Читать книгу Playing the Joker - Caroline Anderson - Страница 6

BY EIGHT o’clock, Jo’s nerves were stretched tighter than a bow-string. Anne had gone with Colin, her nerves nearly as taut, and Beth, intuitive as always, had picked up on the tension and had been unusually awkward about going to bed.

Now, at almost exactly eight o’clock, Jo was alone. Beth was finally asleep, the sitting-room was still dingy but the toys were put away and the cushions patted into shape, and she had washed up Beth’s supper dishes and tidied the kitchen.

There were plates warming, the rickety table in the kitchen was laid, and there was nothing left to do but count her remaining marbles and wonder what on earth she’d let herself in for.

She hadn’t changed—apart from anything else she didn’t want him to think she was making an effort to impress him, and dressing down wouldn’t have fooled him either. So she was still in the dark green linen dress with the red belt and the high-heeled shoes to match. Her feet ached, but after the events of the day she was unwilling to lose even the slight advantage of height to him.

At eight o’clock precisely a big Rover pulled up smoothly outside and Alex got out and locked it. Jo stood at the kitchen window and watched as he walked towards the door, his easy stride bringing him closer with horrifying speed.

He saw her and lifted his hand, and she walked slowly out into the hall, her heart pounding. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep, calming breath and then opened the door.

He looked wonderful. He had abandoned the suit jacket and tie, and was wearing a soft blue cotton sweater over his shirt. One side of his mouth almost smiled, and her own mouth curved in response.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’ he teased softly.

She flushed. ‘I’m sorry—of course—come in.’ Whatever was the matter with her? She was behaving like a lovesick teenager!

She led the way into the kitchen and he put the bag he was holding on the worktop.

‘I got Indian—mainly because it was the first take-away I found. Is that OK?’

‘Fine. I’m starving.’

‘Me too. It was a long time ago that you didn’t eat your lunch.’

She laughed, a deep, husky chuckle that relieved the tension in the air between them.

They dished up the meal and ate it ravenously, and when they had finished Jo pushed away her plate with a satisfied groan.

‘Wow!’

Alex’s eyes flickered briefly over her and returned to her face.

‘My sentiments exactly.’

Which brought the tension slamming back and clogged the breath in her throat and pooled the heat low down in her body. She stood up abruptly and made her trembling legs take her over to the sink. Perhaps she should have dressed down—to the shapeless garments he had talked about earlier?

‘Coffee?’ she asked over her shoulder.

Thank you, that would be lovely.’

She ran the water into the kettle, plugged it in and reached up to get down the coffee.

She hadn’t heard him move but he must have done, because suddenly his hand closed over hers and he turned her gently into his arms.

‘Jo,’ he whispered against her hair, and her traitorous body sagged against him, revelling in the sleek hardness of his legs, the solid depth of his chest, the shift of warm supple muscles beneath her palms as her hands crept round his waist and came to rest each side of his spine.

She had kicked off her shoes under the table and her eyes were on a level with his mouth. She could see the dark shadow on his jaw, and the slight sheen of his skin where he had just recently shaved. His lips were full and firm, and any second——

‘Alex, no,’ she moaned softly as his mouth closed over hers with infinite gentleness.

He withdrew fractionally, but only to run his tongue lightly over the edge of her lips, then he drew the lower lip into his mouth and nibbled with tiny biting kisses, easing away again to soothe it with his tongue.

Jo started to shake, her hands winding up around his neck to pull his head down, and then the kiss spiralled out of control and they clung to each other as the passion mounted in them, driving them with its frenzied zeal.

She twisted against him and with a groan he pressed her back against the cupboards, imprinting his body on hers with a wild savagery that made her whimper with need.

Eventually they broke apart, gasping for breath, and in his eyes Jo could see white-hot desire tinged with remorse.

‘Dear God, Alex,’ she whispered, shaken by the depth of her response. ‘Why did you have to do that?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said raggedly, ‘but it’s been so damn long …’

He let her go and she sagged back against the worktop, her legs like jelly.

He turned away, and she noticed his breathing was still uneven. He was also still unmistakably aroused, and she had to grip the worktop hard to stop herself from running across the kitchen after him and throwing herself into his arms.

‘Why don’t you wait in the sitting-room and I’ll bring the coffee through in a minute?’ she suggested unsteadily, and with a brief nod he complied.

