Angel Kate (16 page)

Tom frowned and his voice was cold. 'Frank's invitation was extended as much to you as to myself. He and Mary will be hurt and disappointed by your refusal.'

'I'm sorry.' She spoke quietly, her head held high. 'I don't mean to be ungracious but it wouldn't be appropriate for me to be there.'

Tom slammed shut his diary and struck the desk with an exasperated fist. 'We're not living in the Middle Ages, woman! You may be here under my roof but you're not my servant and I'm not your master … good god, you never showed me much deference when I was laid up in hospital so don't start now.'

Kate covered her mouth with a tactful hand, but her eyes gave her away. And this verbal skirmish ended in mutual good-natured laughter.

*  *  *

James telephoned that evening, interrupting the cold meat and salad supper which nurse and patient were sharing companionably in the kitchen. Tom had been describing some interesting neuro-surgical cases when Kate's mobile rang. 'Hello James,' she said in surprise. 'I thought you were going to ring later. It's not a very good signal, I can hardly heard you.'

'It's Dr Mallory,' she explained to Tom. 'Would you mind if I take the call outside?'

When she returned, Tom found himself looking for tell-tale signs indicating the condition of Nurse Wisdom's heart. But Kate seemed her calm, uncomplicated self.

If the sound of her lover's voice made her pulses race and her heart beat faster, then it was well concealed, noted Tom with a certain wry satisfaction. His fork was chasing an awkward slice of gammon round his plate. He was fed up with having his food cut up for him like a three-year old. 'All well?'

'Oh yes, thanks. James is staying at the cottage and keeping an eye on the place while I'm working here. The only problem could be his old car refusing to start in the mornings. He's used to walking to work. His flat's up near the Cathedral and usually he just walks down the hill to  Crisp's.'

Tom jabbed viciously at a slippery piece of tomato. 'So you two don't live together.'

'No,' said Kate, puzzled by his interest.

'Think what you'd save on the rent.'

Kate frowned at her plate. 'I
own
my cottage, I don't pay rent and I don't have a mortgage. James is welcome to move in with me, any time.'

Tom pretended he wasn't in the least interested in Kate and her pathologist boyfriend's living arrangements. 'Good for you,' he murmured vaguely, but in truth he was puzzled. Kate owned her own house. And she'd just bought herself a new car - unusual for a staff nurse to afford to do that.

 With a hollow laugh he tossed back his glass of wine, topped up Kate's glass and refilled his own, recalling how Frank Davy had hinted that Wisdom suffered from—correction,
had
suffered from— depression …

He drained that glass too, then finished off the bottle, telling himself that with every passing day Staff Nurse Wisdom grew ever more of a conundrum.

To think, he brooded, when I first saw her that night in the car park I took her for a carefree, uncomplicated young woman! What a grandfather of a mistake.

'Are you and Dr Mallory engaged?' he asked baldly.

With a little shrug of her shoulders Kate said no, they were not. She was surprised that the words came so easily when just a short while ago she'd been so anxious to marry the solid and dependable James Mallory. Perhaps after all her pathologist wasn't Mr Right. Mr Right might be more like Tom Galvan, drawing her to him like a magnet, his teasing dark eyes and his smile arousing in her the oddest mix of emotions. Too physical and energetic and forceful ever to be safe and dependable and boring.

Mr Impossible,
not
Mr Right!

After supper Kate washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen. In the morning she would tell Bess she'd be happy to cook for Tom in the evenings. It would be fun, working in all this space after her tiny galley kitchen at the cottage.

She wandered in the twilight through the grounds. At her footstep there were scurrying sounds in the long grass and baby rabbits scampered across her path. A white owl flew silent-winged out of one of the barns. She explored further and inside the larger barn found a mud-splashed Range Rover. It wouldn't be long now before Tom was driving again. He hadn't mentioned replacing the Lamborghini yet but perhaps there was no hurry for that. The Range Rover was clearly well-used and often.

On her way to bed, she called goodnight round the study door. But Tom was deep in concentration and apart from a vague reply hardly seemed aware of her. Around his desk was a sea of papers covered with what looked like drawings or diagrams of some kind. Kate frowned. A good night's sleep was highly desirable for any convalescent. Did he plan to stay up half the night, working? She  ought to put a stop to this, insist on a sensible bedtime for her convalescent patient. Safer though to ease herself in with the minimum of fuss. She'd let it go for tonight.

