Tender Touch

Tender Touch
Caroline Anderson

Tender Touch

Caroline Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#ub892f2e0-b2b6-5803-880a-a38b7f008538)

Title Page (#u877a9ae2-8d89-50c1-88ba-e25377ccc72b)

Chapter One (#u6deb5da0-ff0d-5120-9a74-a1cf35660599)

Chapter Two (#u541149a9-a526-55ac-93b6-392275b0c121)

Chapter Three (#u991edb93-b37b-52d1-b303-cef532a73215)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_5bb69f65-98b3-5a29-89c7-42c1758f8c9a)

GAVIN hefted the key in his hand, a slow, satisfied smile touching the corners of his brilliant blue eyes.

His first house—bought on impulse and his before he really even had time to think it all through, but now nevertheless and somewhat surprisingly his very own.

Well, his and the bank’s.

His car just fitted neatly on the drive, leaving room for one more in case he had visitors. A good thing, because the lane outside the row of cottages was narrow and twisting.

He looked up at the front of the cottage, a soft pink bathed in the warm glow of the April sunset, and excitement tickled at his veins. With a grin that wouldn’t be hidden, he put the key in the lock, turned it and let himself in.

The sun came in with him, slanting in through the doorway and bouncing off the dust motes that floated in the air.

Lord, it needed a clean! He looked around with interest, the first time he had seen the room empty. It seemed bigger now, and he began to visualise it as it could be, with a new carpet to replace the tattered rag that more or less covered the floor, pictures on the walls, and one enormous chair, like Eliza Doolittle’s. He’d need another, for visitors—perhaps a small sofa, and maybe a rocking chair, unless he acquired a cat. Now there was a thought. Company. He’d heard rumours that one of Andrew Barrett’s cats had spawned again. A little kitten might be fun.

He grinned again, ridiculously pleased at the idea, and, ducking to clear the low doorway, he wandered through from the large room he had entered into the kitchen at the back. His feet echoed on the red quarry tiles, eerie in the empty room. He looked around. The old stone sink hung at a crazy angle, dangling from the broken cupboard that half supported it. The tiles were grimy and mouldy in the gap where the cooker had stood, and such units as there were had definitely seen better days.

He didn’t see the squalor, though. Instead he saw the tiles gleaming with polish, the sink refurbished and straight, set in a hand-built cabinet, the rest of the room gutted and filled with old pine dressers and a small table and chairs—and curtains. Floral ones, he thought, because a country cottage should have flowers or gingham at the windows and he didn’t think gingham would be colourful enough to brighten the gloomy room.

He went through a poky little lobby with an outside door, through into the bathroom tacked on the end, the facilities primitive but serviceable, he supposed, if you excused the cracked basin and the broken loo seat. The bath could do with a good scrub, he thought, and refused to be depressed.

There was masses of time. He only had to work slowly on it, and he didn’t have to live in it while he was sorting it out. He went back into the front room and through a doorway at the side into the next room, formerly the living-room of the next-door cottage. It was smaller than the first room, but still a decent size—big enough for him, at least. It had a little wooden staircase set behind a door in the corner, winding up to the solitary bedroom on the next floor, and he went up and looked around.

It was almost presentable, the walls in passable condition, and he could see it would take very little work to turn it into something quite respectable.

A good job, because he realised that in the cold light of day the cottage actually needed more doing to it than he had anticipated and he would have to get someone in to share the costs—if he could find anyone willing to live in it. He’d have to sort out the bathroom and kitchen, at least, before he could even try. Then he would need central heating, probably some rewiring—the list was endless.

That was what you got for buying on impulse, he thought with a humourless laugh. He had viewed the pair of cottages—an executor’s sale—on the day of the auction, bid for them on a whim and bought them without even the benefit of a survey. He hadn’t even realised the second cottage was included at the time. That was how thoroughly he’d looked round.

The subsequent survey had proved the structure sound, the building society had been quite happy to advance him the money, and the whole thing had been sewn up in two short weeks.

