A Perfect Hero

by Caroline Anderson

As she emerged on to the steps she saw Michael in the staff car park, deep in conversation with two of the consultants. She hung back, not quite ready yet to have her name publicly connected to his, but he had seen her and, making his excuses, he strode quickly towards her, a smile on his lips.

  ‘Clare—you’re on time!’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  He laughed. ‘I expected you to be like most girls—late!’

  ‘I’m not most girls,’ she said repressively, and he laughed again.

  ‘So I’m beginning to realise. Come on, I’m starving.’ He took her arm and led her towards the car park. ‘Oh, I have a confession—I rang the pub, and they don’t do food on a Monday night, so before I spring it on you I wondered if you would consider allowing me to cook for you.’

  Her heart sank. Here we go, she thought, and she slowed to a halt.

  ‘In your house?’

  ‘My cottage. You needn’t worry, I’m a good cook, but apart from the local pub I haven’t found anywhere else yet in the few days since I moved—by all means suggest something else if you’d rather, but I can promise you I have no intention of jumping your bones, my love.’

  She gave a surprised little laugh, and glanced up at him. ‘Am I so transparent?’

  He grinned. ‘You were as jumpy as a cat this morning, so it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. I promise to keep my hands to myself if you do.’

  ‘If I do? What do you mean?’ she squeaked.

  He gave a wry little laugh. ‘You think you’re the only one who gets treated like a sex object? Believe me, it makes a refreshing change to meet someone who isn’t all over me like a rash after fifteen seconds!’

  Well, and who could blame them? Clare thought to herself, recognising the slight bitterness behind the apparently arrogant remark. If she wasn’t so busy saying no all the time she might well be tempted herself! She smiled at him. ‘You’ve got a deal. You cook, I’ll talk, and we can both clear up afterwards. How’s that?’

  ‘Great. Here we are. Hop in.’

  He opened the door of a sleek red beastie, and she was instantly glad she hadn’t worn a mini-skirt.

  ‘Wow!’

  He grinned self-consciously as he settled himself beside her behind the wheel. ‘It’s my brother’s. I have a battered old Volvo estate for dragging all the boat stuff around, but he’s in Germany for four months on business and suggested I borrow it to bolster the image!’

  She laughed. ‘It works! What is it?’

  ‘A Porsche. Do you want the hood down?’

  ‘Why not? It won’t do my image any harm either!’

  They laughed together, and with the touch of a button the hood folded down behind them and the June evening flooded in.

  ‘Let’s go, then!’

  With a subtle roar, the engine leapt into life and they coasted smoothly out of the car park. Clare settled back into the soft leather seat and sighed contentedly.

  When they were on the open road he unleashed the power a little and soon the wind was whipping her hair round her face and bringing the colour to her cheeks. She laughed in delight. ‘Michael, this is fabulous!’

  ‘Good, isn’t it? Lucky devil. I wonder if he’ll sell it to me?’

  He threw her a cheeky grin, and then turned his attention back to the road. After a little while they turned off the main road and headed along a winding lane, leading eventually to another lane and thence a rutted track.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Clare asked, suddenly conscious of their isolation.

  He pointed. ‘Over there—that little pink cottage.’

  ‘Goodness, it is in the wilds of nowhere!’ Clare said as they pulled up outside the cottage. It was tiny, the thatch low down on the walls arching like eyebrows over the little upstairs windows. The warm pink of the faded terracotta walls blended with the soft apricot of a climbing rose that tumbled in profusion over the front door, and more roses clustered under the little latticed windows.

  ‘Don’t tell me—it’s called Rose Cottage!’

  He chuckled. ‘How did you guess? Come on in. Welcome to my humble abode.’

  He doffed an imaginary cap and flung open the door with a flourish.

  Inside it was just as charming, heavily beamed as she might have expected from a Suffolk cottage, with fascinating little nooks and crannies, and the furniture was mostly old pine. There was a Suffolk brick floor in the kitchen, and the steep staircase was tucked in under the eaves.

