His eyes flickered open, a clear, steady grey, and he groaned and shut them again. ‘I hate concussion,’ he muttered.
Well, at least he knew what was going on. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked him.
‘Patrick Durrant. I told you that. Stop testing me, I’m all right. I just feel sick.’
‘Pins and needles?’
‘No—and I haven’t got double vision and I haven’t got a severe headache. Connie, I’m fine. I just haven’t eaten for twenty-four hours, I’ve been too busy.’
She sat back again on her heels and huffed a sigh. ‘Well, for goodness’ sake, no wonder you fainted! You had me worried half to death!’
He cracked an eye open and studied her for a moment. ‘What’s the matter—don’t you fancy being had up on a murder charge?’
She resisted the urge to hit him again, just because he’d got too close to the mark. Instead she helped him back into the chair, gave him a minute to recover and then steadied him as he walked cautiously through to the sitting room and stretched out full length on the sofa.
‘I’ll cook you something simple. Stay here.’
‘As if I’m going anywhere,’ he muttered, and his eyes slid shut again.
She threw together some scrambled eggs and toast, prodded him awake and fed him, and then covered him when he dozed off, feet dangling over the end, one arm hanging by his side, the back of his hand trailing on the carpet.
He looked tired and vulnerable and defenceless, and Connie felt another wave of guilt wash over her. Still, what was she supposed to do—ask a burglar for his credentials before hitting him?
Or, perhaps, just call the police like a normal person would instead of wading in there in her underwear and clubbing him over the head!
Oh, damn.
She couldn’t leave him, so she went upstairs and took the quilt off her bed and dragged it downstairs, snuggling in it on a big, comfy chair in the soft light of a table lamp. The dogs settled down at her feet, curled together on the edge of the quilt, and she lay and listened to the homely sound of Patrick’s breathing, the odd soft snore punctuating the steady and even sigh of his breath.
Every now and then she got up and checked him, making sure that the concussion hadn’t deepened and that he was still only asleep and not unconscious. At five, when he was sleeping particularly heavily, she shone a torch in his eyes to check his pupils and elicited a stream of invective.
‘You’ll do,’ she said, and curled up again, dozing fitfully. At six, after a total of about two hours’ sleep, she rose stiffly from the chair, let the dogs out in the garden and put the kettle on.
She was in the bedroom overhead when she heard him stirring, and she went down again and found him sitting up on the edge of the sofa, his legs braced apart and his elbows propped, a wry smile on his face.
‘Are you all right?’ Connie asked cautiously, not altogether sure she wanted the answer.
‘I’ll live.’
‘Headache?’
‘Just a tad. Are you making tea?’
She nodded.
‘Not too strong, dash of milk, no sugar,’ he told her, and unravelling himself from the remains of the quilt he headed for the door. She moved out of his way, but a warm, musky, male scent lingered on the air, teasing her senses.
She chewed her lip. She must be crazy thinking about him like that—apart from anything else he wouldn’t be interested in someone who’d tried to kill him! She went into the kitchen and made the tea, but while it was brewing there was a crash from upstairs.
‘Oh, my God,’ she muttered, and headed for the stairs at a flat-out run. If he’d fallen in the bathroom and hit his head again…She grabbed the knob and twisted it, throwing the door open, and met Patrick’s bemused and patient expression.
‘Oh,’ she said weakly. ‘You’re all right. I heard a crash.’
‘I knocked the shampoo bottle into the bath.’
‘Oh. Thank God for that. I thought you’d passed out.’
She sagged against the doorframe, then belatedly realised that he had just stepped out of the shower. Without her permission her eyes ran down his very wet and naked body, and with a little gasp she dragged her eyes back up to his face and jack knifed away from the wall. ‘Sorry—I’ll—er—leave you to it. Tea’s ready.’
His mouth quirked in a smile that could just have been patronising, and she spun on her heel and shot back downstairs, nearly falling over the dogs. Why hadn’t she merely knocked and asked if he was all right? Why barge in there without warning?