Once alone, she dropped her face into her hands and stood motionless for a moment, willing her unruly body to submit to discipline. Then she gathered up the wreckage of their meal, threw it in the dustbin, put the plates in hot soapy water and scrubbed down the table before turning her attention back to the coffee.

By the time she took it through to the little sitting-room, Alex was sitting in one of the chairs with one leg crossed over the other knee and his hands lying relaxed along the threadbare arms.

He watched her thoughtfully, and she avoided his eye, unable to look at him for fear of betraying herself.

She set his cup down beside him and retreated to the other chair, drawing up her long legs and curling them underneath her defensively. She knew she was doing it, but she also knew that if she didn’t sit on her feet the wretched things were quite likely to carry her over and dump her in his lap, and she couldn’t afford that sort of complication.

She nursed her cup of tea and waited for him to speak. After a few minutes of tortured silence, he heaved a sigh and picked up his coffee.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said heavily. ‘I didn’t mean that to happen. I really just wanted to talk to you about the last four years—find out how you were, what you’d been doing, if you were married yet—all that sort of thing. I certainly didn’t mean to fall on you like a sex-starved teenager and grope you at the first opportunity.’

She laughed reluctantly. ‘I wasn’t aware that you did grope me.’

‘Thank God for little miracles,’ he said drily, ‘because I certainly wanted to.’

She met his eyes then, and saw regret and a gentle tenderness there that nearly undid her resolve.

She looked quickly away.

‘Alex, I’m not interested,’ she said as firmly as she could manage. ‘I’ve got my career all mapped out, and I know exactly where I’m going. OK, I didn’t get this job, but I’ll get the next one that comes along, or the one after that—I’m determined to succeed, and I can’t afford the luxury of anything that could get in the way of that ambition.’

He was watching her, and she kept her eyes averted in case he read the miserable truth.

That doesn’t sound like you,’ he said at last. ‘OK, you dress the part, and you act the part to a certain extent, and I don’t doubt that you’re a damn fine doctor, but there’s more to you than that, Jo. You’re lonely, and, whatever you might say to the contrary, you’re interested. At least be honest with me.’

Oh, God, she thought, honest is the last thing I can be with you. She fought off the wave of sadness and made herself meet his eye.

‘All right, Alex, I’ll be honest with you,’ she lied. ‘Yes, I’m interested—physically. Sexually we’re great together, and I’m interested in you as a person. That doesn’t mean that I want to try and establish a relationship with you—especially not one that’s going to interfere with my career progression. And yes, I’m lonely, but it’s what I’ve chosen, Alex. Look at me!’ She spread her arms wide. ‘I know how I look—I’m not a fool. If I wanted a man I could have one, but I don’t. If you weren’t my boss, then I dare say we could have a great affair, but as things stand it’s out of the question, and, the sooner you realise that, the better for both of us.’

He was silent for a long while, and she risked a quick glance at him. His mouth was tight, his chin propped on his steepled fingers, and his eyes as they met hers were cold. She realised she had hurt him with her deliberately crude and harsh assessment of their relationship, and somehow that was worse than anything else. Then he rose to his feet and walked over to the window. His hands were rammed in his pockets and the tension was pouring off him.

‘So that’s it, is it? Your final word?’

‘That’s right. It’s the way it has to be, Alex. I’m sorry.’

He snorted. ‘Spare me the platitudes.’ He swivelled round to face her, his eyes hard and unyielding.

‘Either you’re lying, or you really are a hard-bitten career doctor with a hyperactive sex drive. Either way, you’re not the woman I thought you were.’

Shock held her rigid. She stared at the spot where his feet had been, and listened as he walked down the hall and let himself quietly out of the front door.

So that was the end of that. At least she had stopped him in his tracks, but it hurt her that she had had to lose his respect in order to do so.

Jo got wearily to her feet and cleared away the cups, then washed the dishes in the sink and tidied up the kitchen.

She was just putting the last few things away when Anne came home.

‘Hi,’ she said with forced cheer. ‘Thanks for tidying up—how’s Beth been?’

‘Fine—how did it go?’

Jo took one look at her friend’s ravaged face and held out her arms.

‘Oh, Annie …’

Anne collapsed into her arms and sobbed out her misery while Jo soothed and patted and held her until she was finished, then she handed her a wodge of tissues and steered her to the kitchen table.

