Читать книгу Assignment: Single Father - Caroline Anderson - Страница 7

THE house was wonderful. It was situated in one of the best parts of town, the gateway set in a high brick wall, and as Xavier swung in off the road, Fran’s breath caught in her throat.

The house was Georgian, built of old Suffolk White bricks that had mellowed to a soft greyish cream, and with a typically Georgian observance of symmetry it had a porticoed front door in the centre and tall windows each side. Across the upper floor, just like a child’s drawing, were three more windows nestled under the broad eaves of the pitched and hipped roof, but unlike a child’s drawing the proportions were perfect.

Despite the elegance of the house, it wasn’t so grand that it was intimidating. It looked homely and welcoming, the garden a little on the wild side, and the fanlight over the front door was echoed in the sweep of gravel in front of the house on which he came to rest.

One thing was sure, she realised. It might not be intimidatingly grand, but he hadn’t bought this house on a doctor’s salary, not unless he had a thriving and possibly illegal private practice!

He ushered her through the door into a light and gracious entrance hall, and Fran tried to keep her mouth shut so her chin didn’t trail on the ground. It was gorgeous.

The floor was laid in a diamond chequer-pattern of black and white tiles, and on the far side the staircase rose in a graceful curve across a huge window that soared up to the ceiling on the upper floor.

The simple beauty of the staircase was marred by the presence of a stairlift, but apart from that and the ramp by the steps to the front door, it was just as it had been built, she imagined.

The doorways were wide, the rooms large enough to accommodate a wheelchair with ease, and as she followed him through to the kitchen at the back, she felt a pang of envy. She’d always loved houses like this, always dreamed of living in one, and here he was owning it, the lucky man.

Then she caught sight of another photograph of his wife amidst all the clutter on the old pine dresser in the kitchen, and the envy left her, washed away by guilt and sympathy.

Lucky? No, she had no reason to envy him. The house was just bricks and mortar, and living in it were three people whose lives had been devastated by their loss. How could she possibly have envied them that?

Xavier was patting the dogs, two clearly devoted and rather soppy Labradors, and when he’d done his duty he turned to her.

‘Are you OK with dogs? I forgot to mention them.’

‘I’m fine. I grew up with Labs. Come on, then, come and make friends.’

They did, tongues lolling, leaning on her legs and grinning up at her like black bookends, one each side. ‘You soppy things,’ she said to them, and their tails thumped in unison.

‘The thin one’s Kate, the fatter one with the grey muzzle is Martha, her mother. Just tell them to go and lie down when you’ve had enough. Shall I put the kettle on?’

Fran straightened up and grinned at him. ‘That sounds like the best thing I’ve heard in hours. I could kill a cup of tea.’

He chuckled. ‘Ditto. And while it boils, I’ll put the dogs out for a minute and then show you the flat.’

He went through a door at the back of the kitchen into a lobby and opened the outside door to let the dogs out, then turned back to her with a smile. ‘Right, you need to be careful, the stairs are a little steep.’

She followed him through a door in the corner of the lobby that led to the narrow, winding back stairs, and at the top they came out onto a little landing in what must have been the servants’ quarters. To the left, its ceilings atticky and low, was a small but comfortable sitting room overlooking the garden; to the right was a bedroom with a double bed under a quilted bedspread, all whites and creams and pretty pastels.

Fran looked around her in slight disbelief and felt a lump in her throat.

‘Oh, it’s gorgeous,’ she murmured.

‘There’s a bathroom there, and a tiny kitchen so you can be independent if you want. And through here is the rest of the house.’

He opened a door at the end of the landing and went through it onto the much larger landing at the head of the main stairs. There was a wheelchair parked by the stairlift, in readiness, Fran imagined, for his daughter’s return, and she could see through the open doors into their bedrooms.

One was immaculate, one reasonably tidy, the last chaos.

‘That’s Nick’s room,’ Xavier said with a wry smile, indicating the messy one. ‘This one’s Chrissie’s.’