What was it about him that had her taking leave of her senses?
Connie poured the tea, trying hard not to think about the sleek, muscular body, the gleaming beads of water dribbling into rivers on his skin, tracking down through the damp curls that scattered his chest and arrowed down—
Oh, hell. She sat down with her mug, cradling it in both hands and blowing bubbles round on the surface. She needed to get out more. If she had a real life—one with a man in it—then the sight of him would have done nothing to her.
No. Not even she could get away with such a barefaced lie. But even so, if she had a real life, she wouldn’t have been quite so…
Awestruck?
She groaned and sipped her tea. No wonder he’d thought she was an adolescent.
She heard his heavy, even tread in the hall, and the door swung open. Patrick came in, clad in trousers and a white shirt, looking very respectable except for the wet hair dribbling water down the back of his neck and wetting his collar.
She pushed his mug towards him. ‘Here, drink this before it’s cold.’
He hooked the chair out with his foot and straddled it, dangling the mug in his fingertips. ‘So where have you been?’ he asked without preamble.
‘This morning?’ she asked, surprised.
‘No. The past week or so.’
‘Oh.’ She looked down into her tea. ‘Yorkshire. Why?’
‘They were trying to contact you.’
‘To tell me they were going on holiday again, I suppose, in case I decided to turn up. Is it going to be a problem, me being here?’
He shook his head. ‘No, not at all. But—ah—they aren’t exactly on holiday.’
Something about the way he said it sent chills down her spine. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, searching his face for any clues. It was craggy and interesting and—compassionate?
‘Your father’s had an operation—a coronary artery bypass. He’s fine now, out of Intensive Care, but I think they’d like to talk to you.’
She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘A bypass?’
‘Four, actually. He had a quadruple. He’s in Cambridge—I’ve got the number. You can ring them.’
She stared at him, utterly stunned. ‘But—a quadruple bypass? That was sudden.’
‘Not really. He’s had a couple of heart attacks in the past year—just minor ones, but enough to be worrying. He’s had angina for years.’
Connie felt dreadful. She’d been so busy, so absorbed with her own career, that she hadn’t even noticed her father going downhill. ‘I thought they just went on holiday a lot—why didn’t they tell me?’
Patrick’s shoulders lifted expressively. ‘Maybe they didn’t want to worry you. It’s quite possible.’
‘They should have told me.’ She stood up, pacing restlessly to the sink and staring out at the garden. The signs were there, if she just bothered to look. Her father’s vegetable garden, always so neatly tended and productive, was lying fallow except for a row of spinach that had gone to seed. No leeks, no onions, no cabbages of different sorts—none of the late summer or early autumn veg that he was so proud of and so successful with.
Connie closed her eyes and swallowed a little spurt of panic. ‘He is all right, isn’t he?’ she asked in a small voice.
She didn’t hear Patrick move, just felt the warm comfort of his hands cupping her shoulders. ‘He’s fine—truly. I saw him at the weekend. He’s doing well.’ He drew her
back against him, and with a shaky sigh she leaned into him and took advantage of the silent support.
‘I needed to get away—I had some thinking to do. I dropped off the map for a few days.’
‘This?’ he asked softly. His hand ran down her right arm and came to rest under her cast, his hand cupping it, his fingers warm over the numb, stiff skin of her fingers.
‘Amongst other things,’ she said, and moved away, not ready yet to talk to him about it. ‘I ought to ring my mother—have you got the number?’
‘Sure.’
He went out of the kitchen, and she sagged against the worktop and pressed her fingers to her eyes. A quadruple bypass, for heaven’s sake, and they hadn’t been able to get hold of her to tell her! Guilt swamped her, and she bit back a moan of reproach.
‘Don’t beat yourself up over it,’ he advised, coming back in. ‘I told them ages ago they ought to tell you what was going on, but they didn’t want to worry you.’
‘But I should have been there for them.’
‘Like they were there for you?’
