An Irresistible Flirtation

by Victoria Gordon

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘I’m sending you a man.’

  The voice was unmistakable, syrup-thick and unashamedly, irrevocably Irish. And deliberately provocative.

  But what would I do with it?’ Saunders replied, not bothering to hide the delight in her voice. ‘I couldn’t afford to feed it, and they’re terribly difficult to train.’

  She hadn’t heard from Dr Peter Mahoney in months; indeed, had wondered if her favourite general practitioner had finally worked himself to death or drink or both. They had done their training at the same hospital, and, if Peter hadn’t been married already, Saunders had often said she’d have grabbed him for herself. She and Peter’s wife Gail, while not close friends, liked each other and got on very well.

  ‘This one is long past training, I do fear,’ was the reply. ‘Which is why I’m sending him along to you, dear Saunders. I’m hoping your own wondrous temperament can accomplish miracles.’

  Saunders laughed, then sobered at the vibes she detected in his voice.

  ‘That bad?’

  Just occasionally, a person diagnosed with diabetes proved hugely incapable of coming to terms with the situation, looking on the whole thing as some sort of divine retribution or something. It made the job of educating them to control their diabetes — and their lives — to achieve a more or less normal lifestyle very difficult indeed.

  ‘Oh, probably not. But on the other hand…’ Peter’s voice trailed off as he drifted into thoughts perhaps best unsaid, Saunders thought, realising at the same time that they must be said, if only to give her something to work with.

  ‘You’re hedging,’ she said. ‘What’s the problem — is he allergic to insulin, or afraid of the sight of his own blood?’

  She kept the joshing tone in her voice, but was already making angry little doodles on her scratchpad. Peter Mahoney was perhaps the finest general practitioner she knew, and if he was worried, she definitely ought to be.

  ‘Afraid of absolutely nothing: that’s the problem. Not even of me!’ was the reply. ‘Intelligent, able, but just so damned … pig-headed and independent…’

  ‘Like his doctor,’ Saunders couldn’t help replying.

  ‘Hell no! Ten times worse; a thousand times worse,’ was the response. And she noted there was less of a note of humour in his voice than she might have expected, would have preferred.

  ‘Well, then, why send him to me? Honestly, Peter, if you can’t handle him, I don’t see how you’d expect me to.’

  Which had nothing to do with it, and Saunders knew that. Like any good GP, Peter Mahoney was reasonably versed on diabetes and the various complications involved with it, but he was no specialist. In this region of the state, she was more the specialist than he, in the sense that, once diagnosed, diabetes was a lifetime condition requiring day-to-day management in which the patient’s own involvement was crucial to any hope of success. Knowledge was the essential key, and her job was to give the diabetic that knowledge and help put it to work.

  ‘I’m sending him because I send all my diabetic patients to you, as you well know. The reason I’m phoning to warn you is only that this boyo might prove a touch more difficult than most.’

  ‘Well, I can believe that, since by the way you’re talking he certainly isn’t in your consulting-room listening to you,’ Saunders said. And then, with sudden alarm, ‘Surely not?’

  ‘Of course not. I picked it up, actually, as part of a general check-up, sent him for tests yesterday, got the bad news I expected, and he’s away now getting dressed. I only wanted to be sure of an appointment time, is all.’

  Saunders consulted her diary: Thursday, now, and tomorrow booked solid and into overtime because of the afternoon she’d taken off yesterday to lunch with Charlotte. Monday no better.

  ‘It will have to be first thing Tuesday,’ she finally said. ‘Would nine o’clock be all right?’

  ‘He’ll be there, if I have to drag him personally,’ was the reply. ‘Although to be sure I’d hoped you might be able to make it sooner. Still…’

  The doctor then launched into providing Saunders with the minimum details she would require, promising that a proper letter of referral would accompany his patient. She noted the man’s particulars without paying particular attention; the success of his treatment, both she and Peter knew, would depend more on the man himself than on the specifics of the symptoms.

