The Doctor's Special Touch. Marion Lennox

client.

      But he was still worrying. ‘You’ll kill yourself,’ he told her. ‘Come down.’

      She considered this and found a flaw. ‘The pavement’s all blue,’ she told him. ‘I might get my shoes dirty.’

      ‘Lady…’

      ‘Mmm?’ She dared a smile and discovered he was trying not to smile back. She smiled a little more—just to see—and the corners of his mouth couldn’t help themselves. They curved upward and the flecked grey eyes twinkled.

      Whew! It was some smile. A killer smile.

      The sort of smile that made a girl clutch her ladder again.

      But the smile had moved on. ‘Whoever’s employing you should be sued for making you work with a ladder like this.’ He gazed up at the sign she’d etched in pencil and was now filling in with paint. ‘And to get back to my first point…’

      ‘Which was asking me was I out of my mind.’

      ‘You’re painting a sign,’ he said. ‘Advertising a doctor’s rooms. Right next to my surgery.’

      ‘Your surgery?’

      He pointed sideways. She peered sideways and wobbled again.

      He sighed. He caught the ladder and held it firmly on each side, gaining a liberal coating of blue paint on each hand as he did.

      ‘Get down,’ he told her. ‘Right now. I’m the Dr Darcy Rochester of the small, insignificant bronze plate on the next-door clinic. A nice, discreet little doctor’s sign. As opposed to your monstrosity.’

      ‘Monstrosity?’

      ‘Monstrosity. Signs four feet high are a definite monstrosity. And painting them above eye level is ridiculous. For both of us. I don’t want another patient,’ he told her. ‘I’m worked off my feet as it is, and this is a one-doctor town. If you break your neck you’re in real trouble.’

      ‘I might be at that,’ she admitted. She thought about what he’d said, sorting it out in her head. Figuring out what was important. ‘You’re the Dr Darcy Rochester in the sign?’

      ‘Yes.’

      Nice. She’d been wondering what he looked like, imagining who he could be, and this was perfect. He so fitted his name.

      ‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a very romantic name?’

      ‘They have, as a matter of fact,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘My mother was a romance addict. She couldn’t believe her luck when she met Sam Rochester. She called my brother—’

      ‘Don’t tell me. Edward?’

      ‘Nothing so boring. Try Byron.’ Then, at her look of horror, he grinned. ‘He calls himself Brian and anyone who uses Byron gets slugged. You know, with the amount of paint sprayed on these rungs, if I stay holding this ladder for much longer I’m going to stick here. Get down. Now.’

      She didn’t have much choice. She took a deep breath and descended. With care. Another leaf landed on her nose and she blew it aside. It distracted her, but not very much.

      He was too near. Too close. And when she took those last couple of steps he was right behind her. He was big, warm and solid, with the faint scent of something incredibly masculine emanating from his person. Like open fires. Woodsmoke.

      ‘Do you smoke?’ she demanded, and he was so surprised that he took a step back. Breaking the intimacy. Which was good.

      Wasn’t it?

      ‘Um…no.’

      ‘You smell like smoke.’

      ‘You smell like paint thinner,’ he told her, trying not to smile. ‘I don’t ask if you drink it.’

      ‘Sorry.’ She bit her lip. ‘Of course. It’s none of my business. But if you’re a doctor…’

      ‘I have a wood stove in my kitchen,’ he said, with the resigned tolerance he might have used if she’d been a too-inquisitive child. ‘I cook my morning toast on a toasting fork.’

      Her eyes widened. That brought back memories. ‘Really?’

      ‘Really.’

      ‘Cool.’

      But he’d moved on. Back to business. ‘You know, I really would like to know what your sign means,’ he told her. ‘We seem to be going the long way round here. You know what I do. You know about my crazy mother’s addiction to romance. You know I cook my toast on a wood stove.’ His voice lowered, and suddenly the laughter was gone. ‘So now it’s your turn. Are you going to tell me why on earth there is a blue sign half written on the building next door to mine saying “Dr A. J. Westruther”?’

      She gulped. Dr A. J. Westruther. She’d agonised over whether to use the ‘Doctor’ bit. But she was entitled, and if it meant more clients…

      This was a small country town and massage would be a new experience for most. If the label ‘Doctor’ made the locals feel more comfortable—and scared away those for whom massage meant something totally inappropriate—why shouldn’t she use it?

      ‘Dr Westruther’s me,’ she told him.

      This conversation had been frivolous up to now. But suddenly it wasn’t. She wiped her hands on the sides of her paint-stained overalls and thought, Uh-oh. Here goes.

      ‘You’re Dr Westruther?’

      ‘Ally,’ she told him and put out her hand.

      He didn’t take it.

      ‘No one’s employing you to paint a sign?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘You’re saying that you’re a doctor?’

      ‘Yep.’

      His brows hiked in disbelief. ‘You’re a doctor—and you’re setting up in opposition to me?’

      ‘Oh, come on.’ She tried to smile but there was something about the sudden shadowing of this man’s eyes that made her smile fade before it formed. ‘You think I’d do that? It’d be crazy to set up in opposition.’

      ‘You’re a…dentist, then?’ His eyes raked hers, and she saw disbelief that she could be anything so sensible. So mature.

      This was hardly the way she’d wanted to meet this man, she thought. If this worked out, she hoped that maybe he could send work her way. That was why she’d rented this place so close to the doctor’s surgery. But when she’d visited the town two weeks ago to organise a rental, a locum had been working in Dr Darcy Rochester’s rooms. The gangly locum who’d been filling in for him had said that he’d tell…Darcy about her, but maybe he hadn’t.

      As a professional approach, this was now really difficult. She’d imagined a cool, collected visit to his surgery, wearing one of her remaining decent suits, pulling her hair back into a twist that made her look almost as old as her twenty-nine years, maybe even wearing glasses. Handing him her card.

      It hadn’t happened like that. She hadn’t been able to afford cards. She was aware that she looked about twelve. Her overalls were disgusting. Her long blonde hair was hauled back into two pigtails to keep it free from paint, and she was wearing no make-up. And he was angry and confused.

      She had to make things right. Somehow.

      ‘I’m not a dentist,’ she told him. ‘Urk. All those teeth.’ She grimaced and hauled the ladder along past where she’d been working so he could see what the final sign would be.

      After the huge, blue sign—DR A. J. WESTRUTHER—was another, as yet only faintly stencilled in pencil.

      MASSAGE THERAPIST.

      ‘You’re a masseur,’ he said blankly, and she nodded. There was something