Sold to the Surgeon (9 page)

The music stopped, and Greg escorted Penelope back to the group. “May I have your permission to have the next dance with your fiancée?” he asked Rupert.

“Oh, I don't feel like dancing,” said Abigail hastily, taking a sip of champagne to dispel the dry nervous lump that had quite suddenly appeared, threatening to suffocate her.

“Go on,” laughed Rupert, “you can't refuse Greg. He's a friend and colleague.”

“No, you can't refuse me,” Greg echoed.

Unwillingly Abigail glided on to the dance floor with Greg's arm pressed firmly around her waist. To her surprise, they moved together well, in perfect unison. Abigail almost pinched herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming, dancing with Greg had a trancelike quality, she felt that only the two of them existed. The tangy smell of his skin so close to her face reminded her of the night he had kissed her when his shirt had been wet from the rain.

“The last time I held you in my arms we were quite alone,” he said, reading her thoughts with an uncanny accuracy.

“We're not alone now,” she reminded him, taking care to keep her voice noncommittal, and at the same time draw herself away from the subtle pressure of his arms. “Apart from a hundred or so other people, I'm here with my fiancé.” She put a slight pressure on his shoulder with her hand, trying to put a little distance between them.

He would have none of it. His hand, stronger than hers, pressed determinedly into the small of her back, so that he was holding her even closer. At the same time, he steered a course firmly into the middle of the now crowded dance floor, so that they were out of view of the others.

“I do believe if I kissed you right now, you'd respond in exactly the same way you did the other night,” he said, half teasing, half serious. “I don't believe you really love Rupert Blair, I think you're marrying him for security.”

Abigail raised her head, her luminous grey eyes flashing dangerously. “How dare you say that!” she whispered. “That's a despicable thing to say.”

“Tell me I'm wrong, then,” he growled, “but I don't think I'll believe you.”

She stared at him, anger beginning to rise, making her want to hit his smiling face, to hurt him physically, but fighting for control, she kept her voice coldly even as she replied. “I don't care whether you believe me or not, Mr. Lincoln. Your opinion doesn't interest me in the slightest. Please take me back to the others, I want to stop dancing
now
!”

His answer was to hold her even tighter, until she felt she was suffocating. But although she was hating him for his cruel remarks about her forthcoming marriage, she couldn't deny that the very same thoughts had lain dormant at the back of her own mind. Wretched man! she thought furiously, trying to wrench her hand from his. He had the perfect knack of going to the very heart of the matter, and it hurt.

“Let me go,” she whispered between clenched teeth, but his answer was a brief but shattering kiss, right there in the middle of the dance floor. His impudence knew no bounds!

“Take that as my congratulation on your forthcoming marriage,” he said quickly. Abigail glanced worriedly over her shoulder, and he noticed. With a short laugh, he added curtly, “don't worry about your precious fiancé seeing that little kiss, he's much too busy discussing business with Sir Jason.”

Abigail glared at him, her grey eyes reflecting a mixture of apprehension and anger. “I shall take the kiss for the congratulation you said it was,” she said quietly, “and as far as wondering about my marriage, I can tell you right now it will be successful.” Her voice sounded more confident than she felt, as with a quick twist she manoeuvred herself out of his arms. “As I've told you before, I'm old-fashioned, and I happen to believe that marriages should last. I intend to see that mine does.”

“Huh!” Greg snorted.

But Abigail didn't give him the chance to reply, as she swiftly made her way from the crowded dance floor and joined the rest of the group. Although inwardly seething with a confusing mixture of emotions, somehow she managed to present a cool, calm appearance. But when Greg passed her another glass of champagne, with a wickedly questioning flicker in his dark eyes, she would have dearly liked to have thrown it straight at him! Instead, she had to content herself with taking it, acknowledging the glass with a gracious nod of the head.

The rest of the evening was spent with Rupert and the Orchards, Abigail all the while studiously avoiding catching Greg's eyes, although without looking in his direction, she knew he was watching her and Rupert together; his remarks echoed repeatedly, and very uncomfortably, through her head.

