A Perfect Hero. Caroline Anderson

      

       A Perfect Hero

      Caroline Anderson

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

      ‘THOSE boys are the pits!’

      Half laughing, half furious, Clare pushed the door of Sister’s office shut behind her and sagged into the chair.

      ‘That bad?’

      Her head jerked up, her eyes instantly caught and trapped by a gaze so vivid she thought she must be dreaming. He was fair, his sun-streaked hair falling in defiant strands across the bronze skin of his high forehead, and he radiated health and energy. He was also drop-dead good-looking, and Clare was instantly wary.

      ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t realise there was anyone in here—not that I usually talk to myself, but this morning …!’

      ‘Losing your grip already?’ His voice was like rich silk sliding over pebbles. The stranger glanced at his watch and raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s only ten past nine!’

      ‘Yes, well, if you’d met Danny Drew and his gang of fellow-sufferers, you’d understand!’

      ‘I shall look forward to the experience.’ He took a long, lazy stride forward and held out his hand across the desk. ‘We haven’t met. Michael Barrington. I’m Tim Mayhew’s senior reg., as of about ten minutes ago. And you’re Clare Stevens,’ he added, engulfing her hand in his long, lean fingers.

      A tingle like an electric shock ran up her arm, and she hastily detached herself from his hand and smoothed her dress over her hips in an unconsciously provocative gesture.

      ‘How did you know?’ she asked, still rattled by the contact, and his hand reached out and flicked the badge on her breast pocket with casual disregard for convention.

      ‘Oh—how silly of me!’ She tried to smile, but her lips felt stiff and uncooperative. Those shatteringly blue eyes were inches from her own, and he was clearly laughing at her. She stood up breathlessly and turned away, to put some distance between herself and this young Adonis who had dropped out of the sky into her life. ‘We were expecting you—I’m afraid Sister O’Brien’s got the morning off—she’s on from twelve-thirty. Would you like me to show you the ward?’

      He nodded. ‘Just informally—I don’t want pomp and ceremony and a great trailing entourage!’

      She laughed, an easy, rippling sound, and relaxed. ‘We don’t tend to stand on ceremony at the Audley Memorial. We’d better get on—we’re not on take today, but we’ve got some elective patients in for hip replacement and it was one of those fairly bloody weekends on the road—we’ve got two lads in ITU who’ll be coming up shortly if they’re sufficiently stable.’

      ‘I get your drift,’ he said with a smile, and her heart crashed against her ribs. ‘Allow me——’

      He reached round her and opened the door, and as he did so she became aware of his height, and breadth, and the smooth skin of his jaw slightly roughened by stubble. Mingled with the faint scent of expensive cologne was a deeper, more intrinsic scent, primitive and masculine, that made her breath catch in her throat.

      Thanking him in what she hoped was a normal voice, she preceded him through the door and took him round the ward, showing him the utility areas and general geography before taking him round the four six-bedded bays and telling him about the patients who would be under his care.

      ‘Do you want to examine any of them?’ she asked as they went into the first bay.

      ‘No, I don’t think there’s any need—unless there’s anybody you feel I should look at in particular? I’m really only here to familiarise myself with the ward. I’ll be joining Mr Mayhew in Theatre later.’

      As they walked round the ward, Clare became increasingly conscious of her companion. He smiled and joked and stole the hearts of all the elderly ladies with their hip replacements, and he listened intently as she explained about their treatment of young Tina White, thrown from her horse and suffering from severe bruising of the spinal cord following a fracture dislocation of T4 and T5. She was being nursed on a revolving Stryker bed, and was turned every two hours throughout the day and night.

      ‘She’s a model patient, aren’t you, Tina?’ Clare said with a smile.

      The girl grinned. ‘Anyone’s a model patient compared with that lot!’ She waved her hand towards the end bay.

      Clare groaned. ‘The trouble is, they aren’t in enough pain any more!’

      Beside her, Michael Barrington frowned. ‘You surely wouldn’t want them to be in pain?’ he said reprovingly.

      ‘Of course not,’ she laughed. ‘Just well and back home again!’

      Tina chuckled. ‘They aren’t so bad, really—takes the edge off lying here day after day. At least I can try and guess what they’ll get up to next!’

      ‘Any sign of improvement?’