‘I lost my wife when she was six months pregnant,’ he said, and she plumped straight back down beside him. Close. Her hand took his and held it.
‘Oh, Max…’
‘Past history,’ he said. ‘Six years ago. A case of the doctor’s wife getting the worst care. I was an obstetrician. She died of pre-eclampsia.’
‘You’re saying it was your fault?’
‘I should have monitored her more closely.’
She frowned. ‘You wouldn’t have been the treating doctor. She’d have had her own obstetrician?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘So how often would you have checked her blood pressure if you’d been in charge?’ To his astonishment she was sounding indignant.
‘That’s not the point.’
‘It is. Unless you ignored swollen ankles and puffy hands and breathlessness and any of the other signs.’
‘She didn’t-’
‘She didn’t have obvious signs until too late,’ she finished for him, as if she knew. As indeed she might. ‘You know as well as I do that pre-eclampsia can move really fast. Terrifyingly fast. You’ll be pleased to know I take my own blood pressure twice a day, but I’m paranoid and if I was your wife and you tried to take mine twice a day I’d be telling you where you could put your cuff. Tell me about your wife. What was she called?’
‘Alice.’
‘That’s a lovely name,’ she said warmly. ‘Was she lovely?’
‘I…Yes.’ But he said it hesitantly. Sadly even. Aware that the memory of the lovely, laughing girl he’d met and married so long ago was fading. Aware that photographs of her were starting to superimpose themselves over real memory.
‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ she said confidingly, breaking a silence that was starting to be too long. ‘You think you’ll remember for ever. You think how can you ever move on? It’s impossible. And all of a sudden…’ She paused, then gave herself a shake, tossing away thoughts she obviously didn’t want. ‘And your baby?’
‘A little boy. He lived for twenty-three hours.’
‘And you called him…’
‘Daniel,’ he said, and he was suddenly aware that it was the first time he’d said it since the funeral. Daniel. A tiny being, robbed of his mother; robbed of his life.
Odd that his memories of Alice were fading, yet the memory of that tiny part of him, Daniel cradled in his hands, his son, was still so strong. Still so gut-wrenchingly real.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, and the pressure of her hand was warm and strong. Maggie would certainly be a great doctor, he thought. Empathic and caring and…lovely?
Lovely. There it was again. It wasn’t a professional word, he thought, but it was in his head and it wouldn’t go away.
‘So?’ she said.
‘So I abandoned obstetrics, left England and came to Sydney to be a gynaecologist,’ he said, too briskly, and rose to his feet. ‘End of story. You need to go to bed.’ He sounded rougher than he’d intended.
‘I do,’ she admitted.
‘Let me carry you. That leg must be giving you hell.’
‘It’s not tickling,’ she admitted, and somewhat to his surprise she didn’t object as he gathered her up in her pile of eiderdowns.
‘Maybe it’s time we both moved on,’ she said as he carried her through the roses, and he didn’t disagree at all.
The fire was dying in the grate. He settled her on the settee again, loaded the fireplace with logs, found a can of soup, made them both soup and toast-he was hungry even if she wasn’t-and bullied her into eating.
Then, finally, he tended her face and her knee. And all the time…
The word kept echoing over and over.
Which was crazy. And impossible. She was seven months pregnant. He was mixing her up with his memories of Alice, he thought as he worked. He had Alice in his mind-that it was Alice he was helping, It was Alice he could save.
No!
But there were memories coming at him from everywhere and the only word that kept superimposing itself on all of them was…
Lovely.
He had the gentlest hands.
She was drifting. He was cleaning her face, carefully ridding it of every trace of dirt, then making it secure with wound-closure strips and dressings. Occasionally what he was doing hurt, but she hardly noticed.
His face was so close to hers. Intent on what he was doing. Careful.
Caring.
How long had it been since someone had cared for her? How long since someone had even opened a can of soup and made her toast?
It was an illusion, she told herself. This man was trapped by circumstances, in the same way she was trapped. The only difference was that tomorrow morning he’d leave and she’d stay.
But somehow the bleakness had lifted. For tonight she could let herself drift in this illusion of tenderness. She could look into his face as he worked, watch his eyes, abandon herself in their depths. Feel the strength and skill of his fingers. Watch his concern.
He was worried about her. She should reassure him, she thought. She should say she had things under control, everything was fine, that she’d bounce up in the morning like Tigger. As she’d bounced before.
Only right now she didn’t feel like Tigger. Surprisingly, though, neither did she feel like Eeyore, for who could feel sorry for herself when a doctor like Max Ashton was right in front of her? He was so close she could take his face between her hands and…
And nothing. Get a grip, she told herself, and something in her face must have changed because Max’s hands lifted away and his brows snapped downward.
‘Did I hurt you?’
‘I…No. I believe I’m nearly asleep.’
‘I need to wash your knee.’
‘Go right ahead.’
‘You want to wriggle out of what’s left of those jeans?’
‘I can do that,’ she said with an attempt at dignity, and then tried and it didn’t work, and when Max gave up watching and helped she was pleased. Only then his hands were on her thighs and she thought that was pretty good, too.
Whoa. Keep it in focus, Maggie. He was a doctor and she was a patient.
She felt like she was drifting on painkillers, yet she’d had nothing. She felt drifty and lovely, and like it was entirely right that she was lying half-naked on a settee in front of a roaring fire with the man of her dreams taking her leg in his hands.
The man of her dreams?
‘Ouch!’
Yikes, that brought her down to earth. Earth to Maggie? It was about time contact was made.
‘Sorry,’ he said ruefully. ‘But it’s not looking as bad as I thought.’
‘Good,’ she said sleepily. ‘Excellent.’
‘Have you been worrying?’ he asked, sounding bemused.
‘I guess I’ll worry if it’s about to drop off,’ she said. ‘Speaking of dropping off…’
‘You want me to carry you to bed?’
‘I’m fine here.’ The thought of going out to her apartment at the back of the house seemed suddenly unbearable.
‘You are fine,’ he told her. ‘Some of that initial swelling’s already subsiding. I think you’ve simply given this one
