A Man of Honour. Caroline Anderson
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sigmoidoscopy, and, if that wasn’t enough, one of her staff nurses was off sick with a summer cold that had been doing the rounds.
Even so, and most untypically, Helen found time after she had taken the report and programmed her nurses to dive into the staff cloakroom and give herself a critical once-over.
Not, of course, that it had anything to do with a certain dark-haired, enigmatic young registrar who was starting work today—heavens, no!
But there was a becoming touch of colour in her pale cheeks, and deep in her soft grey eyes the light of hope glimmered. She didn’t see that, of course. Instead she saw the mousy brown hair escaping from the bun, and the little smudge of mascara under her lashes—lack of practice, or a shaking hand? Could have been either, she thought, licking a tissue and dabbing at it. Better. She stood back and examined herself critically, tugging her uniform dress straight over her slight figure and staring, unsmiling, at her reflection.
What she saw dismayed her, and the ray of hope in her eyes flickered and died. With a sigh of resignation she turned away and went back to her duties with customary efficiency, putting aside her foolish fancies.
What would Tom Russell see in her, anyway? And besides, he was probably married, or at least engaged or living with someone. His type always were. It was only the perennial bachelors with the morals of alley-cats that were still free—and Helen wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole.
Not that she was a prude exactly, but there was a line over which she wouldn’t step, and casual sex with overgrown schoolboys fell far beyond that line.
So she was lonely, and a little out of practice at dating men, although she worked with them as patients and colleagues every day of her life without any problems.
No, he wouldn’t be interested, and she was crazy to imagine he would be, she told herself firmly, and set about putting him out of her mind.
She was bent over a set of notes, transferring information on to the computer, when his voice sent a shock-wave through her.
‘Any chance of that coffee you offered me a month ago?’
Schooling her expression, she straightened and turned.
‘Dr Russell—welcome aboard.’ Her words were stilted, but her smile was natural, open and generous, and her voice was filled with a warmth she was unable to disguise.
‘Thank you,’ he replied, his eyes searching hers, and his lips twitched briefly into that smile. ‘Are you on my side?’ he asked conspiratorially.
‘Your side?’ Helen was momentarily nonplussed.
‘Yes—my side. Can I hide behind your skirts when I commit some bureaucratic misdemeanour and get yelled at by the powers that be?’
She chuckled. ‘Is that likely?’
He shrugged. ‘I hope not, but I must confess to a rotten case of nerves.’
Oh, no we can’t allow that!’ she said with a smile. ‘Come on.’ She led him into her office. ‘Here—coffee.’
There was a jug always on the go, at the insistence of the consultants who disdained the ‘sewage produced by the canteen’ and supplied their own coffee grounds. Helen poured Tom a cup and passed it to him, and then as he perched on the edge of the desk and downed it gratefully she watched him, unable to look away.
He was even more attractive than she had remembered, the smooth line of his jaw faintly shadowed even this early in the day. There was a tiny nick in the skin of his throat where he had cut himself shaving, and she wondered absently if anyone had kissed it better.
She looked away. Thoughts like that would get her nowhere. The cup rattled gently in the saucer, and she turned back.
‘Gorgeous,’ he said, his grin crooked. ‘God, I needed that! Thank you.’ He took a deep breath, then shrugged himself off the desk and smiled at her.
Her heart faltered for a second, then speeded up, much to her confusion. This was ridiculous! She couldn’t react like this to him every time he smiled at her! She had to get things back on an even keel, and fast.
‘How are you really feeling about starting here?’ she asked him, determined to hold a normal conversation without blushing and stammering.
His grin was fleeting and hesitant. ‘Really? I’m terrified,’ he confessed.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she told him bluntly. ‘You don’t look that easily intimidated.’
His eyes, those haunting ice and midnight-blue eyes, met hers and held, and they were backlit by a lurking glimmer of humour. ‘I’m not usually. It must be first-night nerves—either that or a hang-over from last week’s exams. I had the written papers for my FRCS Part Two, and I thought I was going to die of fright.’
‘Unlikely,’ she assured him drily. ‘Still, I remember starting on this ward as sister. I was absolutely terrified, too, but everyone was so friendly. One of the older SENs came and perched on my desk and started to chat. I was so grateful to her, and it was fine after that—a lot of fun, in fact.’
His smile was wry. ‘I doubt if it’ll be fun.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Ross Hamilton has a terrific sense of humour.’
‘Hmm—I’ll reserve judgement on that. I gather he’s a hard task-master.’
She grinned. ‘Only if you’re totally incompetent—or if your name’s Mitch Baker!’
His mouth quirked. ‘Not guilty.’
Helen chuckled. ‘Mitch was. He’s the cartoonist I was telling you about. He drew an anonymous series of cartoons about Ross and Lizzi when they first started going out together, and some of them were a bit close to the knuckle. He probably would have got away with it if he’d been good at his job, but at that point he still had an awful lot to learn, and so, yes, Ross was hard on him, but he certainly deserved it, from what I can gather.’
‘So,’ he said, his eyes smiling, ‘provided I’m whiter than white and toe the line, I’ll be all right?’
‘I don’t think Ross would have taken you on if he hadn’t thought highly of you,’ she told him seriously. ‘He doesn’t suffer fools gladly.’
Tom sobered. ‘That suits me,’ he murmured, ‘because neither do I. Right, what has he got for me this morning?’
‘Four day cases, and you’re on take for emergencies.’
‘Fine. What are the day cases?’
‘Two endoscopies for investigation of query gastric or duodenal ulcers, and an ERCP for query cholecystitis.’
He chuckled. ‘The miracles of modern technology. Thank God for abbreviations—endoscopic retrograde cholangiopancreatography is a hell of a mouthful!’
‘But probably quicker than saying sticking a tube with a camera on down someone’s throat and into the duodenum and injecting radio-opaque medium into the bile duct to see what happens! Oh, and there’s a sigmoidoscopy—middle-aged man with fresh blood in his stools—Ross is querying colitis or carcinoma; his wife reckons he’s got piles.’
Tom looked thoughtful. ‘Well, I hope to God she’s the one that’s right.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Is it OK if I wait here? Hamilton said he’d meet me here at eight-thirty.’
Just then the door opened and Ross came in.
‘Tom—good to see you again,’ he said, extending his hand, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries he turned to Helen.
‘Got the day cases in yet?’
‘Yes—Gavin’s clerked them and they’ve been prepped—they’re all ready for you.’
‘Good girl. Right, Tom, let’s go and see you in action.’
‘I can hardly