‘Of course I could.’
He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, then hitched up his T-shirt and pulled it over his head.
‘Pretty,’ she said with a smile. ‘I particularly like the green and purple together.’
‘Just put the bloody oil on, Kate,’ he growled.
‘Put the bloody oil on, Kate, please,’ she corrected. She poured a little into the palm of her hand, glad of the opportunity to bend her head so that he couldn’t see the hurt in her eyes. She was only trying to cheer him up. Did he have to be so negative with her? She set the bottle down and turned back to him, to find his eyes on her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he sighed. ‘I just hurt everywhere. It’s not doing my temper any good.’
‘I noticed,’ she said drily. ‘Just shut your eyes and relax.’ She smeared the warmed oil over his chest, her touch light over the massive area of bruising. ‘You should be taking arnica,’ she told him as she smoothed her hand over the warm, firm planes of his ribcage.
‘I am.’
‘On prescription?’
He snorted. ‘Hardly. Jeremy brought it in last night.’
He sighed, his eyes drifting shut again, and she allowed herself to savour the texture of his skin under her palm. The scatter of hairs confused the issue, but out to the sides of his chest where the hair didn’t grow the skin was soft and smooth, like satin, firm and taut over the underlying structures. He was fit, she realised, fit and trim and well looked after—which was more than could be said for her.
She’d have to take advantage of the gym while she was staying at the clinic. A little workout every now and again would do her a power of good.
Her hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he turned his face towards her and opened his eyes. ‘Thanks, Kate,’ he said softly. ‘I’m sorry I growled at you.’
She smiled, appalled to find her eyes filling. She blinked. ‘Forget it,’ she dismissed, and blinked again. ‘What about the acupuncture needles?’
‘Can you take them out? Just twiddle a little, then pull them straight out.’
It was easier than putting them in, she thought with a grim little smile. She put them on one side for disposal.
‘Could you put some oil on my leg, too?’ he asked then.
‘Of course.’ She tipped the oil into her hand again and smoothed it gently and carefully over his swollen thigh. The bruising was coming out now, a great red-purple stain around the middle of his thigh muscle. There was no incision in the side of his thigh, just on the side of his hip, because modern imaging techniques had enabled the surgeon to guide the pin home without direct visual reference.
As a result it would heal more readily, but it was easy to underestimate the severity of his injury just from looking at him, she thought. A big incision and a row of sutures might make him take it more seriously.
She spread the oil over the skin, feeling the drag of the hairs against her palm. The swelling was palpable, a firm band of cramped, rigid muscle that had contracted to support the injury and now refused to let go, suffused with blood from the fracture site. It would be weeks before it returned to normal, and in the meantime he would suffer endless aching.
Her hand slid round across his knee and her fingers bumped his other leg. He moved it out of the way, and as she smoothed the oil her hand wrapped round the inside of his thigh and stroked lightly upwards towards his heart.
He groaned softly, and she stopped.
‘Am I hurting you?’
His laugh was low and husky, tinged with pain and something else, something that sent a shiver through her.
‘Not exactly. Go on, I might as well enjoy it while I can. The chances of getting you to do this under any other circumstances are pretty slight.’
His words confused her. Not the message; that was clear enough—even if she had managed to miss the change in his body that the boxer shorts failed to conceal. No, it was the fact that he might want her to touch him so intimately that confused her.
Her eyes flew up and met his, and the look in them made her heart lurch.
‘Nick?’ she whispered.
His eyes darkened. ‘Hell, Kate,’ he muttered. ‘I think you’d better stop.’
He lifted her hand away, raising it to his mouth and pressing his lips to the knuckles before laying it carefully down on the bed. Then he pulled the covers back over his legs and lay back, shutting his eyes.
There was a pulse beating in his throat, a steady, rhythmic throb that found an echo in her body. She slid back on the chair, moving away from him, and wiped the oil from her hand with a tissue.
How could they still feel like this after so long? She despised him—didn’t she? She always had—at least, for the last twelve years. So what had happened to change things?
The clinic, of course—at least on her side. His reaction she could put down to libido, his natural sex-drive that had been at first a joy and then a source of pain and humiliation after their break-up.
But her reaction? Oh, yes, she had always found him attractive, but it hadn’t stopped her seeing him for what he was. A ready-made opportunity to have his own private clinic had seemed to Kate like a licence to print money, and after the way he had hurt her before, with his womanising ways after their break-up, Kate had seen it as just another side of him that she didn’t like.
Now, though, she realised that that vision of him had been wrong. She had thought he was a money-grubbing opportunist, but she had been mistaken. He was an immensely talented and dedicated professional, and the clinic deserved the international recognition it had gained. He deserved the recognition he had gained.
Realising that didn’t make him like her, though, and nothing had changed to alter his view of her.
He had left her without hesitation. Why would he now want her back?
He wouldn’t.
She looked at him and realised that he was asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. A lump formed in her throat. Damn him. Why did he have to break his leg and get her dragged back into his life? Wretched man. She didn’t want to reassess her image of him. To despise him was her only defence.
