A Perfect Hero

by Caroline Anderson

  A Perfect Hero

  Caroline Anderson

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘THOSE boys are the pits!’

  Half laughing, half furious, Clare pushed the door of Sister’s office shut behind her and sagged into the chair.

  ‘That bad?’

  Her head jerked up, her eyes instantly caught and trapped by a gaze so vivid she thought she must be dreaming. He was fair, his sun-streaked hair falling in defiant strands across the bronze skin of his high forehead, and he radiated health and energy. He was also drop-dead good-looking, and Clare was instantly wary.

  ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t realise there was anyone in here—not that I usually talk to myself, but this morning …!’

  ‘Losing your grip already?’ His voice was like rich silk sliding over pebbles. The stranger glanced at his watch and raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s only ten past nine!’

  ‘Yes, well, if you’d met Danny Drew and his gang of fellow-sufferers, you’d understand!’

  ‘I shall look forward to the experience.’ He took a long, lazy stride forward and held out his hand across the desk. ‘We haven’t met. Michael Barrington. I’m Tim Mayhew’s senior reg., as of about ten minutes ago. And you’re Clare Stevens,’ he added, engulfing her hand in his long, lean fingers.

  A tingle like an electric shock ran up her arm, and she hastily detached herself from his hand and smoothed her dress over her hips in an unconsciously provocative gesture.

  ‘How did you know?’ she asked, still rattled by the contact, and his hand reached out and flicked the badge on her breast pocket with casual disregard for convention.

  ‘Oh—how silly of me!’ She tried to smile, but her lips felt stiff and uncooperative. Those shatteringly blue eyes were inches from her own, and he was clearly laughing at her. She stood up breathlessly and turned away, to put some distance between herself and this young Adonis who had dropped out of the sky into her life. ‘We were expecting you—I’m afraid Sister O’Brien’s got the morning off—she’s on from twelve-thirty. Would you like me to show you the ward?’

  He nodded. ‘Just informally—I don’t want pomp and ceremony and a great trailing entourage!’

  She laughed, an easy, rippling sound, and relaxed. ‘We don’t tend to stand on ceremony at the Audley Memorial. We’d better get on—we’re not on take today, but we’ve got some elective patients in for hip replacement and it was one of those fairly bloody weekends on the road—we’ve got two lads in ITU who’ll be coming up shortly if they’re sufficiently stable.’

  ‘I get your drift,’ he said with a smile, and her heart crashed against her ribs. ‘Allow me——’

  He reached round her and opened the door, and as he did so she became aware of his height, and breadth, and the smooth skin of his jaw slightly roughened by stubble. Mingled with the faint scent of expensive cologne was a deeper, more intrinsic scent, primitive and masculine, that made her breath catch in her throat.

  Thanking him in what she hoped was a normal voice, she preceded him through the door and took him round the ward, showing him the utility areas and general geography before taking him round the four six-bedded bays and telling him about the patients who would be under his care.

  ‘Do you want to examine any of them?’ she asked as they went into the first bay.

  ‘No, I don’t think there’s any need—unless there’s anybody you feel I should look at in particular? I’m really only here to familiarise myself with the ward. I’ll be joining Mr Mayhew in Theatre later.’

  As they walked round the ward, Clare became increasingly conscious of her companion. He smiled and joked and stole the hearts of all the elderly ladies with their hip replacements, and he listened intently as she explained about their treatment of young Tina White, thrown from her horse and suffering from severe bruising of the spinal cord following a fracture dislocation of T4 and T5. She was being nursed on a revolving Stryker bed, and was turned every two hours throughout the day and night.

  ‘She’s a model patient, aren’t you, Tina?’ Clare said with a smile.

  The girl grinned. ‘Anyone’s a model patient compared with that lot!’ She waved her hand towards the end bay.

  Clare groaned. ‘The trouble is, they aren’t in enough pain any more!’