He pushed open the door of the reasonable one, and she looked around it, at all the pictures of horses and boy bands and other images dear to the heart of a young teenager, and she wondered what Chrissie was like and what had really happened.

‘Tell me about her,’ she said softly, and he sighed and tunnelled his fingers through his hair.

‘She’s…complicated,’ he said slowly. ‘She’s in a wheelchair, and she doesn’t speak, but they can’t find anything wrong with her. They’ve done a million tests and can’t detect anything, and she moves and talks in her sleep, but when she’s awake, she just won’t communicate—well, not a great deal. She has a little hand-held computer that she uses for important stuff, but mostly she doesn’t bother. And it’s not that she can’t, because she’s doing fine at school, even without speaking. There’s nothing wrong with her academically. It’s bizarre.’

‘Was she badly hurt in the accident?’

‘No. Nick had a broken arm, and Sara was killed instantly, but Chrissie was untouched. That’s the odd thing about it. She’s seen therapists and psychiatrists and every other sort of “ist”, but nobody’s found the key. She’s locked in there, and I can’t let her out, and I’m a doctor, for God’s sake!’

He broke off and turned away, his voice choked, and Fran lifted her hand to touch him, to reach out to him. She didn’t, though. She let it fall to her side, because there was nothing she could say to make it right, nothing she could do to make it better.

Well, only one thing.

‘If you were hoping to put me off, you’ve failed,’ she said softly.

Xavier turned, a flicker of hope in his anguished eyes, and his mouth kicked up in a crooked smile. ‘Well, so far, so good. Of course, you haven’t met them yet.’ He looked down, studying his hand as it rested on Chrissie’s doorknob, and then looked up at her again.

‘I really am in a bit of a fix with this at the moment. I don’t suppose there’s any way I could talk you into taking it on immediately, even just temporarily, at least the domestic side? I’m more than happy with your nursing skills, but this week I’m stuck completely on the domestic front unless I can get some help, and I can’t expect you to take us on without trying it. Would you consider a week’s trial? Give the kids a chance, give me a chance? And if you hate it, maybe I can find someone else…’

He finally ground to a halt, the flicker of hope fading in his eyes as she watched. He thought she was going to refuse, she realised. Well, she wasn’t.

‘That sounds fine,’ she said, and his eyes fell for a moment. When he raised them to her face the hope was back, hope and relief in equal proportions.

‘Thank you,’ he said fervently, then he dragged in a deep breath and pulled himself together visibly.

‘Right, now that’s sorted, how about that cup of tea? And if you’re really unlucky, I might even cook you lunch.’

They went back to the surgery after lunch, Xavier to his antenatal clinic, Fran to acquaint herself further with Angie and familiarise herself with the room she would be working in from the following morning. At three-thirty promptly, Xavier came into the office where she was talking to Angie about her routine.

‘I’m going to collect the children from school. Do you want to come? It would help you to see it at first hand, before you have to do it yourself.’

‘Good idea,’ she agreed, and wondered why she hadn’t thought of it. Lack of sleep, she decided, or just plain shell-shock.

She went with him out to the car park, noticing for the first time that his people carrier had a rear seat missing, presumably where Chrissie would go in her wheelchair. The enormity of what she was taking on suddenly sank in, and she felt a little flutter of doubt about her ability to do this part of the job.

She must be crazy, she thought. She didn’t know the first thing about looking after children of that age—except, of course, that she’d been thirteen once and had had a younger brother, so she knew all about the dynamics of that! But—Chrissie?

Still, she had no choice. It was a job, it was a home, albeit perhaps only for a week, and with a steadying breath she put the doubts aside.

If Xavier was prepared to take her on, she’d give it a go, at least for this trial period. She knew enough about children to cope for that long, and, besides, Chrissie had problems. Maybe she could help get to the root of them. She’d certainly give it her best shot, although if the girl’s own father had failed, it seemed unlikely that a total stranger could do better.