Now, though, she had had that humbling insight into his clinic. Far from being the playground for the rich and famous she had at first assumed, gradually, as professional journals had begun to mention its work, she had realised that it must be rather more than that. Now she realised just how much more, and she was ashamed of the way she had dismissed his venture without seeing the evidence, and dismissed his professional worth with it.
If the clinic covered its costs she would be surprised. The staff was a cast of thousands, it seemed, and several of them lived in—either in flats in the top floor of the old servants’ wing or in scattered cottages around the grounds. There had been no expense spared, either, on the renovation and conversion of the old hall.
No, Dominic had done his homework thoroughly, she realised, and had followed through with dedication and commitment.
He had turned into a man to be proud of—but he was a man she didn’t know, a man she had never known, a man who hadn’t existed when they had been married all those years ago.
He was a man she could have loved with all her heart, and she had lost her chance—or had she? Why did he want her to touch him? For old times’ sake, or because of some genuine attraction? Or maybe he was still under the influence of the pethidine and concussion, and slightly off his trolley as a result.
Whatever the reason, he seemed to be showing an interest in her—but why, and for what? She had wasted her first chance with him, she realised sadly, through youth and inexperience, lack of time and the pressures of motherhood and her training.
Was fate going to give her another one?
And, if so, would she have the maturity to handle it any better this time?
CHAPTER FOUR
KATE couldn’t sleep. The bed was strange, the room unfamiliar, the noises different from those she was used to. She read for a while, then put out the light
and lay in the dark, listening.
There was no traffic noise to provide a comforting blur in the background, just the occasional screech of an owl, unbelievably loud and primitive in the quiet night, and in between the rustlings of countless little animals and the soft shiver of leaves in the light wind. Then, just as she was beginning to relax, there was a sound in the house—a funny double tap-tap sound.
She sat bolt-upright in bed, her heart pounding. Was it an intruder? Someone who knew Dominic was in hospital and didn’t realise she was here?
She hadn’t been able to set the alarm because she didn’t know the code, and now she could have kicked herself for not asking. She listened, her ears straining, and over the pounding of her heart she heard a strange scratching sound.
Someone trying to pick a lock? Dear God. Stephie was here, so precious. Who was it? Kate couldn’t bear to think of her lovely daughter being hurt by some demented intruder.
A doorknob rattled, somewhere downstairs, and Kate didn’t hesitate. Commonsense forgotten, she pulled on her dressing gown over her flimsy nightshirt, picked up a heeled shoe to use as a weapon and crept down the stairs.
The scratching came again, and she realised that it was from the kitchen. Had she forgotten to close the window? The sound seemed to be inside; not an outside door, but—
The knob rattled again, and then in the choking silence she heard a miaow. The tension flowed out of her, leaving her feeling weak-kneed and rather foolish.
‘Puss?’ she murmured, and, opening the kitchen door and flicking on the light, she found herself face to face with a big and very welcoming cat, balanced on the edge of the worktop and squawking a loud and very friendly greeting. She put the shoe down and sank into one of the kitchen chairs, laughing weakly.
‘How did you get in?’ she asked the tatter-eared feline, and then she saw a cat-flap in the back door. Idiot. Fancy not noticing that before. ‘Do you live here with Dominic?’ She asked him, and he miaowed again and jumped down, rubbing himself against her legs.
He had a collar on, she noticed, with a tag. The tag read ‘So-and-So. Heywood Hall’. She shook her head ruefully.
‘So you’re So-and-So. I might have known. What an appropriate name. You frightened me to death, you wretch.’
The cat squawked and went over to a cupboard, sitting down in front of it and patting the door with a paw. This was clearly a cat with an agenda, she thought with a smile, and opened the cupboard.
Cat food. Of course.
‘Hungry, are you, old boy?’
He tried to climb in the cupboard, but she scooped him out, found a can opener and a saucer, tipped out half a can of salmon and prawn flavour and put it on the floor.
So-and-So dived in head-first.
‘Like salmon and prawns, do you? Spoilt cat.’
The cat made an agreeing noise and carried on eating. Kate, up now and wide awake, made herself a cup of tea and was just about to sit at the kitchen table and drink it when So-and-So stalked out of the door, tail in the air, and disappeared down the hall.
‘Hey, you, where are you going?’ She leapt up and followed him, worried that he would shred the carpet or the furniture, but he stopped at Dominic’s bedroom door and squawked bossily.
‘In here?’
She opened the door and the cat ran in and jumped straight on the bed, looking for Dominic. Not finding him, he did the next best thing and curled up in the very middle of the bed to wash. She shut the door and sat down next to the cat.
‘That’s all very well,’ she explained reasonably, ‘but he’s not here. And you can’t sleep on his bed in case you want to get out in the night. You’ll have to go back in the kitchen in a minute.’
So-and-So purred contentedly, tucked his paws under his chin and went to sleep.
Kate sipped her tea. Wretched cat. How could she explain? If she put him in the kitchen he’d rattle the knob all night and she wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. On the other hand she didn’t want him on her bed either.
