by Ann Jennings
“Yes,” said Abigail slowly, “she told me about Timmy Smith.” She saw Greg wince at her words, as if in physical pain. “How did his parents take it?” she asked at last.
“Hard,” said Greg, his voice breaking, “and I couldn’t make it any easier for them. Oh, Abigail, sometimes life is so rotten!”
In one swift movement he was in her arms. She held him as she would a small child, stroking his dark hair with tender hands and gently kissing the top of his head. For a long time they stayed like that, he taking comfort from her encircling arms, she only too happy to give him what he needed most at that time, someone to be with, someone to share his sorrow.
At last he drew away. “Thank you,” he said simply. Then he gave a lopsided grin. “Men are supposed to be the stronger sex,” he said, “not supposed to need comforting.”
“It would be a very hard man, one without a heart, who never needed comfort,” said Abigail gently. Then she got up. “Have you eaten?” Greg shook his head. “How about steak and salad, followed by cheese?”
“Sounds like the food of the Gods to me,” said Greg wearily.
They had a late, leisurely supper. Neither of them talked much, somehow it wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t an awkward or difficult silence, but a companionable one.
When they had finished Abigail carried the dishes through to the kitchen, intending to make some coffee. But when she returned to collect the glasses, Greg was sound asleep on the settee.
Tenderly she looked at his long form lying stretched out in sleep, his dark hair falling, as usual, across his brow. Slowly, as she studied his face, the tender sensuous mouth, the firm jawline that hinted at his determined strength, she realised that without even being aware of it, she had fallen in love with the man now lying exhausted in her lounge. Life is strange, she mused, as she shyly reached out and touched his hair, wondering whether to leave him to sleep, or send him on his way.
Eventually deciding it would be kinder to leave him, she fetched a warm blanket and gently tucked it around him. Then switching off the lights she made her way silently upstairs and went to bed herself.
“Tea!” Startled, Abigail sat bolt upright in bed, to be confronted by Greg standing in front of her with a cup of tea in his hand. “Tea,” he repeated.
Suddenly aware that she was wearing only the flimsiest of nightdresses, Abigail pulled the sheet up beneath her chin.
Greg laughed. “Don’t be so modest,” he said, “I’ve seen more of you in your bikini?”
That was true, of course, but somehow Abigail felt more selfconscious sitting in bed in a nightdress than sitting in a scanty bikini by the side of a swimming pool. “It isn’t quite the same,” she muttered.
“You’re right, it isn’t,” he agreed, passing her the tea. He paused, looking down at her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’d like to stay,” he said, “but I can’t. I’ve got a full days operating starting in one hour. Goodbye, and thanks for everything.” Swiftly he strode out of the bedroom, and quietly closed the door.
Abigail sat in bed, sipping the tea, listening until the noise of his car had died away in the distance. She felt a warm glow inside her, which stayed with her the rest of the morning, in spite of having to cope with two lazy porters and the locum SHO; between them they constituted a disastrous trio.
Sister asked her to take a late lunch that day, which meant she was alone on the ward for nearly an hour, but as it coincided with a break in theatres there were no postoperative patients to worry about. The ward was peaceful, patients enjoying their lunches, and Abigail took the opportunity to sit and rest at Sister Collins’ desk.
The ward phone rang, and Abigail picked it up. “ENT Ward, Staff Nurse Pointer speaking.”
“Ah, Nurse Pointer,” it was the man from the Estate Agent’s. “Forgive me for ringing you at work, but I thought you’d like to know straight away.”
“Know what?” asked Abigail. Surely the cottage hadn’t been sold already!
“We’ve sold the cottage for you, and at the asking price.”
“But nobody’s been to see it,” stammered Abigail, not prepared for such a sudden turn of events. “How could you have sold it?”
“We have,” the Estate Agent assured her. “The customer has just been in, paid a handsome deposit and signed the necessary documents.”
“But what about viewing, and a survey?” asked Abigail.
“Not necessary,” he informed her. “I did suggest it, of course, but the purchaser was adamant—he wants the cottage, doesn’t need to see it and doesn’t want a survey. What’s more, it will be a cash sale, no waiting about for mortgages or anything tiresome like that.”
Abigail was stunned. She hadn’t been prepared for the cottage to be sold so quickly. In her heart of hearts, she’d secretly hoped it would stay on the market for ages, even though she hadn’t actually admitted that fact to herself.
“Are you still there, Nurse Pointer?” asked the voice at the other end of the line.
“Yes, I’m still here,” said Abigail faintly. “Thank you for ringing me.” She put the phone down, feeling numb inside; her previous glow evaporating suddenly into a mood of dejection. Don’t be stupid, you’ll get over it, she told herself sensibly. It has to be done, you should be pleased it’s happened so quickly. But she wasn’t pleased, she felt too miserable for words.
That evening when she returned to the cottage, she just couldn’t settle down. She wandered around the cottage, fingering every beloved thing, and all the memories of her childhood came flooding back with heartrending clarity. It was no use telling herself she couldn’t spend her life looking backwards, because her heart wouldn’t listen. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine, then slumped down at the table, the wine untouched. Burying her head in her arms, she sobbed uncontrollably.