  ‘Oh, Michael, it’s lovely!’

  He grinned. Thank you. You’re my first visitor—let me show you round.’

  She followed him, enchanted, as he climbed the steep stairs.

  ‘Mind your head,’ he said as he led her on to the little landing. ‘It wasn’t built for people as tall as us, I don’t think.’ He waved his arm. ‘Bathroom here, and a bedroom at each end—neither of them exactly furnished to excess at the moment, but I’ll get there. I only took possession of it last Thursday—I should have had it early in the week but I got caught in a storm off the Scillies.’

  ‘The Scillies? The islands, you mean?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes—I took Henrietta out there for a few days’ R and R, and it backfired on me a bit.’

  Heavens, she thought, here we are, standing in the middle of his bedroom and he’s telling me all about his problems with Henrietta, whoever she is!

  ‘I’ll take you to see her some time—she’s very pretty, and I can handle her on my own easily unless the wind’s very fierce. She’s a bit of a handful then. You’ll like her—do you get seasick?’

  It dawned on Clare that Henrietta must be his boat, and she almost laughed out loud—till she realised that the feeling she had experienced had probably been jealousy. She wasn’t sure, she’d never felt it before, and couldn’t imagine for the life of her why she was feeling it now, but life was full of little surprises …

  ‘No, I don’t get seasick—or I didn’t. I haven’t sailed since I was about thirteen, but I used to go out a lot with my brother before that.’

  ‘Snap! We had a Mirror, then a Fireball. Henrietta was my grandfather’s boat—I spent a lot of time on her with him when I were a lad, as they say.’

  Their laughing eyes met, and Clare was suddenly terribly conscious of the high iron and brass bedstead behind them.

  ‘Why don’t you go on down and find yourself a drink? There’s white wine in the fridge, or red if you prefer, open on the side, and all sorts of soft drinks—I just want to get out of this suit and relax a bit.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, a trifle breathlessly, and turned for the stairs as he stripped off his tie and kicked off his shoes. She heard them land with a thud as she ran down the stairs, and then he was humming, and she could hear drawers opening and shutting above her head as she rummaged in the kitchen for the fridge. She was still looking for it when he ran lightly down the stairs in his bare feet, clad only in a pair of old jeans that clung lovingly to every contour of his body. He was tugging on a T-shirt over his head, and his chest gleamed golden brown under the soft scatter of blond curls.

  Her fingers itched to touch him, and she rammed her hands into her pockets to control them.

  ‘Where’s the fridge?’ she asked, her voice sounding strained to her ears.

  ‘Here—sorry!’ He opened a cupboard like all the others, hand-built in dark oak to match the beams, and she saw a built-in fridge tucked in behind the door.

  ‘How clever!’

  ‘It’s been well done—it belonged to an interior designer who’s gone to Scotland to escape the rat race.’

  ‘Rat race—here?’

  He laughed. ‘Over-populated, she said. I gather their nearest neighbour up there is ten miles away. Red, white or something soft?’

  ‘White with something in it?’

  ‘Good idea.’ He took a bottle of hock from the fridge, pulled the cork deftly and splashed it into two tall glasses, adding soda water and ice.

  ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Ch
eers! Welcome to the Audley.’

  He smiled. ‘Thank you, Clare. Right, sit down over there and tell me all the pitfalls—who’s fallen out with who, who I mustn’t speak to, who does the crossword in the staff lounge, all that sort of thing.’

  It was her turn to laugh. ‘Nothing like that. The Audley’s a very happy hospital, and there’s practically no hierarchy. We’re all in the same business, after all.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that! My last hospital was the giddy limit—I was forever treading on someone’s toes.’ He put the washed lettuce in the salad spinner, and placed it on the table in front of her. ‘Now, what do you fancy? I’ve got a fresh sea-bass, or we could have steak if you’d prefer.’

  ‘Did you catch the bass?’

  He laughed. ‘Afraid not, not this time. I bought it from the guy on the next boat. He caught it last night.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful.’

