by Mary Hawkins
It was still in her face when there was a light tap on the door, and Chris poked his head around. When he saw her sitting up, he pushed the door open.
'Good, I hoped you'd be awake. Are you hungry?'
Suddenly Jean realised she was. Very. But she could only stare at him wide-eyed and nod. A grin tilted his lips.
'Thought you might be. You've just time to go to the bathroom before I dish up.'
She stared blankly at the empty doorway for a moment without moving. Then she thought to glance at her watch and gasped. It was nearly midnight, and it had only been just on five o'clock when they had left the hospital.
She found her jeans neatly draped over a chair, and realised as she scrambled into them that her ankle was stiff, but tolerated her weight with much less pain as she made her way obediently to the bathroom and then to the kitchen.
Chris was standing in front of Mrs Bensted's old gas stove. She stared at his transformation. If she had thought him handsome before with his stubble, untamed hair and old clothes, now she knew he was breathtaking. The old gardening clothes had been replaced by a beautifully laundered long-sleeved cream shirt tucked into a well tailored, neatly creased pair of black trousers sitting low on slim hips.
And this . . . this hunk had touched her body! Looked . . .
A wave of heat swept through her as he turned. But he only glanced briefly at her before turning back to his cooking. If he noticed her staring he gave no sign, just continued to busy himself at the stove.
Jean looked determinedly away from him, and continued into the room, deciding her suddenly trembling legs were because of her hunger.
'Hmm, that smells great,' she said fervently as she saw him pick up a pan from the stove.
She watched him slide an omelette on to a plate already containing a salad. Avoiding his eyes, she obeyed his gesture to her to sit at the small round table set with one placemat and cutlery. He watched her try the first mouthful and then turned away.
'I hoped you wouldn't wake up when I was out and disappear.'
She glanced at his clothes again, and then noticed the black coat and tie on the back of a chair.
'You had a date?'
'Er . . . yes.' He had started rinsing the frying-pan, and tossed casually over his shoulder, 'Dinner with old friends.'
'I hope I didn't make you late.' she murmured. 'You . . . you should have taken me home.'
He returned to the table with a bottle of Coke and filled two glasses. He pushed one towards her and then sat opposite, resting his chin on both hands as he leaned his elbows on the table and studied her face as she ate.
'You must have been really exhausted to go out like a light the way you did. I was so late it seemed easier to dump you in a spare bed here, and no, I wasn't very late. Just made it. But I had to do some explaining about my face.'
She felt the blush sweep from her toes up. Slowly she placed her cutlery down on her plate, her appetite suddenly disappearing. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the remains of the omelette.
'I told them I had bumped into a door-post trying to find my way around a strange house at night,' his voice purred very softly.
She still couldn't look up at him, too ashamed for words. To her horror she felt the sting of tears.
'I think the prompt application of the ice did help, you know,' the soft voice continued. 'I suppose you did learn about that during your nurse's training?' When she stayed frozen, he added after a pause, 'Although probably that's just basic first aid anyone could know.'
He was silent. She tried to clear the lump in her throat, and at last lifted her head and looked at him. To her horror, there was a dark bruise where she had hit him on the nose and cheekbone. But what she hadn't expected was the swelling and bruising just beneath his eye.
'I'm most dreadfully sorry,' she whispered, and then realised he was trying very hard to keep a straight face, his eyes twinkling devilishly. She had been right. There was an indentation on his cheek. Her heart jumped.
'Sorrier than you were when you slugged Ian Jones, I believe.'
She just stared at him.
'I've had plenty of time to think this evening, and remember a few things Mum's told me over the years from Aunt Maud's letters. You're my aunt's Georgie, aren't you?' The twinkle had disappeared and been replaced by a glow that reached out to warm her. 'We've been so thankful to have such a caring person next door keeping an eye on her these last couple of years. She told me all about you and your uncle when I took her to Sydney to stay with Mum.' As he stared at her his expression altered. She thought he looked uncertain and puzzled. Then he looked away from her startled gaze down to her rapidly cooling food. 'Please. I shouldn't have said anything until you were finished. I'm afraid there's a lot more to say, but it can wait.'