  Still … Fordon Landell; forty-one, six feet tall, eighty-one kilos, self-employed mining consultant and engineer. Diagnosed ... yesterday, she realised; Peter had obviously called him in this morning for the appropriate glucose testing.

  As if reading her thoughts, the doctor said, ‘They couldn’t do the test — his blood sugar level was fifteen point four after fasting, if you can imagine it. I suspect a lot of that was inner stress, but…’

  Just within the right age-group, hardly overweight at that height, but given his symptoms…

  ‘The expectable nightly wanderings,’ Peter said, not bothering to use the proper medical terminology of polyuria with Saunders. ‘General feeling of malaise, poor concentration, dry mouth. I tested him here at over twelve and there’s no doubt.’

  Certainly not, she thought. Type 2 diabetes — technically described as non-insulin-dependent diabetes mellitus. By far the most common form of diabetes, touching one person in sixty in the over-thirty age-group. Distinctly hereditary, far more so than the insulin-dependent variety which usually struck younger people. And these days, with the growing trend to obesity among young people, a growing problem for them, too.

  ‘History?’ The question was automatic, because of the strong hereditary factor. Given one parent with this form of diabetes, the chance of inheritance was about one in ten; if both parents had the malady, the risk doubled.

  ‘I’ll let him discuss that with you; it’s a bit complicated,’ Peter replied, then swiftly moved on to other elements of the diagnosis. Saunders accepted the evasiveness without comment.

  After Peter had hung up, she scanned her brief notes, then filed them away to await Mr Landell’s Tuesday appointment. The doctor’s warnings didn’t really change much; she would have to deal with Fordon Landell as she did with all her other clients, with an approach custom-tailored to suit the individual.

  Saunders knew her greatest single advantage in her chosen work was intangible, something it was difficult even to put into words sometimes. It was easiest described as a natural empathy, something most good nurses have to a greater or lesser degree, but which Saunders possessed to an uncanny extent. She could usually pick up people’s feelings and emotions almost as easily as she could read a printed page, and some quality within her allowed her to respond in a way that provided reassurance and comfort far beyond anything she could say in words.

  As a young nurse, this empathy had sometimes caused problems; she had been prone to becoming too personally involved with patients, too close to their very real if often irrational fears and concerns. But maturity had eventually provided the judgement and experience to manage her talent with the proper mix of empathy and reality, so that she was protected from potential abuse of her warm nature.

  A friend who was involved in politics had once declared it the finest natural bulldust detector he’d ever seen; Saunders hadn’t had the heart to enlighten him about just how much work had gone into the learning. Nor, for that matter, how often she still got led astray by her empathy.

  There were times she needed all her talents and all the luck she could possibly muster, and the arrival of Fordon Landell on Tuesday morning was definitely, beyond question, one of them!

  Saunders was having a quick word in passing with one of the junior nurse-educators, and had her back to the entryway, when she heard him announce himself at Reception.

  He’s punctual, anyway, she thought to herself with a glance at her wristwatch to find him five minutes early. Saunders turned round and walked towards Reception, still looking at her watch and forming a greeting in her mind. Then she looke
d up and the words stalled in her throat as she met coal-black eyes that seemed to flare with a truly devilish glee before that fleeting impression subsided into bleak, black emptiness.

  ‘Mr ... Mr … Landell?’ She managed, finally, to get that much out, feeling as if her throat was bloated, swollen.

  His reply was a curt, barely-perceptible nod.

  ‘Yes ... Well ... I’m Saunders White,’ she said. ‘Won’t you ... umm ... come into my office, please?’

  One dark eyebrow was raised in an expression that could have meant anything from agreement to amusement, but as she turned away she knew he was behind her, knew it without having to listen for his silent footsteps on the worn carpet. He might as well have been holding on to her, she was so aware of his presence.