Except, of course, that it was often easier for an outsider to see the situation clearly.

‘I phoned the hospital, by the way,’ he was saying as he drove. ‘Bernard Donaldson’s made it through surgery—he had a perforated duodenal ulcer.’

Fran dragged her mind back to the earlier events of the day and nodded. ‘Figures. I’m glad he’s OK. They seemed a sweet couple.’

‘They are—truly devoted. Hopefully he’ll be all right now. OK, we’re at the school. You need to go through this set of gates, not the ones further down, so you can get right up to the school to collect them. Otherwise you can’t get close enough.’

Xavier went slowly along the drive and over the speed ramps, parked the car, and then they waited. Children were pouring out of the school, running and pushing and laughing, heading in their droves for the bus pull-in, others going down the drive to their parents, and then the crowd cleared like mist and she saw them.

A slender girl in a wheelchair, her hair hanging long and blonde around her shoulders, her trousers dangling on skinny legs, she looked tired and defeated.

Behind her was a boy the spitting image of Xavier, with a big smile and untidy hair. His shirt was un-tucked on one side, his tie was hanging askew, his face was grubby, but he looked bright and cheerful and disgustingly healthy in contrast to his frail older sister.

He was pushing the wheelchair towards them, and Xavier went over to them and hugged him, bending to kiss his daughter’s cheek. She didn’t respond, just sat there expressionless, and Fran felt the flicker of doubt return in force.

Give her time, she thought, but the girl was looking straight through her as she stood there beside the car, waiting.

‘Children, this is Miss Williams,’ he said. ‘She’s going to stay with us for a while and help me look after you.’

‘Can you cook?’ Nick asked her directly, and she laughed.

‘Most things. It depends what you want.’

‘Pizza—and Chrissie likes spag. bol.’

Fran nodded thoughtfully, transferring her gaze to the unresponsive girl. ‘I think I can manage that.’

Chrissie looked away dismissively, and Fran thought that even without words she managed to communicate her feelings—and just now, her feelings were less than friendly.

‘She’s vegetarian, though,’ Nick was adding. ‘So no meat, worse luck. She doesn’t do meat.’

‘I’m sure Miss Williams knows what a vegetarian is, Nick,’ Xavier put in drily, and opened the side door of the car. ‘Fran, this board slides out of the floor like this, and locks, and then you can push the chair up and it clips into place.’

He pulled and clicked and then wheeled Chrissie effortlessly into the car, then with a clunk her chair was secure and he was sliding the board home and closing the door.

Fran decided to practise with the empty wheelchair before she had to do it for real. She didn’t want to mess up and dump Chrissie on the drive, and she was sure Xavier would be less than thrilled, too, not to mention Chrissie herself!

Nick was piling all their bags into the back and climbing into the seat behind Xavier, chattering nineteen to the dozen about what he’d done and the goal he’d scored in football and that he needed new football boots and could he go on the field trip in February to France, and Harry had been kicked in the chin and had to go to hospital after football because his jaw might be broken.

Finally he ground to a halt, and Xavier shot Fran a wry glance. Still not put off? it seemed to say, but in truth she thought Nick was delightful, just a normal, healthy boy bursting with energy.

Chrissie, on the other hand, was almost unnerving with her silent watchfulness, and Fran wondered how on earth she would communicate with her. The hand-held computer would surely have its limitations, but she’d just watch Xavier and see how he did it, and then talk to him later after the children were in bed.

She’d already established to herself that Chrissie could convey her feelings. It was her needs that were more of an issue here, and of more concern to Fran. She didn’t need to be liked. She did, however, need to be able to do her job, and she was on a week’s trial. The last thing she wanted was to screw up yet another job.

Xavier couldn’t believe his luck. He’d actually found someone—and not just anyone, but a highly skilled professional who by a freak of fate needed a live-in post, just when he was getting desperate.