He picked up his glass and emptied half its contents as she mechanically started eating again. She felt much happier all at once, and ate the rest of her meal with relish as he told her about the granny flat that had been built on to his parents' house, and how difficult it had been to persuade Mrs Bensted that all her old cumbersome furniture just would not fit.
She murmured sympathetically and said, 'I was just so pleased she went to family and not into an institution. The poor dear was fretting so much.' She swallowed the last mouthful, and sat back with a sigh. 'That was wonderful. Did your mother teach you to cook?'
He had been staring at her again with something in his expression that she couldn't decipher. Her heart plummeted again, but then his expression lightened and he chuckled.
'No, as a matter of fact the first friend I shared a flat with at university taught me in sheer desperation so I could take my turn at cooking.'
Jean dismissed the suddenly disturbing thought that it had probably been a girl, and said quickly, 'Well, I certainly can't cook an omelette like that. Actually,' she added thoughtfully, 'that must have been about the time I first met you.'
'We've met? I didn't think I would ever forget someone with skin as flawless as yours and a figure to take a man's breath away.'
His voice was so matter-of-fact that it took a moment for the words to sink in.
Jean silently cursed that skin that she knew filled with colour as the wave of embarrassment swept her. She thought again of the eyeful he had certainly had of her a few hours ago!
She tilted her chin and forced a smile. 'It was just over nine years ago. I was wearing braces and hated meeting anyone for the first time, especially ‑' She stopped abruptly, looking away.
'Especially?'
'Oh, especially godlike medicine students called Chris,' she said swiftly, instead of her original thought that he had been so handsome and obviously bored at being dragged next door by his aunt to meet an ungainly, freckled fifteen-year-old girl.
'If it was nine years ago . . .' He shuddered. 'More like a desperate, scared kid getting too close to major exams who was wondering why on earth he'd ever dared to think he could be a doctor!'
She studied him. He had sounded so confident on the phone and dealing with the ward sister and herself that she found it difficult to imagine him ever being like that. Her eyes returned to his, and saw the twinkle in them again as he watched her looking at him.
'I can't imagine you like that,' she blurted out.
The twinkle disappeared. 'Scared? Oh, yes, I was scared. Have been many times. Wondering how I could ever know for sure if the choices I've had to make, which all doctors have to, were the right choices. To order aggressive, active, sometimes traumatic treatment for someone I know is terminally ill, or just to order treatment to keep them comfortable? How do I tell a mother and father their only, longed-for toddler has leukaemia? How do I tell an only unmarried daughter, whose whole life has been centred on caring for her ageing mother, that the diagnosis is Alzheimer's disease, and in a while her mother may not even know her own daughter?' His eyes were clouded. 'Scared? Oh, yes, it can still be scary. Very. And I'm even a bit nervous about starting my new job tomorrow.'
He stood up, and said more cheerfully, 'But that's enough about my heebie-jeebies. Even if you've been sleeping like a baby, I haven't. Now, I went over and rescued the handbag and the keys out of the car.' He grinned at her exclamation. 'Yeah, just as well we live in a quiet street or that car may not have been still in your driveway. I took the liberty of bringing your case back with me too.' He walked over to a corner of the room, and for the first time she noticed her case. 'You can get into some night gear and ‑'
'But I can't stay here!'
He frowned. 'Of course you can't stay here longer than tonight. I do have my reputation to consider. But the state you were in . . .' he paused, and his voice was much colder . . and the state your house is in leaves us with no choice for what's left of tonight.'
She stood and moved stiffly towards him. 'So you still think I'm responsible for George's condition,' she said slowly.
A sharp stab of hurt had shot through her. His reputation! Obviously he still thought she had none left to lose! A renewed feeling of heaviness crept over her, making her realise she did need more sleep to be able to cope with what the morning would bring. There were still many questions to be answered about what had been happening.
