Practice Makes Perfect. Caroline Anderson
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was covered in peeling paint and strips of soggy wallpaper, her jeans were caked with paste, lumps of gooey paper were stuck to her knees and she looked a fright.
She was not, therefore, terribly pleased to see Sam darken the kitchen doorway.
‘What do you want?’ she snapped, shoving an escaping tendril of hair out of the way with the back of her paste-covered hands, and jutting her little chin out in an unconsciously endearing gesture.
‘I just wanted to apologise——’
‘Good. Fine. Accepted. Now please go, I’m busy.”
‘I brought you some food. I don’t suppose you have any.’
Her stomach growled in response, but she would rather have starved than admit it.
‘I’m going out later, thank you,’ she said stiffly.
‘Really?’ He dumped the heavy box down on the worktop and dusted off his hands. ‘Well, now you won’t need to.’
‘Since you’ve already bought the things, I suppose you may as well leave them. You must tell me what I owe you,’ she muttered ungraciously, and he gave a small, humourless smile.
‘The receipt’s in the top of the box. Don’t lose it—I can appreciate that you would hate to be beholden to me!’
‘Oh!’ She glared crossly at him, and he turned on his heel and left, his mouth twitching.
She tried to remind herself that her grandfather had been a good judge of character and that Sam must, really, be a decent person, but she failed miserably.
‘Everyone’s entitled to one mistake,’ she said aloud. ‘Sam Davenport was obviously yours, Gramps.’
She screwed the tap off with unnecessary vigour, and screamed as the fitting came away in her hand and a fountain of water shot up and splattered all over the ceiling.
‘Dear God, Lydia, what the hell are you up to now?’
Sam barged her out of the way, dived under the sink and rummaged among the pots and pans for the stopcock. Seconds later the fountain slowed to a steady well, and then stopped altogether.
He emerged, dripping, from under the sink. ‘Pretending it was my neck?’ he asked with a wry grin, and her sense of humour, never far away, bubbled up and over. Giggling weakly, she sagged back against the worktop and gave in to her mirth. Sam joined in with a low chuckle, propping his lean hip against the front of the fridge and thrusting his wet hair out of his eyes.
‘You’re drenched,’ she said weakly when she could speak, and he looked down at himself, and then at her.
‘So are you,’ he said softly. Then their eyes met, and the laughter died away as he moved closer and brushed a drop of water from her cheek with the tip of his finger. He traced its path down her cheek, and then with his finger he tipped up her chin and looked down into her eyes.
‘Thank you for rescuing me,’ Lydia murmured breathlessly, and watched in fascination as his head lowered towards hers.
‘You’re welcome,’ he breathed against her mouth, and then his lips touched hers, shifting slightly against them before settling gently but firmly in place. His hands came up to cup the back of her head, and with a sigh she relaxed against him, giving in to the waves of warmth that lapped around her.
But the sigh was her undoing, because he deepened the kiss, and the warmth turned to a raging heat that swept up from nowhere and threatened to engulf them.
His lips left hers and tracked in hot open-mouthed kisses down her throat, lapping the water from her skin and sending shivers down her spine. She gave a wordless little cry, and he brought his mouth back to hers, cradling her willing body against his and drinking deeply from her lips.
Then he lifted his head slowly, laying feather-light kisses on her eyelids, and, placing his hands on her shoulders, he eased her gently away from him.
‘I’m really very sorry,’ he said gruffly.
Lydia shook her head. She couldn’t for the life of her see why he needed to apologise for kissing her so tenderly and beautifully. ‘Don’t be sorry. It was—just one of those things. Anyway, I liked it——’
‘Not the kiss. The awful things I said to you, the way I spoke to you. I hurt you, and I’m sorry. I never meant to. Can we start again?’
She was having difficulty thinking of anything but the feel of his lips on hers, the urgent need of his body pressed so close against her own, and his thumbs were tracing circles on her shoulders, turning her bones to water. She dragged her mind into focus. Maybe all was not yet lost.
‘Does that mean you’ll consider finding another practice?’ she asked quietly.
His hands fell abruptly to his sides, and he stepped back sharply, his face twisted with disdain. ‘I might have known,’ he said bitterly. ‘Women always use sex as a pawn, one way or another.’
She was stunned, hurt beyond belief that he could think that of her, so she snapped, ‘I could just as easily accuse you of doing that!’
‘Why should I?’
‘Why should you?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Because we both want the practice, and you’re trying to persuade me to give in!’
He gave a tired, humourless little laugh. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he asked wearily. ‘I already have the practice. And possession, as they say, is nine-tenths of the law. In fact, the way things stand, you don’t even have a tenth in your favour.’
Lydia watched open-mouthed as he turned on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen, then she snapped her jaws shut so hard that she nearly broke her teeth.
She mopped and blotted until her rage had subsided, then she sagged against the cupboards and closed her eyes.
Oh, Gramps,’ she whispered, ‘I can see why you were taken in. He’s very convincing, and so, so smooth! Just like a diamond—hard as rock, and when the light’s right you can see straight through him.’
She called a plumber, cleaned out the fridge and put away the food, and then wrote out a cheque for Sam, dropping it through the surgery letter-box.
As she turned away he opened the door and emerged.
Did you want me?’ he asked, and she felt a hot tide rise up her throat and flood her face.
Of course not,’ she said abruptly, and he paused for a second, and then laughed softly.
‘Funny, I was sure you did,’ he teased, and the flush deepened.
‘You flatter yourself,’ she muttered crossly, and turned away, but not before she saw his face crease into a smile.
‘Are you going to be in?’ he asked a second later, and she shrugged.
‘Maybe. Why?’
‘I’m going out on a call. Maggie Ryder’s in labour and may need me before I’m back, and I’m supposed to be covering for George Hastings as well. The answer-phone’s on, and it gives them the cell-phone number to contact, but it can be useful having someone here.’
To act as receptionist? Sorry, Dr Davenport, if you want a receptionist you’ll have to pay one. I’m afraid I have rather too much to do.’
She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him tight-lipped on the drive.
‘Forget it,’ he called after her. ‘I thought perhaps I could appeal to your compassionate nature, but I was obviously wrong.’
She turned back to face him, hands on hips. ‘And what,’ she asked icily, ‘gives you the impression that I feel compassionate towards you?’
One eyebrow quirked mockingly at her. ‘Who said anything about me? I meant the patients. Why should you feel anything towards me?’
‘Apart