He wouldn’t trust Chrissie to an amateur—he couldn’t. There was too much at stake, and a nurse of Fran’s experience would be alert to any slight change in her. Not that it was likely, after all this time, but he still wasn’t sure he really believed there was nothing wrong, and all the time he felt as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But Fran—Fran was a gift from the gods, and he hardly dared believe it. He’d phoned her old boss at the London hospital and had received such a glowing reference that he daren’t tell her about it because she’d be so embarrassed. It seemed a tragic shame that her career in trauma had been cut short, but he wasn’t complaining, not if it meant she was free to work for him.

He went into his study, the dogs in tow, and dropped into the chair behind his desk, swinging his feet up onto the worn and battered top and resting his head against the high leather back of the chair with a sigh.

He had some phone calls to make and one or two bits of paperwork to deal with, but he just wanted to grab a few precious, quiet minutes to himself. The children were tucked up in bed, the television was finally silenced and Fran was unpacking her possessions in her flat.

He closed his eyes and pictured her, those beautiful blue-grey eyes that said so much, bare lips the colour of a faded rose, full and soft and ripe. There was something incredibly English about her looks, the pale alabaster of her skin, the warm glow in her cheeks, the fine cheekbones. Her hair had been up, the dark, gleaming tresses scraped back into a loose knot and secured at her nape with a clip.

It made his fingers itch. He’d wanted to remove the clip, to free her hair and watch it fall in a curtain around her shoulders, to thread his fingers through it and touch the softness.

He’d wanted all sorts of things, like the feel of her body against him, the taste of her mouth on his tongue, the slide of her skin against his own, but he would never know these things.

She was an employee, a member of his team at work, a pivotal part of his home life, please, God, and he needed her in that capacity far more than he needed the mere gratification of his sexual desires. He’d managed without since Sara had died, and he could manage for as long as it took to sort Chrissie out.

Maybe then he’d allow himself the luxury of an affair—if he could find anyone stupid enough to take him on.

With a short sigh he swung his feet to the ground and went out to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of wine from the bottle in the fridge. It was nothing special, just a supermarket cheapie that he’d picked up the other day, but it was cool and refreshing and it might blur the edges a bit, if he was lucky.

Not a chance. Fran came down the back stairs and through the door, her hair down around her shoulders, wearing jeans and a simple sweater that hugged her waist and showed off the soft, ample fullness of her breasts, and desire slammed through him like an express train.

Dear God. He was going to have to live with this woman, work with her, share almost every detail of his life with her.

Mere sexual gratification? Mere? He set his glass down with exaggerated care and forced himself to meet her eyes. ‘Wine?’

‘Oh, lovely, thanks. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the children, particularly Chrissie, and I wouldn’t mind a lesson in pulling out that ramp thing and clipping in the wheelchair, if you can be bothered.’

‘Sure,’ he said, glad to have something positive to focus on apart from the gentle swell of her breasts and the way her hair fell in those soft, shining waves across her shoulders. He pictured it spread out over a pillow, and stifled a groan. ‘Let’s go and do that now before it gets even colder,’ he said, and, shrugging on his coat, he grabbed his car keys off the fridge and headed for the door, collecting the wheelchair as he went.

He seemed a little abrupt, Fran thought. Tired and preoccupied, perhaps? Worried about the children?

All of the above, probably. She hurried after him, practised slotting the ramp in and out and clipping in the wheelchair until she was sure she could do it blindfolded, and then they went back inside and he poured her the glass of wine he’d promised her and picked up his own.

‘Let’s go into my study,’ he said. ‘It’s comfortable, and there’s no danger of being overheard by the children.’

She nodded and followed him yet again. She seemed to have spent a great deal of time doing that today, she thought, but it was quite an interesting view, one the dogs must be quite used to as well. She stifled a smile and went into his study after him, the dogs trotting along beside her, and closed the door softly behind them all.

It was a lovely room, the walls completely lined with books, a battered desk of some considerable vintage set at right angles to the big, low window overlooking the drive. There was a huge leather swivel chair behind the desk and a toning leather chesterfield beside the fireplace.

