When handsome, wealthy
Josh Nicholson turns up in Fran's ER needing her attention to a minor injury,
it seems like her long Monday will end on a high note. She doesn't suspect that
accepting Josh's innocent invitation to coffee will set in motion a chain of
events that will transform her life.
Because what Fran doesn't know is that destiny has more than one plan in mind for her -- it has two?
****
Destiny has more than one plan for Fran Williams - it has two: Rich, wealthy
and energetic Josh Nicholson and charming, sensual, single father Dr Xavier
Giraud!
Can a woman choose her own destiny? Could there be more than one Mr Right?
Follow Fran’s double destiny in:
ASSIGNMENT:SINGLE MAN – Tender Romance™ NOVEMBER 2002
ASSIGNMENT:SINGLE FATHER – Medical Romance™ DECEMBER 2002
He was the archetypal tall, dark, and handsome -- and he was bleeding all
over her department.
Fran sighed. Technically she was off duty now but everyone else was busy.
Besides, at least he wasn’t dying, unlike all her other patients today, and she
might as well end Monday on a high note.
Ignoring her sore feet and overwhelming thirst, she took his sheet from the
tray and glanced at him again. He was slouched against the back of a chair, his
head bent as he lifted away a wad of tissue and studied the spreading stain on
his shirtfront.
“Mr Nicholson? Would you come with me, please?” She didn’t wait to see if he
was following, just walked off, conscious of the firm, even tread behind her.
She went into a cubicle, turned and stopped in her tracks.
Blue eyes. So blue – cobalt, like
a tropic night, and rueful. She returned his smile, unable to help herself, and waved at the chair. “Have a seat,
let’s take a look at you.”
He sat, peeling back his shirt to expose a slice in his chest, just between
the flat copper coin of his nipple and his smooth, firm shoulder.
Right on his luscious and well-formed pecs. Oh,
boy.
“So, how did you do this?” she asked, peering at the wound and trying not to
be distracted by his body or that mobile and expressive mouth just on the edge
of her vision.
“I tripped over a damned cat and fell in a pile of rubbish,” he said, his
deep voice rough with disgust. “I knew I didn’t like cats. Now I know why.”
Suppressing a smile, Fran snapped on gloves and took a closer look, then once she was satisfied there was nothing lurking in the
wound, she cleaned him up. He winced and let out a tiny grunt of pain, and she
patted it dry and straightened.
“Poor baby,” she teased gently. “It’ll need stitches, but it’s clean and
there’s no penetrating injury. I’ll numb it.”
He snorted and said something on the lines of “about time” under his breath,
and she hid her smile. It took only minutes to suture him, but by the time
she’d finished, she knew the Underground would be chaos. Still, that was
“Problem?” he asked, easing on his jacket over the ripped and bloodstained
shirt.
She shrugged. “It’s rush-hour. The Tube will be heaving, and I can’t be
bothered to walk. I’ll just wait for the rush to subside.”
“Have I held you up?”
She gave him a rueful grin. “You’re not the only one. It happens all the
time.”
“But this was my fault. Let me get you a coffee while you wait.”
“You don’t need to do that,” she protested, but he just smiled that sexy,
crooked smile and his eyes twinkled mischievously under the firm, arching
brows.
“Oh, I do. Besides, I’m still feeling a bit iffy – reaction to the
anaesthetic, I expect. You ought to keep an eye on me, really--“ his eyes scanned her badge, “--Sister Williams.”
Suddenly -- ridiculously – breathless, she laughed at him and pulled open
the cubicle curtain, to find everyone’s eyes riveted on them.
“Just quickly, then,” she agreed. “There’s a canteen in the hospital—“
He pulled a face. “I had in mind somewhere a little bit more...”
He paused, and Fran chuckled. “I’m sure we can find somewhere a little bit
more. Give me two minutes and I’ll be with you,” she promised, and went into
the locker room. A moment later the door behind her opened and shut with a
little click.
“Do you know who that is?” Anna hissed.
Fran glanced over her shoulder at her colleague and friend. “Should I?”
Anna rolled her eyes. “Are you being deliberately obtuse? His name’s Josh
Nicholson. Think about it. I have to go, I’m needed in Resus.” She disappeared
again, leaving Fran puzzling as she changed.
