LITMIR.BIZ

      They walked back to the hospital together, but they walked in silence. He’d offended her, Tom thought. He knew what he’d said had been clumsy, but he was too tired to get the nuances right.

      So now she walked beside him and he couldn’t think where to take it. And it wasn’t just tiredness that was throwing him. Would he have accused any other doctor of not caring? After she’d spent the last three days doing just that, it seemed unfair.

      There was something about her that had him off balance.

      She was gorgeous. Half a head smaller than he was, she was packaged just right. Bouncy brown curls—well, he’d seen them bouncy, though she had them tied up tight now. Brown eyes, nicely spaced. A wide, generous mouth and a smattering of freckles. She was dressed conservatively—too conservatively for such a warm day, in neat black trousers and a long-sleeved shirt—but her plain clothes didn’t disguise the curves underneath.

      It wasn’t the fact that she was cute—well, more than cute—that had him off balance, but he didn’t know why.

      Was it the bleak notes in her scholarship application? Was it the way she’d said the word stepfather, as if the name itself conjured horror? Was it the anger he’d seen when she’d thought the boys were neglected?

      Or was it the traces of fear that appeared and disappeared, as if there were things, emotions, Rachel Tilding was still hiding?

      How did you get over a childhood of neglect?

      Tom had had a blessed childhood. His father had left Shallow Bay early—‘I can’t stand the sight of blood—there’s no way I could have done medicine.’ He’d done law, been hugely successful, moved into politics and then into international diplomacy. His mother’s career was equally impressive. Tom’s arrival had been an accident—they’d been too busy to have children—but in the end they’d welcomed him. They were a power couple but their love for their only son had been unstinting.

      As his grandparents’ love had been. Tom had had the run of embassies, of political powerhouses, and of Shallow Bay. He’d learned languages, he’d studied, he’d surfed, he’d dated gorgeous women, he’d had fun.

      He’d also rescued things. Anything. Beetles lying upside down on wet paths. Unwanted kittens. Bullied kids at school.

      He couldn’t bear to see hurt, even though sometimes caring caused chaos.

      Like the time he’d brought a huntsman spider home, a female, laden with a huge egg sac. He’d found it at the back of the lockers at school, missing two legs, and decided to rehome it in the laundry. He’d forgotten to tell his mother—who’d found about a thousand baby spiders in her clean washing.

      Like the first time he’d seen Claire, being yelled at by her father as she was dropped off at infant school.

      Like the time Claire had phoned him after her diagnosis. ‘Please, Tom, help me…’

      Was the same drive to fix things attracting him to Rachel? He’d always been a sucker for the needy. He knew it.

      ‘It’s just the way you’re made,’ he told himself. ‘It’s in your DNA. So leave it. Rachel doesn’t need you. She’s tough and she’s bright and she’ll do what it takes to get on in life. You do the same.’

      It made sound sense.

      So why did a niggle of doubt tell him that life was about to get more complicated?