‘Tell,’ she said firmly.

‘Oh, he was very upset, and I cried, and it was awful, but I couldn’t have married him. It wouldn’t have been fair, and I think he saw that in the end.’ She sniffed and blew her nose. ‘He wants us to be friends. I said no. Do you think that was too unkind?’

‘No.’ Jo shook her head emphatically. ‘No, you can’t be friends when one of you’s in love and the other isn’t. It would be a disaster for both of you.’

Anne sighed. That’s what I thought, but I still felt awful saying it. So, how about you? How did you get on with Alex? Did he make a pass at you?’

Jo flushed and looked away. ‘Not exactly, but he made it quite clear he’d be happy to take up where we left off.’

Anne chewed her lip thoughtfully, then covered Jo’s hand with her own.

‘Why don’t you tell him?’

Jo snatched her hand away and stood up. ‘No—I—I can’t! He’ll only feel guilty, and it isn’t his fault——’

‘Any more than it’s yours.’

‘It’s my body!’

‘That doesn’t make it your fault. Are you using it as an excuse?’

‘For what? Not sleeping with him again? We’re talking about sex here, Anne!’

Her friend regarded her steadily. ‘Are we? It strikes me you’ve never got over him.’

‘Damn it, Annie, there was nothing to get over—one night!’

Anne’s face twisted with pain. ‘A great deal can happen in one night,’ she said quietly, ‘as you well know.’

Jo sagged against the table. ‘OK, OK, I never really got over him. But for him it’s just sex——’

‘Are you sure?’

Jo stood up impatiently and strode across the room. ‘Don’t be silly! He’s a man—men feel differently about these things. Anyway, it’s not a problem any more. I told him I was a career doctor——’

‘You?’

She glared at Anne. ‘Yes, me! Don’t laugh. Anyway, he wasn’t impressed. He told me I wasn’t the woman he thought I was, and walked out. I think I dented his ego, and fair’s fair—he dented mine.’

‘Are you angry with him about getting the job?’

She shrugged. ‘A bit. He watched me operate this afternoon and told me he couldn’t have done it better himself. As that was just what I’ve been trying to tell people, it was really the last thing I wanted to hear!’

Anne chuckled. ‘He’s going to have to watch himself around you, isn’t he? Poor man won’t be able to breathe without being snapped at.’

‘I’m sure the poor man will cope,’ she said bitterly.

‘You really do hate him, don’t you?’

Jo’s mouth trembled and she bit her lip. ‘No, I don’t hate him. All I’m asking is to be left alone.’ She picked up her bag, slipped on her shoes and headed for the door.

‘See you on Monday,’ she said heavily, and let herself out.

The drive home was short but she found it hard to concentrate. She kept seeing Alex’s face, and hearing his voice telling her she wasn’t the person he thought she was.

She turned into her little drive and locked her car, then let herself into the tiny semi-detached cottage that had been her home for three and a half years.

She locked up and headed straight for the stairs. She couldn’t be bothered to make herself a hot drink tonight. All she wanted was the oblivion of sleep, but it wouldn’t come.

She lay on her back in the bed and her hands slid slowly down the smooth, taut line of her abdomen and over the hollow of her pelvis.

There, running from side to side in the crease above her pubic bone, and almost hidden by the dense tangle of soft auburn curls, was the faint ridge of the scar.

It had faded in four years, but it would never go, and it would take a gynaecologist all of two seconds to assess the possible significance and start asking questions.

He must never get that close to her, and the only way she could ensure that he didn’t was to keep him severely at a distance. It seemed likely that she had achieved that aim particularly effectively, she thought with bitter irony.

But her body ached for him, and with a muffled groan she turned her face into the pillow and allowed her imagination to run riot.

Monday came far too soon. He was on the ward already when she arrived at eight, and she found him in Mary Jenkins’ room studying her charts.

He glanced up, said, ‘Good morning,’ under his breath, and continued to study the charts.

After a few seconds he returned the board to the end of her bed and left the room, beckoning Jo to follow.

‘She’s worse,’ he said briefly. ‘She’ll have to have a section now. Her BP’s still climbing, and the hydrallazine isn’t touching it. She’s not losing fluid significantly, either, and she complained of a headache this morning. I don’t think we can leave it, and, frankly, I’m not happy to induce her. I popped in last night with Owen Davie and we decided that the night staff should watch her and, if she deteriorated, they should assume she’s going to Theatre this morning, so she’s had nothing by mouth since midnight and she had her premed an hour ago when I came in.’