'I'm not sure what I think,' Chris said abruptly. 'Let's worry about that tomorrow.' He led the way to her room, placing the case on the floor. 'You know where the bathroom is, of course,' he said abruptly, and swung around.
She had paused in the doorway behind him, still hurt and wanting to go home. He brushed against her as he turned, and was suddenly still. The trembling was back in her legs and she felt glued to the spot at his nearness. She started to move away, but his hands came up to hold her shoulders. For a moment she thought he was going to move her out of his way, but instead he muttered something under his breath, and then sighed as his hands came up to cup her face. His hands were warm, but she was astounded at the fire that suddenly burnt where he was touching her. Not even Tony's most passionate embrace had affected her like this!
His eyes were nearly black as they stared at each other. Then a deep sigh seemed to be wrenched from the depth of him.
'I don't want to think. Your eyes are brown now. Before when you were spitting fire they were the most gorgeous green. Do you change as much as these eyes, I wonder? I suppose I should know better, but I've been unable to stop wondering what . . . what you taste . . . like . . .'
His last few words had been almost muffled as his lips touched hers as lightly as a feather, and then covered them with his firm warmness. The fire where his hands touched her became a flame that spread like wildfire from the tip of her curly head to her toes. Her eyes closed as the delicious new sensations swept through her.
She was mesmerised by his touch, the unbelievable words that had been wrenched from him, and still couldn't move when after a lifetime his lips left hers. Vaguely she realised he was no longer touching her, but she could still feel and taste him.
Good heavens, what was happening to her?
He gave a choked sound. Almost like a groan.
Her eyes flew open. His were still only a few centimetres away, looking as bemused as she was feeling. Then they changed, and she saw a glimpse of something in the handsome features that made her cringe back.
A long, long time after he had disappeared, and the sound of him moving around the house, closing cupboard doors rather forcefully, switching off lights, slamming a door further down the corridor, had ceased, Jean lay frozen on the old, soft mattress.
As she stared into the darkness, she knew that she never, ever wanted to see again such utter contempt for her in a man's eyes. Especially this man's, whose touch had awakened her body to a tingling awareness she had never before realised was possible.
CHAPTER FOUR
The old-fashioned door-knocker was resounding for at least the fourth time before a bleary-eyed, half-awake Jean made it to the door.
'Mornin'. Got trouble with ya car?'
She blinked at the greasy, overalled man giving her dressing-gowned figure a careful inspection.
'Sorry if I gotcha outa bed, like. But the bloke said a flat battery needed fixin'.'
'Oh, yes. Of course.' Jean ran a hand through her tousled hair and tried to banish the last traces of sleep. 'I . . . I'll just get the keys for you.'
Chris must already have left, she had realised when the house had remained silent after the first couple of loud knocks. Sleep had been impossible for hours, and then she had slept restlessly.
As she stumbled into the kitchen, hoping Chris had left her keys there, she groaned as she saw it was just after eight. She had been planning on getting to the hospital as soon as possible but was reluctant to make herself more unpopular than she already was by arriving too early.
The keys were sitting on top of her handbag on the kitchen table. As she grabbed them, she realised a large piece of paper under them was scrawled with the abrupt words 'Rang mechanic. See you later today'.
After Jean had explained to the man at the door that it was the station wagon next door that required his attention, she hurriedly raced off for a very quick shower. By the time she had dressed, the door-knocker banged again.
'Battery's had it,' the mechanic said briefly, his eyes showing his appreciation of the curling black hair framing her beautiful features and delectable curves in the blue jeans and T-shirt patterned with huge hibiscus flowers. 'Put in a new battery like the bloke said.' He handed her back the keys and turned to go.
'What . . . what do I owe you?'
'It's on the account of the other bloke,' she was told laconically.
'But . . . I . . .' She stopped as she remembered her lack of cash. She thought of her chequebook, but let it go, thanking the man politely.
She would settle it with 'the other bloke' later.
