Sold to the Surgeon (14 page)

“Sit down and eat some breakfast first,” he growled, grasping her wrist and dragging her down beside him. Then he grinned wickedly, “Now you know why your darling fiancé and Penelope have gone sailing for the day, because you'll be otherwise occupied.”

“You told Rupert?”

“Of course. I couldn't very well steal his fiancée for the day without mentioning it, could I?” The remark was innocent enough, but there was a note of hidden laughter in his voice.

Abigail flushed; he was mocking her, laughing at her for removing her engagement ring so impulsively. It seemed a stupid thing to do now that it all made sense. What a jealous, silly woman she had become—she almost laughed out loud at her own neuroses. Of course Rupert and Penelope would do something else, if she and Greg were going to be away all day in Siena.

She took the bread roll he proffered and remained silent during their breakfast, her mind busily revising the theatre techniques she had looked up some time before. Gulping down her coffee, she made her excuses to go and get changed, even though Greg said there was no hurry. She wanted to look through the books just once more.

“There won't be too much for you to do,” said Greg, accurately reading her mind.

“Maybe not,” retorted Abigail, “but I want to make sure that what I do is absolutely correct.”

“You worry too much,” laughed Greg, lazily pouring himself another coffee, “I've told you so before.”

Abigail didn't answer, just made good her escape to her room, hastily fishing out the books, and feverishly flicking through the pages, familiarising herself with the theatre techniques, although she already knew them backwards. At the same time, she cursed Greg for not reminding her before the actual day had arrived!

Changing into the most businesslike outfit she had brought with her, a blue and white tailored dress, she carefully pinned her blond hair into a neat chignon, then hurried down to join Greg in the courtyard. The journey to Siena took about an hour, and in spite of feeling apprehensive about the theatre work ahead of her, Abigail was entranced as usual by the scenery. Monasteries, hilltop towns perched on rocky crags, all combined with a kaleidoscope of ever-changing greens and golds into a timeless landscape.

Greg looked down at her rapt face. “You looked bewitched,” he teased.

Abigail smiled. “Perhaps I am.”

“I'd like to think it was my enthralling company,” he said with a wry smile, “but I'm inclined to think that it's Italy you're in love with!”

There was no time to continue the conversation, as they had arrived on the outskirts of Siena. The hospital where Greg was to operate was situated in a square just off the Piazza del Campo. Greg had been there before, and negotiated the narrow streets with an expertise born of practice, swinging the car into the hospital's overcrowded parking area without a problem.

As soon as they stepped into the interior of the hospital Greg was greeted with enthusiasm, and Abigail felt at home too; the familiar antiseptic smell, the long shining corridors, the atmosphere of calm ordered efficiency soothed her nerves. She suddenly felt more confident. She would be able to discharge her duties, and do it well; she would be a credit to herself and to Greg.

The two hours' work went well, and Abigail forgot everything else, as Greg snapped orders at her, and she carried out his commands without a moment's hesitation. She also found watching the bloodless laser surgery completely absorbing—the invisible beam of light excising the skin and sealing the blood vessels in one split second. As Greg explained later to his attentive audience, this provided minimum discomfort to the patient during the post-operative period, as the usual oedema associated with major surgery was absent; the laser beam causing little trauma to the surrounding tissues.

After the operating session, they were taken to lunch, where Greg was continually bombarded with questions. Abigail sat quietly eating her lunch, marvelling at Greg's patience. She knew by now he must be feeling tired—two hours of difficult surgery, followed by another two hours of non-stop questioning. At last they made their escape, after many handshakes all round, Abigail only nodding her head and smiling, wishing she could understand the babble of excited conversation.

They had started walking back towards the parked car when Greg paused and looked at his watch. “We still have time to fit in a little sightseeing,” he said. “Shall we climb the bell tower in the Piazza del Campo and take in an aerial view of Siena? That is, of course, if you can make it after that lunch!”

“Of course I can make it,” retorted Abigail indignantly, “I'm very fit.”

