The Perfect Wife and Mother?. Caroline Anderson

twinkling, and Ginny felt a soft tide of colour brush her throat. She ignored the compliment on her work in favour of the rider he had added. ‘Meaning?’ she fished.

      Patrick laughed softly. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way he looks at you.’

      She shrugged, pretending indifference. ‘Is it so obvious?’

      ‘It is to me. It makes a change to see him notice the sex of his colleagues. Not that anybody’s criticising, Ginny. We’re all vulnerable to the right pretty face. Anyway, it’s good to see him taking an interest in a woman. Two years is a long time.’

      ‘Two years?’ she asked, trying not to let her curiosity be too obvious.

      ‘Since his wife died. I don’t think there’s been anyone since.’

      She felt the shock of his words in a wave of regret for Ryan. How had she died? Slowly, or instantly? Did he know it was going to happen? Did he have time to say goodbye? How much had he been hurt?

      So many questions without answers. There was only one Patrick could answer that she was prepared to ask, and even that was a loaded question. ‘Did they have children?’ she asked slowly.

      ‘Yes—two. A girl and a boy.’

      Ginny felt a pang. She wasn’t sure which was worse—to have them and die, or live and not have them.

      To die. Yes, of course. Her life was full, after all. Her work was demanding, interesting and stimulating. Her private life was about to flourish, if Ryan’s eyes were to be believed, and everything in her garden was rosy.

      Well, almost. There was that little corner where nothing grew—where nothing would ever grow—but it was engulfed by the glorious mass of busyness that threatened to swamp her on occasions.

      Yes, it was good to be alive.

      Far better than to be dead.

      Or widowed. Poor Ryan. She wondered what and when he would tell her about it. Probably not a lot, as he hadn’t yet. She sensed that his private life and work were kept very far apart, and she wondered which slot she would be fitted into if she became his mistress.

      A third slot, kept especially for that eventuality? Neither one thing nor the other? Category Three—sex slave.

      She gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Don’t count your chickens, Patrick,’ she warned him. Or Ryan’s. Not that it’s anybody else’s business, but I’m sure if he was that interested he would have done something about it by now.’

      But he hadn’t, and he didn’t, and by the end of that week she was wondering if he ever would.

      He was constantly underfoot, though. On the pretext of training her he was there at her side all the time, and by the end of Friday she was ready to hit him. She was off duty at five, much to her great relief, and she went into the staffroom to hang up her coat. As she came out so he came in, and their chests collided just as before.

      This time, though, he didn’t release her but stared down into her eyes and kept her there, hard against his body, while his eyes smouldered like green coals and her pulse rate rocketed.

      She met his hungry gaze frankly, and after a few moments his eyes dropped to her mouth. She thought he was going to kiss her. Most men would have done, but Ryan clearly had more control.

      She wished to God he didn’t, but it was probably just as well because there were people passing them in the corridor and they were attracting some very strange and interested looks.

      ‘Did you want something?’ she asked softly, and under her hands his chest jerked a fraction. A sharp intake of breath?

      His eyes flicked up to hers again, and the heat in them made her own breath jerk in response. ‘Urn—yeah, actually,’ he said hesitantly, ‘I was wondering if you were doing anything tomorrow night?’

      Someone barged past them and his body was nudged against hers. It felt good—too good to miss.

      She smiled slowly. ‘What did you have in mind?’ She could have sworn his skin coloured, just slightly. Guilt? She suppressed a chuckle.

      ‘Um—dinner? Perhaps the cinema? There’s a new film on I’ve been wanting to see, but I’m easy.’

      ‘Sounds fine,’ she said with a smile. ‘What time?’

      He looked flummoxed for a moment. ‘Time? Ah—seven? I’ll pick you up—where do you live?’

      ‘Here—at the hospital. I’ve got one of those poky little rooms, but as I’m only in it for ten minutes at a time it doesn’t matter. I’ll meet you at the main entrance.’

      ‘Fine. Seven o’clock tomorrow, then.’ As if he finally realised that he was standing pressed up against her he backed off a step then, with a slow grin, he released her and turned away. As he walked off down the corridor she heard him whistling softly under his breath, as if he was pleased with himself.

      Smiling, she made her way back to her little room, flung the window open to let in some fresh air and examined the sparse contents of her wardrobe.

      Nothing. She needed a shopping trip. Excellent!

      Ryan thought he must have lost his marbles. First of all he’d grabbed her like a sex-starved adolescent, then he’d hung on and forgotten to let go of her because the feel of those soft breasts had been enough to curdle the remaining fragments of his mind. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d gone and done what he’d spent all week trying to stop himself from doing, and invited her out tonight.

      He yanked the tie off in exasperation. It was too hot to wear a tie. It was too hot to wear anything. It was certainly too hot for the sort of frenzied activity his body had in mind.

      He yanked off the rest of his clothes, took a deep breath and got back into the cold shower. That would settle his little friend down, he thought viciously. He was not going to jump her bones on the first date. He was not! No, sir. Or the second.

      Maybe not even the third.

      Well, OK, the third. Damn. His body had cheered up again, despite the cold water.

      He swore as he wrenched the curtain back again and grabbed a towel, just as Evie wandered into the bathroom. ‘I thought you were in bed, sweetheart?’ he said to her, rapidly covering the evidence of his outrageously optimistic libido.

      T was. I’m too hot. Daddy, you said a bad word.’

      He closed his eyes. ‘I know. I’m sorry, honey. I’m feeling hot too.’ Well, at least it wasn’t a lie. He crouched down and took her hands in his. ‘Want me to read you a story?’

      She nodded. ‘Gus is asleep already.’

      ‘I thought he would be. He was tired after our walk. What shall we read?’

      ‘Black Beauty,’ she said without hesitation.

      He sighed. She was going to be into horses whether he encouraged her or not, he realised. Oh, well, there were worse things. He’d grown up around horses—heck, his brother was a Mountie. It was safer than drugs. ‘OK, Black Beauty,’ he agreed, and they settled down on her bed and he started to read.

      Ten minutes later, as her eyes began to droop, the doorbell rang.

      ‘That’ll be the babysitter. You look at the pictures and I’ll get her to read to you some more.’

      ‘Why couldn’t Granny come?’ Evie asked as he headed for the door, still clad in just the towel.

      ‘Ah—I just thought we’d give her the night off.’

      ‘Are you going out with a lady?’

      What the hell did he say to that? ‘Um—in a way,’ he flannelled. ‘I work with her—we’re going to talk about work.’

      And he ran downstairs, waiting for a thunderbolt to