Consultant Care

And not doing much . . . Correction: not doing anything to disguise thighs so strapping and so muscular and so. . . This man could be an Olympic sprinting champion, she decided, keen to see whether the top half of the mystery intruder would match the bottom half, when a cold, clear and crisply incisive voice cut into her thoughts like a tape-measure into the hips of an unnsuccessful dieter.

‘When you’ve quite finished,’ the voice said repressively.

Nicolette sat back on her heels and found herself looking into the most spectacular pair of eyes she had ever seen. She swallowed.

Beautiful brown eyes.

She swallowed again. Brown was far too ordinary a word to use in conjunction with eyes which reminded her of velvety chocolate, and of treacle . . . of all things dark and sweet and mysteriously delicious. And when she looked more closely they weren’t a uniform colour at all, because there were flecks of other colours hidden in their depths. An arresting green—as fresh and as verdant as a spring day—and gold, too, precious and gleaming and . . . and . . .

‘Er. . .hello,’ she managed.

His mouth, which also happened to be the embodiment of perfection, twisted into a grim, hard line as his eyes flicked disparagingly over her dripping hands. ‘Staff Nurse,’ he growled dangerously, ‘would you mind telling me what you think you’re doing?’

Nicolette should have interpreted the dangerous glint in those magnificent eyes, but she foolishly attempted to chivvy him out of a blatantly foul temper. ‘Well, I’m not writing out my tickets for the National Lottery, am I?’ she joked.

He didn’t move a muscle of his face in an answering smile. Instead he surveyed her with a cold, unblinking scrutiny as though she were something which had just been dragged in by the cat. ‘Are you or are you not supposed to be in charge of the ward?’ he demanded curtly.

The implication being, she supposed, that she’d left work on the ward undone, which she knew darned well she hadn’t! Nicolette’s soft features rearranged themselves into a mutinous expression. ‘I am!’ she fired back with equal curtness, her good humour evaporating completely. Just let him dare criticise her—just let him!

Not seeming at all perturbed by her expression, he proceeded to do just that. ‘And is this how it is deemed proper—’

Oh, what a pompous word!

‘—for a staff nurse to run the ward?’

‘What am I doing that’s so wrong—Doctor?’ enquired Nicolette sweetly. ‘At least, I’m assuming that you’re a doctor and not a pharmacist or a dietician or one of the many other members of the hospital staff who wear white coats. And the reason I don’t know your status is because you haven’t. . .’ she toyed with saying ‘haven’t had the courtesy’, but resisted the temptation ‘. . .haven’t introduced yourself,’ she finished primly.

The implied criticism went over him like water off a duck’s back. ‘Of course I’m a doctor,’ he snapped back. ‘Since when have you known pharmacists and dieticians to carry stethoscopes around in their pockets?’ His finger jabbed at the stethoscope which was dangling clearly from the pocket of his white coat. ‘And as to what you’re doing wrong—why, you’re cleaning the bath out, for heavens sake!’

‘Haven’t you ever heard of cross-infection?’ she retorted hotly, not flinching from the look of incredulity which had hardened the eyes she had once foolishly thought magnificent.

‘What?’ he demanded, as though she’d just started speaking to him in a foreign language.

‘Baths have to be cleaned every time they’re used,’ She shot back. ‘Or didn’t you know that?’

‘Of course I know that,’ he bit out impatiently. ‘But isn’t there a junior who could be doing it for you, while you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing, namely, looking after the ward?’

Nicolette had many theories of her own about how nursing could be improved, and the mystery doctor had inadvertently hit on one of her number-one bêtenoires. She took a deep breath as she forced herself to control her temper. Heavens, she couldn’t remember being so mad in years! ‘I do not ascribe to the theory,’ she began haughtily, ‘that the students should be lumbered with all the menial tasks around the ward. If we make them play skivvy the whole time then they aren’t exactly going to learn a whole lot, are they, Doctor?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Why bother asking me, Staff? You seem about to give me a little lecture. Pray continue.’

Patronising so-and-so! ‘With pleasure!’ she responded tartly. ‘Giving juniors nothing but menial chores plays havoc with their self-esteem.’

‘Self-esteem?’ he echoed incredulously, as though he hadn’t heard her correctly.

