‘OK, I’ll look out for him. Is she still in Recovery?’
Ross nodded. ‘Yes, she’ll be there for some time, I think.’ He yawned hugely, and laughingly apologised. ‘Sorry, Sarah was up in the night and Lizzi’s feeling a bit rough at the moment so I ended up changing nappies and singing nursery rhymes at three o’clock.’
Helen chuckled. ‘Do you good.’
He gave a non-commital grunt and helped himself to more coffee, waving the pot at Helen and Tom, who both declined.
‘You’ll OD on that stuff if you aren’t careful,’ Helen remarked casually, and got a snort for her pains.
‘Et tu, Brute?’
Helen grinned. ‘Lizzi been nagging you?’
‘Constantly. And I don’t care if she is right.’
Tom looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You look tired.’
‘I am tired. I think I’m too old to be a father.’
Helen patted his prematurely grey hair teasingly. ‘Poor old man—what a shame.’
He glared at her. ‘Less of the old!’
‘You started it!’
‘Humph. Right, what’s next?’
‘Lunch?’ she suggested.
He glanced at his watch and blinked. ‘Lord, I suppose so—oh, well, we might as well grab something while we can. Coming, Tom?’
They left, and Helen went back out into the ward. Ruth Warnes, the staff nurse on duty, was standing at the nursing station staring after them.
‘Wow,’ she said, clearly awestruck. ‘There aren’t many like that around.’
Helen gave a non-commital shrug. ‘Seems quite ordinary to me,’ she lied.
Ruth eyed her suspiciously. ‘Do you need your bumps felt? He’s a dish!’
‘Like tripe and onions,’ Helen muttered.
Ruth chuckled. ‘Philistine! I was thinking more of some exotic Eastern number full of fascinating spices and unusual combinations of flavours—
‘Now who needs their bumps felt?’ Helen asked drily, and Ruth laughed.
‘Never mind—no doubt he’s on the menu for some totally undeserving ingrate who doesn’t appreciate the full subtlety of those wonderful blue eyes…’ She sighed, and Helen felt an irrational urge to hit her. Instead she unlocked the drugs trolley from the wall and snapped her fingers under Ruth’s nose.
‘If I could drag you away from your reverie, Staff, perhaps you could spare the time to help me with the drugs?’
Helen went into the staff cloakroom, unpinned her frilly cap and tucked a wisp of hair back into her bun. She was feeling harrowed—harrowed and emotionally drained.
Ross had spoken to Mrs Church and explained the full implications of her husband’s condition, and then left Helen to pick up the mess he left behind when he was called urgently to Theatre.
Tom stayed and talked to the Churches together once Mrs Church had settled down a little, and then Helen had given them a cup of tea and gone to see Judy Fulcher, the girl with the burst appendix who was down from Recovery.
She was doing reasonably well, nicely stable and not too nauseated, and Helen was happy that she was being nursed to her satisfaction. She had put Ruth on to special her as she had plenty of experience and was well aware of the implications of any possible change in her vital signs, but even so she had checked the chart herself, discussed her progress with Ruth and checked the flow of the drip and the suction drains from the stomach and the abdomen before she was happy to go off duty.
She was just coming out of the cloakroom when Tom walked through the double doors from the ward, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, his car keys dangling from his hand.
‘Hi—off now?’ she asked him, and he nodded.
‘Ross implied that I should get some sleep while the going’s good—I think once I know where everything is and how it all works he’ll chuck all the notes at me and run!’
Helen laughed softly., ‘I doubt it, he’s very conscientious. How are the Churches?’
Tom’s face sobered. ‘Pretty grim. Mrs is certainly taking it hard. I think actually he’s known for ages that there was something pretty damn drastic wrong with him, so he isn’t really surprised, but she is.’
‘Yes, she seemed to be quite stunned. Is he going to have the op?’
Tom nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. He’s gone home for the night as planned, but I think he’ll be back tomorrow for surgery.’
‘Difficult start for you—I’m sorry.’
He threw her a quick grin. ‘Doesn’t matter when you start, Helen. It’s always difficult for someone. I suppose that’s why I’m here—to make it easier if I can’t take it away. That’s all any of us can do.’ He glanced at his watch, then back at her. ‘Got time for a cup of tea?’
‘In the canteen?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘I was thinking of my room here—hospital tea is usually strong enough to stand a spoon up in, and I could do with something a little more subtle after all that coffee.’
She knew it was only a casual invitation and her reaction was probably foolish, but why not? She was tired and uptight, and anyway, she might find out something a little more personal about him.
Tea would be lovely,’ She said rashly.
They walked together through the sprawl of the hospital to the residents’ wing, and he opened his door and ushered her in with a flourish.
‘Welcome to Cell Block H.’
She looked round the small room, its cream walls chipped and bare, and chuckled. ‘It is pretty basic, isn’t it?’
His mouth quirked fleetingly. ‘It’s only temporary. I’m looking for something to buy—preferably something empty that I can move into quick! Park yourself if you can find anywhere.’
The only chair was stacked with books waiting to find a home, and a suitcase lay open on top of the chest of drawers.
Lacking any viable alternative, she sat on the end of the bed, her back against the wall, and watched him as he hung up his suit jacket on the back of the chair, tugged off his tie and rolled up his sleeves.
His jaw was deeply shadowed now, giving him a slightly rakish look and adding a dash of danger to an already very masculine man. Helen found it very unsettling, and she was deeply conscious of the nearness of his body and the intimacy of her surroundings.
Not that he did anything that could give her cause for concern—or at least not at first.
He plugged in a plastic jug kettle and flicked it on, then dropped on to the bed and shot her a grin. ‘Mind if I change out of this suit? I’ve been suffocating all day.’
She shook her head, her mouth suddenly dry, and looked away as the zip rasped down and he peeled off the trousers.
‘Now, the six-million-dollar question is, where are my jeans?’ he mumbled, and stood up to rummage through the suitcase.
She looked up and caught a glimpse of strong, straight thighs smothered in dark curls, so close that if she had lifted her hand she could have touched him. Her heart pounded and she felt the heavy, insistent beat of desire in her veins.
The threat was real now, close enough to touch, but it came, she realised, from within—which did nothing to diminish its impact on her starving senses.
Then his legs were plunged into battered old blue denim and he was turning towards