  But it was even worse when they reached the office doorway and she automatically held the door open with one hand, gesturing him to enter the room. He said nothing, merely inclined his head a trifle and raised that eyebrow again. But the devils laughed in his eyes now! Saunders didn’t even have to look at him to know that. As he moved towards the indicated chair, and she to her desk, memory of that earlier encounter in the city flooded back to colour her cheeks and clamp a stutter on to her tongue.

  And, once seated, his briefcase on the floor at his feet, he clearly wasn’t about to make things any easier for her. He made no effort to bring up the subject of their earlier encounter, thus giving her no chance at all to explain her side of it. And yet … she couldn’t help feeling that he somehow expected her to make some effort in that direction.

  And I won’t, she thought, struggling beneath the directness of his gaze to reassert her authority and composure. It was, after all, her office.

  She forced herself to meet his gaze squarely, willing her mind into the beginnings of the usual spiel about diet and exercise and their importance in the scheme of things.

  Fordon Landell listened in silence, making no attempt to interrupt, but never taking his eyes from her either. If only, she thought, it was possible to be certain he was actually listening.

  The fierceness of his stare made it increasingly difficult for Saunders, and she finally wound down, unable to read his mood or to get any vibes at all from him. For the first time ever, her sensitivity to others was letting her down.

  ‘I’ve got a few specific questions, if this is the time for them,’ he said when she paused. ‘Unless you’d rather finish your bit first?’

  ‘No, you go ahead,’ she said, and leaned back in her chair, relieved finally to be able to get some reaction from this extraordinary man.

  He hefted the briefcase and methodically laid out in front of him the latest books available, she knew, on the subject of diabetes.

  What followed was a quizzing that revealed to Saunders just how quickly and thoroughly this man had researched the subject in the short time available to him. His questions were sensible, pertinent and specific, and the way he approached things told her a good deal more about him than he might have realised.

  Peter Mahoney hadn’t been exaggerating. Fordon Landell clearly had no fears about his diabetes; if anything he was too unafraid. Saunders divined from his attitude that he intended to face the problem as he did all others: head-on and with all the common sense and logic he could muster. And, at whatever cost, he would be in control. Except…

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that this may not all be quite that simple," she had to say. And watched those black, black eyes go even darker, saw determination firm up an already too-firm chin.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning ... just what I said,’ she replied, cautious now, not wishing to offend him deliberately, but wanting to try and reach some genuinely common ground for discussion.

  ‘I have the feeling you’re looking at the problem as something you can ... just solve; something you can find a distinct, obvious, permanent solution for.’ And she waved her hands in a square, boxy pattern in the air, as if she, too, could put the issue into an easily definable framework.

  ‘And you don’t think I can?’

  Those unfathomable eyes seemed to flicker, but whether with anger or amusement she couldn’t tell. All Saunders wished was for him to stop devouring her with them.

  ‘1 know you can’t,’ she replied, forcing calm into her voice, trying at the same time to still the fluttering in her tummy, the quickening of her pulse.

  Damn the man! He was deliberately setting out to stir her up, and he was clever and subtle enough to do it without actually doing anything, or, at least, nothing she could respond against without leaving herself wide open to ridicule ... or worse.

  ‘What, exactly, is it that you’re trying to accuse me of?’ he asked. ‘Do you reckon that I’m too stupid to understand all this bumph,’ with a sweeping gesture towards the books he’d brought with him, ‘or that I’m just not going to comply amiably with your every rule?’

  Saunders couldn’t help but smile. Now, she thought, we’re getting somewhere.

  ‘I don’t offer you any rules, Mr Landell," she said. ‘You’re the only person who can set the rules involved with your diabetes. Or rather your body will, if that makes sense to you.’

  ‘My body doesn’t seem to have done such a crash-hot job so far," he replied, with a grin that didn’t extend past that mobile mouth. His eyes remained calm, cool, watchfully aware, even cautious.