  While she spun the lettuce and made the salad, he washed the fish, stuffed it with butter and a handful of fresh fennel from the garden, and pinned it together with cocktail sticks.

  ‘Thirty minutes in the oven,’ he said with a grin. ‘Time for a walk round the garden.’

  It was lovely, heavy with scent and ripe with colour, and in the last rays of the June sunshine it was quite intoxicating.

  Michael’s enthusiasm was infectious, as he discovered things in the garden and pointed out others to her that he had noticed before. Under a tree at the end was a swing, old and creaky, but he tested it and then offered her a ride.

  She shook her head. ‘I never could make them go high enough.’

  The next second his arm had snagged her waist and she was on his lap, swinging high in the air and laughing with delight as the wind tugged at her hair and the ground rushed up to meet them.

  Finally he slowed it, and as they drifted gently back and forth, his lips touched warmly against hers before his arm released her.

  She stood up, her legs shaking, but whether from the dizzying ride or the effects of the kiss she wasn’t sure. After all, it had only been a very tiny kiss, not at all the sort of thing that smouldering passion was made of, but it had affected her more deeply than she dared admit, even to herself. She could still feel the hard imprint of his thighs against her legs, and the warmth of his chest against her side.

  ‘The fish,’ he said abruptly, and she followed him back to the kitchen, her emotions in turmoil. As he unwrapped the bass and lifted it carefully on to the plate, she forced herself to behave calmly.

  ‘Do you have any salad dressing?’

  ‘In the little jar in the fridge door—it’s home-made.’

  They sat at the big oak table in the kitchen for their meal, and to her surprise she relaxed and enjoyed it. The food was delicious, Michael friendly but nothing more, and she began to think she must have imagined her reaction to his kiss.

  They took their coffee in the garden and sat on the bench seat among the roses, he at one end, she at the other, and a respectable distance between them. After a while their conversation flagged, and she looked up to see him watching her, his eyes intent.

  She flushed. Perhaps she hadn’t imagined it? His arm was flung along the back of the seat, and his fingers reached out and brushed the side of her neck. Her pulse leapt to life, and she sprang to her feet.

  ‘I ought to go, Michael.’

  He stood up smoothly and reached for her hand, his thumb idly brushing against her wrist.

  ‘I can feel your pulse,’ he murmured. ‘It’s racing. Fight or flight, or something even more fundamental?’

  She was frozen, transfixed to the spot, as he closed the gap between them and cupped her face gently in his hands.

  ‘Have I told you how lovely you look tonight?’

  ‘I—no, I don’t think so …’

  ‘How remiss of me. You’re beautiful, Clare. Quite exquisite.’ Trapped in that paralysing blue gaze, she was powerless to move as he lowered his head and took her mouth in a kiss so gentle, so delicate that she thought she must be dreaming.

  She sighed softly, and he eased her closer, so close that she could feel the beating of his heart against her own. Her lips parted slightly, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the edge of her teeth.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ he murmured gruffly against her lips, and she obeyed mindlessly, oblivious to everything except the feel of his body against hers, the touch of his hands on her face, the devastating intimacy of his kiss.

  With a muffled groan he lifted his head and rested his cheek against her hair. She could feel the thudding of his heart, the slight tremor in his muscles as he held her close against his chest.

  ‘I think I’d better take you home now,’ he said after a moment, and she nodded speechlessly.

  Neither of them spoke on the journey back to the hospital, but as he turned to leave her at her door, she laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Michael,’ she said softly.

  ‘The pleasure was all mine,’ he murmured.

  Clare smiled and shook her head. ‘Not all of it,’ she replied gently, and, rising on to her toes, she kissed his cheek lightly. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Clare. See you tomorrow.’

  And she would, she thought with a little race of her heart. For the first time in a long, long while, she found herself looking forward to seeing a man again. The smile was still on her lips as she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT WAS a busy week, and one in which Clare saw frustratingly little of Michael, and that only in brief snatches on the ward.