Josh Nicholson. Now she thought about it, his name rang vague bells, but she
still couldn’t place it. He wasn’t an actor or a TV presenter,
he didn’t look like an MP. Fran shrugged. Daniel would know. She’d ask him
later. She pulled on her T-shirt and jeans, slipped her feet into comfortable
trainers and headed for the door.
He was waiting where she’d left him, flicking idly through the leaflets in a
rack on the wall, and he turned to her with a smile that made her heart hiccup.
“All set?”
They went to a coffee bar just down the road, one of those places that sold
pastries to die for and about ten zillion different kinds of coffee. She had a
cappuccino with extra chocolate sprinkle, and he had his strong and black. She
would have guessed that, but she wasn’t alone in reading minds. He saw her eyes
straying to a wicked chocolate Danish, and ordered it
for her.
“I’ll be huge,” she protested, but she let him order it anyway because it
looked irresistible and she was starving. She didn’t bother to cut it into neat
little bits, just picked it up and sank her teeth into it and groaned with
ecstasy as the flavour exploded on her tongue.
“Good?”
“It’s gorgeous,” she said with her mouth full, and he laughed softly and
shook his head, an indulgent and curiously tender look in his eyes.
Why doesn’t Daniel look at me like that? she
wondered, but it was a fruitless line of thought. Daniel was – well, she
couldn’t even remember his face just then. How odd. She turned her attention
back to the sinful little pastry, trying to ignore Josh and the expression in
his eyes.
She was doing fine until he caught her hand halfway to her mouth and turned
it, biting into the soft chocolate folds of the pastry and bringing her heart
crashing to a standstill for a second.
His tongue flicked out to catch the crumbs on his lips, and she looked
hastily away. A little mew of need was threatening to escape and she was in
grave danger of making a complete idiot of herself.
“You were right,” he said softly. “It is gorgeous. I could easily become a
chocoholic.”
She swallowed and cleared her throat, pushing the rest towards him on the
plate. “Please, finish it, I’ve had enough,” she lied, then
made a production of looking at her watch. “Heavens, is that the time? I can’t
be long. I’ve got to meet Daniel.”
“Daniel?”
She hesitated. “My – boyfriend, I suppose.”
His smile was questioning. “You don’t sound very sure.”
Because she wasn’t? “I haven’t been seeing him long
– just a few weeks. He’s a reporter. I’m not sure he’s my type, really. It’s –
nothing special.”
His laugh was cynical, maybe slightly bitter. “Is it ever?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “It should be – shouldn’t it?”
“So they say.”
For a second their eyes locked, and then he shrugged and turned his
attention to the last mouthful. Absently she watched him chew and swallow,
clamping her jaw to keep her mouth shut.
How about you, do you have anyone, special or not, she wanted to ask, but it
was none of her business, and anyway, it didn’t sound like it. No-one special, at least, either now or in the past. She
felt suddenly sad, for him and for herself. Bridget Jones here I come, she
thought, and drained her cup, setting it down with a little smack.
“I really have to go now. Thanks for the coffee.”
He met her eyes, his own thoughtful. “My pleasure.
Thank you for sewing me up. Have fun with Daniel.”
I doubt it, she thought. “Come back in ten days to have the stitches out –
and if you ever need any more needlework doing, let me know.”
His eyes gleamed with something mischievous. “I’ve got a button missing,” he
murmured, and she laughed, breathless again.
“Not quite what I had in mind.”
His smile was teasing and perhaps a little sad. “No. Take care, Sister
Williams. I’ll see you in ten days. Thanks again.”
She felt his eyes on her all the way to the corner, but when she turned back
to wave, he was gone. Shrugging, she battled with the Tube and a curious sense
of loneliness, and hurried home.
* * *
Daniel was waiting when she arrived at the pub, and she buzzed his cheek and
slid onto the bar stool beside him.
“Good day?” he asked.
She thought of the lives they’d lost, the awful waste, and shut her mind to
it. Josh immediately filled it, and wasn’t so easy to dismiss. “Not especially.
How about you?”
She didn’t really listen to his answer, just sipped her drink and wondered
why she’d never noticed before how colourless his eyes were.
