A Perfect Hero Read Free

it, she thought to herself as she recalled their earlier conversation.
    The day dragged. Not even to herself would Clare admit the reason, but as she went off-duty and found herself rummaging through her wardrobe for an appropriate alternative to jeans for a pub snack, she was brought up sharply against the realisation that her tingling sense of anticipation had only one cause—and that cause was Michael Barrington.
    ‘Damn!’ she muttered to herself, and all through her shower and preparation for the evening, she worried about her reaction to him. Because he was quite evidently a womaniser, and she had no intention of surrendering her hard-fought scruples to some trifling playboy just because he made her senses reel!
    Her preparations complete, she stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and studied her reflection. Her blonde hair, released form the starched white cap and freshly washed, tumbled in casual layers to brush her collar lightly at the back. Her make-up, slightly heavier than usual, was still restricted to a smudge of soft grey-green shadow over her wide almond-shaped eyes, a touch of soft pink lipstick and the lightest feathering of mascara to tint the pale tips of her lashes. Casual, he had said, so she was wearing a soft cotton sweater the same grey-green as her eyes, and a pair of culottes in a rust and green print. Her legs were bare, her feet comfortably shod in soft cotton canvas slip-ons. She wondered ifthe whole effect was too casual, but it was too late to worry.
    At five to seven, her heart pounding, she let herself out of her flat and made her way down to the main entrance of the hospital.
    As she emerged on to the steps she saw Michael in the staff car park, deep in conversation with two of the consultants. She hung back, not quite ready yet to have her name publicly connected to his, but he had seen her and, making his excuses, he strode quickly towards her, a smile on his lips.
    ‘Clare—you’re on time!’
    ‘What did you expect?’
    He laughed. ‘I expected you to be like most girls—late!’
    ‘I’m not most girls,’ she said repressively, and he laughed again.
    ‘So I’m beginning to realise. Come on, I’m starving.’ He took her arm and led her towards the car park. ‘Oh, I have a confession—I rang the pub, and they don’t do food on a Monday night, so before I spring it on you I wondered if you would consider allowing me to cook for you.’
    Her heart sank. Here we go, she thought, and she slowed to a halt.
    ‘In your house?’
    ‘My cottage. You needn’t worry, I’m a good cook, but apart from the local pub I haven’t found anywhere else yet in the few days since I moved—by all means suggest something else if you’d rather, but I can promise you I have no intention of jumping your bones, my love.’
    She gave a surprised little laugh, and glanced up at him. ‘Am I so transparent?’
    He grinned. ‘You were as jumpy as a cat this morning, so it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. I promise to keep my hands to myself if you do.’
    ‘If I do? What do you mean?’ she squeaked.
    He gave a wry little laugh. ‘You think you’re the only one who gets treated like a sex object? Believe me, it makes a refreshing change to meet someone who isn’t all over me like a rash after fifteen seconds!’
    Well, and who could blame them? Clare thought to herself, recognising the slight bitterness behind the apparently arrogant remark. If she wasn’t so busy saying no all the time she might well be tempted herself! She smiled at him. ‘You’ve got a deal. You cook, I’ll talk, and we can both clear up afterwards. How’s that?’
    ‘Great. Here we are. Hop in.’
    He opened the door of a sleek red beastie, and she was instantly glad she hadn’t worn a mini-skirt.
    ‘Wow!’
    He grinned self-consciously as he settled himself beside her behind the wheel. ‘It’s my brother’s. I have a battered old Volvo estate for dragging all the boat stuff around, but he’s in