The Doctor's Special Touch

This man intended to let her have it with both barrels.

OK. She knew about anger. She’d lived through it before and she could live with it again. She closed her eyes and braced herself.

Silence. Then: ‘Hey, I’m not going to hit you,’ he told her.

That was out of left field. She opened her eyes cautiously and peered down.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said I’m not about to hit you,’ he told her. ‘Or knock you off your ladder. So you can stop looking like that. Much as you deserve it, there’s no way painting shoes merits physical violence.’

She thought about that and decided she agreed. She agreed entirely. She shouldn’t expect violence, she thought, but she had entirely the wrong slant on the world, and she’d had it for ever.

‘You scared me,’ she said, still cautious.

‘So I did.’ His voice was almost cordial. ‘Silly me. So you decided to paint me in return.’

‘It might come off,’ she told him. ‘With turpentine.’

‘Do you have turpentine?’

‘No.’

He sighed. ‘You’re painting with oil-based paint—and you don’t have turpentine?’

‘I’ll get some. When the store opens.’

‘At nine o’clock. By which time my shoes will be dry. Blue and dry.’

‘But I’ve only just started to paint, so I don’t need turpentine yet. Or I didn’t.’ She gazed up at her handiwork then down to his shoes, and her ladder wobbled again.

‘You know, if I were you I’d come down,’ he told her. ‘That ladder isn’t safe. You need someone holding the bottom.’ Then, as if it occurred to him that she just might ask him to volunteer, he added, ‘Maybe you need to get a different type of ladder.’

‘This one’s fine.’ Though maybe he did have a point, she conceded. It was sort of wobbly. Sort of very wobbly. Maybe instead of one that balanced against the shop front, she should get one that was self-supporting.

How much did a self-supporting ladder cost?

Probably far too much. How much did she have left in the kitty? About forty dollars to last until she got her first client.

But he was still worrying. ‘You’ll kill yourself,’ he told her. ‘Come down.’

She considered this and found a flaw. ‘The pavement’s all blue,’ she told him. ‘I might get my shoes dirty.’

‘Lady…’

‘Mmm?’ She dared a smile and discovered he was trying not to smile back. She smiled a little more—just to see—and the corners of his mouth couldn’t help themselves. They curved upward and the flecked grey eyes twinkled.

Whew! It was some smile. A killer smile.

The sort of smile that made a girl clutch her ladder again.

But the smile had moved on. ‘Whoever’s employing you should be sued for making you work with a ladder like this.’ He gazed up at the sign she’d etched in pencil and was now filling in with paint. ‘And to get back to my first point…’

‘Which was asking me was I out of my mind.’

‘You’re painting a sign,’ he said. ‘Advertising a doctor’s rooms. Right next to my surgery.’

‘Your surgery?’

He pointed sideways. She peered sideways and wobbled again.

He sighed. He caught the ladder and held it firmly on each side, gaining a liberal coating of blue paint on each hand as he did.

‘Get down,’ he told her. ‘Right now. I’m the Dr Darcy Rochester of the small, insignificant bronze plate on the next-door clinic. A nice, discreet little doctor’s sign. As opposed to your monstrosity.’

‘Monstrosity?’

‘Monstrosity. Signs four feet high are a definite monstrosity. And painting them above eye level is ridiculous. For both of us. I don’t want another patient,’ he told her. ‘I’m worked off my feet as it is, and this is a one-doctor town. If you break your neck you’re in real trouble.’

‘I might be at that,’ she admitted. She thought about what he’d said, sorting it out in her head. Figuring out what was important. ‘You’re the Dr Darcy Rochester in the sign?’

‘Yes.’

Nice. She’d been wondering what he looked like, imagining who he could be, and this was perfect. He so fitted his name.

‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a very romantic name?’

‘They have, as a matter of fact,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘My mother was a romance addict. She couldn’t believe her luck when she met Sam Rochester. She called my brother—’

‘Don’t tell me. Edward?’

‘Nothing so boring. Try Byron.’ Then, at her look of horror, he grinned. ‘He calls himself Brian and anyone who uses Byron gets slugged. You know, with the amount of paint sprayed on these rungs, if I stay holding this ladder for much longer I’m going to stick here. Get down. Now.’

She didn’t have much choice. She took a deep breath and descended. With care. Another leaf landed on her nose and she blew it aside. It distracted her, but not very much.

He was too near. Too close. And when she took those last couple of steps he was right behind her. He was big, warm and solid, with the faint scent of something incredibly masculine emanating from his person. Like open fires. Woodsmoke.

‘Do you smoke?’ she demanded, and he was so surprised that he took a step back. Breaking the intimacy. Which was good.

Wasn’t it?

‘Um…no.’

‘You smell like smoke.’

‘You smell like paint thinner,’ he told her, trying not to smile. ‘I don’t ask if you drink it.’

‘Sorry.’ She bit her lip. ‘Of course. It’s none of my business. But if you’re a doctor…’