Rupert, of course, noticed nothing, and anyway he was very much engrossed with Sir Jason, until in the end Abigail began to wonder impatiently when they would stop talking. When he eventually did announce that he and Abigail must leave, she tried not to look too enthusiastic, although inwardly she greeted his words with a feeling of immense relief.

When at last they left, Rupert drove her straight back to the cottage. “You weren't annoyed,” he asked, “because I was talking business so much? But Greg seemed to do a good job of looking after you,” he added as an afterthought.

Abigail laughed, it was meant to be lighthearted, but somehow it came out strained and brittle. “I didn't need Greg to look after me,” she said, anxiously wondering whether perhaps Rupert had seen the kiss after all, “and of course I didn't mind—business is business. Was it something exciting?”

“It might be,” replied Rupert mysteriously. “There might be a trip abroad in it; for both of us. How would you like that?”

“I'd love it,” said Abigail truthfully. “Am I allowed to ask where?”

“Italy,” said Rupert, bending to kiss her a brief goodnight, “but don't mention it to anyone yet.”

She touched him tenderly on the cheek as he left her. Dear Rupert, she loved him so, but why, oh, why didn't he set her on fire?”

Sleep eluded her that night. Greg's dark, handsome face with the quizzical smile hovered maddeningly in front of her every time she closed her eyelids. Eventually she drifted off into an uneasy sleep, but even then, that dark brooding face crept into her dreams, and she awoke in the morning still remembering the touch of his lips on hers.

To say that she felt like death warmed up the following morning was an understatement! The result of a late night, too much champagne and fitful sleep left her hollow-eyed and pale. For a moment she was almost tempted not to go in, but then forced herself to get up and go into work.

It was Sue Parkins' study day, which meant they would be one short on the ward, and she knew there were several patients due for discharge, and new ones to be admitted for operations the next day, so it would be busy. Her conscience would prick her too much if she stayed away, and as she reminded herself, it was her own stupid fault she felt so rotten; one glass of champagne too many!

As she walked on to the ward from the changing room, she firmly pushed her hair back beneath her cap, telling herself her headache was all in her imagination, there was nothing wrong with her.

Her determined effort at feeling well evidently wasn't good enough, though. Joan's first remark as Abigail approached the desk was to say, “Goodness, Abigail, you look simply
awful
.”

“Thanks, that's all I need,” said Abigail, leaning on the desk with an air of resignation, “and here I was trying to convince myself I felt OK!”

“Problems?” asked Joan curiously.

Abigail pulled a rueful face. “Nothing much, just a surfeit of champagne.”

Joan laughed unsympathetically. “Lucky thing! I've never even had the opportunity! Anyway, I thought champagne wasn't supposed to give you a headache?”

“I can tell you with absolute certainty, that story is a myth. Champagne can and does most definitely give you a splitting headache. And I'm speaking from experience!”

Joan laughed again. “Well, you'll get no sympathy from me,” she said, collecting up her things and starting to leave. Then she paused a moment, looking at Abigail's pale face speculatively. “My advice to you is to snatch a quick cup of coffee. There's still some left on the patients' trolley.”

Abigail took her advice, and was sitting at the nursing station sipping the coffee when Greg Lincoln came along.

“Headache?” he asked.

She could see the glint of amusement in his eyes. “Yes,” she answered briefly.

Picking up the now empty coffee cup, she left the desk, and hurried down the corridor, catching the kitchen maids just as they were wheeling the trolley through the fire doors. She felt Greg's eyes almost literally boring holes in her back, but instead of returning to the nursing station, as she had originally intended, she made a pretext of needing to go into the utility room, waiting there until he had left the ward and gone down to his outpatient clinic. That way, she managed to avoid him for the whole of the morning. As there was an extra large outpatient clinic Greg had cancelled that morning's ward round, just leaving Dr Singh with a list of tasks to perform.

Mrs. Jewell was discharged, and went off happily to go back home, with strict instructions to be more careful next time she was eating meat containing small bones.

“Don't worry, dear, I will,” she said to Abigail. “I don't want to end up in hospital again.” She patted Abigail's hand. “Everyone has been very nice to me, dear, but there's no place like home.”