“Ever heard of Josh Nicholson?” she
asked.
Daniel stared at her, stunned. “Josh Nicholson? Hasn’t
everyone heard of Josh Nicholson?”
She shrugged. “I know the name - I can’t place him.”
“You should read the papers, darling. He buys and sells companies – very
successfully, by all accounts. He’s a bit of an art collector, too.” He
straightened up, perhaps sensing a story, and Fran suddenly wished she hadn’t
mentioned him. “Why?” he added, his eyes searching her face, missing nothing.
Fran shrugged again, strangely unwilling to talk about him to an insatiable
newshound like Daniel. Patient confidentiality, she told herself, and nothing
to do with those beautiful blue eyes or the even, white teeth biting into her
chocolate Danish over coffee just an hour ago. She turned her attention to her
drink, fiddling with the ice cubes. “No reason. Someone mentioned him. It’s
just been annoying me, that’s all.”
She changed the subject, sipped her way through another drink and then
picked up her bag, the horror and exhaustion of the day suddenly catching up
with her. That and the fact that talking to Daniel really wasn’t that special,
she was beginning to realise. Funny how talking to Josh for
such a short time had brought that right into focus. She gave him an
apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Daniel, I need an early night.”
“I’ll walk you home.”
She sighed inwardly, but
They paused at the outer door at the bottom of the stairwell. “Going to
invite me in?”
Fran saw the seductive gleam in his eyes and shook her head. “I’m really
bushed. We had an awful day. I’m sorry.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“Maybe.” She returned his kiss with reticence and
ran up to her flat, where she discovered her flatmate Stella had finished the
milk and threw her tea untouched down the sink. Early night, she told herself,
but she didn’t sleep well. Finally dropping off in the small hours of the
morning, she woke late and had to hurry to the hospital, arriving with an
ambulance. Once again, at the sound of the siren her heart pounded and her
throat closed with dread.
Crazy. She’d never felt like this before yesterday,
in all her years of nursing. It was ridiculous. The ambulance doors opened, a
team already working on the patient, and she followed them into Resus and stood
staring helplessly as they struggled and failed to save him.
Again, she thought, staring at the blood. Another wasted life – who’s going to tell his relatives? I can’t-
Anna paused beside her on the way out, giving her a curious look. “You OK?”
“I’m fine,” she said a little desperately. “I’ll do Triage.”
Triage was simple. She just looked at cuts and bumps and broken toes, and
ranked them in order of priority. Nothing drastic, nobody critical, they came
in ambulances and had immediate priority. Here, she was safe, she thought, her
adrenaline level slowly falling again. Good grief, what was wrong with her?
She’d always wanted to do this, always known she was
cut out to be a trauma nurse. Dammit, she was good at it.
Well, not now, apparently. Not any more. She got through that day by
focusing on routine – mundane stuff she could do with her eyes shut, but it
kept her sane.
She had Wednesday and Thursday off, but Friday was worse – she had to work
in Resus and they had one patient who was touch and go,
but they got him stable and up to Theatre, and she thought she’d be all right.
No such luck. A multiple RTA brought a wave of patients with massive
injuries. Three of them died, two before their relatives could get there. Over
and over again she had to talk to parents and sons and daughters, breaking the
news that would destroy their lives, and every time another little piece of her
died, too.
Still trembling, she went off duty and had a sleepless night punctuated by
hideous nightmares, and the adrenaline was still running when she got to work
on Saturday morning.
Please let it be skinned knees and splinters today, she thought, but of
course it wasn’t. The place was buzzing, and all they could talk about was Josh
Nicholson.
“I can’t believe he survived,” Anna said candidly. “They showed the car on
the news -- you know what it’s like when they cut them out.”
Fran was stunned. “Josh? The guy who was in here on Monday? Are you sure it
was him?”
“Yes – it was on the television news this morning. It happened last night.
It’s in the paper, too – look.”
Fran looked, horrified. It was only five days since she’d sewn him up and
he’d taken her for coffee – he’d been strong and fit and full of humour, alive
and vital, a man in his prime. And now he had multiple injuries and was in
critical condition in Addenbrooke’s in
If he even lived. She pictured those astonishing,
laughing blue eyes dimmed in death, and felt sick. Oh, lord, she thought. Not
another one. Not Josh. This can’t be happening.