Shoving the dogs off onto the floor, Xavier dropped into the chesterfield, waved at the other end of it and watched her as she settled into the other corner, a brooding look on his face.

She wondered what she’d done wrong, but apparently it was rather what she’d done right.

‘You have no idea how grateful I am to you for stepping into this post with so little warning,’ he said quietly. ‘I was at my wits’ end. I’d literally run out of options, and the kids were going to have to come to the surgery by taxi and sit in the office till I’d finished every night. Can you imagine Nick sitting still for that long? He’d be murdered by the staff before the week was out.’

Fran could believe it. He was certainly a live wire, she thought, although she couldn’t imagine Chrissie being any trouble if you could cope with the cold-shoulder treatment. She’d come in that evening, settled herself down at the kitchen table in silence and ploughed her way steadily through her homework.

Nick, on the other hand, had had to be retrieved from his bedroom and practically screwed to the chair by his exasperated father before he’d finally given in and opened his books.

‘Tell me about that little computer thing Chrissie has,’ Fran said, remembering how she’d communicated with her father and brother during the evening.

‘Her palm? It’s just that, a tiny computer that fits in her hand and means she can communicate without writing—well, she does write, simplified letters that the computer reads and then brings up into print on the small screen for us to see. It’s slower, but it means she doesn’t ever run out of paper and, besides, it’s cool. It gives her street cred, and I suppose in her position that’s important.’

Fran nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’ She hesitated, then plunged on regardless. ‘I hate to bring it up again, but—do you have any idea what it might have been about the accident that made her stop talking?’

A shadow came over his face and he shook his head. ‘No. None. To be honest, I’ve hardly discussed it with her. Every mention of it distressed her so much in the beginning that we just avoided it, and opinion is divided on the efficacy of counselling in post-traumatic stress disorder—if it is PTSD. I still don’t know if I believe that. I can’t believe a healthy, active teenager would deliberately confine herself to a wheelchair and restrict herself to immobility and silence, no matter how traumatised.’

‘What do the experts think?’ she asked, curious as to their opinions, but he just laughed, a humourless, rather sad sound.

‘Oh, the experts couldn’t agree. Some wanted to try pressing her, forcing the issue; others said it was profoundly dangerous and she’d come out of it in time on her own. So what do you do? Who do you believe?’

‘What did you do?’

Xavier shrugged. ‘Nothing helped. The therapy made her even more withdrawn, so we stopped it and we just manage the situation as well as we can. She sees a physio twice a week and I do resisted exercises with her every evening, and she goes swimming on her games afternoon at a special hydrotherapy session, and I just hope to God she comes out of it before her body’s permanently damaged.’

He looked down into his wineglass, his face taut, a muscle working in his jaw, and Fran had an overwhelming urge to take the glass out of his hand and lay him down and massage the tension out of his shoulders. He was like a bowstring, she thought, strung so tight he would break, and she wondered if he ever did anything for himself, took any time to be himself and not a father or a doctor.

With one hand he was idly fondling the ear of one of the dogs, propped lovingly against his leg, and the other dog had her chin on his foot.

Such devotion. It wasn’t hard to see how he inspired it, she thought. He was so kind, so generous with himself, so thoughtful. He’d brought her things in out of her car, the few pitiful possessions she’d brought with her from London, and put them upstairs in the pretty little flat that was her new home.

He’d found her some clean linen and helped her make up the bed, turned up the heating to air the rooms and then left her alone to settle in and count her blessings.

All this after he’d cooked for them all, fed the dogs, supervised homework and chivvied the children through their bedtime routine.

He must be so tired, she thought, so tired and stressed and worried. If her presence here helped him, regardless of what she could do for Chrissie, then she’d feel she’d done her job well.

Nick she wasn’t worried about. Nick was a normal, healthy, well-balanced young boy, and he just needed keeping in order. Well, she could do that. She’d done it for years with her brother.

‘May I ask you something?’ he said quietly, and Fran looked up to find those lovely, haunted eyes studying her face.