‘Has she signed the consent form?’

He nodded. ‘The paperwork’s been done.’ He met her eyes, his face carefully blank.

‘Your theatre’s all ready—we’ll use that. Your list will be delayed a while, I’m afraid, but it can’t be helped.’

Jo tried to control her anger. It was her list that day—and Mary Jenkins had been admitted by her. She should be in charge, but Alex was obviously making a point by taking over.

‘It could get tricky,’ he said softly. ‘Would you mind if I assist?’

So she was to perform the operation after all! He could easily have taken over, but he hadn’t, and she felt her resentment simply drain away.

‘Of course not,’ she said quietly. ‘Are you going up now?’

He nodded.

‘I have a couple of patients for my list later this morning I’d like to see first, if I’ve got time?’

‘Fine. I’ll see you up there.’

He hesitated, as if he was going to say something else, and then turned away abruptly. She watched him go with mixed feelings, and then went through into the four-bedded ward where her two pre-op patients for that morning were waiting.

The first lady, June Turner, was in for a routine Caesarean section, her fourth in six years.

Jo perched on the end of her bed and smiled.

‘Hello, June. How are you?’

‘Marvellous! Mike’s coming in soon ready for the big event—oh, here he is now! Hello, darling!’

The stocky young man bent and kissed his wife, and smiled confidently at Jo. ‘Morning, Dr Harding. All ready for off?’

‘Yes, she’s all ready, but we may have a minor delay. I’m glad you’re here, though, because I wanted to talk to you again about sterilisation——’

‘No!’ they said in unison.

Jo sighed. ‘You know, having so many pregnancies with a scarred uterus is just asking for trouble; you’ve got three lovely children, and this baby—don’t you think you’re being just a little rash?’

June smiled. ‘Why don’t you let us worry about that? We know the risks—we’re intelligent and educated, and we’ve talked about it at great length. Don’t worry, Dr Harding, we don’t intend to have any more, but neither of us is happy with the idea of losing our choice. We won’t have an accident.’

Jo laughed. ‘How many times have I heard that? OK, I’ll leave it for now, but I thought I’d just check to see if you’d changed your minds before we take you up to Theatre. When I see the scar and how it’s standing up, I’ll discuss it with you at the time. You don’t have to decide now.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll see you both later.’

With a smile, she left the Turners and moved on to the next room.

The woman lying there was very still, and Jo sat beside her and watched her for a second before touching her hand.

‘Mrs Price? Sally?’

The woman turned her head towards Jo and smiled wearily. ‘Hi.’

‘How are you feeling?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m just wondering if there’s any point. I’m bound to lose it anyway, and in the circumstances perhaps it would be the best thing——’

She turned away, and Jo squeezed her hand.

‘Be positive, Sally. Your husband wouldn’t want to see you so sad.’

‘We’ve tried for so long—so many miscarriages. For him to die now, when I’ve got to this stage——’

Jo felt helpless as she watched the woman’s shoulders shaking gently with grief. She had been widowed in a senseless accident two months before, and was in to have a cervical suture put in to try and prevent the loss of this most precious baby, the last in a long line of tragic attempts to carry a baby to term.

Owen had refused to give her a cervical suture with the last, maintaining that there was little chance of it working anyway and she was young, so there was plenty of time, but this time was quite literally her last chance to have her husband’s child, and Jo had fought tooth and nail. In the end Owen had agreed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Price said quietly now. ‘I know I’ll feel differently about it later, but it’s just that I can’t bear the thought of any more pain—you know, it’s a real bereavement. I didn’t realise until Tony died that I had felt the same way every time I lost a baby. Each time you build up such hope, and each time—it’s just too much, after a while. I almost wish it would just happen and then it would be over.’

Jo was more determined than ever that this woman would carry her baby to term and know the joy of motherhood.

She stood up. ‘One day at a time, Sally,’ she told her gently. ‘I’ll see you this afternoon to tell you how it went.’

Donning her confident, professional smile, Jo swept out of the ward and up to Theatre. There, in the changing-room, she leant against the cubicle wall and emptied her mind. Deep in the background was the sadness, but that never truly left her, and was a spur and motivation for the way she lived her life. Now, she had to make sure that Mary Jenkins’ baby survived her mother’s illness and was safely delivered.

