The Doctor's Special Touch

There was a sharp intake of breath on that one. ‘Are you listening?’ he demanded, and she stifled a giggle. Propositioning her? Maybe not. Did this man know that she was even a woman?

‘I’m listening.’ She put on her demure tone and received a suspicious glance for her pains.

‘I have three really sick kids up in the alternative lifestyle settlement above town,’ he told her. ‘It’s a commune of sorts. They’ve been hit with chickenpox and I can’t bring the really sick ones down to hospital as I’d like. They won’t let me.’ Then, as she still looked confused, he explained a bit more. ‘I have another half-dozen house calls to do before I call it a day, so I don’t have time to talk to you about the problems you might be facing, but I do need to talk to you. It’s a fifteen-minute drive. Come with me and talk on the way?’

She stared at him. She stared at the big Mercedes.

She looked down at herself.

She’d been painting when Gloria had arrived. She’d put clean jeans and a T-shirt on to do the massage but they weren’t exactly the sort of gear this man would expect in any woman he dated.

And their date was with chickenpox?

Plus a sandwich. A free sandwich. And a ride in a very nice car.

‘OK, then,’ she said, trying hard to sound demure and compliant and not truly excited about a free sandwich. ‘I can do that.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I have time between clients.’

‘When’s your next client due?’

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ she told him. ‘Can I have my sandwich toasted?’

Which was how, fifteen minutes later, they were heading north out of town, with Ally wrapping herself around a double round of toasted ham, cheese and tomato sandwiches with double the usual cheese and very thick bread.

Darcy had ordered himself a single round of salad sandwiches—how boring was that? He finished them off while he drove, then concentrated on driving with the occasional sideways glance at her.

She’d added a chocolate thick-shake as a side order. It tasted unbelievably wonderful.

‘Do you have worms?’ he asked, and she almost choked. But didn’t. That would be a waste of sandwich and there was no way she was wasting a crumb.

‘Why would I have worms?’ she demanded with her mouth full, and then added a polite, ‘Doctor?’

‘I’ve never met anyone so skinny who eats like you do.’

‘Then you haven’t lived,’ she told him, and turned her attention to her thick-shake again. Some things required full attention.

‘So you live on your nerves?’

She sighed. She slurped the rest of her thick-shake and thought about licking the rim. She sighed again, this time in real regret, and let it go. A girl had some standards.

‘I don’t live on my nerves.’

‘So you’re bulimic?’

‘Right. A bulimic call-girl.’

‘Hey…’

‘Do we have to get so personal?’ she asked him.

‘I just want to know.’

‘Well, I don’t particularly want to tell. No, I am not bulimic, Dr Rochester. I’m disgustingly healthy. So set your professional concerns aside and tell me why you’re bringing me on this drive to see chickenpoxes. I assume you don’t think they want a massage?’

‘No, I—’

‘Good. Rubbing poxes would make them itch.’

‘You know—’

‘Just tell me what you want me to hear.’

He hesitated. She waited. This car was really lovely, she thought. It must have cost him a bomb. If she set up her own medical plate in the main street of somewhere like Tambrine Creek, then maybe…

Yeah, right.

‘Tell me,’ she said again, and this time there was an edge of anger in her voice that she didn’t try and disguise.

‘There are some vulnerable people in this town.’

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ he said angrily. ‘Will you just listen? You haven’t been near this place for nearly twenty years.’

‘So you think I’m about to prey on the population.’

‘I bought you a sandwich,’ he snapped. ‘Listen.’

‘Fine,’ she said. She set her empty shake container in the cute little drink holder between the seats, folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead. ‘In payment for my sandwich I’ll be quiet. But only because you let me have double cheese.’ Her voice became totally subservient. ‘Please, sir, I’m paying attention. You can start now.’

Silence. Then a sound from the driver’s side that might almost be…a chuckle?

She ventured a suspicious glance at him and found his lips were twitching. And those eyes…

Laughter did something to him, she thought, and tried very hard to stay looking demure and compliant and good.

‘OK.’ He took a visible hold on his sudden and unexpected flicker of humour, and gripped the steering wheel harder. ‘There are a few people I need to talk about.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Ivy Morrison,’ he said, and there was a touch of desperation in his voice that said that laughter wasn’t too far away.

‘What about Ivy Morrison?’

‘She’s on a pension.’ Laughter faded. ‘She’s a little simple. She buys every new thing that’s going and gets into the most appalling financial mess. She’ll be desperate to see you.’

‘I’ll see her.’

‘Are you listening?’ he demanded. ‘She can’t afford you.’