As the morning wore on, so Abigail's headache gradually lessened, but she was still left feeling lacklustre and tired. Not enough sleep, I suppose, she thought wearily, wishing lunchtime would come so that she could sit down. But she was on late lunch that day, so there was nothing for it but to keep on working, and by the time she did eventually make her way downstairs to the canteen, she felt like dropping in her tracks.

Most of the food had been crossed off the menu board, only pie and chips or salad was left. Abigail carried her tray, containing a plate of limp-looking salad, over to a table by the window. It looks about as crisp as I feel, she thought dejectedly, looking down at the unappetising mound of food on her plate. But her morose thoughts were interrupted by Lynne, who came hurrying over.

She perched on the edge of the table. “Can't stop, because I'm due back,” she said in her usual rush, glancing hastily at her watch, “but I've come over to see it.”

“See what?” asked Abigail, through a mouthful of lettuce.

“The ring, silly,” Lynne exclaimed impatiently. “You are a dark horse, you didn't tell me you were getting married in September. And
everyone
is talking about the enormous diamonds you're wearing.”

Reluctantly Abigail put her hand on the table top, so that Lynne could inspect the ring. “I think everyone is exaggerating,” she said, “about the size, I mean. It's not that big.”

Lynne whistled appreciatively. “It's a lot bigger than most girls are ever likely to get,” she said. “It's lovely, Abigail.” Then she glanced curiously at her friend's serious expression. “You
are
happy, aren't you?”

“Of course,” said Abigail quickly. “I'm not feeling a hundred per cent today, that's all.” Then she changed the subject rapidly. “How did you get on with your date with Derek Thompson?”

“Oh,” Lynne rolled her eyes heavenwards, an expression of ecstasy spread across her face, “absolutely divine! He's a perfect honey. We're both off duty this weekend, and he's asked me down to Torquay for the whole weekend.”

Abigail raised her eyebrows. “I always thought it was Brighton or Bournemouth that couples went for illicit weekends,” she teased.

Lynne blushed furiously. “It's nothing like that,” she said quickly. “We're staying with his brother, he's a consultant pathologist down there, married with two children.” She leaned across the table towards Abigail confidentially. “That's a good sign, don't you think? Introducing me to some of his family.”

Abigail smiled at her excitement. “I think it's a very good sign. Who knows, perhaps you'll be getting married too in the near future!”

Lynne gave an embarrassed giggle, “I should be so lucky!” Then glancing at her watch again, she jumped down from the table. “Must dash,” she said hastily, “but it doesn't look as if you're going to be alone for long.”

Abigail turned her head in the direction of Lynne's gaze. Greg Lincoln was striding through the canteen, tray in hand, obviously making for her table.

Short of picking up her tray and fleeing down the length of the canteen, there was nothing she could do but sit and wait for him to join her. However, she couldn't resist saying sarcastically. “Do please join me,” as he sat down without asking.

“I wasn't aware that you had the monopoly of the table,” he replied, equally sarcastically.

Touché
, thought Abigail—I deserved that! However, his next words came as a surprise.

“I didn't come over to quarrel,” he said coolly, “I came to apologise.”

“Apologise?” Startled, Abigail raised her head, grey eyes surveying this new penitent Greg rather warily.

“Yes, for provoking you last night. I shouldn't have made that jibe about your marriage.” He looked across the table, his eyes searching hers. “Will you forgive me?”

Abigail looked down at the table top, suddenly afraid that his dark, searching gaze might see her own doubts lurking continuously at the back of her mind. “Yes,” she muttered hesitantly, “I suppose so.” Then she added almost inaudibly. “I'm sorry too, for snapping back.”

“Oh, that,” he laughed. “I deserved it.” Suddenly he reached across the table and grasped her hand. “I don't want us to be bad friends—promise me you won't bear a grudge?”

A strange feeling of alarm made it impossible for her to look at him. The touch of his hand on hers was sending a warm glow racing through her veins, and her heart was beating ridiculously loudly against her rib cage. So loudly, it seemed to her that everyone in the canteen must surely hear it.