“Are you OK?” Anna asked, eyeing her worriedly. “You’ve gone a weird
colour.”
She pulled herself together with an almost physical effort. “Sorry. It was
just the shock, after he was in here so recently. Yes, I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t, and by two that afternoon she found herself sitting down in
the break room with her hands wrapped firmly round a hot cup of disgustingly
sweet tea and Anna standing over her frowning.
“Fran, I think you should go home,” she said, but Fran shook her head.
“I’ll be fine.”
Anna snorted and wheeled out, and a moment later her boss appeared, his face
worried.
“Anna tells me you’ve got a problem.”
“Anna talks too much.”
He sat beside her, staring at his hands intently. “We all do this, you know.
Everyone, at some point, reaches a stage when it’s all too much. Yesterday was
grim. Today hasn’t been much better. I think you should go home – see how you
are tomorrow. You’re overdue for leave, and it’s beginning to tell.”
“It’s not that—“
“I know. Go home, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
So she went, and cried tears of frustration, and rang Daniel. “Are you doing
anything tonight?” she asked. “I could do with talking to someone.”
“I’m busy – I’m on a case,” he told her. “You could come with me to the
hotel and help me people-watch. I’ve got a lead for a particularly juicy and
scurrilous bit of dirt on one of our esteemed political leaders – fancy it?”
She didn’t, but she went anyway, and tried to talk to him about her job, but
his mind wasn’t on it and she could tell he was writing his copy in his head.
Then the politician in question hove into view, and she was forgotten.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said distractedly as she got up to leave. Would he? Possibly, possibly not. She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of
anything any more.
She went home and found Stella there, feet up on the coffee table, the
sitting room strewn with airing washing and the kitchen a mess from end to end.
“You know, you really are the flatmate from hell,” she said calmly, shoving
some washing out of the way and perching on the edge of a chair, and Stella
just grinned.
She was watching the news, and suddenly Josh’s face appeared on the screen.
Fran sank down onto a chair, heart pounding, and learned that he was stable but
critical. Please let him make it, she thought. Not that she’d ever see him
again anyway, of course, but he’d been so vital, so alive.
He couldn’t die.
She had another sleepless night, dreams of Josh’s accident
mingled with the mayhem of the past few days in A and E, and the next day she
fell apart. She couldn’t do the simplest thing, and her boss took her into his
office and sat her down.
“This can’t go on. You’re going to crack up, Fran. You need to take time off
to draw breath and think about your life. Maybe this isn’t right for you any
more. Maybe you need to do something else.”
She stared at him, stunned. “Like what?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Community nursing? Something rural? Maybe get out of
She was stunned – shocked to the core. Community nursing?
What was he on, for heaven’s sake! She was a trauma nurse – except she wasn’t,
apparently, not any more.
“Are you sacking me?” she said in disbelief, but he just smiled kindly, and
it nearly undid her.
“No – I’m rescuing you from an intolerable situation. You’ve got burn-out,
Fran. It happens to the best of us – and you are the best. We’ll miss you
hugely, but you need to do this. Forget coming back at the end of October. I
think you should resign – get it right out of your system and rebuild your
confidence. Then think again. And if you need a reference, just ask.”
“And what will you say?” she asked bitterly. “That I can’t
cope?”
“That you’re the best trauma nurse I’ve ever had.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and hugged him. “Thanks – I think.”
“It’s the right thing for you, Fran. Believe me.”
She didn’t, but nevertheless, her goodbyes said, she found herself standing
on the pavement outside the hospital half an hour later, utterly lost.
She was a trauma nurse – highly skilled, highly trained – highly stressed.
What else could she do?
Something rural, he’d said. Go home, to
She shook her head and gave a disbelieving snort. It was too soon to make a
decision. She walked home, unaware of her surroundings, and when she got in she
made a cup of tea and opened the fridge for the milk, then sniffed, puzzled.
Not the milk, so what, then? Something had died in the fridge, she was sure of
it.
With a short sigh she cleared the worktop above it and emptied it out, then
washed it from end to end, scrubbing out the old orange juice dribbles and the
encrusted milk spills and something brown and horrible down the back wall.