Scrubbed and changed into the disgustingly unflattering green theatre pyjamas and white anti-static boots, her gown and mask tied, she made her way into the operating theatre where Alex was already waiting.

Their patient was in the ante-room, and Jo could hear the anaesthetist talking to her.

Suddenly he stuck his head round the corner.

‘She’s complaining of flashing lights—I think she could be going into a fit.’

Jo moved instantly, but Alex was there before her, snapping out orders and setting up a lytic cocktail drip which was attached to the cannula mercifully already in her arm.

As he connected it, she went into the tonic stage of the convulsion, her body going rigid, her face contorted. After a few seconds she lapsed into the clonic stage, jerking uncontrollably. They held her arm still to try and prevent the drip from being wrenched out, and gradually as the sedatives took effect the convulsions eased and she lapsed into a coma.

Jo looked up and met Alex’s eyes, and he winked at her reassuringly.

‘Your patient, Dr Harding—I think we should proceed with the section when we’ve scrubbed again.’

She smiled faintly at him. ‘Good idea.’

They walked out to the scrub-room and stood side by side at the sinks. She was tempted to lean on him, and tell him how grateful she was that he had been there to share the horror of that moment.

She’d never seen an eclamptic fit before, and, while she was glad that better antenatal care had removed the risk almost completely, she had to admit that it did nothing to prepare you for an unexpected case like Mary Jenkins.

She dried her hands, pulled on a fresh set of gloves and made her way back with Alex into the operating-room.

Their patient was on the table, draped and swabbed and ready for her attention.

Alex stood quietly opposite her, his hands ready to cauterise or irrigate or hold retractors, always steady, there before she had to ask, but never once commenting or implying that he would have done it differently.

Finally she was through all the layers of muscle and into the uterus, and as he held the retractors steady, she reached inside and brought out a tiny, squalling scrap.

There was a collective sigh of relief as the baby yelled her protest, and Alex smiled at her.

Jo looked away. ‘She looks fine,’ she said abruptly, and clamped the cord and cut it.

The midwife took the baby to a cot and laid her in, and checked her Apgar score while Jo delivered the placenta and started suturing.

‘Apgar nine,’ the midwife said after five minutes, and Jo nodded.

‘Lucky,’ Alex commented.

‘Thanks to your quick action,’ Jo said, echoing all their feelings. There was a general murmur of agreement.

At last she had tied the final suture and the woman was wheeled away to Recovery.

Alex and Jo went up to the little rest-room and relaxed while the theatre was prepared for the next case.

‘You were very generous,’ he said, ‘especially considering that I took over your patient.’

She smiled. ‘I didn’t mind,’ she assured him. ‘I was just grateful for your quick action.’

‘I only did what you would have done.’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

He looked steadily at her. ‘You would have coped.’

‘I know, but I’m still glad you were there.’

He looked quickly away. ‘Tell me about your list,’ he instructed.

She filled him in, and he nodded but didn’t comment, except to ask if she minded if he watched.

‘Of course not,’ she replied, but her heart thudded, either with tension because he would be watching again or delight because he would still be near her. If she was honest, it was probably both.

The first patient on the list proper was June Turner, who by now had had her epidural set up and was waiting for them in Theatre, her gowned and masked husband waiting at her side.

‘Hello, June; hello, Mike,’ Jo said cheerfully. ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting—we had a bit of an emergency. This is Alexander Carter, the new consultant.’

June’s relaxed smile faded a little, and her eyes flicked from Jo’s face to his and back again.

‘Oh. Does that mean you aren’t going to do the operation?’

Jo grinned. ‘No way. I’m not handing you over to anyone! Right, are you all set?’

The green screens were set up, masking their activity from June and her husband, and she was swabbed and draped ready for her operation.

‘OK, June, I’m just going to make the first incision now.’

She stroked lightly and swiftly with the scalpel, and Anne Gabriel, who was assisting, swabbed and irrigated and held retractors and smiled at June over the curtain as Jo worked.

Jo herself was busy working her way through the layers of scar tissue in the old incision line. In very little time she reached the uterus, and looked at June. ‘OK, here we are. The scar actually looks fine, so I suppose that means you don’t want to be sterilised?’

