Unknown (2 page)

'Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?'

Frowning, Ginger glanced up to see a young man with shaggy, over-long blond hair smiling down at her. 'It doesn't appear so.' She remained cool, displeased at the interruption.

Sighing, she moved her papers to free up a portion of the table for her unwanted companion. From under her lashes, she saw the man with grey eyes spare the newcomer a glance and then turn back to his own work, frowning as he tapped something into his laptop. Oh, my, but the man was gorgeous! And she wished he would stop pouting like that, drawing attention to his wickedly sexy mouth. It was most distracting.

'It's hot, isn't it?'

'I beg your pardon?' Ginger responded reluctantly to the blond man's comment.

'The weather.' He smiled, looking as eager to please as a young puppy. 'It's hot.'

'Mmm.'

Keen to discourage further conversation, Ginger ignored him and returned her thoughts to her presentation. Or attempted to. The irritating passenger clearly had other ideas.

'Are you going all the way to London?'

'Why?'

'I just thought maybe you and I could...' His words trailed off under her withering stare.

Conscious that the man across the aisle had given up all pretence of work and was being entertained by her predicament, Ginger responded with uncharacteristic asperity. 'I don't mean to be rude, but I have a lot of work to do, and I am not remotely interested in a drink, a date or anything else. Will you, please, leave me alone?'

'Sorry.' The low mumble conveyed his chagrin. 'I won't bother you again.'

'Thank you.'

Unintentionally her gaze strayed across the aisle. Her audience raised an eyebrow, a slight smile hovering on that tempting mouth, an unexpected and far too beguiling dimple forming in one lean cheek. Ginger felt warmth wash her face and she dragged her gaze away, forcing herself to look at her notes, but scarcely seeing a word that was written there. She was relieved when the young man who had tried to chat her up collected his things and moved off down the train, presumably seeking an easier target. However, the unnerving presence of the man nearby remained, disturbing her, sidetracking her, despite her resolve to keep herself focused. She glanced at her watch. It would be another few hours before she arrived in London. It seemed a very long time until journey's end.

Dr Cameron Kincaid tried to concentrate on his work but the woman across the aisle was impinging on his consciousness to an alarming degree. He had noticed her as soon as he'd joined the train. It had been impossible not to. She had natural, sunshine-blonde hair, left loose and long, which she kept flicking back from a face that was arresting without being classically beautiful. Her skin was flawless, warm and peachy, and she wore no make-up save a light brash of gloss that enhanced sensual, dusky-pink lips. She had a neat nose, good cheekbones and shapely eyebrows, several tones darker than her hair, which arched over eyes of an extraordinary shade of turquoise blue, the like of which he had never seen before. They reminded him of the Himalayan poppies his Aunt Kaye had tended so lovingly in her sheltered cottage garden...the cottage he now owned. The inevitable sting of loss hit him for the woman who had played a major role in his life. Were those flowers still there? Despite the perfect weather, he'd made few forays into the garden in the couple of weeks he had been back in Strathlochan. And not only because of work. Even more than the cottage, the garden was full of Kaye.

Aware his mind was drifting into emotional territory, he continued his assessment of his fellow traveller. From what he could see, with her sitting behind the table, she was wearing a floaty skirt with a predominance of the colour lavender in it, and a cream short-sleeved top that, while not being obvious, failed to mask her delicious, womanly curves. She could be anywhere from twenty upwards, he thought, although she had the bearing and self-assurance of a woman nearer thirty.

Annoyed with himself, he snapped his laptop shut and took out the papers whose delayed arrival had made him late leaving home and had caused him to miss the earlier train he had been booked on. His friend, Iain Chamberlain, had seen his car in the drive, and had stopped at the cottage on his way down the lane as he'd headed back to his office after lunch...

'I thought you were going to London.'

Leaving Iain to close the front door and trail in his wake, Cameron had scowled with impatience, pacing back to his study. 'I was. I am. Some papers haven't arrived and I can't leave without them. I'm waiting for them to be faxed through now.'

'Bummer.' Amusement had laced his friend's voice.