Anything rather than sit and think. Then she went through every item and threw
out most of Stella’s because they were ages past their sell-by date or just
plain rotten.
An hour later, with the fridge and kitchen sorted out and no more readily
available distractions, she sat down with a fresh cup of tea and a dash of milk
that was probably still just about safe and thought, I’m
unemployed.
It was terrifying. She had her rent to pay, hugely high considering the
rather basic condition of the little two-bedroomed flat she shared reluctantly
with the undomesticated Stella. She also needed to eat, and although she had a
small amount of money put away, it really was small,
only enough to cover repairs to her car, for instance.
Rural, she thought. No gangs of youths playing havoc around the bins on the
ground three floors down. No sirens going all night, no constant hum of traffic
and pressure of humanity. How tempting.
Daniel rang her that evening, and she told him about her job, or the lack of
it.
“Wow. That was a bit sudden. Listen, I got a brilliant scoop last night,” he
went on, immediately switching back to himself. She listened, made non-committal
noises and cradled the phone thoughtfully. Was he really totally self-centred,
or was it just her being paranoid? Both, probably.
Funny how she’d never noticed it before, but so much for his moral support.
She didn’t see him that night, or the next, but she saw Stella and didn’t
get a much better response from her. Her flatmate was obviously more worried
about her share of the rent than Fran’s predicament.
“So will you get another job round here or do I need to start looking for
someone else?” she asked, and Fran thought about it and shrugged.
“I don’t know,” she replied, but in truth it was getting less and less
appealing to stay in the city. What was the attraction? Her
less than supportive boyfriend? The flatmate from
hell?
On Wednesday she rang Jackie and chatted for a moment, then screwing up her
courage she told her what had happened.
“Gosh, you poor thing,” Jackie said, all sympathy. “How
scary. Look, I’m sure I can find you something. Do you want to live in?”
“Well, I’ll have to live somewhere and I can’t commute from
“Mmm.” She paused thoughtfully, then went on,
“There’s a possibility – a local GP, Xavier Giraud. He’s looking for a
part-time practice nurse in the morning, and someone to look after his children
after school. It’s a live-in post and the house is absolutely fabulous, you’ll
love it. Georgian – gorgeous. So’s
he, actually. He’s a widower. His wife died in a car accident a couple
of years ago – it was tragic. Such a waste of a life.”
Inexplicably she thought of Josh, and dismissed him. Josh was fine. She
needed to listen to Jackie. “What’s he like – as a person, I mean?’ she asked,
making herself focus. ‘Sounds French or something.”
“He is. He’s super - really kind. All his patients adore him. It’s a good
practice, too. Modern, purpose built, very well equipped.”
“But – nannying?” Fran said doubtfully.
“Well, it isn’t really nannying, they’re older than that. The kids have got
problems, though. Well, not the boy, he’s fine, I gather, but the girl. Since
the accident she’s in a wheelchair and she can’t talk. It’s so sad.”
Fran’s soft heart reached out to the unknown child. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Nobody seems to know. Rumour has it that there’s nothing wrong, it’s just
psychological, but she’s seen every specialist known to man, by all accounts,
and she has regular physio. Poor little thing. It
would be quite a challenge, but it’s not exactly cutting edge medical.”
Fran found her interest piqued. This job sounded more appealing by the
minute.
“Tell me more about him,” Fran prompted. “Why’s he failed with the girl, if
there’s nothing wrong? Lack of parenting skills?”
“Lord, no, he’s a wonderful father, by all accounts, and he’s gutted by his
inability to help her. He’s left no stone unturned, I can assure you. He’s a
good doctor, Fran, I know that. Nobody’s missing anything obvious here, it’s a very unusual case. Very sad, and it couldn’t
have happened to a less deserving family. It’s such a shame.”
“Isn’t it always?” Fran said slowly, thinking of all the news she’d had to
break and the undeserving families she’d destroyed with that news.
“Shall I talk to him, maybe set up an interview?” Jackie suggested. “He’s
getting desperate.”