  Two of the boys in ‘Borstal’ went home, to be replaced by one of the lads from ITU—the other had been moved direct to Stoke Mandeville—and another admission, a youth of seventeen who had come off his motorbike and fractured his femur.

  He was in traction with a Steinmann pin and was comfortable enough to join in with the general hilarity after twenty-four hours.

  Pete Sawyer had had a bone graft taken from his hip and placed in his arm to link the broken ends of his radius, and they were now hoping for some progress.

  Tina, on the other hand, showed no progress, and on Thursday Mr Mayhew discussed with her the possibility of fusing her spine so they could start the long process of her rehabilitation.

  She was stoical throughout, but Clare sensed her outward calm was just a front. Her mother, however, had no such outward calm, and on Friday Clare had to remove her from Tina’s bedside because she had collapsed in tears.

  She took Mrs White into the office and met Michael there, studying case notes. He had been in on the dicussion with Tim Mayhew and the Whites, and the decision-making beforehand, and Clare gratefully handed the distressed woman over to him while she went back to see Tina.

  The girl had tears in her eyes, the first real tears Clare had seen, and in a way she was relieved. She drew the curtains quietly round and sat beside her, holding her hand.

  ‘I don’t want to be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life,’ she whispered, and then the great heavy tears came, running down her wan cheeks and trailing into her hair.

  There was nothing constructive to say, so Clare held her hand, and gradually the sobs subsided, leaving her weary and shaken.

  ‘I don’t think I can face my mum again for a while,’ she told Clare, and she nodded.

  ‘I’ll suggest she goes and has a look round the shops and comes back later, shall I?’

  Tina shot her a grateful look. ‘Would you? I just can’t deal with her as well.’

  Clare squeezed her hand and went back to the office.

  ‘How is she? I didn’t mean to upset her, but she’s only seventeen—too young for all this——’ Mrs White buried her face in her hands and sobbed again.

  Over her head Clare met Michael’s eyes. He jerked his head towards the door, and Clare nodded.

  ‘Mrs White, I’ll get you a cup of coffee. You stay here for a minute and I’ll be back.’

  She followed Michael out and up
to the ward kitchen.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Tina? Finding her mother hard to deal with,’ Clare told him.

  ‘I’m not surprised. She can’t cope at all. I think Tim will want to get her transferred to the spinal injuries unit at Stoke Mandeville—they have all the necessary social and emotional back-up as well as state-of-the-art technology for dealing with this sort of thing.’ He sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair. ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’

  She was caught off guard by the change of tack, because she had hardly seen anything of him since Monday night. He had been kept on the run by the events of the week, and there had been no opportunity to further their relationship—if indeed they had one, which after such a short time she doubted, but she admitted to herself that she hoped they could have. She met his eyes.

  ‘Are you planning to jump my bones?’ she said with a twinkle.

  He gave a short, surprised laugh. ‘Now that’s a tempting idea!’

  She blushed. ‘I didn’t really mean that the way it came out,’ she laughed.

  His hand came up and grazed her cheek. ‘What a shame,’ he teased gently. ‘I’ve been invited to a party at the house of one of the consultants, and I hardly know anyone who’ll be going—I’ll be like a fish out of water.’

  ‘Is it the Hamiltons?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right—they’ve just got married and they’re throwing a party to celebrate. I gather they had a very quiet wedding and this is in lieu of a reception. Well, will you come with me?’

  Clare smiled. ‘I’m going anyway—Lizzi invited me. We’re sort of friends—or as close to it as anyone is with her. She’s always been a very private person until now. I can’t believe the change Ross has made in her.’

  ‘People don’t change other people, they just give them the confidence to be themselves—or take it away.’ He cupped her cheeks. ‘So you’ll come with me?’

  She nodded. ‘I’d love to. I wasn’t really looking forward to it because I don’t know all that many people there myself. They’re all a bit exalted, really.’

  He laughed. ‘I thought you said there was no hierarchy?’

  ‘Well, there isn’t really, but most of the people who’ll be there are older than me or married——’