  Beside her, Michael Barrington frowned. ‘You surely wouldn’t want them to be in pain?’ he said reprovingly.

  ‘Of course not,’ she laughed. ‘Just well and back home again!’

  Tina chuckled. ‘They aren’t so bad, really—takes the edge off lying here day after day. At least I can try and guess what they’ll get up to next!’

  ‘Any sign of improvement?’ he asked quietly as they walked away.

  ‘Not really. We were very hopeful at first, but in fact it looks pretty grim for her still. I’ll fill you in in a minute.’

  They entered the last bay, and ducked to miss a flying grape.

  ‘Danny Drew?’ he said wryly, and she laughed.

  ‘Well, Mr Barrington, how did you guess?’ She picked up the fallen grape and turned her back on Danny. ‘He’s fractured both femurs, so he’s totally immobilised. He’s not an ideal patient by any stretch of the imagination! Mr Mayhew fixed them both internally to make his management easier, but frankly I think he would have had to wire his jaw to make any appreciable differences——’

  ‘Hello, darlin’! Brought the boyfriend, have you?’

  There was a chorus of cat-calls which she ignored, and beside her the SR chuckled under his breath. ‘I see what you mean! Right little joker, isn’t he?’

  She rolled her eyes and continued, ‘That lad over there, in the corner—Pete Sawyer—he came off his bike and smashed his wrist and forearm, broke his pelvis and did his patella a certain amount of no good. Unfortunately his arm isn’t fusing very well—he’ll probably have to go back to Theatre and have it repinned. Otherwise they’re all progressing nicely and should be out in a short while.’

  ‘You don’t sound as glad as I’d imagine you’d be,’ he said as they made their way back to Sister’s office.

  She laughed. ‘Why should I be glad? There’ll be another lot the same—we save that bay for the bikers and the sports injuries. It’s referred to fondly as Borstal.’

  He chuckled. ‘I can see why.’ He eased his long frame into a chair and stretched out his legs. Tell me about Tina.’

  ‘Sure. Coffee?’ She poured two cups, set them down on the desk and flicked open the Kardex. ‘Fell from her horse last Saturday—nine days ago. She was at a gymkhana and her horse shied and dropped her across a post and rail fence. She landed on her back. The spinal cord isn’t severed, but there was extensive bruising and pressure from the dislocation. That’s reduced with time, and Mr Mayhew’s still hoping for some return of function, but so far it doesn’t look hopeful. He may try and stabilise her further with surgery if she doesn’t show any improvement, so we can get her rehabilitation under way sooner. In the meantime, we keep her turning and hope for a miracle.’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘I know.’ She stirred her coffee idly. ‘Pete Sawyer is a problem, as well, with his unstable forearm fractures. I think Mr Mayhew is concerned he may end up with a non-union of the radius and ulna. They were very badly shattered.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Six weeks—plenty of time for
a callus to form, but there’s no sign of any regeneration.’

  ‘Got the X-rays?’

  ‘Mmm, they’re with the notes.’

  She found them and put them on the light-box, and they stood side by side examining them.

  ‘What a bloody awful mess! He was lucky not to lose his arm.’

  ‘Fortunately the soft-tissue injuries weren’t too extensive, otherwise I think Mr Mayhew might have been tempted to amputate.’

  That would be a shame.’

  ‘It would be a tragedy in such a young man.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Amputation is always a tragedy, but the injury or disease giving rise to it is just as much of a problem. Often patients are better off without the traumatised limb.’

  She shuddered. ‘I can’t believe that. Surely anything is better than losing a limb?’

  ‘Oh, come on! I’ll grant you a functioning limb, especially an arm, with even limited function can be more use than an artificial limb, but a neat amputation at a carefully chosen site and a properly fitting prosthesis in a well-adjusted patient causes far less change in lifestyle and social habits than a disablingly damaged limb—and it can be a lot less unsightly!’

  ‘And what about the emotional aspects?’ she asked heatedly. ‘What about the effect on family? The personal problems, sexual problems and so on?’

