Sold to the Surgeon (18 page)

Pushing herself away from him, Abigail glared at him from arm's length. “You!” her voice was accusing, “you've bought it? How did you know it was for sale?” She began to feel angry, betrayed.

“Sister Collins told me you'd put in on the market, I found out which Estate Agents, and went there today in the theatre lunch break.” He fished some documents out of his pocket and waved them under her nose. “I've got all the necessary pieces of paper. Of course,” he added, “I am making one stipulation.”

“Oh, and what's that?” asked Abigail, feeling her anger begin to come to the boil.

“That the cottage is handed over to me complete. Lock, stock and barrel, all the furniture, plus a warm, loving wife.”

“A wife?” echoed Abigail weakly, wondering if her hearing was failing her.

“Yes, a wife,” answered Greg firmly, leaning forward and moving his lips slowly across her cheekbone. “An impetuous, hot-headed, stubborn, sometimes bad-tempered, often infuriating English girl. Someone with whom life could never be dull.” He moved closer, pulling her towards him, pinning her arms to her side, as his lips sought the fluttering hollow in her throat.

Abigail felt as if her bones were melting. She had to know the name of the girl he had in mind. “Her name?” she whispered, trying to keep a clear head, without success.

“Abigail,” he murmured, his mouth moving slowly, inexorably, towards her mouth, “Abigail Pointer. I thought you would have guessed by now! Is there anything else you want to know?”

“Yes,” said Abigail, still struggling vainly to retain mastery of her senses. “Why have you bought the cottage when you'll be returning to the States next year?”

“We shall be staying in England, darling, why else do you think I bought it? I've been offered a permanent post at the County General, and I've accepted. Any objections?”

“Yes, but…” Abigail began.

“Later,” said Greg firmly, lifting her up into his arms and carrying her into the lounge and plonking her on the settee. “Now let me show you how much I love you.”

“Love? But I never thought…”

“Yes, love, love, love,” he said, kissing her between each word. “You've driven me mad ever since we landed in a heap together in that milk, remember?”

“As if I could ever forget! But…” Abigail began to kiss him back, with an enthusiasm matching his own, “You never said anything about love, never gave me a clue. Are you sure you're not muddling it up with physical attraction?”

“At first, yes,” admitted Greg, cupping her face in his hands, “but as time went on I began to realise that you'd got under my skin in a way no other woman ever has. There was only one problem, you were in love with Rupert, and engaged to marry him.”

“I thought I was in love,” corrected Abigail. “I know now I was wrong.”

“Do you think you could love me?” asked Greg seriously his voice very soft. He hesitated, something unusual for him. “Perhaps I've rushed you, perhaps…”

“Perhaps I already love you,” said Abigail, “perhaps I've been too stubborn even to admit it to myself, but…” tenderly she traced the outline of his mouth.

“Only perhaps?”

“Well, I don't think I should succumb too easily!”

That was her last coherent thought, until much, much later.

About the Author

Ann Jennings was born and still lives in Hampshire, and has been a published romance author since 1984. She's had a varied career, a verbatim shorthand writer, a cabaret singer, a teacher, a hospital administrator and finally a full-time writer.

She has also written for and directed musicals and plays for the local theatre. She has always enjoyed travelling, and loved visiting New England, USA but now mostly travels to the family house in southern Tuscany in Italy, a country dear to her heart.

Look for these titles by Ann Jennings

Now Available:

Headlong Into Love

Intensive Affair

Nurse on Neuro

Doctor Knows Best

Runaway Sister

Doctor's Orders

Writing as Angela Arney

Cast the First Stone

Coming Soon:

Nurse on Loan

Surgeon Ashore

New Beginnings

Really, Doctor!

Santa Lucia

Out of the frying pain, into the fire of desire…

Doctor's Orders

© 2015 Ann Jennings

Isabel McKenna couldn't imagine anything worse than the misery that chased her away from Edinburgh. Now she wishes she hadn't allowed a broken heart to make her impulsively take the first job that presented itself.