An answering smile had pulled at Cameron's mouth. 'Exactly.'

'And here I was thinking your return to Strathlochan was meant to deliver you a less hassled lifestyle!'

'Yeah? Where did you get that crazy idea from?' Despite his edgy mood, Cameron had laughed. 'I've been working harder than ever, knocking things into shape. Everything depends on the outcome of tomorrow's meeting. If that comes off, things will be so hectic here I may have to go back to London for a rest!'

Iain's brown eyes had darkened with rueful amusement. 'Sure. Like you're not the most driven, work-obsessed guy I know! Fancy a lift to the station?'

'Are you sure? That would save time—if the papers ever come, that is. I thought it was too good to be true that everything fitted neatly together for a simple three-day trip.'

'When do you start your hospital work?'

His impatience growing, Cameron checked his watch again. 'First Monday of September. I'll be doing some part-time consultations until my own project gets going. Plus the private patients and self-help groups I already have up and running. I—' He broke off as the fax machine clattered to life. 'About bloody time.'

They probably broke the odd speed limit heading into Strathlochan so he could catch the next London-bound train, Cameron admitted, but nothing and no one was going to stand in the way of him achieving his ends. The new self-harm facility he planned for the area was far too important, not just to him but to the patients who depended on him. Iain had accused him of being driven. He was. He had to be. Pain threatened to swamp him with unbearable memories. Once he had been too late, had let someone down. He was going to do everything in his power to make sure that
never
happened again.

Iain pulled up in front of the station, taking the place of a ridiculous-looking purple Fiat that drew away ahead of them. 'Good luck.'

Thanks, Iain.' Cameron ruthlessly banished his dark thoughts, grabbed his things and closed the door, leaning in the window for a parting goodbye. 'I'll see you and Maxine when I get back. Take care of my godchild—I don't want him born before I get back.'

'Maxine's reply to that would burn your ears! She wants junior out of there right now. She says she's never letting me near her again.'

Curbing a rush of bitter memories, Cameron managed a smile. 'I don't blame her!'

Now, lulled by the rhythm of the train, Cameron leaned back against the seat and contemplated this dual-purpose trip to London. It was going to be hectic, and he would rather not have been called as an expert witness for a court case on the same day he had to present his proposals for his own project. But he had promised, and the sooner it was over the sooner he could leave London for good and devote all his energies to his future plans in Strathlochan.

Movement diverted his attention and he sneaked a sideways glance in time to see the woman push her notepad aside. With an audible sigh of frustration she set down her pen. Closing her eyes, she gathered up her long hair, tilting her head back to let whatever breeze the tiny window delivered fan across her neck and throat. The actions caused her top to tighten over the lushest of breasts. Cameron swallowed as raw, animal desire stabbed through him. No wonder the poor guy who had briefly sat opposite her had tried so ineptly to chat her up. If she did this hair-and-arched-neck thing again, he wouldn't be responsible for his own actions.

That she was innocently unaware of her desirability, and completely without artifice, was apparent when she released her hair, allowing it to fall like a golden halo round her face and shoulders. She glanced round, smothering a yawn, her iridescent turquoise eyes widening in shock as she met his gaze. Cameron did nothing to hide his masculine appreciation, seeing a flush of awareness wash across her cheeks before she folded her arms across her delightful chest and hurriedly looked back at her work.

What was the matter with him? He was heading to London on one of the most important missions of his life, and all he could do was fantasise over a stranger's breasts! His gaze strayed once more. Damn, but she was one sexy woman. He shifted uncomfortably as his body responded in the most basic of ways. This was ridiculous! The randy teenage years were decades behind him. He was a thirty-six-year-old consultant, not a schoolboy. And he didn't do relationships, didn't get involved, not any more. In his years in London, the 'after Lisa years', he'd had occasional evenings out with sophisticated, independent women who had wanted nothing more from their brief association than he had. Which had suited him fine. But more and more, all his energies were going into his work. Nothing could be allowed to distract him from his goal. He'd do well to remember that and stop leching over his unwitting travelling companion.

