The Doctor's Special Touch

The Doctor's Special Touch
Marion Lennox

Dr. Darcy Rochester is horrified when "doctor" Ally Westruther sets up her massage business next door. He has a low opinion of massage. Darcy doesn't think she's qualified in anything more complicated than basket weaving, and he won't let her put his patients at risk.Darcy soon learns his mistake. But why does such a talented doctor refuse to practice medicine as well as massage? Why doesn't such a skilled worker have enough money to eat? And why does such a beautiful, caring, passionate woman want nothing to do with love?

“You’ve built yourself a cocoon. If you love, then you get hurt.”

“Oh, please,” she whispered. “What’s with the psychoanalysis?”

“I did it as a minor during med,” he said, suddenly cheerful. “I knew it’d come in handy some day.”

“I’m not your patient.”

“No,” he said, and his voice was serious again. “You’re my love. You’re my Ally. You’re a wonderful doctor and a wonderful massage therapist and a wonderful daughter and karate expert and toast-maker and floor-scrubber. But most of all you’re you. I love you, Ally. Whoever you are. Whatever you do.”

“You’re crazy.”

Dear Reader,

There are so many doctors in the world today—doctors of all descriptions. For example, the lovely lady who massages away the knots that form in my back after a week of writing has a doctor of philosophy degree. I think this could lead to some wonderful mix-ups. Last year, lying on my massage table, half-asleep, I started to dream what those mix-ups could be.

Mix-ups, massage and medicine, and two very special doctors…this book has them all. I had a lot of fun writing The Doctor’s Special Touch. In the interests of research I even learned to give a half-decent massage.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as my husband enjoyed my research!

Warm regards,

Marion Lennox

The Doctor’s Special Touch

Marion Lennox

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

‘ARE you out of your mind?’

Ally’s ladder wobbled to the point of peril.

Until now, the main street of Tambrine Creek had been deserted. At eight a.m. on a glorious autumn morning, anyone without any urgent occupation was walking on the beach, pottering on the jetty or simply sitting in the sun, soaking up the warmth before winter.

Which left Ally alone in Main Street. It was gorgeous even there, she’d decided as she worked. The shopping precinct of the tiny harbour town was lined with oaks—trees that had been acorns when Ally’s great-grandfather had first sailed his fishing boat into the harbour a hundred years before. Now the oaks were at their best, their leaves ranging from vivid green to deep, glorious crimson. They were starting to drop, turning the street into a rainbow of autumn colour.

Which was why Ally had a leaf above her eye right now, caught by her honey-blonde fringe. She’d been in the process of brushing it away when the stranger had spoken.

And shocked her into almost falling off her ladder.

She was brushing the leaf from her fringe. She was holding a paintpot, with her brush balanced on the top. That didn’t leave a lot of hands to clutch her ladder. But clutching the ladder was suddenly a priority. She made a grab, subconsciously deciding whether to drop the leaf or the paintpot.

Which one? According to Murphy’s law, some things were inevitable.

So the pot fell, and it hit street level right at the stranger’s feet. A mass of sky-blue paint shot out over the pavement, over the leaves—over the stranger’s shoes.

Whoa!

Safely clutching her ladder—she’d finally decided maybe she could release her leaf as well—Ally surveyed the scene below with dismay.

The guy underneath was gorgeous. Seriously gorgeous, in a sort of any-excuse-to-put-him-on-the-front-page-of-a-women’s-magazine-type gorgeous. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a lovely strong-boned face. Deep, dark grey eyes. Wavy, russet hair, a bit too long. Yep, gorgeous.

The clothes helped, too. The man was dressed relatively formally for this laid-back seaside village in neat, tailored trousers and a short-sleeved shirt in rich cream linen. The man had taste. And he was wearing a tie, for heaven’s sake—and not a bad tie either, she conceded.

What else? He had lovely shoes. Brogues. Quality. Beautifully streaked now with sky-blue paint.

His shoes seemed to be a cause for concern. Ally clutched her ladder and sought valiantly for something to say.

Finally she found it. She let the word ring around her head a little, just to see how it sounded. Not great, she thought, but she couldn’t think of much else. He’d scared her. Don’t launch straight into grovelling apology, she told herself. So what was left?

‘Whoops,’ she said.

Whoops.

The word hung in the early morning stillness. The stranger stared for a bit longer at his shoes—as if his feet had personally let him down—and then he turned his attention back to her.

Involuntarily Ally’s hands clutched even tighter at the ladder. Whew. She was about to get a blast. His deep, grey-flecked eyes looked straight up at her, and they blazed with anger.