Just a Family Doctor. Caroline Anderson
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not married, or anything like that. Just me, on my own. Well, not really on my own. I’ve got two housemates, but they’re both nurses and work odd hours, so there’s usually only one there at the most at any given moment. What about you?’ she asked, suddenly conscious of the importance of his answer. ‘Are you married?’
He smiled and leant back again, crunching the breadstick thoughtfully. ‘No, I’m not married—or anything like that—either. Just me, on my own, like you.’
She felt a sudden and absurd little rush of relief that she didn’t care to analyse. ‘So how’s the career going?’ she added, struggling for less rivetingly personal conversation. ‘Still headed for general surgery?’
‘Well, actually—’
‘Good evening, sir, madam. Are you ready to order?’
She looked up at the waiter and smiled. ‘I don’t know. What’s the chefs special tonight? It’s normally very good.’
‘Tagliatelle carbonara,’ he said with pride. ‘It’s superb! Rich and creamy, the sauce is wonderful, with a fresh, crisp side salad.’ He kissed his fingers expressively. ‘Trust me, you’ll love it, madam.’
She laughed. ‘You’ve sold it to me. I’ll have it, it sounds good.’
‘Sir?’
Mark closed the menu. ‘Sounds excellent. And a bottle of house red—is red OK for you, Allie?’
She nodded. ‘Lovely. Thanks.’
He leant back, toying with another breadstick. ‘So, tell me about your parents,’ he said. ‘Are they still well? I spoke to them briefly the other day, but I’m afraid I’ve been a bit lax about keeping in touch.’
‘They’re fine. My father’s taking early retirement—the strain of general practice. He’s nearly fifty-five, and he’s stopping after Christmas. He says they’re going to have lots of holidays, but I’m worried about him. I think he’s suffering from stress, or maybe there’s something else—perhaps something he won’t tell us. I mean, why else would he give up so early?’
Mark laughed softly. ‘Early? Fifty-five? My father died at fifty-eight. He’d planned early retirement and then changed his mind. If he’d taken it, he might still be alive. Anyway, you said your father looks well.’
‘Oh, he is,’ she admitted, wondering if she was just worrying unnecessarily, being a fussy daughter like he’d been a fussy parent. Who could tell? ‘I’m sorry about your father. It must have been awful—Mum wrote and told me, but I didn’t have your address so I didn’t get in touch. Was it very sudden?’
‘Pretty much. It was his heart—he thought he’d got indigestion. He was a doctor, for God’s sake. He should have known better.’
The waiter arrived, whisking the plates onto the table in front of them with a flourish and bidding them to enjoy their meal. It broke the sombre thread of their conversation, and as they ate she told him a little about her job at the hospital and what it was like on the paediatric ward.
‘It’s a good hospital, I like it here,’ she told him, twirling tagliatelle on her fork and licking sauce off her lips.
Mark was doing the same, and her eyes were suddenly riveted to the tip of his tongue as it chased a drop of sauce across that firm, chiselled lower lip. Desire, hot and swift and unfamiliar, hit her in the solar plexus like a blow from a sledgehammer.
‘Food’s pretty good,’ he commented between mouthfuls, and she dragged in a lungful of air and smiled.
‘Good. I’m glad you like it.’
Her phone rang, saving her from the impossible task of conversing intelligently when her body was suddenly hell-bent on betraying her. Had he been as stunningly attractive as this before? ‘Excuse me,’ she muttered, and dived into her bag, coming up with the little mobile handset. ‘Hello?’
‘Darling, happy birthday,’ her mother said. ‘Had a good day? I tried you at the house but you’re obviously out. Anywhere nice?’
She met Mark’s eyes and smiled. ‘Actually, yes, I’m sitting in a bistro with Mark Jarvis—you are a sneaky woman,’ she told her mother laughingly. ‘I’ll call you later, we’re in the middle of eating.’ She slipped the phone back into her handbag and looked at Mark.
‘By the way, this was my idea so we’re going halves,’ she told him.
He snorted. ‘I don’t think so. I seem to remember it was my idea.’
‘I suggested we got together—’
‘And I said how about tonight. My idea.’
‘But I made the reservation—’
‘And displayed excellent taste. Well done. It’s still my treat.’
Allie rolled her eyes and laughed. ‘Look, fair’s fair—’
‘You know what? You’re too darned independent,’ he said with a smile. ‘If I want to take you out and spoil you, I will. What’s wrong with that?’
She sighed. ‘Nothing, so long as you don’t get carried away—’
‘Sounds fascinating,’ he said in that husky, sexy, chocolate voice. ‘When shall we start?’
She laughed and slapped his hand as he reached for another breadstick, and he grinned and snapped a bit off and fed it to her. ‘Happy birthday, Allie,’ he said softly, and she nearly choked on it.
Those eyes …!
He paid for the meal—of course! They lingered over dessert, a sinful chocolate confection with lashings of cream and something distinctly alcoholic lurking at the bottom of the dish, and then had a brandy and wonderful rich, dark coffee with mints while they talked about the hospital and she told him what she knew about the staff.
‘I have a feeling Anna’s on the prowl,’ he commented, peeling another wafer-thin mint out of its little wrapper and feeding it to her.
Feeling decadent and a little tipsy, she took it with her teeth and met his eyes, and felt a jolt of desire like electricity course through her. Was he interested in Anna? Was he pumping her? Damn—
‘Anna?’ she murmured, and cleared her throat. ‘Urn—possibly. She was asking about you.’
He arched an enquiring brow. ‘And what did you tell her?’
‘Nothing. I said I knew nothing. It’s true. I don’t know you at all.’ More’s the pity.
His smile held a promise that made her feel giddy. ‘We’ll have to do something about that,’ he said lightly. He looked around and caught the waiter’s eye. ‘Could we have our bill please—unless you want anything else?’
She shook her head and grinned. ‘Oh, no, I’ve had more than enough. I couldn’t eat or drink another thing.’
He paid the bill with a credit card, and then he helped her into her coat, his hands settling it on her shoulders with a gentle squeeze. He turned the collar up and snuggled her down into the neck, and then tugged on his own coat and buttoned it before opening the door and ushering her out into the night.
It was crisp and bright, but the wind had dropped and it felt strangely warmer. They strolled this time, arm in arm, unhurried, back through the dimly lit streets behind the hospital. When they were almost there, he hesitated. ‘Where do you live? I’ll walk you home. I can’t have you wandering about at this time of night by yourself.’
‘What about you?’ she said sensibly. ‘You could be mugged or stabbed just as easily.’
He chuckled. ‘Not quite, I don’t think. I must weigh five stone more than you, for a start.’
She snorted. ‘I doubt it. Three, perhaps, but never five.’
‘Semantics.