'd told the funniest joke in the world, and she sighed. She really couldn't be bothered with this.

  'Fergus, it's been a lovely lunch,' she began, but he wasn't one to pick up subtle hints.

  'And it's not over,' he announced proudly. 'I thought we could go back to my flat for coffee, and then I thought we could take a stroll through St James's Park, and then tonight I thought we could take in a show—there's that new one that's just opened with rave reviews. I'm sure I can get tickets.'

  She was sure he could, too, but she wasn't interested.

  'Fergus, I don't really have time,' she told him. 'I have to get back to Suffolk tonight—I'm on duty tomorrow.'

  She waited for the lightning bolt to strike her down, but it didn't come. It should. She was starting to tell so many lies. She ought to just say, Look, Fergus, you're a nice man but not for me.

  Actually, she had said it! She'd said it over and over again. Most recently last weekend, just before she'd left for Suffolk.

  Blast.

  'Perhaps next weekend,' he coaxed, and she sighed.

  'I can't.'

  'Then I'll come to you. I'll fit in round you. I'll buy some wellies and take a stroll while you're busy, and we can find a restaurant and eat out in the evening. I assume they do have restaurants?'

  'I'm sure we can find a fish-and-chip shop,' she said drily, and he recoiled. Oh, lord, how had she ever let him talk her into this?

  She realised with a sense of shock that she was feeling defensive about his attitude—an attitude she'd shared until this last week. How strange.

  'I really have to go—I've still got a lot of clearing up to do at the flat before I leave,' she told him, adding another lie to the heap that teetered on the funeral pyre of her conscience.

  'Wait for me. I'll pay the bill and take you back.'

  'No, don't,' she said, hastily pushing him back into his chair. 'You stay and have coffee, and I'll get on. I've got some shopping to do on the way back.'

  She stooped and kissed his cheek, thanked him again and made her escape into the fresh air, or what passed for it in London. She inhaled deeply. It was familiar and comforting, but somehow strange.

  She went back to her flat, made coffee and waited till she thought she'd given her glass of wine time to clear her system, then left a note for her flatmate, threw her stuff into the car and headed back to Suffolk and Will.

  The house seemed empty. At first Will revelled in the silence, listening to the songs of the birds and the gentle snort of Henry outside the window. Then, after he'd struggled to wash and dress, he went down to the kitchen and looked around for something easy to eat.

  Cereal, he thought, and sat at the table with nothing to break the silence but the crunching of cornflakes and the sigh of the dog. No Lucie humming as she pottered, or chattering brightly about nothing in particular.

  It was good, he told himself, but a sliver of loneliness sneaked in and made him restless. He went over to the cottage and let himself in, opening the windows and letting the air circulate. He'd had the old bed and carpet collected and taken away during the week, but the room still smelled musty, and today a man was coming to paint the ceiling.

  His incapacity infuriated him. He was perfectly capable of doing all the things he'd just had to pay good money to have done, and much worse than that was having to rely on Lucie for his transport.

  He went into the sitting room and looked around. She'd brought some of her things in here last weekend and stacked them in an untidy heap on one side, and he had a burning urge to know what she considered essential. A jumper spilled out of a carrier bag, a belt hung out of the side of a suitcase. And there, in a bag at the back, was a dog-eared teddy bear.

  He found himself smiling, and frowned. It wasn't funny. She was hopelessly disorganised, and he had to turn her into a GP. What chance was there? She had to be highly ordered and disciplined to work in a modern practice with all the rules and regulations that applied.

  Her cheerful disregard for convention might be all very well in a musician or an artist, but in a doctor it was a recipe for disaster.

  Still frowning, he went back to the bedroom and sniffed. Not too bad. The clouds looked a bit threatening, so he closed the windows again, except for the little fanlight, and crossed the yard to his house. Amanda drew up just before he gained the safety of the back door, and bounded out of the car, waving cheerfully.

  'Hi! How are you?' she asked, bearing down on him.

