CHAPTER ONE

      IT WAS a typical little Cotswold town, the broad main street lined with pretty little houses and shops of pale honey-coloured stone, liberally sprinkled with tearooms and antiques shops, with here and there a timber-framed Tudor house jutting out precariously over the pavement.

      Following the directions in the letter, Cathy drove past the old stone market hall with its broad open arches and then turned right over the river.

      There, just where she had expected to find it, was a sprawling stone-built house with a car park beside it, and a large sign that read, ‘Barton-Under-Edge Surgery’. As Cathy turned the car into the surgery car park and switched off the engine, she felt a sudden, unexpected rush of nerves.

      Ridiculous! She chided herself. Either you get the job, or you don’t. It’s not as if you’re out of work! It really doesn’t matter at all…

      But it did, because in driving through the little town she had fallen irrevocably in love, and her bruised and saddened heart had felt suddenly at home. And so it did matter, quite enormously, that she should succeed.

      She swivelled the rear-view mirror round and peered at her reflection, checking that her wild tangle of red-gold hair was still confined in the rather severe bun at the nape of her neck, that the soft green shadow which so exactly matched her eyes hadn’t creased, that the heat of the day and the effect of her suddenly rebellious nerves hadn’t smudged her mascara or made her ridiculously tip-tilted nose shine, although nothing in the world could rid it of the hated freckles.

      Her lips still bore the trace of the soft pink lipstick she had applied earlier, and she was torn between appearing over-casual or touching it up, risking giving the impression of being over-glamorous. She settled for a quick swipe and a dab with a tissue, then, wiping her suddenly damp palms on the tissue, she stepped out of the car and pulled on her lightweight jacket. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she made her way into the surgery.

      The reception area was deserted except for a few escapee toys. She rang the bell, and, while she waited, she picked the toys up out of habit to return them to the box in the corner. As well as half an armful of bricks and blocks, there was a squeaky rabbit, grubby with much use, and a frayed old rag doll that must have been dearly loved in her past. Cathy smoothed back the tangled woollen hair with a wistful smile.

      ‘Can I help you?’

      The deep voice, so unexpected in the silence, made her jump and she squashed the rabbit, making it squeak.

      ‘Sorry, you startled me!’ she said breathlessly, and turned, flustered, to find herself face to face with a tall, fair-haired man. His physique was impressive, his shoulders filling the doorway, but it was his eyes that drew her, eyes that seen against the golden bronze of his tan were the most astonishing blue she had ever seen.

      ‘I—I’m Dr Harris—I have an interview with Dr Glover at three o’clock.’

      He held out his hand. ‘Max Armstrong—I’m his partner.’

      She hesitated, juggled the toys into one arm and extended her own hand. His handshake was firm, brief and positively electric. Startled by the sudden warmth that flooded up her arm, Cathy loosened her grip on the bricks and they cascaded to the floor again.

      ‘If you’ve finished with the toys, perhaps we should put them back in the box and proceed with your interview?’ he said with a laughing smile, and the smile transformed him from plain old attractive into the most devastatingly good-looking man she had ever seen. Her heart kicked against her ribs, and she frantically put it down to interview nerves.

      ‘We’re on the run this afternoon, I’m afraid,’ he explained as he straightened, his hands full of blocks, and tossed them into the toy-box. ‘I’ve been on holiday and there’s a hell of a backlog as usual—here, let me help you.’

      He scooped the remaining toys out of her arms, and she drew in her breath sharply as his hands brushed casually against the fullness of her breasts. Her heart jerked again, and as she looked up into those gorgeous blue eyes she could see a devil dancing in them.

      ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, but she had the distinct feeling he wasn’t. Swallowing her confusion, she stooped and picked up the last of the toys and returned them to the box hastily, then followed him through a doorway to the kitchen at the back.

      Her heart was still in turmoil from the look in his eyes and the unexpected touch of his hands on a body long condemned to abstinence, and so she was relieved to see that the other man in the kitchen was much older, perhaps in his fifties, a gentle, kindly looking man with crinkles round his eyes, a slight paunch and a straightforward, no-nonsense handshake.

      ‘Dr Harris—welcome to Barton-Under-Edge. You’ve met Max, I take it? Sorry about the kitchen, but we’re on the