Pediatrics was easy compared to dealing with the prima-donna attitudes of the doctors in County General's operating theatre. The cold gray eyes of anesthetist Dr. Michael Blakeney make her blush hotly—and nervous a single mistake will bring him down on her like a ton of bricks.

Digging deep into her personal well of Scottish grit, Isabel is determined no man—especially no arrogant doctor—will ever again shake her composure. But when she glimpses a hint of lonely vulnerability beneath his steely eyed exterior, she finds herself all too ready to respond as a friend…and a woman.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Doctor's Orders:

It was a simple meal, but beautifully prepared. Consommé with croutons to begin with, followed by steaks and salad, cheese and biscuits, washed down with a good, full-bodied claret. Isabel found she was much hungrier than she had expected, and did full justice to the meal.

His stern face seemed softened by the flickering candle light as he smiled at her across the table. “For a very slim girl, you certainly eat well,” he said. “I like that. There is nothing that infuriates me more than someone who picks at their food.”

Isabel raised her eyebrows. “I
have
been on my feet all day,” she reminded him, “apart from the short time I feel asleep on your settee. Although,” she added, “I don't eat like this all the time. If I'd been alone, I would probably only have had a small salad.”

“Just as well you are not alone then,” he said, raising his glass to her. “Otherwise you might have faded away altogether.” He sipped the dark red wine, and studied her intently. “In that blue dress you looked so frail and tired when I met you in the corridor, I was afraid a puff of wind might blow you away!”

Isabel laughed at such a ridiculous notion. “It would take more than a puff of wind to blow me away,” she said categorically, “and more than a difficult day's operating to beat me.” She added the last words defiantly, knowing that
he
knew very well what she meant.

“I suppose I was a bit difficult,” he admitted, “but I was feeling in a particularly bad mood.”

“That's no excuse for taking it out on everyone else,” retorted Isabel severely. “Just because
you
have problems, doesn't mean to say we all have to share them.” She stopped suddenly, aware of a dangerous dark flash in his grey eyes. “I'm sorry, perhaps it
is
a little rude to speak to you like this,” she said quickly before she lost the courage, “especially as you are providing me with sustenance, but I'm afraid that's the way I feel!”

“Quite right too,” he said, his lean face breaking into an unexpectedly devastating smile. “I think I need someone to reprimand me occasionally, someone to help keep my bad temper in check!”

Isabel smiled back at him, her heart momentarily captured by the smiling curve of his usually stern mouth. A smile that enhanced his rugged, lean good looks, and chased the dark shadows from his face. Involuntarily she raised her hand to the hollow of her throat, where the pulse was drumming out a wild, unfamiliar beat. She could hear her own heart hammering loudly in her ears. What was it about this man, that he had the power at one moment to infuriate her and at the next to make her heart turn turtle? It was something she had never experienced before, it was exhilarating and yet frightening at the same time. She had thought she had loved Hugh Sinclair wildly, and she had. She
knew
she had, but he had never had that sort of effect on her!

“You must get yourself a girlfriend,” she answered lightly, hoping her voice didn't betray her turbulent feelings. “Someone who
will
reprimand you occasionally.”

“What makes you think I haven't got one?” he asked.

Isabel blushed at his sudden challenge, flustered. “I…er, I didn't think. I just assumed,” she faltered.

“My advice to you is never assume anything,” he said drily, reaching across the table for her glass. “Shall I pour you some more wine?”

Isabel's hand, that reached out to take the glass from him, was not quite steady. It had happened again, one moment he was friendly, and then suddenly he closed up like a clam. She was sitting opposite a total stranger again, but still a stranger with a strong latent sex appeal to which she felt herself responding.

He made a deliberate slow study of her face, his gaze locking on to hers, compelling her to look back at him. Then slowly, almost casually, he let his gaze wander idly down her body, lingering for just a split second on the swell of her breasts outlined by the thin blue cotton of her dress. His glance was almost like a physical caress, and against her will she felt rebellious fires kindling within her, and she was uncomfortably aware that he knew very well what she was feeling.

Swallowing nervously, she tore her gaze from his and took a sip of her wine. Trying to appear cool and calm, endeavouring to keep her agitation under control, she said, “I think I ought to go soon,” forcing the words out casually. “I could do with an early night tonight.”