  ‘Hey, hey…’ His hand came up and his knuckles brushed her cheek lightly, tantalisingly. ‘Don’t get so het up. Of course there are problems. Amputees need a lot of support and therapy, but all I’m saying is, with the right support, under certain circumstances they can be better off!’

  She wanted to argue, but the brush of his knuckles was doing strange things to her circulation and her brain felt fogged. He was too close, too male, too—just too much! Their eyes were locked, his so intense she could almost feel their heat.

  ‘Mr Barrington——’

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘Michael, then. Please stop. I can’t think.’

  ‘Good. I get the feeling that if you think, you’ll start arguing with me again, and that would be a shame.’

  She was sure he was going to kiss her. His firm, well-sculptured lips were inches from her own, and closing fast …

  The shrilling of the phone was shattering. Clare leapt as if she’d been burned, and snatched up the receiver breathlessly.

  ‘For you,’ she muttered, handing him the instrument and backing away behind the desk. What on earth was wrong with her? For years she had been pursued by an endless stream of handsome and not-so-handsome young doctors, all convinced that with her looks she was a sexy little airhead who would be more than content to convey her favours on them. They had all been disappointed, but none more so than Clare herself, who had longed for years to be wanted for herself! Not for her body, or her face, but for her mind, her sense of humour, her zest for life.

  Perhaps it had been easy to keep them at a distance, because universally and to a man they had failed to reach that elemental core of spirit that made her a woman. But this man—one brush of his hand, and her legs felt on the point of collapse, her blood-pressure had sky-rocketed and her body was thrumming with wild and primitive passion! You’re pathetic, she told herself disgustedly.

  He replaced the receiver and turned to her with a smile. ‘The gods have spoken—I have to go up to Theatre and prove myself under the eagle eye of the boss. Are you doing anything later?’

  ‘Washing my hair,’ she replied promptly.

  ‘Liar,’ he said with a soft laugh. ‘Come and have something to eat with me and tell me all I need to know about the hierarchy of this establishment. I’d hate to put my foot in it for the sake of a little friendly advice!’

  She was tempted—oh, so tempted. As she hesitated, he watched her with a slightly quizzical expression, his vivid blue eyes seeming to see straight through her.

  ‘Is there a reason for your procrastination?’

  ‘Do I need a reason?’ she retorted, almost crossly.

  ‘No. I just wondered if you had a Significant Other.’

  ‘A significant what?’

  ‘Other—you know, husband, fiancé, boyfriend, live-in-lover—whatever.’

  She shook her head. ‘No—no whatever whatsoever.’

  He frowned in mock disbelief. ‘Really? No current lover?’

  ‘No lover at all—full stop—nor am I looking for one!’

  ‘What a tragic waste.’

  ‘You think so? I’m quite content—–’

  ‘Content?’ he snorted. ‘Damn, Clare, a woman as beautiful as you should be more than content——’

  She fixed him with a withering look. ‘If you’re offering to relieve my sexual frustration, Mr Barrington, you can save yourself the trouble. The answer’s no!’

  He threw back his head and laughed, a rich, warm laugh that rolled round her senses and left her feeling even more disorientated. Then he sobered slightly, and shot her a disarming grin. ‘It’s usual to wait until you’re asked, isn’t it? As a matter of fact, I wasn’t offering—yet. Although, to be fair, I might well have got round to it——’

  ‘You all do, some more quickly than others, but in the end you all make the same moves,’ she said with a touch of bitterness, ‘and the answer’s always the same. Thanks, but no, thanks. Hadn’t you better go?’

  ‘Yes, I must. I’ll see you later, Clare. Thanks for the ward-round and the coffee.’

  And he was gone, leaving her feeling fraught with conflicting emotions. What a way for their professional relationship to get off the ground! Dear God, perhaps she had over-reacted, but there was no mistaking his interest. At twenty-five, Clare was something of an expert at interpreting masculine appraisal, and she was seldom mistaken.

