A Man of Honour

She looked round the small room, its cream walls chipped and bare, and chuckled. ‘It is pretty basic, isn’t it?’

His mouth quirked fleetingly. ‘It’s only temporary. I’m looking for something to buy—preferably something empty that I can move into quick! Park yourself if you can find anywhere.’

The only chair was stacked with books waiting to find a home, and a suitcase lay open on top of the chest of drawers.

Lacking any viable alternative, she sat on the end of the bed, her back against the wall, and watched him as he hung up his suit jacket on the back of the chair, tugged off his tie and rolled up his sleeves.

His jaw was deeply shadowed now, giving him a slightly rakish look and adding a dash of danger to an already very masculine man. Helen found it very unsettling, and she was deeply conscious of the nearness of his body and the intimacy of her surroundings.

Not that he did anything that could give her cause for concern—or at least not at first.

He plugged in a plastic jug kettle and flicked it on, then dropped on to the bed and shot her a grin. ‘Mind if I change out of this suit? I’ve been suffocating all day.’

She shook her head, her mouth suddenly dry, and looked away as the zip rasped down and he peeled off the trousers.

‘Now, the six-million-dollar question is, where are my jeans?’ he mumbled, and stood up to rummage through the suitcase.

She looked up and caught a glimpse of strong, straight thighs smothered in dark curls, so close that if she had lifted her hand she could have touched him. Her heart pounded and she felt the heavy, insistent beat of desire in her veins.

The threat was real now, close enough to touch, but it came, she realised, from within—which did nothing to diminish its impact on her starving senses.

Then his legs were plunged into battered old blue denim and he was turning towards her with a smile.

‘Milk or lemon?’

Oh.’ Lord her mind had deserted her in those few brief seconds. ‘Milk, please.’

He passed her a mug, and she cradled it in her hands and cast about for something sensible to say.

He spared her the trouble.

‘How long have you been here?’ he asked, propping himself up on the pillow and stretching his long legs down towards her—legs that were etched on her retinas and would trouble her sleep for weeks!

‘Four years. I came to the hospital as a staff nurse on the other surgical ward, and when Lizzi stopped work to have the baby I got her job.’

Tom blew on his tea, took a sip and sighed with satisfaction. ‘Better. So, are you happy here?’

‘Oh, yes—very. It’s a lovely hospital, and the staff are very friendly.’

‘They are, aren’t they? Ross seems really decent.’

‘He is. So’s Oliver Henderson. I’m very fortunate to be working with such reasonable people. The surgeon at my last hospital was a total pig.’

Tom chuckled. ‘I’ve worked with a few of them. Self-opinionated, over-blown stuffed shirts. Ross is a real breath of fresh air.’ He looked at her oddly. ‘And so are you.’ His smile was brief, his eyes strangely intense. ‘Thank you for making today so easy. I was dreading it.’

She was momentarily nonplussed. ‘You—you’re welcome,’ she stumbled, and found herself wondering if there would ever come a time when she could see him smile without turning to mush inside.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_0f7b72d5-71fb-5cc0-a455-7939b5ca407a)

HELEN didn’t stay long. She found Tom’s presence altogether too disturbing in that little room, and after finishing her tea she made some excuse and fled.

During the course of that night she spent a great deal of time telling herself that her reaction to him was fifty per cent imagination and fifty per cent the result of her solitary and loveless existence. By the morning she almost believed it, but ten minutes on duty threw a hefty spanner in those works.

She was just welcoming a very subdued Ron Church to the ward and beginning the process of admitting him when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and Tom strolled into view, more casually dressed than the previous day in lightweight trousers and a white coat, and doing unspeakable things to her blood-pressure.

‘Morning, Sister, morning, Mr Church,’ he murmured, and with a fleeting smile he hitched one leg up and perched on the other side of the bed. ‘How are you feeling today?’ he asked the patient.

Mr Church sighed heavily. ‘Resigned—scared, a bit.’

Tom nodded. ‘Yes, it’s all a bit of an unknown quantity, isn’t it? Don’t worry. Let Sister Cooper get all the paperwork out of the way and I’ll come and have a long chat and see if I can set your mind at rest, all right?’

He moved away, going into the side-ward where Judy Fulcher had spent a fairly uncomfortable night following her burst appendix.

After Helen had finished with Mr Church she followed Tom in there and found him just covering Judy up again.

That looks fine,’ he said with a quick lift of his lips, and Judy gave him a wan smile in return.

‘I feel awful,’ she said.

‘I’m sure. You’ve been brewing this for some time, though, so you’re bound to feel rough for a few days until the antibiotics can get to grips with things. Still, you should be over the worst by now. We’ll get you up later today and get you moving, and that should help to get you on the mend more quickly.’

She groaned with the thought, and Tom patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll take it very slowly. Just a few minutes in a chair at first, and then later perhaps a walk round the bed.’

They left the room, and he flashed a smile at Helen. ‘Mr Church ready for me?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, he is. He’s very scared, Tom.’

‘I’m sure. I would be, but then I know more than he does. I need to discuss him with you as well—perhaps we can do that first?’

She took him into the office and Tom explained that they were going to start by building him up a little. He would need blood transfusions to overcome the anaemia caused by prolonged blood loss from his ulcerated bowel before he would be fit enough for surgery. In the meantime he would be starved and his bowel emptied as far as possible to create as clean a field as they could for the operation.

Initially they would open him up to see if they could establish the extent of the tumour. Then they would remove as much as was necessary, depending on the progress of the growth. If it was too far advanced to hope for a cure, they would perform a palliative operation designed to minimise pain and distress in his remaining months. If they felt there was any hope of saving him, they would perform probably much more radical surgery including the removal of all of the descending colon, the rectum and anus and any affected lymph glands, in the hope that this more drastic approach would remove all the malignant cells.

Tom, however, was not optimistic.

‘It looked too far gone, Helen. We’ll do what we can, but —’ He shook his head. ‘Still, we can only try. Right, I’ll go and have a chat to him.’

Tom’s pessimism was well founded. When they finally opened Mr Church up on Thursday, they found the cancer had spread too far to hope for a cure, with metastases in the lymph nodes and invasion of surrounding organs, including his liver.

Ross felt that any surgical intervention should be aimed at causing as little distress as possible, and so they removed part of the descending colon and rectum and rejoined the ends, thus removing any immediate danger of obstruction and leaving the man his dignity for the short time he had left.

Tom found Helen after he came out of Theatre, and filled her in.

‘What a damn shame,’ she said sadly. ‘He’s such a nice man.’

‘A least his wife will know what to expect,’ he said enigmatically, and left her, puzzled, while he went to snatch some lunch before his clinic in the afternoon.

Ross came up during the afternoon and spoke to Mrs Church, and then Helen had the unenviable task of dealing with the shattered woman.