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“You’ve built yourself a cocoon. If you love, then you get hurt.”
“Oh, please,” she whispered. “What’s with the psychoanalysis?”
“I did it as a minor during med,” he said, suddenly cheerful. “I knew it’d come in handy some day.”
“I’m not your patient.”
“No,” he said, and his voice was serious again. “You’re my love. You’re my Ally. You’re a wonderful doctor and a wonderful massage therapist and a wonderful daughter and karate expert and toast-maker and floor-scrubber. But most of all you’re you. I love you, Ally. Whoever you are. Whatever you do.”
“You’re crazy.”
Dear Reader,
There are so many doctors in the world today—doctors of all descriptions. For example, the lovely lady who massages away the knots that form in my back after a week of writing has a doctor of philosophy degree. I think this could lead to some wonderful mix-ups. Last year, lying on my massage table, half-asleep, I started to dream what those mix-ups could be.
Mix-ups, massage and medicine, and two very special doctors…this book has them all. I had a lot of fun writing The Doctor’s Special Touch. In the interests of research I even learned to give a half-decent massage.
I hope you enjoy reading this as much as my husband enjoyed my research!
Warm regards,
Marion Lennox
The Doctor’s Special Touch
Marion Lennox
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
‘ARE you out of your mind?’
Ally’s ladder wobbled to the point of peril.
Until now, the main street of Tambrine Creek had been deserted. At eight a.m. on a glorious autumn morning, anyone without any urgent occupation was walking on the beach, pottering on the jetty or simply sitting in the sun, soaking up the warmth before winter.
Which left Ally alone in Main Street. It was gorgeous even there, she’d decided as she worked. The shopping precinct of the tiny harbour town was lined with oaks—trees that had been acorns when Ally’s great-grandfather had first sailed his fishing boat into the harbour a hundred years before. Now the oaks were at their best, their leaves ranging from vivid green to deep, glorious crimson. They were starting to drop, turning the street into a rainbow of autumn colour.
Which was why Ally had a leaf above her eye right now, caught by her honey-blonde fringe. She’d been in the process of brushing it away when the stranger had spoken.
And shocked her into almost falling off her ladder.
She was brushing the leaf from her fringe. She was holding a paintpot, with her brush balanced on the top. That didn’t leave a lot of hands to clutch her ladder. But clutching the ladder was suddenly a priority. She made a grab, subconsciously deciding whether to drop the leaf or the paintpot.
Which one? According to Murphy’s law, some things were inevitable.
So the pot fell, and it hit street level right at the stranger’s feet. A mass of sky-blue paint shot out over the pavement, over the leaves—over the stranger’s shoes.
Whoa!
Safely clutching her ladder—she’d finally decided maybe she could release her leaf as well—Ally surveyed the scene below with dismay.
The guy underneath was gorgeous. Seriously gorgeous, in a sort of any-excuse-to-put-him-on-the-front-page-of-a-women’s-magazine-type gorgeous. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a lovely strong-boned face. Deep, dark grey eyes. Wavy, russet hair, a bit too long. Yep, gorgeous.
The clothes helped, too. The man was dressed relatively formally for this laid-back seaside village in neat, tailored trousers and a short-sleeved shirt in rich cream linen. The man had taste. And he was wearing a tie, for heaven’s sake—and not a bad tie either, she conceded.
What else? He had lovely shoes. Brogues. Quality. Beautifully streaked now with sky-blue paint.
His shoes seemed to be a cause for concern. Ally clutched her ladder and sought valiantly for something to say.
Finally she found it. She let the word ring around her head a little, just to see how it sounded. Not great, she thought, but she couldn’t think of much else. He’d scared her. Don’t launch straight into grovelling apology, she told herself. So what was left?
‘Whoops,’ she said.
Whoops.
The word hung in the early morning stillness. The stranger stared for a bit longer at his shoes—as if his feet had personally let him down—and then he turned his attention back to her.
Involuntarily Ally’s hands clutched even tighter at the ladder. Whew. She was about to get a blast. His deep, grey-flecked eyes looked straight up at her, and they blazed with anger.
This man intended to let her have it with both barrels.
OK. She knew about anger. She’d lived through it before and she could live with it again. She closed her eyes and braced herself.
Silence. Then: ‘Hey, I’m not going to hit you,’ he told her.
That was out of left field. She opened her eyes cautiously and peered down.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said I’m not about to hit you,’ he told her. ‘Or knock you off your ladder. So you can stop looking like that. Much as you deserve it, there’s no way painting shoes merits physical violence.’
She thought about that and decided she agreed. She agreed entirely. She shouldn’t expect violence, she thought, but she had entirely the wrong slant on the world, and she’d had it for ever.
‘You scared me,’ she said, still cautious.
‘So I did.’ His voice was almost cordial. ‘Silly me. So you decided to paint me in return.’
‘It might come off,’ she told him. ‘With turpentine.’
‘Do you have turpentine?’
‘No.’
He sighed. ‘You’re painting with oil-based paint—and you don’t have turpentine?’
‘I’ll get some. When the store opens.’
‘At nine o’clock. By which time my shoes will be dry. Blue and dry.’
‘But I’ve only just started to paint, so I don’t need turpentine yet. Or I didn’t.’ She gazed up at her handiwork then down to his shoes, and her ladder wobbled again.
‘You know, if I were you I’d come down,’ he told her. ‘That ladder isn’t safe. You need someone holding the bottom.’ Then, as if it occurred to him that she just might ask him to volunteer, he added, ‘Maybe you need to get a different type of ladder.’
‘This one’s fine.’ Though maybe he did have a point, she conceded. It was sort of wobbly. Sort