She looked at Dominic’s bed. It was big enough for her and the cat, it was still made up—why not?
She finished her tea, slipped off her dressing gown and climbed into the bed.
It was a mistake.
It smelt of Dominic, a smell she hadn’t forgotten in twelve long, lonely years, and as she snuggled down under the soft, cosy quilt she was wrapped in the familiar and heartwrenching fragrance of his skin.
Memories came flooding back—memories of waking in the night and reaching for each other, of murmured words and soft sighs, warm caresses and wild coming together that had left them both breathless and shaken. At first it had been every night, all night, then, later on, as their jobs had grown more demanding, so their loving had been pushed aside for the greater need of sleep.
Then, finally, there had been no more loving. Precious little sleep, either, and no time any more to talk.
Where had they gone wrong? Had it been living with her parents that had caused the rift between them, or had it already been there? Had their marriage been based on so shaky a foundation that it would have foundered anyway? Had it been the pressure of work, of their training and the demands of their careers? Or had it simply been their youth?
They had been nineteen when they met, young and healthy and ready for love, and they had fallen headlong into an affair without thought for the consequences.
Five months later they’d been married. She’d been four and a half months pregnant and her parents had been less than enthusiastic about Kate’s young husband.
He had got her into trouble, after all, their sweet, innocent, sheltered daughter, luring her with his tawny, beach-boy good looks and glib patter. He had talked her into bed, and now found himself provided with a home, a housekeeper and a nanny for the child that had been the result of Kate’s hasty fall from innocence.
Kate’s father had hated him. He still hated him, even now, and Kate wondered how much her father’s influence had guided her all those years ago.
Her mother had had a soft spot for him, but she was ruled by her husband and unable to stand up to him, so she’d had to make do with doling out little kindnesses that Kate wondered if Dominic had even noticed.
She’d cooked his favourite meals, ironed his shirts, and above all she had brought up his daughter, so that Kate and Dominic had been free to carry on with their studies.
Stephie was born in August, and in October Kate was back at university just four miles from her parents’ home, having missed no time at college and ready to start her third year alongside her husband.
Three years later, after their final year and two years of clinic studies, they entered their house year. Dominic was working thirty miles away and had to live in, although Kate managed to get a job nearer home. They were never off duty together, and within four months their relationship, such as it was, was in tatters.
Early one Sunday morning, as Kate was getting up to go back to work after snatching just four hours off in thirty-six, thanks to a kind friend and colleague, Dominic said that he couldn’t see why they were bothering.
There’s no place for me here,’ he told her flatly. ‘You’re never here. The only thing here for me is Stephie, and she hardly seems to know me any more. You don’t need me; my daughter doesn’t need me. What’s the point?’
She was shocked—although she shouldn’t have been—shocked and hurt, and so she said the first thing that came into her head.
‘Go, then,’ she told him. ‘I have to go back to work anyway. If you don’t want to be here, don’t let me hold you up. Go.’
And he went, just like that, without a word. She thought he’d meant that weekend, but when she got home everything of his was gone—clothes, personal possessions—everything except Stephie.
Her father comforted her with the thought that he had never been committed to them anyway and it was better now than after another child had come along.
She thought he would come back. He had two more months at the other hospi
tal on a medical rotation, and then he’d managed to swap with someone to do his surgical rotation at the same hospital as Kate. She was sure he’d come back then, but he didn’t—at least, not for her.
He saw his daughter, religiously, whenever he could find time, and he paid maintenance into Kate’s account right from the start.
But he never came back to her or indicated in any way that he wanted to, and two years later they divorced by mutual consent, without ever having discussed their break-up.
Since then their only contact had been about Stephie, and in recent years she had hardly seen him. They had spoken on the phone, but he always picked his daughter up from school on Friday afternoon and returned her on Monday morning every other weekend, and in the holidays he would collect her from the house, where she would be dancing with anticipation on the doorstep, and when he returned her he waited just long enough to see the door open before he waved and drove off. She had been to the hall only three times, and then had never crossed the threshold.
And yet, in all that time, Kate hadn’t forgotten the fragrance of his skin.
She sniffed. Damn. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes seemed to have sprung a leak and there was something wrong with her chest, as if a huge weight was lodged in it.
The sob fought its way out, and she turned in to the pillow, blocking the agonised sound as it wrenched from her throat.
Damn him. Why did he have to do this to her? He probably didn’t want her at all, it was just convenient to have her covering his job and looking after his daughter. And if by coincidence she was available sexually, she knew full well that Dominic would take advantage of that fact too.
He might have turned into a brilliant doctor and a generous philanthropist, but the man himself was still in full possession of his hormones, and dearly willing to enjoy them.
Her body thrummed at the thought. Lord, it had been so long. There had been two other men in her life, both since the break-up, both perfectly decent people, with whom any normal woman would have been happy to settle down.
Not Kate—not since Dominic. He had spoiled her for any other man, and, lying there in his sheets, she ached for him, for his touch, for the warmth of his body and the release only he could bring.
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