Prince Charming of Harley Street. Anne Fraser

      Prince Charming of Harley Street

      Anne Fraser

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Table of Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Copyright

      About the Author

      ANNE FRASER was born in Scotland, but brought up in South Africa. After she left school she returned to the birthplace of her parents, the remote Western Islands of Scotland. She left there to train as a nurse, before going on to university to study English Literature. After the birth of her first child she and her doctor husband travelled the world, working in rural Africa, Australia and Northern Canada. Anne still works in the health sector. To relax, she enjoys spending time with her family, reading, walking and travelling.

      For Stewart—

      Thanks for the idea and, as always, your help and support.

      Chapter One

      ROSE whistled under her breath as she glanced around the reception area in the doctor’s surgery. It was nothing like anything she had seen before. Instead of the usual hard plastic chairs, dog-eared magazines and dusty flower arrangements, there were deep leather armchairs, piles of glossy magazines and elaborate—she would even go as far to say ostentatious—flower arrangements. She sneezed as the pollen from the heavily scented lilies drifted up her nostrils. They were going to have to go. Otherwise she would spend her days behind the burled oak desk that was her station with a streaming nose.

      Grabbing a tissue from the heavily disguised box on her table, she blew her nose loudly and pulled the list Mrs Smythe Jones, the receptionist—no, sorry, make that personal assistant—had left for her.

      The writing was neat but cramped and Rose had to peer at the closely written words to decipher them.

      It was Dr Cavendish’s schedule for the week, and it didn’t look very onerous. Apart from seeing patients three mornings a week, there were two afternoons blocked off for home visits. That was it. Nothing else, unless he had a hospital commitment that wasn’t noted on the schedule. It seemed that Dr Cavendish must be winding down, possibly getting close to retirement. A vision of an elderly man with silver hair, an aristocratic nose and possibly a pince-nez popped into Rose’s head.

      Apart from the schedule Mrs Smythe Jones had also helpfully detailed Dr Cavendish’s likes and dislikes. Apparently these included a cup of coffee from the cafetière—not instant—black, no sugar, served in a china cup and saucer which Rose would find in the cupboard above the sink in the kitchen in the back, and a biscuit, plain digestive, in the cupboard to the left of the one holding the cups. Patients were also to be offered tea—loose tea only, served in a teapot—on a tray, bottom-right cupboard, coffee, or bottled water, sparkling or still, from the fridge.

      Looking at the schedule, it seemed that the first patient, an L. S. Hilton, wasn’t due to arrive until 9.30. Plenty of time for Rose to have a good look around in advance. The cleaner, who had let Rose in a few minutes earlier, had disappeared, although she could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner coming from somewhere further back.

      There appeared to be two consulting rooms. Each of them bigger than most sitting rooms Rose had ever been in and almost identical to each other. There was the usual examination couch and screen, a sink, a desk and two armchairs, as well as a two-seater sofa in the corner by the window. There were landscapes on the wall, traditional in one of the rooms but modern brightly painted ones in the other, slightly out of sync with the antique furnishings of the room.

      Rose stepped across to study the pictures more closely. Whoever had painted them had a sure eye and a love of colour. Like the pictures in the other room, these were also landscapes, but that’s where the similarity stopped. Unlike the sedate country images next door, these were painted in sure, bold brushstrokes and depicted wild, stormy scenes which spoke to Rose of passion and loss. Whoever had picked them for the wall was someone with unconventional taste.

      A polite cough behind her made her whirl around. Standing by the door was a man in his late twenties dressed formally in a suit and tie with black shoes polished to within an inch of their lives. He had light brown hair that was worn slightly too long and fell across his forehead. His face was narrow, his nose straight, and startling green eyes were framed by dark brows. But it was his mouth that caught Rose’s attention. It was wide and turned up at the corners as if this was a mouth that was used to laughing.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘You must be here to see the doctor. I didn’t hear you come in.’ For the life of her she couldn’t remember the name of the first patient, only that it reminded her of a famous hotel chain.

      ‘And you are?’ The words were softly spoken with just the merest hint of bemusement.

      ‘I’m Rose Taylor, the temporary receptionist.’ She stepped back towards the door but the man stayed where he was, blocking her path.

      ‘Where’s Tiggy?’ he asked. ‘I mean Mrs Smythe Jones.’

      ‘Mrs Smythe Jones is on leave. Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking a seat in the waiting room, I’ll just get your notes out.’

      ‘Take a seat? In the waiting room? My notes.’ The smile widened. ‘I see. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of coffee while I’m waiting?’

      ‘Of course,’ Rose replied smoothly. ‘I’ll just pop the kettle on.’

      When she came back from the kitchen, carrying a tray and trying not to feel too much like a waitress, he was sitting in her chair, leaning back with his arms behind