The door closed gently behind him. Tom was grinning as he reached down for the bottle of single malt whisky, patting himself on the back for concealing the evidence. Angel Kate would have whipped away the bottle and given a lecture on the effect of alcohol on stability, picturing her patient falling down the stairs on his way to bed.

 A woman's imagination is a wondrous thing, mused Tom, studying his latest sketch for dividing up the house. It's a clever idea Kate's come up with, and if it works this might save Foxe Manor.

*  *  *

Kate slipped quietly into a chair at the back of the study, armed with pen and notepad and ready to take notes of the meeting.

Mr Armstrong, Tom's senior registrar, had arrived in a two-seater sports car with Dr Guiles, the anaesthetist. The others had followed, squashed into Sister Calloway's white Clio.

The sky was overcast and the study lamps had been switched on. They were discussing bed numbers and patient discharges, and Kingsley Armstrong was doing a lot of talking. When Tom wanted something noted down he indicated this to Kate, who sat with her eyes trained on him, trying not to let her mind veer off at a tangent.

Her bed last night had been SO comfortable. She'd feared she'd never sleep in this house, not with Tom yards away and just one small door separating the two of them. But she had slept like a top, out for the count the moment her head hit the pillow. No dreams. No nightmares. And no lying restlessly awake, wishing
… no, don't let's go there, not now when I'm supposed to be working!

Surrounded by his surgical team, this was Tom in an entirely new light: no longer the injured patient, but the boss man in action. There was an atmosphere in the room and an aura about Tom: the powerful and confident aura that surrounds any professional man at the peak of his physical and intellectual powers.

As head of neuro-surgery he had built up a tremendous reputation for himself and the work of his department. Now Kate could see for herself that what people said about Mr Galvan was absolutely right: he was not into playing the surgeon-god. He was easy and affable as he approved and organised and delegated. And his surgical team responded with an energy and vigour that was exciting to witness. Clearly they were all raring to have their chief back at the helm.

'Make a note of that, please.' Tom's eyes were trained on Kate, noting how alert she was, how involved. He repeated the name of the patient whose brain scan they had been discussing. 'To be admitted for treatment with steroids to reduce swelling around the tumour.'

He turned to Kingsley. 'You'll have to get in there fast and unplug the drainage system. As soon as he's strong enough, I want to excise that tumour myself.'

Faces brightened at this confirmation that Tom Galvan's grave injuries were almost healed. And only Kate understood what it must have cost Tom to make that commitment—to a patient whose life would now depended upon a neuro-surgeon's courage. With a flicker of anxiety, she could see the inner tension sharpening the planes and contours of his sombre, handsome face. A lump rose in her throat and along with it a rush of immoderate love for this man that almost threatened to overwhelm her.

A set of X-rays was produced and the team were now discussing a spinal cord injury due for surgery. It was decided that the Senior Registrar would operate with the SHO assisting. 'How did it happen?' enquired the Theatre Sister.

'She fell out of a tree and cracked her spine.' Using a black felt-tip pen, Tom sketched a diagram of the spinal cord and marked on it the area of lesion, pointing out the nerves involved.

Glancing at her watch, Kate saw it was time to warn Bess that in ten minutes they would be ready for tea, to be served buffet-style on the refectory table of the dining hall.

Unobtrusively she slipped out to lend a hand.

Some of the group had not visited the house before and were bombarding their host with questions concerning its past history. He promised everyone a guided tour after they had made the most of Bess's spread of egg- and-cress sandwiches, farm-buttered drop scones, her rich plum cake and featherlight coffee sponge.

Sure enough, Mr Armstrong made a beeline for Kate and grasping her elbow drew her out of earshot and into a shadowy corner by the linenfold screen. She couldn't resist glancing back over her shoulder in search of Tom's eye: and sure enough his lazy half-smile warned she'd get her leg pulled later

Mr Armstrong was a nice-looking man, only a year or so younger than Tom but in complete physical contrast, being small and wiry with curly fair hair and shrewd blue eyes. Kate felt certain he was too preoccupied with his consultant's health to notice whether the nurse had knock knees and a squint. All the same, it sent a tingle down her spine to imagine Tom being jealous.

