Taming Dr Tempest. Meredith Webber

I had my briefing, Paul Watson was coming out for this term.’

      Her companion—did she call him Storm or Nick? Dr Tempest?—smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile.

      ‘Paul’s girlfriend’s pregnant and they’ve moved the wedding forward.’

      ‘And you were the next bunny on the list?’ Annabelle offered, certain there was no way this particular man would have volunteered.

      But his next smile suggested she was wrong. It was positively smug.

      ‘I volunteered.’

      Annabelle just stared at him.

      ‘Well, didn’t you?’ he demanded.

      She nodded then added, ‘But I had a reason—I wanted the extra bonus money.’

      He sat further back in his seat, as if studying her from a distance might make things clearer.

      ‘Well, well—monetary gain not dedication and self-sacrifice? I wouldn’t have suspected that of you, Belladonna.’

      ‘As you don’t know me at all, you’ve no right to be making assumptions,’ Annabelle snapped, really scratchy now as the man’s arrogance shone through the sarcasm. ‘And my name is Annabelle.’

      He smiled as if glad he’d riled her, adding, with smarmy insincerity, ‘Of course, that just slipped out. Annabelle! Actually, it’s quite a pretty name. Old-fashioned—’

      ‘Reminds you of a cow,’ Annabelle finished for him, sure he was going to add the tease she’d had to endure at high school.

      But he surprised her by laughing, a low rumble of a chuckle that lit his eyes and made his rather harsh features soften.

      ‘Don’t be silly, we all know Christabelle’s the cow. Annabelle’s different—classy.’

      Which left her with nothing to say, although maybe that didn’t matter as Nick/Storm had turned away and was looking out the window at the whiteness of the clouds through which they were now flying.

      Leaving her free to turn her attention to the paper, except…

      ‘Why did you volunteer?’

      She shouldn’t have asked, she’d known that, but, well, he’d asked her…

      This time his smile, as he turned, looked as if it had been drawn on his face and there was a suggestion of wariness in his eyes.

      ‘Why would my reason be any different from yours?’

      ‘Because you drive a Porsche and I drive a beat-up fifth-hand VW?’

      It was too flippant an answer and as soon as the words were out she wished them back. As if it mattered what he drove! And hadn’t she heard some story about the car?

      A gift?

      Surely not. Maybe a lottery win.

      ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were the kind of person who judged people by their possessions.’

      The blue eyes were cold, and the drawn-on smile was gone.

      ‘As you don’t know me at all, you can hardly judge, but you’re right,’ she muttered. ‘It’s none of my business what you drive or why you’re here.’

      Hoping her cheeks hadn’t coloured in embarrassment, she turned her attention to the paper.

      The twinge of regret was so unexpected Nick didn’t, at first, register it for what it was. He glanced at his companion, wondering if her concentration on the morning paper was pretence—a way out of an awkward situation.

      Which he had caused with his cutting remark. It didn’t matter.

      Better all round if they remained colleagues, not exactly distant but, well, professional.

      Except that he’d admired the way she’d hit back at him, even if she’d coloured as she’d spoken and her voice had quavered slightly.

      ‘Actually, I did have a valid reason,’ he said, and she turned from the paper, her brown eyes widening so Nick was reminded of a small animal trapped in the headlights of a car at night.

      ‘I’m officially on leave—accumulated holidays—but I’m taking over as head of the ER when I get back and it seemed to me that, in the new position, I shouldn’t be choosing people for this outreach scheme when I didn’t know the first thing about it.’

      It wasn’t the entire truth but it was a greater part of it. The other part—the idea that had been mooted—well, he’d have to wait and see, especially as Annabelle was speaking again.

      ‘You could have visited for a few days, or a week,’ she pointed out.

      ‘And learned what? I’d have seen the place and maybe done a clinic or two but would that really educate me about the job I’m asking people to do?’

      ‘No!’

      But she frowned as she said it, studying him with questioning eyes.

      His explanation had been so surprising Annabelle had no idea how to react. It was okay as far as it went—it did make sense for him to experience the placement—but trying to picture this man in a bush setting—for two months—impossible!

      And there’d also been a pause in his explanation, as if he was holding back a little of it, though what it could be, and why he couldn’t say it, she had no idea.

      Fortunately, the attendant appeared, pushing a heavy trolley, offering breakfast trays to the passengers.

      ‘They call this breakfast?’ Nick—she was going to call him Nick—queried minutes later, eyeing with distaste the rather squashed croissant, pat of butter and tiny container of jam on his tray.

      ‘There’s juice as well,’ Annabelle pointed out, reaching over to lift his sealed container of juice out of the coffee cup. ‘And fruit.’ She pointed to the square plastic container nestled in another corner of the tray.

      ‘In fact,’ she added, ‘you can have my fruit and my juice. The croissant and coffee is enough for me.’

      Nick barely considered her offer, suddenly struck by the truth of what she’d said earlier about the togetherness they’d share over the next two months. It was as if it had already started, with Annabelle offering him bits of her breakfast as naturally as a lover—or wife—might offer leftovers. Not that the act of offering bothered him—he’d eat her fruit—but the false intimacy of the offer made him feel extremely uncomfortable. Have mine—as though they were friends…

      He ate his fruit and hers, drank both juices and had just asked for coffee rather than tea when the intimacy thing happened again. Not right away, but almost naturally…

      ‘Two months still seems like overkill,’ she said. ‘If it’s not the money, are you hiding out for some reason?’ She must have realised how rude the question was for she lifted one dainty, slim-fingered hand and clapped it over her mouth. ‘Don’t answer that!’ she added quickly. ‘In fact, forget I asked. I’m not usually rude or inquisitive, it just seems strange…’

      ‘Strange?’ Nick echoed, wondering just what her impression of him was. His of her was fairly vague, good nurse who was always caught up in the worst situations in the A and E. ‘Why strange?’

      She turned towards him, a flake of croissant pastry clinging to her lower lip. Without conscious thought Nick reached out and wiped it away, then saw a blush rise beneath her skin as she scrubbed a paper napkin across her mouth in case any other scraps were lingering there.

      It wasn’t really intimacy, Nick told himself while Annabelle stumbled on in a kind of muddled explanatory kind of apology.

      ‘Well, the impression of Nick St—Tempest…The impression the gossips pass on fast enough is of someone who has it made. Private schooling, smart car, great clothes, once married