The Spanish Consultant's Baby. Kate Hardy
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we understand each other.’
No. She didn’t understand him. She didn’t want to understand him. He was just a doctor, someone she had to work with for a little while. And that was the way he was going to stay.
‘I’ll apologise to Lizzy, Jennifer.’
‘Thank you.’ When he continued waiting, in silence, she knew what he was expecting. She forced the word out. ‘Ramón.’ It felt almost unbearably intimate, using his first name.
He gave her another of those formal bows and left her office. Still twisting her wedding ring, Jennifer watched him leave. She had to get her overreaction to this man back under control. And fast. Before it landed her in a heap of trouble she really, really didn’t need.
Ramón stared into his coffee. Nothing added up about Jennifer Jacobs. He’d watched her covertly on the ward and she’d been the perfect nurse. Efficient, caring, kind. Spending time where it was needed. He’d seen her sitting on the side of a child’s bed, soothing away tears, reading stories and chatting while she checked blood pressure and dressings and administered drugs. She never once raised her voice but he’d noticed that everybody always did whatever she asked them, without excuses or delays. She was clearly respected.
But who was she really? She had no family pictures in her office—no husband, no children, no parents, no siblings—and yet she wore a wedding ring. He couldn’t work her out. She wasn’t even his type—he liked fiery, beautiful Latin women, not quiet, unassuming English mice. And he definitely didn’t believe in getting involved with married women. So why couldn’t he get her out of her head?
Particularly when he remembered her sitting on the bed of one small child, holding his hand and stroking his hair and chatting to him until the fear had vanished from the little boy’s face. He’d seen the little boy hug her in relief, seen the warmth in her smile—a warmth he wanted directed his way, too. Yet the minute she became aware of his own presence, a wall seemed to go straight up. Why?
‘Hola, Ramón. Settling in OK?’
He looked up as Neil Burroughs, the paediatric special reg, sat down at his table in a quiet corner of the canteen. ‘Yes, thanks. But your coffee…’ He wrinkled his nose.
‘Try the hot chocolate. Though it’s a bit sweet.’
‘Thanks, but I think I’ll pass,’ Ramón said dryly.
‘So you’ve met everyone on the ward now?’
Ramón nodded. ‘Meg showed me round this morning before I went to Theatre. And then Jennifer took over.’
‘Jennifer?’ Neil looked blank for a moment. ‘Oh, the redoubtable JJ.’
‘Why do you call her JJ?’
‘Her initials—Jennifer Jacobs.’
Ramón rolled his eyes. ‘We do have initials in Spain, mi amigo. No, I meant why call her that when her name’s Jennifer?’
‘We always have.’ Neil shrugged. Then he frowned. ‘You’re not getting any ideas about her, are you?’
‘No. I saw the ring. She’s married.’
‘Widowed,’ Neil corrected.
‘But…’ Ramón stared at him in shock. ‘She’s so young.’
‘She was really young when she was widowed. It happened just before she went into nursing, about ten years back.’
Widowed. Jennifer was a widow. Which meant she was…No. Not free. Which meant he should respect her status. He decided to change the subject—but his mouth had other ideas. ‘You called her “redoubtable”,’ Ramón said.
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. She’s an excellent nurse, brilliant with the kids and absolutely the best with students—she won’t stand for any nonsense but she’s got endless patience when it comes to explaining things. She’s just a bit…well, remote.’ Neil shrugged. ‘If someone organises a bit of a do, she always makes an excuse not to go.’
‘Maybe she just doesn’t like crowds.’ Maybe she preferred something more intimate. And Ramón thought he’d better change the subject right now before he disgraced himself.
Neil didn’t seem to notice. ‘You’re probably right. She sometimes goes out to the theatre or the cinema with a couple of the other nurses, but she keeps herself to herself.’
Mourning her husband, perhaps? But according to Neil it had been ten years since his death. And Jennifer was still a young woman. It would be a crime to let her stay buried in work, not living life to the full.
Though he really, really shouldn’t get involved. He was only here on secondment. And anyway he had Sofía to think of…
But just before Ramón went to sleep, that night, it was Jennifer’s face he saw. And Jennifer he dreamed about.
RAMÓN tried. He really, really tried to be professional in his dealings with Jennifer. But then he saw her with a small child whose parents had rarely visited. She was sitting in a chair with the child on her lap, reading a story and persuading the child to point out things in the pictures. In her lunch-break, he noted, when she really should have been taking some time out for herself.
She cared about her patients. She cared about her staff. So why didn’t she let anyone care about her?
He should walk away. Not get involved. He knew that would be the sensible thing to do. But ten minutes later, after she’d settled the child back in bed, he rapped on her office door and opened it.
She looked up from her desk. ‘Yes?’
‘May I have a word, please, Jennifer?’
‘Everyone calls me JJ.’
Everyone else might, but he didn’t. He wasn’t going to reduce a beautiful name to initials. She was fiddling with her wedding ring again, he noticed. Did she do that all the time, or was it just when he was around? He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. ‘Have dinner with me tonight, Jennifer.’
Oh, Lord. She’d heard those words before. Years ago. Then she’d said yes—and it had been the start of the worst mistake of her life. She’d learned her lesson in the hardest way. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Tall, dark, handsome and arrogant—assuming that, of course, she’d want to go out with him. Little mousy Jennifer, swept off her feet by the first man who’d paid her some attention.
Well, not this time. She didn’t make the same mistake twice. She’d learned a lot from her counselling and she wasn’t going back to being a victim. ‘I don’t want to.’
‘What’s the problem? The time? You’re busy tonight?’
‘What don’t you understand about the word “no”?’ she asked.
‘Your mouth is saying no,’ he said simply, ‘but your eyes are saying something else.’
Damn. He’d noticed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dr Martínez,’ she lied.
‘Ramón,’ he corrected.
‘Ramón.’ It felt as if she were talking through a mouthful of treacle.
‘Why do you have such trouble saying my name?’
Her face heated. ‘I don’t,’ she protested.
‘You do. And not because my name’s Spanish.’
‘I’m sure you already have an opinion.’
He smiled. ‘I do. I think, Jennifer, that there’s something between us. Something you