“Wait until we come down and then tell me whether or not you're fit,” was the skeptical reply.

Climbing up inside the spiral staircase of the bell tower was more difficult than Abigail had imagined, and she gratefully accepted the offer of Greg's hand to help her up. Once at the top, however, the view of the surrounding Tuscan countryside, and the spectacle of Siena's streets spread out like the spokes of a wheel, made it all worth while.

A group of German tourists, puffing and panting, came squeezing past them to look from the other side of the tower, and Greg drew Abigail in close to make room for them. She was suddenly aware of the uneven hammering of her heartbeat reverberating in her ears, and at the same time she realised that she had not thought of Rupert for a single moment, not since the morning when she'd started out for Siena with Greg. Irritably she turned her head, trying to escape the shadowy image of Rupert, only to find herself looking into the depths of Greg's coal-black eyes. For a fleeting moment, she thought she glimpsed a deep tenderness, but then it was gone, replaced with his usual enigmatic expression.

His head with its mass of dark hair, bent fractionally towards her, and Abigail knew she was almost willing him to kiss her. His face was so close, and yet at the same time a million miles away. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheeks, and his lips came closer; then the German tourists came back, noisy and effervescent, bumbling past them, shattering the fragile moment into a thousand pieces.

“We'd better start back down,” “said Abigail, watching the retreating back of the noisy crowd, “it seems to be getting dark already.”

Greg looked at his watch. “Yes,” he agreed, “we don't want to miss dinner. I hardly ate any lunch, it was difficult eating pasta
and
fending questions.”

His tone was matter-of-fact and coolly friendly, giving her the uncanny feeling that the moment before the arrival of the Germans had been a figment of her imagination.

During the drive back to the villa, Greg talked casually about the morning's work, and answered some of her questions. She suggested that he should invite Sister Collins into theatre when he returned, to see the “newfangled method” as she would still insist on calling it.

“Perhaps I will,” he said, “although I must confess Sister Collins and the County General seem very far away at the moment.”

“Not so far,” said Abigail pensively. “We shall be back there next week, and then all this will seem far away.”

“Will you be sorry to leave?” he asked suddenly.

“I've enjoyed my holiday,” she replied warily, choosing her words with care. She didn't want Greg to know that she had been assailed with doubts about Rupert and Penelope ever since she had arrived in Italy.

But almost as if he could read her innermost thoughts, Greg suddenly said, “I wonder if Rupert and Penelope had a good sail?”

“I wonder,” replied Abigail.

Then the surprising thought struck her; she wasn't as anxious about Rupert spending his day with Penelope as she should have been. Could it be because she had enjoyed her day with Greg so much? It was a question she couldn't answer, but somehow it didn't seem to matter that much.

Dinner that night was the usual prolonged affair, but Abigail thought Rupert seemed strangely edgy, although no one else appeared to notice, least of all Penelope. She, on the contrary, was in an extra vivacious mood, and regaled everyone with Rupert's prowess at sailing.

“He's such fun to be with,” she said to Abigail. “He had me in absolute stitches all day.”

Must have worn him out in the process, thought Abigail, glancing at Rupert's tight face, but she didn't allow a flicker of animosity to reach her face, merely saying, “I'm so glad you had a good day.”

“Did you enjoy yourselves?” Penelope asked without interest, adding, “personally I can't think of anything more boring than to work when on holiday. Talk about a busman's holiday!”

“It was fascinating,” said Abigail briefly.

Penelope's tinkly little laugh ricocheted around the patio. “I always knew you were a workaholic,” she said. Then she leaned over to Rupert and took his arm, whispering confidentially, “You'll have to work on Abigail. You know what they say, all work and no play!”

“I hardly think that applies to Abigail,” muttered Rupert, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“I don't think Abigail is dull,” said Greg's mother, who had the same disconcerting habit as her son of coming straight to the point.

“Oh, I didn't mean
you
were dull, Abigail,” said Penelope, positively dripping with insincerity, “I meant that you work much too hard.”