Mike grinned. ‘Nice try, Dr Harding.’

She laughed. ‘OK, I’m just going to open the uterus and then you’ll have your baby.’

June smiled, Mike held her hand even tighter and Jo carefully penetrated the first layer.

‘Suction, please,’ she said, but Anne was there already, and in no time the baby was in her hands. ‘It’s a boy,’ she said with a smile that lit up her eyes above her mask, ‘and he looks lovely!’

She handed the baby over the screen and into his mother’s waiting arms, and then clamped the cord and cut it as Mike leant over and kissed his son.

The pain crashed into her with all the force of an express train, and she took a steadying breath.

You really would think it would get easier, she mused, but it doesn’t, and for some reason today it’s even worse. In the midst of all the chaos and congratulations, she lifted her head and met Alex’s eyes, and looked away.

Her own must have reflected her misery because later, after the Turner family had left the theatre and Jo had completed her list, she found Alex by her side, his face concerned.

‘Are you OK?’ he said in an undertone.

‘Of course I’m OK. Why should I not be?’

He shrugged. ‘Search me. I just thought you looked a bit pole-axed in there for a minute with the Turners.’

She busied herself removing her soiled gown and putting it in the bin. ‘Don’t be silly. Everybody’s moved by the birth of a baby.’

He moved round in front of her and tipped her chin. ‘I didn’t say moved, I said——’

‘I heard you. You were mistaken. Excuse me.’

She pushed past him and went to shower and change. When she emerged he was gone, and she managed to avoid him for the rest of the day.

She went home exhausted at seven, and made herself an omelette. She was too tired and stressed out to eat it, though, and poked it around for a few minutes before giving up.

Anne rang her later to ask if she was all right.

‘Of course I’m all right—what’s the matter with you all?’ she snapped, and then felt immediately guilty.

Anne, however, knew her too well to take umbrage, and quietly wished her goodnight before hanging up.

It was a long week, and by the end of it Jo’s nerves were flayed to a shred.

Alex had been everywhere, popping up like a jack-in-a-box every time she turned round. However, he had taken her at her word and was leaving her alone, making no further attempt to persuade her to go out with him.

He had made a real impact with the staff, and Anne thought he was charming and could quite see why Jo had fallen so hard and so fast.

‘Why don’t you talk to him?’ she said again, and Jo had to avoid her after that.

That afternoon Jo had delivered a baby and Alex had popped in just in time to see her cradling the babe against her breast and holding the tiny hand in her own.

‘It suits you—you ought to try it some time,’ he suggested, and with a wicked wink he left her.

Anne Gabriel had been there, too, and after one look at Jo’s shocked face had taken the baby from her and finished clearing up after the delivery without asking any questions.

As soon as possible, Jo had escaped home and attacked the housework, but that just made her even more exhausted and left her mind whirling in a body that ached from end to end. Feeling even more miserable, she made a cup of tea and took it up to wallow in the bath with a book she hadn’t had time to finish.

She undressed and hung up her skirt, throwing the blouse and underwear into the laundry basket.

How could she get Alex Carter out of her mind? He was haunting her, the might-have-beens overwhelming in the light of his constant presence.

And the worst of it was she still loved him—loved him more with each minute that passed, because she was getting to know him now and everything that she discovered just reinforced her first impressions.

The sadness that she always carried with her seemed almost too heavy to bear tonight. How right he had been, because she wasn’t the person he had known four years ago. It would be strange if all the things that had happened had left her quite untouched.

She closed the wardrobe door and stood back to study herself with a critical eye.

Her hair was thick and heavy, falling over her shoulders and framing her face with a tumble of wild flame. Her skin was pale and smooth, though cursed with freckles, and her full breasts were firm and creamy, tipped with rose-pink nipples. Below them her waist was neat, her tummy smooth and flat.

Beneath the gentle swell of her hips her legs were endless, long and shapely, and at their juncture the soft, thick curls clustered enticingly.

She was all woman—strong, healthy, designed to tempt a man and lure him to her bed, and there to conceive his children in the wild ecstasy of passion.

Her mouth twisted and her gaze returned to the curls that hid the hated scar.

It was just an illusion, that mother-earth look of hers. She wasn’t a woman at all, just a cardboard cutout, an android, an imposter.

How could you be a woman without a womb?