CHAPTER ONE

      HALF past eight. Sophie groaned inwardly. She’d probably missed the party for Guy’s promotion to Director of Surgery, but no way could she have left her patient in the middle of the operating table. And she never, but never, left the ward until her patients had been round from the anaesthetic for at least half an hour. You never knew with surgery: one moment, your patient was fine; the next, all hell could be let loose and you might even need to go back into Theatre.

      But when she finally made it into the wine bar opposite the hospital, Guy was on his own. ‘Don’t tell me that rotten lot went off to get food and gave you the short straw of waiting till I got here, when it’s your party?’ she asked.

      ‘No. The party’s off.’

      ‘Why?’

      He shrugged. ‘The job went to an external candidate.’

      ‘Oh, Guy. I’m so sorry.’ He was a brilliant surgeon and a nice bloke, too. It really wasn’t fair. ‘I was so sure…’

      ‘It means you’re stuck where you are, too, Soph.’

      Because she’d been in line for promotion to Guy’s job. She waved her hand to protest at his bitter tone. ‘Hey. My promotion wasn’t a given, anyway. They couldn’t advertise the job until your promotion had been announced—and I might not even have made it to the interview stage.’ She could see in his face that he was brooding. And he’d had more than his share of hassles this year, with an acrimonious divorce. His wife had blamed her affair on Guy spending too much time on his career. Time that clearly hadn’t paid off.

      ‘Come on, let’s have a commiseration drink instead. I’ll shout you a curry. We can put the world to rights, and stick two fingers up at the hospital board—who clearly can’t see talent when it’s two millimetres in front of their noses.’

      ‘You’re good for my ego.’

      Not as good as Abby would have been—Guy’s house officer, who’d admitted to Sophie in the changing rooms a few weeks ago that she had the hots for Guy—but Sophie could work on that. A few judiciously dropped hints, and maybe Guy would see what was two millimetres in front of his nose.

      When they’d settled themselves comfortably in the local curry house and ordered their meal, Sophie turned the conversation back to Guy’s bad news.

      ‘I hate to rub salt in your wounds, Guy, but do you know anything about the new director of surgery?’

      ‘R. C. Radley, you mean?’

      The name was familiar, but she couldn’t think why. She nodded.

      ‘He’s a plastic surgeon.’

      ‘We’re going to have