Ginger felt light-headed and peculiarly breathless. The way he'd just looked at her was outrageous! She was fifteen years past the blushing virgin stage, but she didn't think any man had ever regarded at her so... so
...sexually
before. Heat flared inside her, making her ache with an electrifying desire and, even more shockingly, it wasn't abating. This was ridiculous!

She forced herself to think of mundane things and looked out of the window at the changing landscape, the rural scenery giving way to urban environments as the train sped south. Her preference when travelling by train had always been to sit 'facing the engine', as her father would once have put it. Perhaps it said something about her, that she needed to see where she was going, to approach things head on. Her wickedly attractive travelling companion, on the other hand, whose reflection she could see in the glass, looked perfectly relaxed with his back to the way they were going. Did that mean he was someone who dwelt too much on the past? It was an odd thought, but an occupational hazard, she supposed, to look for the analytical reasons behind people's behaviour.

When her mobile phone sounded, the personalised ring tone seeming louder than usual, Ginger fumbled in her bag to answer it, far too aware of the man nearby, her cheeks warming again as she met an amused grey gaze.

'Sorry.' She saw him shake his head at her apology before she turned aside to take the call, seeing her assistant's name on the display. 'Yes, Sarah?'

'I'm sorry, Ginger, but I've had Mr Carstairs on the phone. He's the father of the new girl you will be seeing on Monday.'

'Yes, I know.' Ginger frowned, recalling the brief case details she had received from the GP who had referred Tess Carstairs to her. 'What's the problem?'

'He says he's not sure about the appointment, whether coming to the clinic is in the best interests of his daughter,' Sarah informed her, anxiety in her voice.

'I see. I'd be interested to know how he thinks they're going to change things themselves.' She curbed her frustration and annoyance. Eating disorders carried an unfair stigma, and this was not the first time she had dealt with parents who were more worried about what other people might think rather than their child's troubles. Dr Nic di Angelis, the family GP, had already warned her of the father's attitude in this case. 'Has Mr Carstairs cancelled the appointment?'

'No, but he wants to talk more about it with you first. I explained you were away for a couple of days. He got a bit shirty.'

Ginger was alerted by the thread of upset Sarah was unable to hide. 'Shirty? How?'

'He swore at me, actually, when I wouldn't give him your mobile number.'

'Did he indeed?' She paused, finding a blank page to make a note in her diary. 'I'm sorry you had to put up with that, Sarah. I'll deal with it.'

'Do you want me to give you his number?'

Knowing she would have scant privacy to discuss confidential matters on the train, Ginger declined. 'Not now. There's little I can do from here. If he rings again, say you have informed me and I'll telephone him on Friday when I'm back in the office. All right?'

'Yes, fine.'

'And such rudeness is unacceptable, Sarah. If he speaks to you like that again, you have my permission to hang up. Tell Pip and Andrew what I have said, and if there is any further trouble with him while I'm gone, refer him to them.'

'OK.' Sarah's relief was obvious. 'Thanks, Ginger.'

'No problem. Anything else while we're on?'

'Nothing important. I'm really sorry for bothering you.'

'You haven't bothered me.' Ginger smiled, knowing how efficient but sensitive the twenty-one-year-old was. 'It's not your fault, Sarah. You get off home on time and don't worry about it.'

'I will. Good luck, again.'

After hanging up, Ginger made a few more notes, very cross at the behaviour of Tess Carstairs's father, and concerned for the girl's well-being. She would review her notes carefully before talking to the parents. Whether Mr Carstairs wanted to believe it or not, his daughter needed help, and Ginger was determined to do all she could to make sure Tess received it.

Concerned that her phone call had disturbed the man nearby, she glanced across, plucking up the nerve to speak to him. Before she could decide whether to say anything or leave it be, he seemed to sense her regard, turning to meet her gaze. Ginger swallowed, feeling the pull of attraction across the narrow distance that separated them.

'I just wanted to apologise about the phone,' she explained, sounding uncharacteristically husky.

'No problem.' His voice, deep and throaty, sent a shiver down her spine. 'One of the hazards of twenty-first-century living.'