The Doctor's Special Touch. Marion Lennox

from the front step of his rooms. He looked as if he was about to go out on a house call. Every inch the doctor, he was carrying a smart black doctor’s bag and he was headed in the direction of his capacious Mercedes Benz parked out on the street.

      A brand-new Mercedes, she thought bitterly. As opposed to her ancient rust-bucket of a panel van which looked almost ludicrous beside it.

      ‘Do you have to keep scaring me?’ Ally demanded, and he raised an eyebrow as if such a notion was ludicrous.

      ‘What, you don’t have a spare bucket of paint to throw at me this time?’

      ‘I wish,’ she muttered darkly. ‘And, yes, I do know Gloria has arthritis.’

      ‘So maybe massage isn’t appropriate.’

      ‘Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs.’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘You know your business and I know mine,’ she said through gritted teeth. She was almost deliriously happy to be here again—in this town, setting up her own business—but this man was threatening to burst her fragile bubble of contentment. ‘I know what I’m about,’ she said, trying to moderate her voice a little. ‘I understand that massaging inflammatory joints can cause damage, and I was extremely careful not to do anything of the kind. I helped.’

      ‘She’s on medication. If you’ve interfered—’

      What was it with this man?

      ‘I did not,’ she said, again through gritted teeth, ‘interfere with Gloria’s medication in any way, shape or form. I did not imply that she’d be better off taking wart of hog, collected at midnight from the local cemetery in ritualistic sacrifice, than she is taking your boring old anti-inflammatories. I did take a medical history—I’d be stupid not to—but she’s your patient, and aside from rubbing her down with a little sandalwood oil…’

      ‘Sandalwood’s expensive.’

      ‘So’s a Mercedes,’ she snapped. ‘I charge to cover my expenses. The sandalwood costs me maybe a dollar. I factor it into my accounts. How much do you charge to cover the cost of running your Mercedes?’

      Yikes. That was way out of line. She couldn’t believe she’d just said it. She wasn’t normally this rude—this abrupt. What was it about this man that got under her skin?

      But he stood on the doorstep of the place where her grandpa used to practise medicine, and his eyes condemned her.

      ‘Um…we seem to be getting off on the wrong foot,’ he said, and she blinked.

      ‘We do indeed.’

      ‘I’m sure you’re a fine massage therapist.’

      ‘And I’m sure you’re a fine doctor.’ Her tone was wary.

      ‘If you’d just like to talk to me about my patients before you treat them.’

      ‘And your patients would be…who? The whole town?’

      ‘I guess.’

      ‘You’d like me to ask permission to touch anyone who comes near me?’

      ‘There’s no need to be dramatic.’

      ‘There’s every need to be dramatic.’ She was practically snarling. ‘I’m a massage therapist. Not a witchdoctor. The first rule of a good massage therapist is exactly the same rule as for a good doctor. Do no harm. So, if you’ll excuse me, would you just get into your fancy car and take yourself off to wherever you’re going? Because I have things to do.’

      She certainly did. She had a steak to buy. A really big steak. Gloria’s money was practically cooking itself in her pocket.

      But Darcy was staring at her as if she’d just arrived from outer space.

      ‘What?’ she said crossly.

      ‘I just thought…’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Look, maybe we should get to know each other a little better.’

      ‘I don’t think so.’

      ‘It’s a small town. I gather you’re intending to stay.’

      ‘You’re the Johnny-come-lately,’ she agreed. ‘I’m the local. Maybe you’ll move on.’

      ‘It’s unlikely.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘I like it here.’

      ‘A big fish in a small pond,’ she said cordially, and watched the frown snap down.

      ‘Look…’

      Maybe she ought to change the subject. She had no idea why they just had to look at each other and they started snapping. Conciliation was her middle name, she thought ruefully, and she had no idea why this man had the capacity to knock her right out of her normal pacifist nature.

      But she sort of enjoyed it, though, she decided. Astonishingly. Somehow tossing paint at him at their first meeting had set her free to bounce insults around.

      Or maybe it had been that when he’d flared in anger and she’d retreated in fear, he’d made it absolutely clear there’d be no consequences.

      Argument for argument’s sake was a novel concept, but she was discovering she could enjoy it. But she did need to move on.

      ‘Did you get your shoes clean?’ she queried.

      ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘I didn’t.’

      Honestly, he was irresistible. He stood on the top step all dressed up like a very important doctor, and he was so looking like a bubble that had to be burst.

      ‘You couldn’t have tried hard enough,’ she told him, and watched the grey eyes widen in astonishment. He wasn’t used to be being teased.

      ‘I got the pavement clean,’ she continued, watching the amazing wash of expressions on his face. ‘I scrubbed and scrubbed and there’s not a trace of blue paint left. So I can be quite useful. There are also times when I don’t do harm.’

      ‘I didn’t imply…’

      ‘Yes, you did.’

      He glowered. And then he glanced at his watch and he glowered some more, while she watched with interest. She had no idea why she was goading this man, but she couldn’t stop to save herself.

      ‘We need to talk,’ he said at last.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘We just do.’ His frown faded and suddenly he was looking at her with an expression that was almost a plea. ‘There are problems. Things you should know about.’

      ‘About every patient in town?’

      ‘Of course not,’ he conceded. ‘But some. If you’ve got time…’

      ‘I need my dinner.’

      He glanced at his watch again. ‘It’s only five o’clock.’

      Yeah, but she hadn’t had lunch. And she had enough for a steak.

      ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had lunch…’

      Snap!

      ‘I’m about to grab a sandwich from the general store. Have you ever had chickenpox?’

      What sort of question was that? ‘No.’

      ‘Damn.’

      ‘I’m inoculated, though.’

      ‘You’re inoculated?’ Once again there was a trace of confusion. ‘Aren’t you too old to have been inoculated?’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Chickenpox inoculation for kids didn’t come through