Good lord, how did I come to overlook this one? Kingsley Armstrong was examining Nurse Wisdom with a covert eye. Her hair was different—swept up above each pearl-studded ear with tortoiseshell combs. He thought how poised and feminine she looked in her grey silk shirt and neat dark skirt with matching shoes and tights. Fabulous legs. Bit shorter and she'd definitely have been in with a chance …

'Good to see the Boss well on the mend.'

Both turned to look at Tom, tanned and healthy and absorbed in conversation with Dr Guiles over by the huge log fire he and Kate had set light to earlier in the day.

'I feel a bit of a fraud being here, but Professor Davy was very insistent. Tom's a handful though and I worry in case he's overdoing it.'

'Really? How come?'

'Working on papers and lectures half the night. Not much I can do about that.'

Tom,
eh? Kingsley was admiring those big brown eyes, innocently smiling at him, but of course he didn't believe a word of that about the boss slaving away till all hours. Though the plaster must somewhat spoil their fun … good luck to the two of them, they made a striking pair.

 Mr Armstrong couldn't think of a polite term to illustrate his opinion of Diana Diamond. He polished off his fifth drop scone and to prolong this interesting conversation with the delectable Nurse Wisdom, queried, 'Presumably you're keeping on with the usual checks—and making sure he's not… um—taking any physical risks?'

'Oh, of course. Though it will be a relief when that plaster comes off and we know for sure that Tom's going to be able to operate again. He gets very frustrated at times.'

'I'll bet. But be warned, it's quite difficult for doctors to tell when a fracture is fully healed. Manual examination and X-rays can give ambiguous results. The orthopods won't be in a hurry to take risks where Mr Galvan's concerned …'

The water was warm and caressing, silky with Chanel bath oil. Kate allowed herself a ten-minute soak then towelled herself dry and set to with the hairdryer. If she cut this lot off, think of the time it would save. But Dad had made her promise …

 She combed through her damp hair and partially dried it, fixing it back in a heavy ponytail, moist tendrils escaping untidily at the nape of her neck and around her ears. She looked doubtfully at the denim crops she'd packed as an afterthought, then decided, why not? She could change again after breakfast.

Over her head she slipped a light sweatshirt in dove grey, stretching the neckline over her ponytail, black espadrilles on her size six feet.

Now for the first official task of the day. 

The hospital had loaned her all the necessary equipment and record charts, stowed into a black leather case. Kate collected this from the bottom of the wardrobe and—disturbingly aware of the mingled tension and pleasurable anticipation which seemed the hallmark of her relationship with this very special patient—lifted her hand to knock (after a second or two's hesitation) upon the door connecting the two bedrooms.

There was no one else about in the whole of the building. Mrs Capel didn't start work until nine.

'Mr Galvan. Tom? It's time for your check-up!

'I'm coming in.'

'G
ood morning, Tom! It's lovely out there, the sun's shining and the birds are singing. Let's get you up and moving.'

Tom yawned and blinked. Wasn't it still the crack of dawn? He leaned over to peer at the digital alarm clock, linen sheets hitched carelessly about his middle, rich plum velvet covers tumbling on to the floor. He never wore pyjamas. Only in Room 27 when forced to by that officious Nurse Wisdom. And she seemed back on form with a vengeance.

'And what time did we get to bed?'

He chose to ignore the question. After three, he seemed to recall. And it was her own fault he'd stayed up so late, did she but know it. None of her business anyway, bossy woman.

The faded crimson curtains were swept aside and tethered in their tie-backs. Morning sunshine flooded in, illuminating uneven oak floorboards and rumpled Turkish rugs, soft as cloth and just lying in wait, noted Kate, to trip the unwary. She'd have a word with Bess about removing those for the time being.

Am I going to have to put up with this every morning while Kate's here?
grumbled Tom to himself, pulling himself on the pile of pillows that supported his arm, the better to watch as Kate strode round the room tut-tutting and flinging open windows to let in a breath of fresh air. She was wearing jeans. He'd never seen her in jeans before. They clung to her legs, revealing shapely calves and long firm thighs, ending just above narrow ankles with delicately carved anklebones.