“Sure,” she said, not really sure at all but running out of options. All she
knew was that going back to A and E wasn’t one of them, certainly not now, and
maybe not even in the future. Every day when she woke and knew she didn’t have
to go in there and face the mayhem, she felt a wave of relief amongst the
uncertainty.
But nannying a child with such huge problems? “Come
back to me when you’ve spoken to him,” she said doubtfully.
Ten minutes later the phone rang.
“Can you do eleven on Friday morning?”
She thought of driving out of
“Look, I’ve got an idea. It’s ages since I’ve seen
you. Come here tomorrow night – it would be lovely to catch up a bit, and I can
fill you in more on Xavier.”
So she drove up the next afternoon and spent the evening with Jackie in her
flat, and they got a takeaway and it was just like old times. And Jackie,
unlike Stella and Daniel, was really involved and sympathetic and understanding, and she began to feel less of a failure.
Maybe coming back up here and working
for Xavier Giraud and his children would be just exactly what she needed.
“Miss Williams?”
Fran stood and looked up into smoke-grey eyes - the kindest, most
understanding eyes she’d ever seen - and felt instantly safe.
“Dr Giraud,” she said, and held out her hand.
His grip was hard and warm, and she was suddenly acutely aware of him as a
man. How odd. He was too old for her – probably in his late thirties, although
that was no great age. Only ten years, and yet in terms of responsibility and
family life, it was light years. Poles apart, she thought with regret.
She dragged her common-sense back into play. She was here about a job, not
to size him up as a prospective replacement for Daniel – a contest he would,
she decided emphatically, win hands down, ten years older or not.
“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,” she said, and he laughed a
little humourlessly.
“I should be thanking you,” he corrected, just a teasing hint of a French
accent giving him away and adding another layer of interest and mystery.
Fran, the job, she reminded herself, and followed him through to his office.
He was tall, she noticed. Tall and broad and with an air of dependability, but
his face was tired and in the depths of those beautiful grey eyes was a bleak
despair she’d seen before in the eyes of relatives. His daughter, she thought.
His poor, tragic little daughter, confined to a chair for no apparent reason,
and him powerless to help her.
“Tell me all about yourself,” he said as they were
seated, but before she could really get launched on an explanation, his phone
rang.
“Excuse me a moment – Giraud. Yes, put her on.”
She listened to the one-sided conversation, to his gentle reassurances and
calming voice, and then he hung up and turned to her, palms upturned in a
typically Gallic gesture.
“I have to go. A patient with heart disease is going downhill fast, and I
need to be there. He won’t go to hospital and his wife’s terrified. I’m so
sorry about this. Look, give Jackie your CV and she can give you this job
description, and if you want to talk to me again, please come back.
Unfortunately the rest of my day is committed with the children, so I can’t
even promise to see you later.”
He stood, unravelling his long legs and scooping up his jacket. “I’m sorry,
I’m really going to have to hurry but I’d love to see you again if you’re
interested.”
She found herself whisked out in moments, and went back to the nursing
agency.
“Gosh, that was quick.” Jackie said, surprised.
“He had to go out.”
“So you didn’t really get to speak to him?”
She thought of their short conversation, and realised it had told her far
more about him than seemed possible. “Not for long. He seems fine,” she told
her. “He wants my CV. I suppose I ought to do one if I’m serious about this job
hunting.”
Jackie laughed. “Borrow my computer. I’ve got a standard CV template on it.”
So she did, and then an hour later, after a quick sandwich with Jackie, she
headed back to
The drive in itself – choked with traffic and honking horns and fumes - was
almost enough to convince her. Then she got back to the flat and it was dirty
and untidy again, and yet again she had to clean up the kitchen before she
could make so much as a cup of tea.
Why on earth would she want to stay in
She pictured Dr Giraud’s eyes, the soft smoky-grey, the depth of
understanding, and recalled his voice, dark-chocolate and hinted with that
subtle accent.
She felt drawn to him, she realised, even after such a short meeting. His
daughter she was less sure about, but at least she wouldn’t be bleeding to
death, unlike almost everyone else Fran had had to deal with in the last few
weeks.
Josh came to mind again, and she wondered how he was getting on in
Addenbrooke’s, and if he was making a steady recovery. He’d ceased to be
newsworthy, so obviously was stable. One less to worry about,
not that he was in any way on her conscience.
