not about her hair.
She fastened her belt with the intricate silver buckle which had once belonged to her mother. She had followed her mother’s footsteps into nursing and now held the very same post of orthopaedic sister on the ward her mother had run for years. She knew that some people thought it odd that she had never wanted to move to pastures new, to venture further afield, or even overseas, but she had always been perfectly contented with her quiet life and her satisfying job—and what was the point of moving away if you were happy where you were?
She loved the feeling of continuity which came from living in a small, stable community. She felt safe and secure where she was, and security was very important to her.
She glanced at her fob-watch. There was plenty of time to walk down to the village shop before setting off in her car for the hospital. She needed a jar of coffee and some water biscuits, but she wanted to buy some fruit for Mrs Jessop. The old lady with the fractured femur had been on Jenny’s ward for so long now that to the sister she felt like a permanent fixture. She couldn’t ever imagine her going home and, if she was absolutely honest, she was pretty sure that the frail old lady would far rather stay in the bright, cheerful atmosphere of the ward than go home to a cold empty flat.
There was a lightness in her step as she walked along. Despite her earlier feelings of post-holiday laziness, she was looking forward to seeing all the staff again. She had worked with Dr Marlow and Staff Nurse Collins since she had started at Denbury, and she had known them both all her life. She hadn’t told them that she was staying with relatives for her holiday—if people knew that then inevitably there would be phone calls if something couldn’t be found, or if something needed smoothing over. The ward staff tended to think that their sister was indispensable and, much as that flattered her, she knew that a complete break had been what she’d needed.
She had gone to Bristol for the fortnight, to the home of her favourite cousin, Joan. Joan belonged to a health club, and they had spent the two weeks swimming, playing squash and lying on sun beds, and then had promptly ruined all the good work by eating pizza and hot curries in the evening!
She would just have to watch the calories for the next few weeks, she told herself sternly—although her navy uniform dress hung as loosely as it had ever done.
She walked round the small village shop, and had collected together and paid for her groceries when an unusually loud roar startled her, and she looked from side to side, thinking that the sound had come from within the shop.
Consequently, she wasn’t paying attention as she left, and was just stepping out into the sunshine when she collided with a man who was on his way into the shop, momentarily losing her balance.
A strong arm went out to grab her, and she leapt away from it so that she lost her balance completely and ended up sitting on the pavement, the coffee providentially saved, but the oranges rolling off in all directions down the street.
The man was bending down towards her. ‘Here,’ he said in a distinctive deep voice, ‘let me help you.’
There was only one thing worse than making a fool of yourself—and that was having someone witness it, she thought, and for some reason she resented his confident offer of help, and couldn’t miss noticing the twinkle in his eyes as he stood looking down at her.
‘I can manage perfectly well on my own,’ she snapped, moving a leg gingerly and discovering that she had somehow grazed her ankle.
‘Suit yourself,’ he murmured. ‘But at least I can rescue your fruit.’ He began to move away in the direction of the errant oranges, and Jenny picked herself up and began to examine herself for damage.
The gabardine coat was muddy all around the hem—at least that could be quickly brushed off—but where she had grazed her ankle was an enormous hole in her black tights. Now she would have to go home and change them. . .
‘All present and correct, I think.’
She was shaken out of her reverie by the man with the gravelly voice, who was handing her the bag of fruit, and she looked into dark brown eyes.
‘Thank you,’ she said rather tightly as she took the bag from him.
‘My pleasure,’ he smiled.
There was something vaguely unsettling about him, though why she should think that she didn’t know. He was tall and powerfully built, with untidy, dark hair which curled around his ears. She noted that the dark eyes were slightly bloodshot and he looked as though he’d used a blunt razor blade that morning—if at all! If someone had told her that he worked on a building site or at a fairground she wouldn’t have been surprised, and yet the dark eyes looked curiously intelligent, and the deep voice sounded educated.
She noted the old tan leather flying jacket and the faded jeans which fitted him so closely that they looked as if they’d been sprayed on. Seedy, she decided. Definitely seedy, and just a little bit dangerous. . .
Her eyes returned to his face and she saw that he was studying her with amusement, but perfectly at ease, as though he was used to pretty girls standing staring at him.
‘And marks out of ten?’ he queried.
‘I beg your pardon?’ What was he talking about?
‘How do you rate me—on a scale of one to ten?’ he asked lazily.
Rate him! The arrogance of him!
‘You wouldn’t even make it past zero!’ she said tartly, as she realised that he now seemed to be assessing her, and she didn’t like the way he was doing it one bit. Round here, where people knew her, she was treated with deference and respect—and respect was just about the last thing on the face of this man. The nut-brown eyes had narrowed and he was looking at her in an openly appreciative way, which infuriated her.
‘If you would kindly let me pass. . .?’ she said icily, but he had barred her way with an expression of concern on his face. A gust of January wind had pulled at the gabardine coat, and it flapped open to reveal the navy blue of her dress. She saw that she now had his total attention.
‘Hey,’ he murmured appreciatively, ‘you’re a nurse?’
‘Top marks for observation!’ she snapped, making as if to push past him, but he stopped her.
‘Don’t run away,’ he protested. ‘I feel responsible for your fall, and you’ve ripped your stockings—the least you could let me do is buy you a new pair.’
‘They’re tights!’ she retorted, and then wished she hadn’t because he smiled a very slow smile indeed.
‘What a pity,’ he murmured. ‘Legs like that are wasted in tights!’
She was so outraged by his audacity that she was lost for words.
‘Can I run you somewhere?’ he offered, and he gestured with his head to a monster of a motor bike which stood parked a little way up from the shop, and which she assumed had been responsible for the peace-shattering roar earlier.
Inwardly she counted to three. ‘I do not allow myself to be picked up by strangers,’ she said clearly. ‘And I never go out with yobs.’ She lifted her chin. ‘And now, if you don’t mind—you’re in my way.’
To her fury, he had started chuckling at her outburst, and without another word she marched back up the narrow street, knowing that he was standing there watching her, and she childishly wished that they weren’t oranges she was carrying but very large, squashy tomatoes and that she could hurl one directly into the centre of his smug, self-satisfied face!
As it was, she had to dash to get to work on time, rushing back to the house to pull on a new pair of black tights and flushing furiously as she remembered his remarks about stockings. Fancy telling him that she was wearing tights! What had got into her? And what was it about him that had made her react so angrily?
She often met men who were interested in her rather understated beauty—Mr Fogg the insurance salesman, for example!—but she certainly didn’t let them get under