‘Of course.’

‘If you were living in London, how come you’re looking for a job up here and haven’t got anywhere to live?’

She’d wondered when it was coming, and thought of lying to him, but somehow she didn’t want to. Anyway, she knew instinctively that he’d be easy to tell.

‘After I stopped working at the hospital I just felt lost. I’d been wandering around aimlessly for days, and I spent yesterday in the park doing more of the same, thinking over your job offer and wondering what to do. I was on my way home because my boyfriend was coming round, and someone was knocked down in front of me in the middle of Camden High Street. And I froze.’

He made a sympathetic noise and she shrugged and carried on. ‘Luckily someone else came along who could help him, so I don’t have to have his death on my conscience, but by the time it was all over and I got back, I was late, of course.’

‘And your boyfriend had got sick of waiting?’

She gave a strangled little laugh. ‘You might say that. He was in bed with my flatmate.’

He said something under his breath in French that she thought was probably rude, and she gave him a wry grin.

‘Quite. So I left. I flung my clothes and a few things into the car, and turned my back on my entire life. I didn’t know where to go, because my parents don’t live here any more. They live in Devon near my brother and his wife, and none of them have any spare room, so I headed up here and camped with Jackie and just hoped your job was still on offer. Jackie’s an old friend from school and nurse training days, and I spent the night with her last night and went to work with her this morning.’

‘And rang me again.’

‘Yes. Then Josh Nicholson tried to talk me into working for him instead.’

Xavier frowned. ‘Josh Nicholson? But he’s still in hospital, surely? He nearly killed himself, just a few days ago.’

‘Quite. Having seen him, I’m only too ready to believe that. Is he a patient of yours?’

‘Yes—and, of course, a well-known public figure. The news was full of it. But, yes, as it happens, I believe he is a patient, though I’ve never had to see him except for inoculations for foreign holidays and so on. He’s never been unwell that I’m aware of.’

‘Oh. Well, he doesn’t look so hot now, so you might want to stand by for an emergency call!’

He laughed under his breath, then his eyes locked on hers again. ‘So this was only—yesterday, is that right, that you found the boyfriend and your flatmate together?’

She nodded slowly. ‘Yes. It seems about three lifetimes ago.’

‘Well, that might be a good thing. Hell, I’m sorry. Was it serious? With the boyfriend?’

She thought of Dan, frivolous and uncommitted, and shook her head. ‘No. It might have been eventually, I suppose, but, then, probably not. I’m not sure he had what it takes to be serious, and I’m not into casual sex.’ She smiled brightly and tried to inject some light humour into her voice. ‘So, anyway, here I am, utterly free, and scared to death.’

She didn’t fool him for an instant. Instead of laughing, as he was supposed to, he smiled understandingly. ‘There’s no need to be scared, Fran. You have a home now, and a job. How long you stay is up to you.’

She nodded again, and to her disgust her eyes filled. She looked away, blinking hard to banish the too-ready tears. ‘Thank you,’ she said, a trifle unsteadily. ‘Thank you for everything.’

‘My pleasure. More wine?’

She dredged up a smile. ‘Do you know, I think I will. I don’t suppose two glasses will kill me.’

‘Probably not, although it’s pretty awful,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I just grabbed it in the supermarket on Sunday. I had a feeling this week would call for it.’

He eased himself off the sofa and the dogs were at his heels instantly. Fran wondered a trifle hysterically if she should fall into place behind them, and nearly laughed aloud.

She was losing it, she thought, and then inexplicably her eyes filled again. Don’t be an idiot, she told herself, but the events of the past two weeks caught up with her in a rush, and she curled over on her side on the sofa, buried her face in a cushion and sobbed as if her heart would break.

She didn’t hear Xavier come back, but then the sofa shifted under his weight and he was there for her.

‘Ah, Fran,’ his voice murmured, and then strong hands were on her shoulders, lifting her against his chest, and his arms were round her, rocking her slowly against him, holding her safe until the storm of weeping was over.

‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed, and pulled away, scrubbing her nose on the back of her hand. ‘What an idiot you must think I am.’

‘You’re not an idiot at all. Here,’ he said, passing her a tissue, and she blew her nose and scrubbed her eyes and sniffed hard, burrowing back into the corner of the sofa in an attempt to retrieve her dignity.

‘Your shirt’s all soggy,’ she said unevenly, and he just smiled, a slow, crooked smile that nearly reduced her to tears again.

She was shredding the tissue, so he took it from her and replaced it with the glass of wine, and she took a gulp and dragged in a huge deep breath and smiled.

‘Thanks,’ she said, her throat still clogged with tears, but he just shrugged.

‘Sometimes it’s better to let go,’ he said softly. ‘You’ve had a lot to deal with. Now, drink up and tell me what you like to eat, so I can go shopping tomorrow. We can’t have you starving to death.’

How odd. The day before she wouldn’t have cared. Now, suddenly, she did, and it was all down to him.

‘I eat anything,’ she told him truthfully. ‘Usually everything, in fact!’

‘I’ll see what I can do. I normally call in at the supermarket on my way home for lunch, or do a big shop with the kids at the weekend, which is always a nightmare.’

‘Can’t I do that for you?’ she offered, and he shrugged.

‘Well—if you want to. I can get you some cash. Are you sure?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve got hours between the end of my work in the morning and picking the children up from school, so it’s not a problem. Do you come home for lunch every day?’

He nodded. ‘If I can, if there’s time. It gives me a little time alone to relax and think—unwind a bit. Don’t think you have to cook for me, though. I usually have beans on toast or something like that—something quick.’

He couldn’t have given her a bigger hint, she thought. She made a mental note to keep out of his way at lunchtimes. ‘I’ll make sure there are plenty of things in the cupboard for you to choose from,’ she said, and wondered why she felt disappointed.

How silly. ‘Right, can you tell me exactly what I have to do each day with the children—in fact, could you write it down so I have it in black and white what’s expected of me, so the kids won’t pull the wool over my eyes?’

He snorted softly. ‘You obviously know kids.’

‘I remember being one,’ she corrected. ‘A new babysitter was a great opportunity not to be missed. I don’t suppose yours are any different.’

His smile was wry. ‘No—and don’t imagine Chrissie’s innocent either. She might look as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but really she can be just as naughty as Nick, and she’s more devious. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not a bad girl, but she is a normal one in many ways. Don’t let her fool you.’

The warning rang in Fran’s ears the following morning while she was rushing to get them ready for school and get herself to the surgery in time.

So far, so good, she thought as she arrived only a minute late. Considering the wrangling and chaos and lost shoes and missing books, it was a miracle she was here at all, she thought, and having to put the people carrier into the tiniest space in the car park was a bit scary.

She wasn’t used to driving such a big car, and if it hadn’t been for the lack of choice, she would have protested. She didn’t know how Xavier had got to work either. She hadn’t even thought about it, but he hadn’t said anything. She wondered if he’d want to borrow her car rather than walk—because how would he do his house calls after surgery if he was on foot? Still, surely he would have thought of that?

Puzzled, she headed for the surgery entrance, and then noticed a silver sports car parked in his space, a low-slung, mean little machine, and she smiled to herself. So he had another car, the absolute antithesis of the people carrier. Interesting.

She went inside, apologised for her lateness and grabbed the notes for her morning’s patients. She was wearing her old Sister’s uniform of a royal blue dress, but she’d put on weight since she’d worn it. She hadn’t needed it recently because the uniform in her hospital had changed to tunics and trousers and the dress had been flung in a drawer for the past two years, so she hadn’t realised that it had become a little snug over the bust and hips.

Still, it would do until she got another one, she thought, and with all the running up and down she’d done this morning, she’d very likely lose weight anyway. Tugging it straight, she went through to her room, took a steadying breath and pressed the button for her first patient.