‘Yes, Doctor—self-esteem! Nurses need it too, you know. And constantly assigning them to clean baths and empty bedpans, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, isn’t going to make them feel like an indispensable member of the nursing team, is it?’ she finished, her defiant tone disguised by her need to draw in a deep breath. ‘Especially if they see the staff nurse swanning around the place like a queen bee, afraid to dirty her apron or have any kind of hands-on contact with the patients. Now that kind of attitude doesn’t earn the kind of respect I like to receive from my junior nurses!’

‘Whereas you think that scrubbing out the bath and singing loudly like a fishwife does, I suppose?’ he suggested sarcastically.

She gave him her most beatific smile. ‘Yes, Doctor,’ she replied sweetly. ‘I do.’

His eyes were thoughtful as he stared down at her from a very great, very disapproving height and it only then occurred to her that she had conducted the entire conversation with him whilst sitting on the floor, and that her long black-stockinged legs were all splayed out in the most inelegant position! She hastily clamped her knees together and his frown increased still further.

‘I am waiting to do a ward-round,’ he told her in a shiveringly soft voice. ‘So would you mind getting up?’

‘Not at all,’ Nicolette answered formally.

Two things happened simultaneously.

The first was that Nicolette automatically did as he asked, and rose awkwardly to her feet.

The second was that she was so overcome, whether by his presence or their heated little contretemps, that she failed to see the small puddle of water on the tiled floor, which she must have slopped there when she was cleaning the bath. And, given the two catalysts of a slippery surface and her own innate clumsiness, the inevitable happened.

Nicolette slipped, her legs and arms flying with all the lack of co-ordination of a newly born foal, and she would have fallen completely and hit her head on the side of the bath, to boot, had not the tall man beside her lunged out instinctively to save her.

Nicolette was a tall girl, and certainly not fat, but she was healthy and well covered, and her rescuer was obviously unprepared for the soft, warm weight that landed in his arms, because somehow she toppled him too, and the two of them slid in synchrony down the side of the bath, like two drunks at the end of a long party.

‘What the hell—?’ he snarled in angry disbelief.

Nicolette tried to brace herself, but it was difficult. Her nose was just inches away from his name-badge, which had been hidden by most of his lapel, and which proclaimed his name as Dr L Le Saux.

Of course.

Of course it was him! It would have to be, wouldn’t it? I mean, thought Nicolette with acid humour, if you were going to present yourself to the ward consultant, to a man who loved order, then how better to go about it than to rugby tackle him to the floor with all the grace of a dying duck?

But there was another reason, too, for her inability to catch her breath, or even to move, that was nothing to do with Nicolette’s embarrassment and everything to do with the man himself.

Because somehow, in the course of steadying her and saving her from possible concussion, he had firmly put one hand around her waist, and was still holding on to her, with all the assurance of a man who had had a lot of experience of holding on to women.

Although, she thought, looking at those craggy features, that didn’t surprise her one bit! And, close to, the eyes were even more devastating than she had originally thought.

‘Would you mind,’ he enunciated in the most tightly controlled voice she had ever heard, ‘getting your foot out of my trousers?’

Nicolette blinked and glanced down. Oh, heavens! She could see just what he meant: the elegant grey trousers had a turn-up, or a cuff, as some people called it. The top Italian designers that season had deemed such cuffs essential for every well-dressed man. Even she had read about that in the newspapers!

And her hefty black nurse’s shoe, with its extremely heavy-duty sole, had somehow lodged itself there, wedged inside it as securely as a sailor in a hammock.

With her customary enthusiasm Nicolette yanked her foot out, but the movement was accompanied by a distinct tearing sound and her eyes swivelled downwards in horror to discover that in the process of removing her foot she had ripped his gorgeous trousers!

‘Thank you,’ he said, in a chilly voice just dripping with sarcasm.

‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Nicolette as she scrambled to her feet and automatically held her hand out to help him up as she would to a patient.

He studiously ignored the outstretched hand, managing to lever his long-legged frame up from the bathroom floor until he was beside her once more and towering over her again. Only this time there wasn’t just that look of poorly concealed irritation on his face, there was downright anger there, too, but that didn’t deter Nicolette from trying to make amends.

‘Oh, your poor trousers!’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘You must let me offer to repair them.’

There was a long, tense silence while he studied her face disbelievingly, and then he said, ‘I doubt whether you could afford to.’