  And that man was interested.

  Well, he’d soon discover that she wasn’t that sort of girl, and, with his looks, if all he wanted was a little recreation he would soon be overrun with offers.

  Sighing a little and not understanding quite why, Clare left the office and went about her duties.

  Her peace was short-lived. He was back at one with Mr Mayhew, the orthopaedic consultant, and David Blake, the junior registrar, and he looked even better than her fevered mind had remembered.

  Sister O’Brien fell instantly under his spell, the motherly woman welcoming him to the ward like the prodigal son, and Clare watched in helpless fascination as he examined the two patients whose hip replacements he had performed that morning.

  ‘Good. That looks fine,’ he said with a smile, covering up the second patient, and turning to Clare to hand her the notes. ‘Thank you, Staff,’ he said, then, lowering his voice, he added, ‘What are you doing after you wash your hair?’

  Ripping it out in handfuls, she thought, and choked down the laugh. ‘Nothing,’ she admitted quietly.

  Then come with me. Just a simple meal—nothing elaborate. Take pity on a stranger, Clare. I don’t know a soul—doesn’t it worry you that I’ll be going home to a strange house all alone tonight, and every night? No one to talk to, to share anything with, except my cat, and his conversational skills are strictly limited. Please?’

  ‘All right,’ she relented with a laugh. ‘When and where?’

  ‘Do you live in the hospital?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Main entrance, seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘OK. What shall I wear?’

  ‘Anything—jeans? They do good food in the village pub, and we can sit in the garden. Must go. I’ll see you at seven.’

  As he turned, she was conscious of Sister O’Brien’s interested scrutiny. They walked back to her office in silence, and for a moment Clare thought she’d got away with it. She was wrong.

  ‘Nice young man. You seemed to hit it off very well with him, Clare.’

  ‘He asked me to spare him some time this evening to tell him about the hospital—routine, things he ought to know, et cetera—you know how it is when you start somewhere new,’ she said, modifying the tr
uth for the sake of convention. Not for the world would she reveal how her heart had soared and spun out of control as he had handed back the notes and his hand had deliberately brushed against hers.

  Sister O’Brien smiled to herself. About time, she thought. ‘You’ll enjoy it, dear—do you good to get out. Now, about Pete Sawyer—I believe Mr Mayhew wants Mr Barrington to have a go at refixing that wrist—I think they’re going to try a bone graft now his pelvis is nearly healed and they can take bone from the ilium. Perhaps that’ll do the trick.’

  Just so long as he doesn’t amputate for the hell of it, she thought to herself as she recalled their earlier conversation.

  The day dragged. Not even to herself would Clare admit the reason, but as she went off-duty and found herself rummaging through her wardrobe for an appropriate alternative to jeans for a pub snack, she was brought up sharply against the realisation that her tingling sense of anticipation had only one cause—and that cause was Michael Barrington.

  ‘Damn!’ she muttered to herself, and all through her shower and preparation for the evening, she worried about her reaction to him. Because he was quite evidently a womaniser, and she had no intention of surrendering her hard-fought scruples to some trifling playboy just because he made her senses reel!

  Her preparations complete, she stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and studied her reflection. Her blonde hair, released form the starched white cap and freshly washed, tumbled in casual layers to brush her collar lightly at the back. Her make-up, slightly heavier than usual, was still restricted to a smudge of soft grey-green shadow over her wide almond-shaped eyes, a touch of soft pink lipstick and the lightest feathering of mascara to tint the pale tips of her lashes. Casual, he had said, so she was wearing a soft cotton sweater the same grey-green as her eyes, and a pair of culottes in a rust and green print. Her legs were bare, her feet comfortably shod in soft cotton canvas slip-ons. She wondered if the whole effect was too casual, but it was too late to worry.

  At five to seven, her heart pounding, she let herself out of her flat and made her way down to the main entrance of the hospital.