“Been hitting the bottle, I see,” Greg’s voice cut through her noisy sobs.
Abigail raised a tear-stained face. “How did you…?”
“Get in?” Greg finished for her. Then he grinned wickedly. “I took the precaution of taking one of your front door keys on my way out this morning,” he said, waving it under her nose. “You really should be more careful who you invite in, you know. There are all sorts of undesirable characters about!” He slipped the key back in his pocket.
“But I…you…” sniffed Abigail, vainly searching for a handkerchief with which to wipe her eyes.
“Come here,” said Greg, passing her a handkerchief and pulling her into his arms at the same time. “Why are you crying?”
“Because I’ve made a decision,” her voice was muffled by the handkerchief, “and now it’s done, I’m glad,” she added defiantly.
“I’d hate to see you if you weren’t glad!” said Greg, raising his eyebrows.
“I’m glad, but I’m miserable!” wailed Abigail, bursting into tears again, and burying her head on his chest.
“Hold on,” said Greg. “Abigail, you’re drenching my shirt! If you don’t stop crying I’ll be wet through!”
“I’ve sold the cottage,” she said, her face still buried in his shirt front. “You were right, it is only bricks and mortar, and I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“Feminine logic,” said Greg. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it. My mother uses that kind of logic all the time!”
She raised her head and looked at him accusingly. “You’re laughing at me,” she said.
His mouth curved into a smile. “No, I’m not,” he said softly, “and I know you’ve sold the cottage, because I’ve bought it.”
Pushing herself away from him, Abigail glared at him from arm’s length. “You!” her voice was accusing, “you’ve bought it? How did you know it was for sale?” She began to feel angry, betrayed.
“Sister Collins told me you’d put in on the market, I found out which Estate Agents, and went there today in the t
heatre lunch break.” He fished some documents out of his pocket and waved them under her nose. “I’ve got all the necessary pieces of paper. Of course,” he added, “I am making one stipulation.”
“Oh, and what’s that?” asked Abigail, feeling her anger begin to come to the boil.
“That the cottage is handed over to me complete. Lock, stock and barrel, all the furniture, plus a warm, loving wife.”
“A wife?” echoed Abigail weakly, wondering if her hearing was failing her.
“Yes, a wife,” answered Greg firmly, leaning forward and moving his lips slowly across her cheekbone. “An impetuous, hot-headed, stubborn, sometimes bad-tempered, often infuriating English girl. Someone with whom life could never be dull.” He moved closer, pulling her towards him, pinning her arms to her side, as his lips sought the fluttering hollow in her throat.
Abigail felt as if her bones were melting. She had to know the name of the girl he had in mind. “Her name?” she whispered, trying to keep a clear head, without success.
“Abigail,” he murmured, his mouth moving slowly, inexorably, towards her mouth, “Abigail Pointer. I thought you would have guessed by now! Is there anything else you want to know?”
“Yes,” said Abigail, still struggling vainly to retain mastery of her senses. “Why have you bought the cottage when you’ll be returning to the States next year?”
“We shall be staying in England, darling, why else do you think I bought it? I’ve been offered a permanent post at the County General, and I’ve accepted. Any objections?”
“Yes, but…” Abigail began.
“Later,” said Greg firmly, lifting her up into his arms and carrying her into the lounge and plonking her on the settee. “Now let me show you how much I love you.”
“Love? But I never thought…”
“Yes, love, love, love,” he said, kissing her between each word. “You’ve driven me mad ever since we landed in a heap together in that milk, remember?”
“As if I could ever forget! But…” Abigail began to kiss him back, with an enthusiasm matching his own, “You never said anything about love, never gave me a clue. Are you sure you’re not muddling it up with physical attraction?”
“At first, yes,” admitted Greg, cupping her face in his hands, “but as time went on I began to realise that you’d got under my skin in a way no other woman ever has. There was only one problem, you were in love with Rupert, and engaged to marry him.”
“I thought I was in love,” corrected Abigail. “I know now I was wrong.”
“Do you think you could love me?” asked Greg seriously his voice very soft. He hesitated, something unusual for him. “Perhaps I’ve rushed you, perhaps…”
“Perhaps I already love you,” said Abigail, “perhaps I’ve been too stubborn even to admit it to myself, but…” tenderly she traced the outline of his mouth.
“Only perhaps?”
“Well, I don’t think I should succumb too easily!”
That was her last coherent thought, until much, much later.
About the Author
Ann Jennings was born and still lives in Hampshire, and has been a published romance author since 1984. She’s had a varied career, a verbatim shorthand writer, a cabaret singer, a teacher, a hospital administrator and finally a full-time writer.
She has also written for and directed musicals and plays for the local theatre. She has always enjoyed travelling, and loved visiting New England, USA but now mostly travels to the family house in southern Tuscany in Italy, a country dear to her heart.
Look for these titles by Ann Jennings
Now Available:
Headlong Into Love
Intensive Affair
Nurse on Neuro
Doctor Knows Best
Runaway Sister
Doctor’s Orders
Writing as Angela Arney
Cast the First Stone
Coming Soon:
Nurse on Loan
Surgeon Ashore
New Beginnings
Really, Doctor!