Talk about hasty, he thought with a wry grin. His careful, ultra-cautious father had had a fit when Gavin had asked him to lend him the deposit. ‘You always hurl yourself into situations without a second thought. One day you’ll come unstuck—I thought it would be over a woman, some lame duck with horrendous problems that you’ll fall for hook, line and sinker, but maybe I was wrong. It’ll probably be now, with this latest piece of madness. Why couldn’t you buy a nice, safe modern house like your sister has? Why a tumbledown old cottage on its last legs? It’ll probably fall down around your ears!’

Gavin chuckled, but then the smile died. Please God, don’t let him be right, he thought with a sobering flicker of doubt in the surveyor’s competence, but then, quelling the doubt ruthlessly, he went down the stairs and back into the other room, then up a similar staircase to the upper floor of the larger cottage. There were two rooms here, a single room at the head of the stairs he could use as a study, and a double room adjoining the other cottage that he would use as his bedroom. Again, the condition of the rooms was passable, and a quick coat of paint would work wonders. It wasn’t his first priority, though.

He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. If the supermarkets were still open, he could pick up some cleaning materials and make a start on that awful bathroom.

Six hours later, Gavin stood up stiffly and surveyed his handiwork. The basin was still cracked, but the bath gleamed white, the chrome on the taps sparkled, the tiles were white once again, and the loo had a new, shiny pine seat courtesy of the nearest DIY store.

The kitchen would have to wait for tomorrow. Stripping off the fetching pink rubber gloves and tossing them in the dangling sink, he put his hands on the small of his back and stretched, groaning. If he was lucky he’d get five hours in bed before he had to start operating. His mouth opened in a jaw-cracking yawn, and, digging in the pocket of his jeans for his car keys, he flicked off the lights, locked the doors and headed back to the hospital.

By the end of the weekend he hoped to have the kitchen sorted out, a coat of paint on the inside of the smaller cottage and something to show a potential lodger—if he could find one …

Laura Bailey approached the surgical ward of the Audley Memorial Hospital with a certain amount of trepidation. She hadn’t worked in a hospital as large as this for three years—three years in which her life had changed irrevocably, leaving her with emotional scars that went so deep that she knew she would never recover.

This job was part of her rehabilitation, returning her to society as a fit and functioning member of the workforce, a separate part of her life from the part that was so battered and torn. She could do the job, she knew she could. It was just meeting her colleagues, fending off their curiosity, that she was dreading. She was early, simply because she had been ready and wanted to get this bit over with.

She entered the ward, noting first the quiet bustle, the steady drone of voices, the laughter of an auxilliary nurse in the distance—health-care assistant, she corrected herself. Things had changed since she had first trained nine years before.

A slim, pretty girl with dark hair and the frilly white cap and royal-blue dress of a nursing sister was walking towards her, deep in conversation with a surgeon. At least, Laura assumed he was a surgeon. He was wearing theatre pyjamas, and a stethoscope was dangling round his neck.

They paused at the desk and turned towards each other, and she could see when the conversation changed from professional to personal. They were laughing together now, the sort of teasing, intimate laughter of lovers, and Laura felt loneliness stab at the constant ache in her heart.

The sister looked up then and saw her, and the smile changed, becoming welcoming and open. She laid her hand on the surgeon’s arm, whispered something that brought a soft chuckle from him, and then left his side to walk towards Laura, her hand outstretched.

‘You must be Laura Bailey. I’m Helen Russell. I’m sorry I wasn’t at your interview, but we were on holiday. Welcome to Piccadilly Circus.’

Laura felt her face thaw and a smile form, warmed by Helen’s friendly greeting. She shook the proffered hand. ‘Piccadilly? It all seems very peaceful,’ she told the sister.

Helen laughed. ‘Don’t count your chickens. I wish I could have rostered you for a Sunday on your first day, because it’s much quieter usually, barring emergencies. The ward is usually at its emptiest until lunchtime, so you can find your way round, and then of course we have several admissions in the afternoon for surgery on the Monday, so you can get to know them right from the start. Still, Wednesday’s not too bad. Some of the Monday lot have gone home and we’ve got another lot in for op today for Oliver and another lot tomorrow for Ross, so you can get to know them before they go up to Theatre. Patients are with us for such a short time these days that if you don’t get in quick you miss them!’

Laura laughed with her, relaxing gradually as she realised that the ward sister, at least, was no threat. The opposite, in fact, her friendly acceptance giving Laura a much-needed boost to her confidence. If she could just avoid the personal comments —