Unlike the others.
It’s not your fault they died, she told herself for the hundredth time, and
rang Daniel. “I’m back,” she told him.
‘Did you have a nice time?’
She felt a twinge of guilt for not telling him the truth about her trip, but
squashed it. “Lovely. It was fun seeing Jackie again. Are you busy tonight?”
“Working. Going to make me a better offer?”
She laughed, knowing exactly what he meant and refusing to rise to the bait.
“Not really.”
“How about Monday?”
“Fine. Seven?”
“OK. Got to go, Fran.”
The weekend stretched away ahead of her, and she filled it aimlessly, her
mind whirling all the time. Could she live in sleepy
Monday was better, and she went out to Regent’s Park after lunch and
wandered round for hours. Should she go? Xavier Giraud needed a nurse. She
needed a job and a home. Could she do it?
She glanced at her watch, and realised with a start that Daniel would be
round in an hour and she had to get home. She was hurrying back, crossing
Camden High Road, when there was a screech of brakes on the crossing behind her
and a sickening thump.
Her heart pounding, she turned and looked at the man on the ground. He had a
head injury, and his limbs were lying at an awkward angle. He’d choke if
someone didn’t sort out his airway, she thought, but her feet seemed rooted to
the spot and her body refused to obey her.
“Let me through, I’m a doctor,” someone said, and she watched with relief as
he took over and assessed the man, checked his airway and supported his neck,
snapping out instructions to the bystanders.
Fran watched helplessly until the man was loaded into the ambulance, then
pulling herself together she almost ran back to her flat. She was late, she
realised dimly. It was nearly
Daniel wasn’t. He was in bed with
Stella, instead.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d been in Stella’s bed,
but they were in Fran’s bed, and somehow that just made it worse. Not that it
should have surprised her. Stella used everything of Fran’s – why not Daniel,
too?
“Don’t mind me,” she snapped, and wrenched off the quilt, heedless of their
dignity. “Out, please. I need to pack.”
“Fran, I can explain—“
“I don’t doubt it, Stella, but I’m not sure I can be bothered to listen.”
She ignored their struggles for modesty and snatched down her big sports bag
from the top of the wardrobe.
She didn’t have many clothes – just as well, really, she thought, cramming
them all in as Daniel and Stella made themselves scarce. She dumped the overful
bag by the door, stuffed the rest of her things into a few carrier bags and
unplugged her television from the sitting room.
A couple of pictures came off the wall and into a cardboard box that was
lying around courtesy of the sobbing Stella. A few other treasures and her wash
things from the bathroom joined them, but the majority of her stuff she
couldn’t be bothered with. Let Stella have it, along with everything else.
Her milk, her clothes – her boyfriend.
She ferried her things down to her car, bumping the heavy bag down the
endless stairs, and when she made the last trip she found Daniel waiting at the
bottom.
“Fran, what are you doing?”
She gave him a withering look. “I would have thought you’d forgone any right
to ask that,” she said tartly, and shouldered past him to her car. He opened
the boot for her, and she dropped in the last three carrier bags and slammed
the bootlid shut.
“Goodbye, Daniel. Have fun with Stella – you can go back to bed now. In
fact, why don’t you move in? She needs a new flatmate and you obviously get
along just fine.”
She drove off without a backward glance, and within minutes was headed out
towards the M11 and sanity. She rang Jackie an hour later as an afterthought
from a service station, and asked if she could borrow her sofa again for the
night.
“Sure. Are you OK? You sound a bit strange.”
“I’ll live. My flatmate, on the other hand, will probably die of food
poisoning or a sexually transmitted disease if there’s any justice. I’ll see
you in an hour or so.”
She hung up, and getting back in the car, she drove the rest of the way
feeling much calmer. The nearer she got to
“I’ve had Xavier on the phone about you,” Jackie told her as she carried in her
overnight bag. “I think, if you’re going to be around,
he’d like to talk to you.”
“Good. I need a job – and I need a home. I just found my flatmate and the
man I thought was my boyfriend in my bed together, so I’ve left for good. I’m
now officially homeless as well as jobless. Beat that for a week’s work.”
