Hearts Of Gold. Meredith Webber

a colleague, so she could put the kiss down to him wanting to prove something to himself.

      Or to both of them.

      And from now on, colleagues were all they’d be, so when he said things like ‘walk home together’ and she felt prickles of excitement, or when he put his hand on her back to guide her into a lift and she felt tremors of attraction, she had to pretend it hadn’t happened, and act like the efficient, dedicated, focussed unit manager he wanted her to be.

      It’s what you want to be as well, she reminded herself.

      Alex could feel the woman’s presence on the bench beside him—feel it like a magnet drawing him towards her. But he didn’t move.

      He thought instead about the conversation they’d had earlier—about one snippet of it. About her needing a dog that was big and fierce.

      Because she was a woman living alone?

      But she wasn’t—her father lived with her.

      He remembered the bruised shadows under her eyes, the vulnerability he’d sensed in her five years ago. He thought about her change of name, and anger coiled like a waking serpent in his gut.

      No, he was letting his imagination run away with him. There could be any number of reasons for a woman to change her name. Marriage was the obvious one. Attractive woman—she could easily have been separated and married and separated again in five years.

      He glanced towards her, doubting that scenario. It didn’t fit with the sensible woman he was coming to know—a sensible woman now smiling at the antics of the dogs, then laughing as Henry toppled Minnie with his paw, then rolled around on the grass so the little dog could climb all over him.

      Once again Alex heard the joy and light-heartedness in the sound and saw a glimpse of the warm and vibrant woman inside her efficient, work-focussed fac¸ade. But she’d laughed earlier, when he’d told her about Minnie coming into his life, then she’d shut that woman away and become a colleague again, as if that was all she wanted to be to him.

      Yet last night, when he’d kissed her, there’d been more. He was sure of that. As sure of it as he was that she was his ghost.

      As sure of it as he was that he wanted to know more of Annie Talbot.

      As sure of it as he was that he wanted to kiss her again.

      ‘Are you doing anything tonight? Hot date?’

      His thoughts must have prompted his subconscious to ask the question because it was out before he’d had time to think it through. Or consider how Annie might react to it.

      She turned towards him, and studied his face for a moment, a slight frown replacing the smile in her lovely eyes.

      ‘Why do you ask?’

      He shrugged—tried to make less of the question than there was.

      ‘I thought as we’re shopping, I might get the ingredients for a curry. I do a mean curry but it’s hardly worth making it for one person and, knowing Phil, he won’t be home on a Saturday night.’

      ‘You’re asking me to have dinner with you tonight?’

      She spoke the words carefully, as if she needed to make sure there was no misunderstanding.

      He answered just as carefully.

      ‘Yes.’

      A long silence, until Alex realised he was holding his breath. He let it out as silently as he could—a sigh might have made him sound impatient.

      ‘I don’t date,’ she said at last, which wasn’t an answer but was ambiguous enough to give him hope.

      ‘It needn’t be a date,’ he told her. ‘Just a couple of colleagues sharing a meal.’

      She studied his face again, as if trying to read his thoughts behind the words, and her frown deepened.

      Then she sighed.

      ‘I don’t know, Alex,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t think it’s such a good idea.’

      He sensed her backing off—felt her retreat—and moved to stop it.

      ‘Sharing a curry? What harm can come of that?’

      Another pause, so long this time he had to breathe.

      Then she said, almost to herself, ‘Who knows?’ and shrugged her shoulders.

      There was something so pathetic in the words—so vulnerable in the gesture—it took all the restraint Alex could muster not to pull her into his arms and promise to protect her from whatever it was she feared. Because fear was certainly there. It was in her eyes, and in the quietly spoken words.

      In the big fierce dog.

      And still she hadn’t answered.

      She looked away and whistled to her dog, and as he came gambolling back towards her, Minnie herded in front of him, she straightened her back, squared her shoulders and turned to smile at Alex.

      ‘Oh, what the hell!’ she said. ‘Yes, I’d like to share a curry with you, Dr Attwood!’

      Henry brought Minnie safely to their feet, received a pat and a ‘good dog’ from his mistress, then as she clipped on his lead and stood up, she said to Alex, ‘They were once herding dogs, you know, Rottweilers. They followed the Roman armies across Europe, herding the animals they kept for meat. Apparently some instinct still remains in Henry.’

      Alex heard the words. He was even interested in the content. What he couldn’t follow was the switch in the woman who was now walking on ahead of him, back towards their respective houses. Had she reverted to this ‘unit manager’ persona so he wouldn’t be under any misapprehension that their dinner together tonight was in any way a date?

      He didn’t know, but he did know that the more he got to know Annie Talbot, the less he really knew of her!

      Anxious about Amy’s condition, they called at the hospital before hitting the mall. The little girl was stable—which was as much as Alex felt he could expect at this stage. After talking to her parents for a while, he climbed back into Annie’s car, a big, comfortable SUV, and they drove the short distance to the shops. As he had been in Melbourne, Alex was surprised by how familiar the mall seemed, although Annie called it a shopping centre.

      He was also surprised at how many things he considered staples went into Annie’s shopping trolley. The same brand of pancake mix he used at home, pretzels, sourdough bread and even tart green pickles.

      Well, since last night he’d known she was the woman on the terrace, so she’d been in the US then. If she was Rowena Drake—or had been in the past—then she’d lived over there for some years. He knew enough of Dennis Drake’s history to know that—even knew he’d been married when he’d first arrive to work in St Louis.

      But a number of her purchases were unusual. OK, the amount of dog food was explained by Henry’s size, but so many cans of soda and packets of crisps?

      ‘My dad’s a writer—he says munching helps him think,’ she said, as they pushed their trolleys towards the checkout.

      ‘A writer? What does he write?’

      She smiled at him.

      ‘Mysteries. Detective stories. They’ve only just started being published in North America so even if you read mysteries, you probably haven’t heard of him.’

      ‘I do read them—all the time. They’re my relaxation. What name does he write under?’

      A beat of excitement in his heart. Would he learn Annie’s maiden name if her father wrote under it?

      Would that help him get to know more about her?

      Probably not.

      He realised he’d missed her answer, and blamed it on untangling his trolley from the woman in the