Rescued By The Single Dad Doc / The Midwife's Secret Child. Fiona McArthur

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      Still, he kind of hoped she’d stay.

      ‘I don’t mind a beer,’ she said tentatively, and he grimaced.

      ‘Lady, you’re going to have to do better than that. I carried two stubbies all the way down here. That’s a fair commitment on my part. So now I’m offering to share, but not with someone who “doesn’t mind a beer.” It has to be “I’d love a beer” or nothing.’

      And suddenly she smiled. He’d seen her smile before, greeting patients, being pleasant, but her smiles had been tight, smiles to put people at ease. This one, though, was something much more. It was a wide, white smile with a chuckle behind it.

      Cute.

      More than cute. Gorgeous.

      ‘My lukewarm response was simply because you pre-empted your kind invitation with a vision of piña colada and umbrella,’ she admitted and, splendidly, she sat herself down on the sand again. But where most women—most anybody—would set the towel down and sit on it, she kept it firmly wrapped around her arms, a cover for what lay beneath.

      ‘Where in Shallow Bay would I get a piña colada?’ she asked, and he had to stop thinking about scars on arms and focus on what was important. Piña coladas.

      ‘Dougal’s pub doesn’t run to them, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘I had to twist his arm to stock low-alcohol beer. Apparently, it’s for sissies.’

      ‘Or doctors on call.’

      ‘As you say. So…beer or no beer?’

      And her smile flashed out again. ‘I really would love a beer.’

      That smile… He found himself grinning to match, though he wasn’t actually sure what he was grinning about. She disconcerted him and he didn’t understand that either.

      So back to basics. He twisted the ring-pull and handed her a bottle, then did the same for himself. ‘Here’s to the end of your first week,’ he told her, clinking bottles. ‘May your next week be not so exciting.’

      ‘Apart from the first couple of hours when your son tried to stab himself to death, it hasn’t been very exciting at all,’ she told him. She took a swig of her beer and seemed to enjoy it. ‘I suspect it’s been a lot more exciting for you, and I’m so glad it’s turned out well.’

      ‘You and me both. And I’m incredibly grateful. I wish it could have been piña colada.’

      ‘I told you, I’d love a beer.’ She held up her bottle and regarded it with affection. ‘The fact that I’ve been on the beach for two hours and forgot my water bottle—and there’s no piña colada in sight—has nothing to do with it. Beer’s great.’

      And there was the smile again. He liked it. A lot.

      ‘But wouldn’t you be more comfortable drinking your beer at home?’ she queried, and he thought, She’s made the decision to come down here—alone. It confirmed what he was learning of her. She was a woman who valued her own company, which made what she’d offered to do last weekend even more extraordinary.

      ‘The kids are at home,’ he said. ‘Added to that, they have a video game which requires at least three players. It involves bombs and flames and dragon babies turning into things I don’t want to think about.’

      ‘So…’ she said cautiously. ‘They play it a lot?’

      ‘Is that a judgement?’

      ‘Hey, I’m no judge. I’m just happy to have intact windows.’

      ‘Yeah,’ he said morosely. ‘You and me both. The game’s okay. Fun, even. But, right now, they can’t play because, stupidly, I bought a game that needs at least three players. I bought it so they’d be forced to include Henry, who often gets left out. Unfortunately, Kit’s now away. Rose holds up her knitting like armour whenever they approach, so I’m their only available third man. It’s a wonder they didn’t have you playing last weekend.’

      ‘They tried,’ she said. ‘I was busy.’

      ‘Is that what you said?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Then why doesn’t that statement work for me?’

      ‘You’re obviously a softie,’ she told him. ‘But if you don’t like playing with them…’

      He knew what she was asking. It was the question that he asked himself more than a dozen times a day. ‘You want to know why I took them on?’

      ‘It’s none of my business,’ she said hastily, and he sighed and took another swig of beer and wished he’d had the forethought to buy a dozen.

      ‘I do like playing with them,’ he admitted. ‘Mostly. But that’s what got me into trouble in the first place.’

      ‘I don’t get it.’

      ‘Their mother was my best friend,’ he said simply. ‘We were mates from pre-school, right through med. school and beyond. Never lovers, though. Claire had appalling taste in men, from the time she kissed Terry Hopkins behind the shelter sheds when she was ten. Hopkins used to squash snails down girls’ dresses. Why did she not see that could only end in tears?’

      ‘She married a snail-squasher?’

      ‘She escaped Terry Hopkins but she did worse. She married a serial cheat and a bully. Claire’s parents are loaded. Her father’s something huge in the financial world. My parents are wealthy enough, but they’re nothing compared to Claire’s. Steve took one look at only-child Claire’s inheritance prospects and moved right in. But as soon as they were married he reverted to the slimeball he was. He had affair after affair, treating Claire like dirt.’

      ‘Which left you as a friend.’

      ‘I’m godfather to each of them,’ he said, trying to eke out his beer to last through a bleak story. ‘And they’re great kids. Claire and I worked in the same hospital as interns. It was easy to help her out in emergencies. I didn’t mind taking them to soccer on Saturdays, doing the occasional childminding. It was even fun.’

      ‘Until…’

      ‘Until.’ He gave up on his stubby, planting it in the sand. It was still a quarter full but maybe he’d need it at the end.

      He usually hated telling this story, but he glanced at Rachel and saw only casual interest—the sort of interest a doctor might show a patient describing symptoms. She wasn’t emotionally involved. She was simply a colleague who was…asking.

      Strangely, it made it easier to keep talking. Every one of his friends had reacted to his story with dismay, horror, sympathy. Rachel was asking—because she’d like to know? Or because she thought she ought to ask. The differentiation was hard to make but somehow he appreciated it.

      Her detachment made the story easier to tell.

      ‘Claire was diagnosed with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy when Henry was two,’ he told her. ‘She collapsed at work. Dramatic. Awful. If she hadn’t been СКАЧАТЬ