The Prospective Wife

The Prospective Wife
KIM LAWRENCE

Matt Devlin is the ultimate millionaire playboy, and irresistibly charming. The members of his family, however, are constantly trying to find him a suitable wife. Then Matt has an accident, and his suspicions are aroused when blond, beautiful Kat is hired to help him recover.But Matt is surprised at Kat's cool professionalism as a physiotherapist - maybe she is there to massage, not marry him. So why does he find her touch so arousing - has he at last found his prospective wife?

“You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t want to marry you—I don’t even like you!”

There was a startled pause, during which Kat prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her.

“I have to tell you there are some serious flaws in your seduction technique, Miss Wray,” Matt Devlin told her.

Kat’s cheeks grew hotter as she squirmed under Matt’s scrutiny….

KIM LAWRENCE lives on a farm in rural Anglesey, Wales. She runs two miles daily and finds this an excellent opportunity to unwind and seek inspiration for her writing! It also helps her keep up with her husband, two active sons and the various stray animals that have adopted them. Always a fanatical consumer of fiction, she is now equally enthusiastic about writing. She loves a happy ending!

Kim Lawrence’s fast-paced, sassy books are real page-turners. She creates characters you’ll never forget, and sensual tension you won’t be able to resist….

The Prospective Wife

Kim Lawrence

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

CAUGHT between a rock and a hard place the unfortunate orderly began to sweat. He’d met some real hard cases in his time, but this black-haired bloke, who even on crutches towered over him, could have given the hardest of those tough characters a run for their money! It was something about those eyes, he concluded with a shudder, as he became unable to maintain eye contact with those electric blue orbs any longer.

Truth to tell, he’d always felt slightly scornful of his colleagues, who tended to be intimidated by some of the rich and famous patients who stayed at the exclusive clinic. It was a matter of pride with him…no obsequious grovelling to the spoilt and pampered. He was polite, but he didn’t treat them any differently than he would the ordinary man in the street. In his own defence there was no way this bloke was going to be mistaken for a man in the street, and that circumstance had nothing whatever to do with money.

‘Sister said…’ he began to protest weakly.

‘Take the wheelchair away.’

No shouting, no red-faced blustering, but he still managed to put an indefinable something into his voice that made your blood run cold.

‘Sister Nash said you’ve got to leave in a wheelchair.’

Matthew Devlin permitted himself a thin-lipped smile and remained blissfully unaware that the streetwise young man in front of him found it deeply sinister.

‘Sister Nash knows my opinion of wheelchairs.’

The redoubtable Sister Nash knew Matt’s opinion on a lot of subjects; they’d had many a clash of wills over the past few weeks.

‘Listen, mate.’ The harassed orderly made a last-ditch man-to-man appeal. ‘Maybe you don’t need the wheelchair, maybe you do; I don’t know. I do know you won’t be here tomorrow, but I will and so will Sister Nash. She can make life a misery.’

‘Thanks, Martin. I’ll see Mr Devlin off the premises.’

The orderly turned with an expression of relief to see Andrew Metcalf standing in the doorway.

‘Cheers, Doc!’ He gave him a grateful look and didn’t hang around to find out if his appeal had found a sympathetic ear.

‘Well, Matt, harassing my staff to the bitter end, I see…’

Matthew Devlin snorted. ‘That’s pretty rich, coming from you! If it’s not beneath your dignity—’ he nudged a slim leather briefcase with his toe ‘—carry that for me.’ As much as he hated asking for help, sometimes there was no alternative.

The curt unfriendly tone didn’t have any visible effect on the surgeon, who had a pretty shrewd idea of the frustration his patient was feeling.

‘I doubt if it’s on my job description but what the hell…for my favourite patient, why not?’

‘Is sarcasm in the job description?’ Matt gritted, swinging his crutches into action. Even though this posture robbed him of several inches, he was still a good head taller than the other man.

‘You’re in a hurry,’ the doctor observed, increasing his pace to keep up with the cracking pace Matt had set. ‘Anyone would think you didn’t like us…’

‘If I ever develop a yen to live in a police state you’ll be the first person I think of, Doc,’ Matt promised grimly.

‘I suppose I’d be wasting my breath telling you not to discharge yourself…?’ Matt delivered a look that could have withered grapes on the vine. The doctor gave a philosophical shrug. ‘You can’t blame me for trying. You are, after all, one of my most amazing success stories. I’d hate to see you blow all that hard work for the want of a bit of patience.’

Matt’s smile was wintry. He’d made heavy inroads during the past few months into his limited patience reserves. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to ruin your reputation as a miracle-worker.’

Andrew Metcalf inclined his head in acceptance of the back-handed compliment. His expression was wry; he knew he was good, possibly the best, but he was a realist, and as much as he would have liked to claim all the credit for himself he knew that the speed and completeness of Matt’s recovery owed more to the man’s remarkable determination and steely willpower than anything else.

‘Back door to avoid the press…?’ He knew the routine; the clinic had had its fair share of celebrity patients.

‘I don’t see why I should make their lives easier, do you? Joe’s brought the car around.’

His doctor could see the reasoning behind this logic; he was pretty sure he might be a bit paranoid too if his personal life had been served up for public consumption as often as Matt Devlin’s had.

‘If you’re so bothered about security I’m surprised you’re not staying with your parents. Don’t they even have their own drawbridge…?’

‘Not to mention a moat, castle, and the best part of a village,’ Matt drawled languidly. ‘But no son… At least, not as far as my father’s concerned.’

The doctor looked at his patient’s perfectly proportioned, rather stern profile and wondered if he cared. You never could tell with Matt.