Santa Lucia
Out of the frying pain, into the fire of desire…
Doctor’s Orders
© 2015 Ann Jennings
Isabel McKenna couldn’t imagine anything worse than the misery that chased her away from Edinburgh. Now she wishes she hadn’t allowed a broken heart to make her impulsively take the first job that presented itself.
Pediatrics was easy compared to dealing with the prima-donna attitudes of the doctors in County General’s operating theatre. The cold gray eyes of anesthetist Dr. Michael Blakeney make her blush hotly—and nervous a single mistake will bring him down on her like a ton of bricks.
Digging deep into her personal well of Scottish grit, Isabel is determined no man—especially no arrogant doctor—will ever again shake her composure. But when she glimpses a hint of lonely vulnerability beneath his steely eyed exterior, she finds herself all too ready to respond as a friend…and a woman.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Doctor’s Orders:
It was a simple meal, but beautifully prepared. Consommé with croutons to begin with, followed by steaks and salad, cheese and biscuits, washed down with a good, full-bodied claret. Isabel found she was much hungrier than she had expected, and did full justice to the meal.
His stern face seemed softened by the flickering candle light as he smiled at her across the table. “For a very slim girl, you certainly eat well,” he said. “I like that. There is nothing that infuriates me more than someone who picks at their food.”
Isabel raised her eyebrows. “I have been on my feet all day,” she reminded him, “apart from the short time I feel asleep on your settee. Although,” she added, “I don’t eat like this all the time. If I’d been alone, I would probably only have had a small salad.”
“Just as well you are not alone then,” he said, raising his glass to her. “Otherwise you might have faded away altogether.” He sipped the dark red wine, and studied her intently. “In that blue dress you looked so frail and tired when I met you in the corridor, I was afraid a puff of wind might blow you away!”
Isabel laughed at such a ridiculous notion. “It would take more than a puff of wind to blow me away,” she said categorically, “and more than a difficult day’s operating to beat me.” She added the last words defiantly, knowing that he knew very well what she meant.
“I suppose I was a bit difficult,” he admitted, “but I was feeling in a particularly bad mood.”
“That’s no excuse for taking it out on everyone else,” retorted Isabel severely. “Just because you have problems, doesn’t mean to say we all have to share them.” She stopped suddenly, aware of a dangerous dark flash in his grey eyes. “I’m sorry, perhaps it is a little rude to speak to you like this,” she said quickly before she lost the courage, “especially as you are providing me with sustenance, but I’m afraid that’s the way I feel!”
“Quite right too,” he said, his lean face breaking into an unexpectedly devastating smile. “I think I need someone to reprimand me occasionally, someone to help keep my bad temper in check!”
Isabel smiled back at him, her heart momentarily captured by the smiling curve of his usually stern mouth. A smile that enhanced his rugged, lean good looks, and chased the dark shadows from his face. Involuntarily she raised her hand to the hollow of her throat, where the pulse was drumming out a wild, unfamiliar beat. She could hear her own heart hammering loudly in her ears. What was it about this man, that he had the power at one moment to infuriate her and at the next to make her heart turn turtle? It was something she had never experienced before, it was exhilarating and yet frightening at the same time. She had thought she had loved Hugh Sinclair wildly, and she had. She knew she had, but he had never had that sort of effect on her!
“You must get yourself a girlfriend,” she an
swered lightly, hoping her voice didn’t betray her turbulent feelings. “Someone who will reprimand you occasionally.”
“What makes you think I haven’t got one?” he asked.
Isabel blushed at his sudden challenge, flustered. “I…er, I didn’t think. I just assumed,” she faltered.
“My advice to you is never assume anything,” he said drily, reaching across the table for her glass. “Shall I pour you some more wine?”
Isabel’s hand, that reached out to take the glass from him, was not quite steady. It had happened again, one moment he was friendly, and then suddenly he closed up like a clam. She was sitting opposite a total stranger again, but still a stranger with a strong latent sex appeal to which she felt herself responding.
He made a deliberate slow study of her face, his gaze locking on to hers, compelling her to look back at him. Then slowly, almost casually, he let his gaze wander idly down her body, lingering for just a split second on the swell of her breasts outlined by the thin blue cotton of her dress. His glance was almost like a physical caress, and against her will she felt rebellious fires kindling within her, and she was uncomfortably aware that he knew very well what she was feeling.
Swallowing nervously, she tore her gaze from his and took a sip of her wine. Trying to appear cool and calm, endeavouring to keep her agitation under control, she said, “I think I ought to go soon,” forcing the words out casually. “I could do with an early night tonight.”
“Ah, yes of course,” he said silkily, “you were out on the tiles last night, weren’t you!” His voice had a barely veiled mocking note to it.
“I went out with Cliff Peterson and some friends, if that is what you mean,” retorted Isabel, suddenly remembering his figure standing in the hospital entrance watching Cliff kiss her.
“You and Cliff Peterson seem to have got very friendly, very quickly,” he observed.
“Just because you saw him give me a good night peck, which doesn’t mean a thing,” said Isabel, “and anyway it’s none of your business,” she added defiantly.