The Doctor's Tender Secret. Kate Hardy

      Though he couldn’t help wondering what sort of man Zoe would choose. The tall, dark, Celtic type, he guessed, with clear skin and blue eyes. Someone laid-back. Or would he be more like her, always on the go, always coming up with new schemes? Somehow he couldn’t imagine Zoe putting up with someone wishy-washy, a man who never made decisions. She was too much of a whirlwind, she’d lose patience.

      He shook himself. It wasn’t any of his business anyway. He wasn’t a relationship-breaker. Zoe was off limits and she was staying that way. She had to. For his sanity’s sake.

CHAPTER THREE

      THE following Wednesday, Brad spotted his name on the staff notice-board. On a poster for Judith’s Wednesday Night Music Club, billing him as the ‘star guest’. And in bright pink highlighter pen, the words ‘Sold Out’ were printed neatly across the poster.

      He went to find Zoe. ‘How many people are going to be there tonight?’ he asked suspiciously.

      ‘I’m not sure. People often give Holly the money for a ticket or the raffle, but don’t actually come to the show.’

      ‘How many tickets have you sold?’

      At least she had the grace to blush. ‘A hundred and fifty. That’s the maximum we can have in the social club because of the fire regulations.’ She looked at him in dismay. ‘Please, don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts. Not now.’

      Second? He was having third—and fourth! ‘It’s been a while since I played in public.’ He coughed. ‘And you said there were usually only about thirty people there.’ There was a big difference between thirty and a hundred and fifty. Like five times as many.

      ‘They probably won’t all come.’

      ‘But you’ve sold more tickets than usual?’

      ‘Yes. Probably because of you—the curiosity factor,’ Zoe admitted. ‘But it’s for a good cause. It nets us tons of money for the wards. The social club does the bar and gives us half the profits for the night. And…’ She waved a paper bag at him. ‘Sample. As promised.’

      ‘I hope,’ Brad said through gritted teeth, ‘that bag contains chocolate brownies. In the plural.’

      ‘It does. Look, you’ll be fine. Just pretend you’re playing to an audience of one.’

      He wished she hadn’t said that. Because right now he could imagine playing the piano to Zoe. By candlelight, or maybe moonlight. Just the two of them. Something soft and romantic and seductive.

      No. Cool, calm and sensible, he reminded himself. ‘An audience of one.’ Damn. His voice was cracking. He hoped she hadn’t noticed. Or, if she had, that she’d put it down to nerves—he didn’t want her knowing how much of an effect she had on him. It would make her run a mile, and he wouldn’t blame her.

      ‘It’s a psychological technique. Jude uses it, too,’ Zoe said helpfully. ‘It usually works well. Or imagine all the people in the front row are naked or something.’

      Naked. Did she have to use that word? Because if she was in the front row tonight…He dragged his thoughts back and grabbed the mental equivalent of a bucket of cold water. ‘Is your boyfriend helping out tonight?’

      ‘Mmm,’ Zoe mumbled. ‘Anyway, here are your brownies. I’ll, um, catch you later.’

      She avoided him for the rest of the morning, though he seemed to keep coming across her wake, such as another sticker for Andy Solomon, earned for letting her take a blood sample without fuss, or the ‘bravery certificates’ she drew for a couple of other patients. He couldn’t find her in the afternoon, and discovered that she’d taken a half-day—presumably to finish cooking for the social evening.

      The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the stage behind the piano, running sound checks with Judith. Zoe was somewhere around—he could feel it in his bones—but she seemed to be avoiding him. Or maybe he was just being paranoid. He hadn’t done anything to drive her away. Hadn’t touched her, hadn’t kissed her.

      Though he’d wanted to. Lord, how he’d wanted to.

      And he really shouldn’t want. It wasn’t fair on either of them.

      ‘Are you OK?’ Judith asked.

      ‘Just a bit nervous,’ he admitted.

      ‘You’ll be fine. Just imagine you’re singing to an audience of one. I usually sing to Holls or Zo, like I did when we shared a flat as students,’ Judith said.

      They ran through a couple of songs. And the next thing he knew, the room was filling up with people. He couldn’t see Zoe anywhere. Though the hairs on the back of his neck told him that she was definitely around.

      By the third song, Brad had forgotten his nerves. He joined Judith in a version of ‘American Pie’ that had everyone tapping their feet and singing along. From there, they launched into a couple of blues standards. And then someone requested ‘Fever’.

      He sang along with Judith, but he couldn’t help scanning the crowd for one person. The one he finally saw right at the back of the room. The one who really did give him a fever, even though she shouldn’t.

      He’d said he could sing a bit. Not that he had a voice that could melt your bones, Zoe thought. Deep and warm and soulful, blending perfectly with Judith’s husky jazz-singer tones. Just for a moment, she imagined herself as his audience of one. Imagined him singing just for her. Singing words of love.

      She turned away and concentrated on doing the food. In the background, organising things. Just what she did best.

      But then she froze as Brad launched into Van Morrison’s ‘Brown-Eyed Girl’. Judith may have been singing along with him, but she could only hear his voice. Singing about a girl with brown eyes. Brown eyes, like her own.

      Worse still, someone requested another Van Morrison song, slowing the mood down with ‘Have I Told You Lately?’.

      And she was lost.

      Somehow—she wasn’t even aware of moving—she worked her way to the front of the crowd. Met Brad’s eyes over the top of the piano as he crooned the words.

      Insane. He must be going completely insane. Zoe Kennedy was off limits. And here he was, singing one of the most romantic songs ever written. To her. And he really was singing just to her, not to the appreciative crowd.

      She must know it. She had to know it. Why else would she be standing there at the front, smiling back at him?

      Unless she was smiling at the boyfriend.

      Brad scanned the room. He couldn’t see anyone who looked as though he was with Zoe. Nobody with his arm round her waist, holding her against him and humming those same words to her, a tribute to a woman who could wipe away his sadness and fill his heart with love. Zoe was standing there alone, looking at him. And Brad was looking right back at her.

      Was Zoe the one who could wipe away his sadness?

      It was stupid to feel jealous, Zoe told herself crossly. Jude was only singing with Brad to raise money. So why was she wishing that she was the one up on stage with him instead of her best friend? Why was she wishing that Brad and Jude didn’t look quite so good together? Why was she panicking that Jude might decide that her career wasn’t enough after all, and Brad was what she wanted? And that Brad would, of course, fall for the most gorgeous woman in the hospital, five feet eleven with legs up to her armpits, long red hair, clear skin and blue eyes, who sang like an angel and had a lot more in common with him than Zoe did?

      This really, really wasn’t good. Zoe never panicked about men. Ever. She didn’t have a love life to upset her equilibrium; she didn’t do more than smile with her friends about the latest heart-throb actor or singer or sports star. So why was she feeling like this about Brad Hutton?