Jackie looked guilty. “Oh, Fran, I’d love to have you here, but there’s this
new man in my life – he’s called David, and he’s really gorgeous, and I’ve got
great hopes—“
“And you don’t want me cramping your style. Don’t worry, I won’t. I’ll be
gone as soon as possible – if I can’t get a live-in job, I’ll get a flat in the
next day or two. You won’t be stuck with me, I promise.”
* * *
With that promise ringing in her ears, she went to work with Jackie in the
morning and phoned the surgery. Dr Giraud was busy, she was told, but he’d ring
her back as soon as he was available.
She flicked through a few other options Jackie offered her while she waited
for Giraud to return her call, but there was nothing of interest. Elderly
ladies, doubtless charming in their way but too far removed from the bustle of
the workplace for Fran’s taste. No, she didn’t want a one-on-one job – too
intense, too claustrophobic. She needed variety. Xavier Giraud’s practice and
children would be a happy balance, she’d decided – if he’d consider her.
The phone rang, and Jackie answered it and waved her through into her office
at the back. She picked up the receiver.
“Hello? Fran Williams here.”
“Miss Williams? It’s Xavier Giraud. I gather from Jackie you might still be
interested in my vacancy.”
She thought again what a gorgeous voice he had, rich and mellow. It brought
something to life inside her.
“I’d like to talk to you again,” she said. “I’m sorry if I sound indecisive
but it’s so far from what I’ve done up to now and I do want to be sure.”
“It’s rather a strange job,” he said, “but don’t let me put you off.” His
soft chuckle tingled over her nerve endings, and she had to struggle to
concentrate on the rest of their conversation. She arranged to see him at
eleven, then hung up and went through into the front of the agency, his voice
still echoing in her head.
And not only his. She could hear Jackie talking,
and someone else. It was a voice she was sure she knew, and as she turned the
corner she stopped dead. There in a wheelchair by the desk was a man with the
sexiest smile and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
“Well, if it isn’t the bodacious Sister Williams,” he said, and smiled.
“Well, if it isn’t the accident-prone Mr Nicholson,” she replied, smiling
back. “It’s good to see you alive.”
“Do you two know each other?” Jackie asked, fascinated, and Josh chuckled.
“Let’s just say we met over a red-hot needle a little while ago.”
“How is the chest?” Fran asked.
“Oh, the chest is fine – it’s healed beautifully. Unfortunately, though, the
rest of me is lagging behind a little, hence my visit
here. I need a nurse.”
Jackie smiled at her encouragingly, and Fran sat down, the light dawning.
Josh Nicholson needed a nurse – and Jackie wanted her to take the job.
Xavier wanted her to take his, too, and she was torn.
Are you available at short notice? It’s just that I’m stuck for cover for
the children at the moment, and I’m having to take the afternoons off, and it’s
really not fair on my colleagues.
You do know, by the way, that my daughter doesn’t walk or talk?
He’s a wonderful father, by all accounts, and he’s gutted by his inability
to help her.
Josh’s eyes blazed a challenge, though, and that fascinating mouth was
curved in a sexy, taunting grin.
Which job? she thought.
Which man?
Instinctively she realised that it was one of those crossroads in life, a
moment of snap decision when either path could be interesting but only one
could be travelled.
But which one?
Josh was trouble with a huge T. He should still have been in hospital, but
he’d obviously discharged himself with a whole catalogue of injuries, not least
the fixator on his lower right leg, the cast on his right arm and the short
haircut that indicated a head injury. Despite the sexy grin and the wicked
twinkle in his eyes, she knew instinctively that he would be a difficult and
opinionated patient.
Xavier Giraud, on the other hand, with his dead wife and damaged children,
was going to be very emotionally challenging and arguably needed her very much
more.
Not that Josh wouldn’t be a challenge, too, in his own
way, although the challenge there would be outwitting him before he could hurt
himself and keeping boredom at bay so he didn’t take stupid risks.
But the girl – that poor, tragic, motherless little girl,
and her brother, inevitably lacking attention because their father couldn’t do
everything at once – and the father, struggling alone to keep all the threads
of his family and work together. How long could he go on alone? He
needed her.
Josh needed her.
And Jackie was eyeing her expectantly.
Which way was she going to go…?