A Man of Honour. Caroline AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER ONE

      SHE didn’t know what it was about him—in a department filled with attractive men, his regular features and easy, natural bearing were not particularly remarkable—but there was something compelling, some elusive, indefinable je ne sais quoi that drew her.

      Perhaps it was his smile, the hesitant, slightly quirky twist to his lips, gone as swiftly as it had come; or perhaps the eyes, that strange combination of ice-blue and the dark, practically navy line around the iris that gave them a penetrating, almost haunting quality.

      Whatever it was, Helen Cooper found his presence at the meeting distracting in the extreme.

      His name, she learned, was Tom Russell, and he had just been offered the post of senior registrar to Ross Hamilton, one of the consultant general surgeons at the Audley Memorial.

      Which meant of course, that she would be seeing very much more of him that was going to be good for her concentration, if today was anything to go by.

      The meeting was an informal get-together, an opportunity for Tom to meet some of the team before he joined them at the beginning of May, and as they chatted over coffee Helen found her eyes straying to him again and again.

      He was quieter than the rest—still, she imagined, on his best behaviour for the occasion—but his eyes followed the conversation and his mouth lifted now and again in response to a joke.

      Oliver Henderson was there, propping up her desk and asking Tom if he had any ambition to be a cartoonist, which brought howls of laughter from the other members of the team and a puzzled frown from Tom.

      Ross’s smile was wry but good-natured. ‘Ignore Oliver,’ he told his new SR in his soft Scots burr. ‘He’s just trying to provoke me.’

      A bleep squawked, and Ross’s SHO, Gavin Jones, excused himself and lifted the phone. After a murmured conversation he turned to Ross.

      ‘Sounds a bit tricky. They’ve got an RTA victim in the trauma unit—suspected leaky aorta.’

      Ross set down his cup and stood up. ‘Sorry, Tom, think this needs my attention. Sister Cooper will ply you with coffee and point you in the right direction, I have no doubt. I’ll see you in a month—don’t hesitate to ring if you’ve got any queries.’

      They shook hands and Ross left with Gavin, followed by Oliver and then Linda Tucker, the staff nurse on duty, and Helen found herself alone with Tom in a silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Just when she thought she would have to find something to say to fill the void, he met her eyes.

      ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

      ‘No, of course not, ask away.’

      ‘What was all that about cartoons?’

      She laughed softly, caught off her guard. ‘Oh—well, one of the surgical team was a bit of a joker. He’s moved on now, but he’s supplementing his hospital salary quite nicely by freelancing as a cartoonist for medical journals, I gather.’

      Tom nodded, and the silence closed softly round them again, suffocating her. He seemed so close, so big, somehow, his hips propped against the windowill and his suit jacket drawn back by hands thrust casually into his trouser pockets in an unconsciously masculine gesture.

      Awareness tingled through her, quickening her pulse and making her breathing unsteady. She looked away, taken aback by her reaction, and the silence yawned on. After a moment her natural good manners overcame her distraction.

      ‘Would you like another cup of coffee?’ she offered him, and was struck again by the haunting eyes.

      ‘Thank you, but I’d better not. I’ve had about five cups already this morning—I’m in danger of drowning in it!’

      His lips, firm but with a hint of fullness, quirked into an appealing smile and Helen felt her heart kick against her ribs.

      ‘Another look round the ward?’ she suggested, her composure really rattled now. They suddenly seemed very alone together in the little ward office.

      ‘Have you got time?’

      She laughed wryly. ‘No, but the paperwork can wait.’

      He laughed with her, a quiet, restrained laugh, and shrugged away from the window. ‘If you’re sure, then, I would appreciate it.’

      He held the door for her, and as she passed through it she caught the faint trace of cologne, a subtle lemon fragrance tinged with something peculiarly masculine and very personal, something inextricably linked with her confusion and the strange, haunting feeling of being poised above an abyss.

      And then he smiled, that strange, quicksilver smile, and she felt the edge of the precipice shift and start to crumble beneath her feet.

      The first day back after the spring bank holiday was destined to be hectic from the start. Ross Hamilton’s team were on take for emergencies, and Oliver Henderson had a list that morning. There were three day cases in for endoscopy and a fourth for sigmoidoscopy, and, if that wasn’t enough, one of her staff nurses was off sick with a summer cold that had been doing the rounds.

      Even so, and most untypically, Helen found time after she had taken the report and programmed her nurses to dive into the staff cloakroom and give herself a critical once-over.

      Not, of course, that it had anything to do with a certain dark-haired, enigmatic young registrar who was starting work today—heavens, no!

      But there was a becoming touch of colour in her pale cheeks, and deep in her soft grey eyes the light of hope glimmered. She didn’t see that, of course. Instead she saw the mousy brown hair escaping from the bun, and the little smudge of mascara under her lashes—lack of practice, or a shaking hand? Could have been either, she thought,