Later.
She remembered he had said something about starting a new job, but obviously he expected to see her. Probably this evening. But she had decided after lying awake for hours last night that the less she saw of him the better off she would be. She had enough worries with George and Dan to sort out.
And the house to sort out, she added grimly a while later as she stared again at the mess in George's room. She had emptied the urinal and left it soaking in disinfectant, and had just gathered up an armful of the filthy, odorous linen when the phone rang.
It was Alicia. A slightly agitated Alicia.
'Jean, I rang to say I was intending to come over and—er—fix up George's—er—things. I——'
'You're about ten days too late,' snapped Jean. 'I'm just cleaning up the mess now.' With a pile of ruined linen in her arms, Jean was not feeling at all charitable. 'How could you leave it like this?' she burst out.
There was silence.
'And what have you done with his egg-crate mattress?'
'Egg-crate mattress?'Alicia's voice muttered.
'The one I left on George's bed.'
'Oh, do you mean that funny shaped piece of foam on George's bed? Well, I ... I put it outside to dry.'
'Dry!'
'Yes, well, you see, it got wet that very first night, and I had to clean it. It couldn't have been very comfortable anyway. All those bumps.'
Jean took a deep breath. 'Those bumps, as you call them, help keep people from getting pressure areas when they can't move freely in their bed. 1 hope it's not still outside.'
'I'm not sure,' Alicia muttered. 'I did ask Dan to bring it in, but I forgot about it when he suddenly had to go to Sydney for a few nights.'
'But he promised he'd stay with you and help look after George! He agreed you weren't strong enough to manage him by yourself.'
Alicia sounded resentful. 'Oh, Jean, I knew you'd be angry. But I did try. It was all so much more difficult than I thought it would be. And Dan decided he was too busy to help,' she added bitterly. 'Even after he told the agency nurse—' The voice stopped abruptly.
'The home nurse did call every day as I arranged, didn't she, Alicia?' Jean controlled her voice with difficu
lty.
'Oh, Jean, you know what Dan's like. He asked her what she charged, and he promptly told her not to come any more, that we'd manage without her, that it was ridiculous that an old man like George needed a shower every day.' The words came out with a rush, and then defiantly, 'And we've often said how you've spoilt him ever since he came home from hospital. And he was fine that next day, except he refused to take those tablets no matter what I said. It was simply dreadful by the third day. He just sat there. Wouldn't even try and talk. Refused most of the food I prepared. He was so stubborn ... I ... I ... I got so tired!'
'But why did you keep on telling me on the phone everything was fine?' Jean said angrily. 'Why didn't you tell me . . . ?' She felt the tears pricking her eyes, and swallowed.
Alicia remained silent.
'Are you still there?' Jean asked sharply.
'Yes.' The voice was sullen now.
'Alicia . . .' Jean took a deep breath '. . . why wouldn't George eat and take his tablets for you?'
There was another silence. Jean opened her mouth, but Alicia suddenly said furiously, 'Because I wasn't you!'
It was Jean's turn to be without words.
'He's never liked me. I've tried to be friendly to him ever since I first met Dan. But it's always been "Jean this" and "Jean that" until I could have screamed!'
Alicia's voice had risen to a wail, and then the phone clicked in Jean's ear as she hung up.
Jean replaced the hand-piece slowly.
Poor Alicia. George had always been polite to her, but Jean knew he had never been able really to like her, even muttering once that 'Dan deserved his scatter-brained wife'. But she had never realised before just how jealous and resentful Alicia had become. And she still didn't really know why they had not told her he had been put in hospital. She found it hard to believe what Dan had said. Not in ten years had he ever shown such consideration of her.
Her mouth tightened. It was so typical of most men, in her experience, that they put their job and making money first before caring for their family. Even Tony Graham had proved no different in the end. For a moment she felt sorry for the girl he had decided was a far better risk financially than orphan Jean, whose seemingly well-off uncle might not after all be prepared to help an up-and-coming young doctor!