Her eyes flew up and met his, then skittered away. ‘That’s different,’ she said hastily. ‘Right, I’ll ring them. How’s your head now, by the way?’
He grinned, a little lopsidedly. ‘It’s fine. I shouldn’t bother to tell them, if I were you.’
Connie laughed without humour. ‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t about to.’ She gestured at the piece of paper he’d given her, her mother’s delicate spidery writing scrawled across it. ‘Will she be at this number now?’
He checked his watch. ‘Possibly. It’s the guest house where she’s staying.’
She debated going into the sitting room, but decided not to bother. Instead she hitched herself up on the worktop, took the phone off the wall and dialled the number. Moments later her mother was put on the line, and she seemed relieved to talk to Connie.
‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘We couldn’t track you down.’
‘Sorry, I was in Yorkshire. How’s Dad?’
‘Fine—progressing really well. So how did you get the number? Did you ring us?’
‘No—I came home to see you.’
‘Ah. You’ve met Patrick, then? Are you getting on all right?’
Did she imagine it, or was there a hint of curiosity in her mother’s voice? Curiosity and—hope?
She shot a glance across at Patrick and stifled a laugh. ‘Yes, we’re getting on fine,’ she said. Apart from the cold pack on his head and her guilty conscience.
‘By the way,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘where’s the silver?’
‘Oh, I packed it all up and took it in to be cleaned and valued for insurance. Why—darling, surely you didn’t think Patrick had taken it?’ Her mother’s bright, tinkling laugh made Connie ashamed. ‘Connie, he’s like family. I’d trust him with anything—heavens, I’d trust him with you!’
‘Oh. Good.’ She met Patrick’s eyes, one brow arched cynically, and felt herself colour. ‘I just wondered. Look, give Dad my love. I’ll try and come up to see you later today—I’ll get the directions from Patrick.’
‘Good,’ her mother said warmly. ‘Your father will be pleased to see you—I don’t think he’ll believe you’re all right until he’s seen you with his own eyes.’
Connie chatted for a few more moments, then replaced the phone.
‘All right?’ Patrick asked.
‘Fine.’ She looked down at her hand, lying useless in her lap. ‘What do I tell them?’ she asked him.
‘About the silver? About my head? About your horribly suspicious mind?’
She shook her head, ignoring the bitterness in his voice. ‘About my arm—about my hand. I didn’t want to worry them, but my mother says my father won’t believe I’m all right until he sees me with his own eyes.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know. I just know I can’t go and visit my father without him noticing the cast.’
Patrick eyed her thoughtfully. ‘Is there a reason you don’t want them to know?’
She gave a soft, humourless laugh. ‘I was being stupid. I took a risk. They hate it when I do that—so I just don’t tell them. And now they’re going to know.’
And, without waiting for his response, she slid off the worktop and headed for the door.
CHAPTER TWO
PATRICK let Connie go. There didn’t seem to be any point in following her, and, besides, he was still feeling irritated about the silver.
His head wasn’t feeling all that brilliant either. He propped his chin on his hands and sighed. He ought to eat something—that had been half his trouble yesterday—but he just didn’t feel like cooking. He’d bought some nice crunchy cereal with dried raspberries in it. Perhaps he’d have some of that.
And perhaps he ought to go after Connie and talk to her. He made some fresh tea and took it through to the sitting room where he could hear her moving around. She was clearing up the cushions and quilts from their impromptu camping session, and she looked up at him with her wary honey-gold eyes.
‘I’ve brought you some tea,’ he told her. He put the mugs down on the coffee-table and took the quilt out of her arms, putting it down on the chair. Then he sat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. ‘Come and tell Uncle Patrick all about it.’
She sat, stiffly and staring straight ahead, her colour up a little. ‘Look, first of all, about the silver,’ she began, but he found he didn’t care about that, just about Connie and what had happened.
‘Forget the silver,’ he cut in. ‘Tell me about your arm.’
‘My arm.’ Her voice was strained, and he sensed she was holding herself on a tight leash.
‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’ he suggested.
So she did, but it wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all. ‘My brother Anthony was a doctor,’ she began. ‘He was training to be a surgeon, and rumour had it he was tipped for the top. He just had a gift—you know the way some people do?’
Patrick nodded. ‘Yes, I know, I trained with someone like that. So what happened?’
‘He died. A skiing accident. He was a bit of an idiot sometimes, but a very good skier. He went off-piste with a friend, and they didn’t come back. They didn’t find their bodies till the spring thaw. They’d been caught in an avalanche.’
Patrick closed his eyes. To lose your brother was bad enough. To not know, for weeks, months even, what had happened must have been horrendous. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gruffly. ‘That must have been very difficult for all of you.’
‘It was. That’s why my parents are a bit overprotective. I was just starting my clinical training, and I’d intended to do paediatric medicine. Then, somehow, I just felt I had to do surgery for Anthony, so I changed the direction of my training and here I am—on the threshold of my career as a neonatal paediatric surgeon, and I go and do something stupid like this.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘Well, not wonderful. I damaged the nerves—I just have to wait for them to heal and recover. I’m not a patient person.’
He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘How long ago did you break it?’
‘Six weeks.’
‘And there’s still residual nerve damage?’
‘It’s just bruising,’ she said firmly. ‘It’ll recover. It just takes time.’
She was an intelligent, educated woman. She was a doctor. She knew the score. So why was she deluding herself?
‘And if it doesn’t?’
She stiffened. ‘It will. It has to.’
‘But if it doesn’t?’ he persisted. ‘Will you be able to operate?’
‘Of course. It’s early days to be so defeatist. I’m sure it will be fine—it’s just taking time.’
OK, so she had blinkers on. It wasn’t his job to tell her she was wrong. He got back to the core business. ‘How did you break it?’
She looked down at it, hefting the cast as if testing its weight. ‘I fell, rock-climbing. I reached out for a hold on the way past, jammed
my hand into a crack and kept on going. It broke.’
Patrick winced, seeing it all too clearly for comfort. ‘I imagine it would. Were you on your own?’
Connie snorted. ‘Only idiots go rock-climbing on their own.’
He thought only idiots went rock-climbing, full stop, but there you go. One born every minute. ‘So, what happened next?’
‘They hoisted me up so they could free my arm, splinted it and helped me back down to a ledge. Then they got me airlifted off and into hospital. I had it pinned and plated, but the nerves were torn and crushed. It’ll be several months before they recover as well as they’re going to.’
‘But they think they’ll recover enough for you to go back to surgery.’ He watched her, noting the tiny flinch as he said the words. There had been a wealth of pain and disappointment in her voice, carefully hidden by her matter-of-fact delivery. He sensed she needed to scream and rant and rail against fate. Perhaps that was what she’d been doing in Yorkshire. If so, he thought, she’d come back too soon.
She shrugged slightly, and reached for her tea. ‘Hopefully, but not yet, of course. Neonatal paediatric surgery is very fast, very precise, very finely tuned, by definition. There’s no room for clumsiness or slowness. The babies would just die—they’re too frail to wait while you fiddle about. I couldn’t take that responsibility.’
‘How long ago did it happen? Six weeks, did you say?’
‘Give or take the odd day.’
Long enough for her to know in her heart of hearts that things weren’t looking good. No wonder she’d run away to Yorkshire. He reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Connie, I’m sorry.’
She stiffened, bracing herself against the sympathy that she wasn’t strong enough to deal with. ‘I’m fine, I just have to occupy myself until I’m better,’ she said brightly, but he wasn’t fooled.
He sat back with his tea and watched her over the rim, saying nothing, letting her get herself back under control. She was hanging on by a thread, and he had an insane urge to wrap his arms round her and lie to her and tell her it would be all right.
Crazy. She didn’t need him to comfort her, and he certainly didn’t need to get involved with her and all her problems. He had more than enough of his own.
Practically Perfect Page 2