“Ah, yes of course,” he said silkily, “you were out on the tiles last night, weren't you!” His voice had a barely veiled mocking note to it.

“I went out with Cliff Peterson and some friends, if that is what you mean,” retorted Isabel, suddenly remembering his figure standing in the hospital entrance watching Cliff kiss her.

“You and Cliff Peterson seem to have got
very
friendly, very quickly,” he observed.

“Just because you saw him give me a good night peck, which doesn't mean a thing,” said Isabel, “and anyway it's none of your business,” she added defiantly.

“It looked a damned sight more than a good night peck to me,” he answered disdainfully.

Isabel stood up angrily; what right had he to say such things? “I don't care
what
it looked like to you,” she snapped, piling up the plates. “I'm taking these through to the kitchen and then I'd be glad if you would take me back to the hospital.”

“You can't dictate to me when I should take you back,” he replied dourly, leaning back in his chair, one elbow on the table. From his stance he looked as if he intended to stay that way for the night!

“Oh
really,”
exploded Isabel crossly, “if you are going to be so difficult, I shall walk!” With that, she picked up the plates and marched smartly into the kitchen. She was fully aware that he had followed her, but ignored that fact and dumped the plates into the sink. “I shall do the washing up, and then I shall go,” she announced staring straight ahead, out of the window, trying to ignore his disturbing closeness.

“There's no need,” he replied sounding amused, “there's a dishwasher.” He indicated the machine standing in the corner of the room.

“Then I'll load everything into that,” said Isabel crossing to the dishwasher and proceeding to stack the dishes inside. Her task finished, she straightened up, only to find herself about an inch away from him, her eyes level with the knot in his tie.

“Look at me,” he commanded curtly.

Against her will Isabel reluctantly looked up, her annoyed gaze disintegrating before the disconcerting lights in his dark eyes. She tried, but couldn't stop her mouth trembling slightly, as with a quiver she attempted to say lightly, “Well?”

“Well,” he echoed slowly, “don't I deserve a kiss for preparing and giving you dinner?” he asked.

“I wasn't aware that we had entered into any such agreement,” said Isabel. Her voice faltered and she quickly turned her head away, trying to avoid the mocking gleam in his eyes. “I reserve my kisses for people I like,” she said stiffly.

“I see, you like Cliff Peterson,” he asked quickly, his voice stinging, “but not me?”

“I didn't say that,” replied Isabel, trying to keep her voice steady, wondering at the same time how it was that she had suddenly got herself into deep water! She shivered, chill fingers feathering along the length of her spine. “I like you both, but…”

“Then why kiss him and not me?” he demanded, and putting his hand firmly beneath her chin he tilted her face to his. “I've tried to say sorry for today,” he said, “can't you be nice to me?” He didn't wait for an answer. His mouth came down on hers with a sort of hunger that shook her to the core of her being. She had been kissed before, but never before had any man's kiss awakened such a tumultuous eruption of raw, untamed passion in her.

Before she was aware of what was happening, she found she was kissing him back with a hunger that matched his, her slender arms sliding up around his neck, pulling his head closer to hers, her body yielding and pliant in his strong, sensuous hands. He wasn't holding her tightly, against her will. She could have drawn away at any time, but she didn't. She didn't want to. His mouth, moving with a soft gentle sensuality over her own, was sending delicious tremors quivering throughout her being, alerting her capricious nerves to a height of awareness she never dreamt she even possessed. The kiss went on and on until she felt that she was melting and being fused into one with him.

It was Mike Blakeney who drew away at last, his dark grey eyes looking down at her with something like mocking amusement gleaming in them as he said, “Don't tell me you would have wanted to miss that?”

Isabel felt herself blushing, flustered and shy beneath his derisory, but still sensual, gaze. “It was just a little kiss,” she muttered, trying to back away.

But he would have none of it. This time he
did
hold her tightly, his arms closing around her and drawing her towards him in an iron grip. “Just a
little
kiss!” he echoed sarcastically. “Well, well, well! In that case, perhaps I'd better do something to make it more memorable.”