  ‘What you’re saying ... what you seem to be saying,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘is that you feel your body has rather let you down. That isn’t the best attitude to take, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  She paused, waiting for an interjection that didn’t come, then went on.

  ‘There simply is no logic in blaming your body for the fact you’ve developed diabetes. Or in blaming bad luck, or fate, or God, or ... whatever. Given your age and the fact that you’re hardly what I would describe as overweight, it’s more than likely that about the only thing you might blame is heredity, and there isn’t a lot of sense in that, either; not in the long run.’

  He shrugged, and Saunders detected in that gesture more than just simple lack of interest.

  ‘Maybe a good, handy scapegoat is better than none at all?’ he said.

  ‘Only if you’re the kind of person who needs a scapegoat.’

  She kept her voice carefully neutral, implying neither that she thought he might be, nor the opposite. She didn’t dare to voice the feeling she had, which was that this man had never needed a scapegoat for anything, and wasn’t about to start now.

  And, as if reading her mind, he grinned, this time a genuine, warm, human grin.

  ‘OK, let’s stop fencing about that one,’ he said. ‘I’ve read everything I could get my hands on over the weekend, and I do know there’s no sense playing who’s-to-blame games. And I have to admit also. Miss White, that you’ve answered my questions with a bit more … directness? … than I’ve given you. There could very well be a strong hereditary element in my case; the point is that I simply don’t know. Nor have I any way of finding out.’

  Saunders thought she had become rather good at hiding her instinctive reactions, but she must have registered something, because he raised one eyebrow slightly, then continued.

  ‘I’m an orphan.’ The statement was uttered without emotion or bitterness, surprisingly, she thought, considering his next remark.

  ‘I was abandoned on the steps of the Launceston General Hospital in Tasmania, in the middle of what I’m told was my first night in this world.’

  ‘How—’ Saunders started to say, ‘how awful’, but choked back the remark as Fordon Landell’s eyes seemed to flash reproach at the pity.

  He shrugged.

  ‘Could have been worse, couldn’t it? Diabetes that my … mother probably couldn’t have predicted isn’t much compared with a lot of other health problems she could have left me with.’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly true, although…’

  She let the sentence die. What use, indeed, even to think about compari
sons with babies being born the world over with far worse problems?

  ‘Although, of course, it must influence my own parenting plans,’ he prompted, seemingly unaware that he had just — conveniently — changed the subject for her.

  ‘To a degree, I suppose,’ Saunders said, after a moment’s thought in which Fordon Landell’s direct, unswerving gaze made thinking more difficult than she liked to admit. ‘But, really, mature onset diabetes can hardly compare in seriousness with a lot of hereditary conditions.’

  He didn’t reply, so, after another endless silence, she continued, ‘And, of course, many people have their children, even their grandchildren, before they ever know they have diabetes, or even that it might exist in their families.’

  ‘Hardly an excuse I’m eligible to use now.’

  I can’t imagine you stooping to excuses, she thought, but only nodded her reply.

  ‘And, because I don’t know the … circumstances of my heredity, it makes any sort of prediction a bit iffy anyway, doesn’t it?’

  ‘And that’s going to be a problem for you, isn’t it?’ Saunders asked, although she knew the answer already. Her empathetic antennae had suddenly switched on, reaching out as if to touch physically this man’s innate craving for a large family of his own. It wasn’t surprising, given the circumstances, but the intensity of the feelings he radiated was almost overwhelmingly strong.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  He didn’t seem perturbed by her perception; nor did he seem ill-at-ease with the strength of his own emotions. But the aura of strength that emanated from his seemingly relaxed posture was contradictory, confusing.

  Saunders broke away from his glance, looking down at her notes in a frantic bid to dissemble.

  ‘You’re … not married, I see,’ she finally said, in lieu of being able to find any more sensible comment.

  ‘Nor have I been, which at least means I’m spared any embarrassing explanations thus far,’ was the reply. Casual; far too casual.

  But you’ve been thinking about it, and now you’ve changed your mind?’