  He sighed inwardly. 'Better, thanks. My left hand's almost back to normal,' he told her, waggling it rather further than it wanted to go and smiling to cover the wince. 'See? All but fixed.'

  'Anything I can do? Shopping, cooking—washing?'

  He thought of his back in the bath and nearly choked. 'No, no, it's fine,' he said hastily. 'I've got everything I need, and Lucie did my washing before she went away.'

  Amanda's face brightened. 'She's gone?'

  'Only for the weekend,' he corrected quickly. 'Just to sort out her flat.'

  Her face fell again. 'Oh, well. If there's anything I can do, just holler.'

  'I will. Thanks.' He retreated inside, closing the door with indecent haste, and sank down at the kitchen table. 'She's getting worse, Bruno,' he told the dog in an undertone. 'What are we going to do?'

  Bruno wagged his tail, looking hopeful. 'Come on, then,' he said, relenting, and with a lot of wiggling and shoving and swearing he managed to get his boots on. They headed off down the track to the woods, turned left and followed the little path down through the edge of the wood amongst the bluebells.

  It was beautiful, peaceful and still and restoring. He felt the tranquillity easing back into him, and, tucking his right hand into the pocket of his jacket, he strolled along, breathing in the cool, fresh air and listening to the sounds of the countryside while Bruno fossicked in the undergrowth and chased interesting smells and the odd rabbit.

  They reached the edge of the river and he sat down on a stone, ignoring the creeping damp and absorbing the glorious views. The sun was high now, and its warmth caressed his face and seeped through his jacket, driving out the chill.

  Bliss. What more could a man possibly want?

  Someone to share it with?

  'Bruno!' he called, standing abruptly and heading back. He had someone to share it with—someone loyal and devoted and emotionally undemanding.

  Well, perhaps not loyal. The mutt had spent the week on Lucie's bed, proving his fickle nature. Just because she was feeding him whole suppers, of course. He'd be her friend for life because of that.

  He wondered what Lucie was doing now and who'd slept with her last night.

  Fergus?

  A writhing knot of something that surely wasn't jealousy wrapped itself around his gut and squeezed. Ridiculous. It was entirely her own business who she slept with!
>
  He went back to the house, hooked his boots off and stomped upstairs. He really ought to be getting on with this room, he thought, and opened the door.

  Frustration hit him like a fist in the chest. It would be weeks—months, probably—before he could get back to work in here.

  Slamming the door, he went back downstairs and over to the cottage. Pete had arrived and set up his dustsheets, and was priming the ceiling so the damp mark didn't bleed through the new paint.

  'Come and have a coffee while that dries,' he suggested, and Pete nodded.

  'Will do, mate. Give us a few more minutes.'

  'OK.'

  Will went back to the kitchen and stared morosely at the washing-up in the sink. Lucie had bought him some huge rubber gloves that he could just about get on over the cast and support bandage, but putting them on was an act that required more patience than he would find in his lifetime, and he gave up. The washing up could wait. She'd be back tomorrow.

  Late, probably, and overtired from her activities with Fergus.

  'Fergus.' He spat the name, realising he was beginning to hate the man without any justification. Irrational, stupid behaviour, he told himself, but the thought of someone—anyone—touching Lucie intimately made him want to kill.

  Which was totally ridiculous, because there was no way he wanted her.

  Was there?

  It had been a lovely day, Lucie realised in surprise. Odd, how insulated from the weather she'd been in London. Much less aware.

  Now, driving back down the once-unnerving track towards the house, she wound down the window and breathed in deeply. Something was flowering, and the heady scent wafted through the window. It was gorgeous. Humming to herself, she turned into the farmyard and saw a man in white overalls sitting on the steps by the back door, drinking tea.

  Not Will. Her eyes scanned the yard, irrationally disappointed to find him missing, and then he came out of the back door armed with a biscuit tin, and she felt an involuntary smile curve the corners of her mouth.

  He lifted one hand in a wave, and she pulled up outside the cottage and got out, strolling over. No London strut, no rush, no hurry, just an amble in the evening sun.