Greg had said nothing at all during this exchange of conversation, just leaned back in his chair, his face in the shadow. Abigail was uneasily aware that he was watching, taking everything in, mulling over the verbal crossfire. She wondered what thoughts were passing through his head; his expression, as usual, gave nothing away.

But as for Rupert, it was quite obvious what was going through
his
head. He was distinctly embarrassed, and Abigail couldn't help mentally smiling. Poor Rupert, Penelope had put him on the spot and he didn't know which way to turn. But one thing she knew, and that was they had to talk, and talk alone. The situation was getting out of hand, Penelope was assuming a proprietorial air over Rupert, and she, Abigail, would have to do something about it.

When the meal had finished, Abigail hung back on the patio, hoping that Rupert would take the hint and stay behind too, but Mrs. Lincoln suddenly asked him to take something into the villa, and he quickly agreed. The alacrity with which he acceded to Mrs. Lincoln's request made Abigail certain that he had done so in order to avoid being left alone with her. Instead, she found herself alone on the patio with Greg, not the way she had planned it at all.

Inwardly Abigail fumed angrily. Damn! Would she never have the chance to speak to Rupert alone, was she destined to wait until they returned to England before she could speak privately to her own fiancé?

There was nothing to do but wander slowly across the patio and gaze at the view. Leaning on the balustrade, she watched pinpoints of lights out on the lake, small boats fishing. It was late now, even the noisy cicadas were quiet, a soft breeze wafted on the warm night air, lifting the delicate tendrils of hair about her face. Through the purple haze of night, a sparkling galaxy of lights shimmered from the opposite shore of the lake.

“Penny for them?” came Greg's voice at her side.

“I was thinking how lovely the view is,” said Abigail, unable to think of anything better to say.

“My sentiments exactly,” agreed Greg, but looking at her, not the lake, “although I wasn't thinking of the scenery.”

Almost instinctively she turned towards him. The darkness enveloped them like a warm mantle, as Greg slowly drew her closer. In the intimacy of the night, Abigail raised her face to his, her pulses fluttering wildly to an unfamiliar rhythm. Slowly he bent his head to hers, the heady smell of his skin wafted across her pulsating senses, then his warm lips touched hers briefly.

He drew back. “Your fiancé is a fool,” he whispered softly. “He should pay more attention to you, then you wouldn't stray into other men's arms.”

At his words Abigail stiffened. “I am not straying…” she started to say.

“What exactly would you call it, then?”

“I…er…oh damn you!” Quickly she twisted herself out of his arms, and stood clutching the stone balustrade for support. A girl's legs are only supposed to turn to jelly in books, she thought inconsequentially, not in real life! She glowered at Greg. How was it he made her feel guilty, like some Jezebel? As if she had tempted him, but it had been the other way around—or had it?

The moon sailed on its ribbon of light across the sky, and a shaft of moonlight sliding between the branches of the umbrella pine beside the patio splashed them both in a cold pool of light.

“If you want my opinion, I think Rupert has lost interest,” said Greg abruptly. “It seems to me he's much more interested in Sir Jason's daughter, and all the business contacts that go with it.”

“I don't want your opinion,” cried Abigail, hurt by his cruel words.

“Maybe not,” said Greg, “but it's about time you started facing up to the inevitable. If you really want to change things, you'll have to put up a fight.” With that, he abruptly turned on his heel and walked back to the villa.

Abigail stood staring after him, gripping the stonework of the balustrade until her knuckles gleamed white in the moonlight. Hot resentful tears welled up in her eyes. How dared he say cruel, untrue things like that! But a relentless nagging little voice at the back of her mind cried out, It's true, it's true, you know it's true. Rupert is more interested in Penelope than you.

“It is
not
true,” she whispered out loud.

Mentally, she tried to shake her jumbled thoughts into something resembling order; reminding herself that soon she would be back in England, and Rupert would be with her. At the end of September they were to be married, Rupert hadn't called it off, and this time next year Greg Lincoln would be back in America, Penelope would have forgotten Rupert, and all would be well.