Assignment: Single Man. Caroline Anderson

me if you have a problem.’

      She went out, leaving the door ajar, and by the time she’d emptied the fridge and made a shopping list, he was fast asleep. She wrote her mobile number on a piece of paper and tucked it under the edge of the phone on his bedside table then, taking his keys with her, she let herself out and headed back into town.

      She didn’t want to do a big shop, just a few basic provisions and something for tonight. After all the jostling about, she didn’t really like leaving him, but all she’d found in the fridge had been a few curls of dried-up smoked salmon and a bit of cheese that had seen better days. The milk was solid in the bottle, and what few vegetables there were were well past their sell-by date. There was precious little in the cupboards either, and the freezer contained nothing more than a few ready meals that left her cold.

      He obviously took after his mother on the home-cooking front, she thought dryly. Well, not any more. Fresh vegetables, lean meat, chicken and fish and plenty of fruit.

      Her phone rang and she rummaged for it in her bag, halfway between the carrots and the broccoli.

      ‘Get coffee,’ he said. ‘Not instant—the real stuff.’

      ‘OK. If they have it, do you want me to get some with a Fairtrade label on it—or bird-friendly or organic or anything?’

      The snort nearly split her eardrum. ‘Just coffee, Fran. Nothing clever.’

      So her ultra-rich and spoilt client was a coffee addict, was he? She might have guessed. ‘What sort of beans, and what country?’

      ‘Arabica. Don’t care what country. Medium to rich roast—and don’t be long.’

      ‘Do you miss me?’ she teased.

      Was that a little growl of frustration, or poor reception?

      ‘Don’t get witty—I just want the damn coffee,’ he grunted, and hung up.

      Fran let the smile out, grabbed a head of broccoli and moved on to the fruit, the chiller section and finally the coffee. It was a tiny supermarket with a limited selection, and she couldn’t be bothered to go into town and look in a specialist shop. No Fairtrade, no bird-friendly, not even any organic, although Josh hadn’t wanted it, but they did have Arabica in a medium roast and she decided that would have to do. She’d sacrifice her principles on this one occasion, although she only picked up one packet. The last thing he needed was too much caffeine.

      She toyed with the idea of decaff, but thought better of it. He didn’t need a temper tantrum either, and caffeine enhanced the action of some painkillers, so caffeine it was.

      She threw it into the trolley with all the healthy goodies she’d bought, added a packet of chocolate biscuits to satisfy his sweet tooth and headed for the checkout. Five minutes later she was on the way back to his house, and as she turned the corner of the track and pulled onto the drive, she saw him standing above her on the balcony, dressed only in his boxer shorts and T-shirt.

      She got out of the car and tipped her head back, looking up at him with a mock-stern expression on her face.

      ‘Why are you out of bed? You’re standing again, and you’ll catch your death. It’s October.’

      ‘I’m fine. I’m just looking at the view, breathing air that doesn’t taste of disinfectant and being glad to be alive.’

      Most particularly the latter, she guessed, after seeing the remains of his car. She brandished the carrier bags. ‘I’ve got coffee,’ she said with a smile, and he gave her a cock-eyed grin in return.

      ‘Thank heavens for that. I don’t suppose you got any chocolate biscuits?’

      ‘Just a walking miracle, me,’ she said cheerfully, and headed for the front door, humming softly under her breath. Maybe working for Josh Nicholson might not be so bad after all.

      CHAPTER TWO

      FRAN hurried up the path, let herself in through the front door and took all the bags through to the kitchen, setting them down on the breakfast bar. By the time she’d done that, Josh was there, hobbling on his damaged leg, putting far too much weight through the external fixator and wincing with every step.

      ‘For heaven’s sake, sit down, you idiot,’ Fran said crossly. ‘What are you trying to do, put yourself back in hospital?’

      She went over to him, taking his arm and helping him down onto the soft, squashy sofa. How she would ever get him out of it she didn’t know, but she’d cross that bridge when she got to it. In the meantime, he was eyeing the shopping bags like an addict waiting for his fix.

      ‘Coffee?’ he suggested hopefully.

      ‘Patience is a virtue,’ she said, probably sounding exactly like his mother, but she didn’t care. She pulled all the shopping out onto the worktop, found the coffee and the coffee-maker and put them together. Within moments the kitchen was filled with the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee, and Josh was sighing with relief. While it slowly dripped through the filter, she stuffed the shopping into the fridge and cupboards, found the mugs and opened the milk, just as the front doorbell rang.

      Josh groaned gently. ‘Oh, hell, it’s my mother,’ he said under his breath.

      ‘Shall I tell her you’re in bed?’ Fran offered, but he shook his head.

      ‘Too late. She’s seen me. Just let her in,’ he said tiredly.

      Mentally girding her loins, Fran walked calmly to the front door and opened it. A tall, elegantly dressed grey-haired woman stood there, and without a glance at Fran she swept through the door and went into the kitchen.

      ‘Joshua, what on earth are you thinking about! You should be in hospital, you silly creature.’

      She buzzed his cheek with a kiss and perched on the edge of the sofa beside him, no mean achievement considering its squashiness. Then she turned and looked at Fran, eyeing her with only slight curiosity. ‘Have we met?’ she asked.

      Fran opened her mouth to reply, but Josh got there first.

      ‘Mother, this is Francesca Williams, my new nurse. Fran, this is my mother, Isabel Hardy.’

      Fran smiled and held out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation the woman extended her hand and took Fran’s, her fingers cool and slender and beautifully manicured, quite unlike Fran’s workmanlike hands. Mrs Hardy, she decided, was one of those ‘ladies who lunch’.

      ‘How nice to meet you, Mrs Hardy,’ she said innocently. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

      ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Mrs Hardy said, eyeing her son thoughtfully. ‘Where did you say you came from, my dear?’

      ‘She didn’t. The nursing agency in town—and don’t patronise her, Mother. She’s an intelligent woman.’

      Mrs Hardy opened her mouth a fraction, but Fran just smiled and went back into the kitchen area. So he thought she was intelligent? Smart man. ‘I’ve just put the coffee-machine on, Mrs Hardy. Can I get you a cup?’

      Her elegant brow pleated. ‘Are you making him coffee? Is that wise?’

      ‘It’s fine,’ Fran assured her. ‘A little caffeine enhances the action of painkillers, and he’s had quite a difficult day, I think, what with one thing and another.’

      Mrs Hardy was all ready to protest, but then Josh, obviously used to her, chipped in.

      ‘I knew you’d worry, Mother, which is why I engaged a professional, to set your mind at rest. She’s fully qualified, highly recommended, and she nags nearly as much as you do.’

      Fran stifled a snort and poured the coffee. He thought she was a nag? She hadn’t even started yet! ‘Black or white and with or without?’ she asked blithely.

      Josh, as she’d remembered, took his strong, straight