The Army Doctor's Forever Baby
By
Helen Scott Taylor
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Copyright © 2014 Helen Taylor
Cover design © Helen Taylor
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The right of Helen Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act, 1988.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Copyright owner.
Chapter One
1982
Dr. Sandra Fisher hurried along the corridor of the London hospital where she worked, trying to suppress the limp from her bruised knee. Thank goodness it was nearly eleven p.m. and the place was quiet. She would be mortified if any of her colleagues saw her in this state. It wasn't her fault a taxi had knocked her off her bicycle, but she was still embarrassed that her coat was wet and dirty, and her nylons ripped.
Not to mention her broken spectacles. She pushed them up her nose, blinking at the disorienting view of the linoleum floor with one eye focused and the other fuzzy from the missing glass lens.
Ahead, a tall male figure came through the double doors and strode towards her. She squinted at him and her heart plummeted. Of all the people to bump into, it had to be George Knight—the last person on earth she wanted to see her like this. Not that he'd care what she looked like. She'd spent five years at Oxford with him and he'd never shown any interest in her. He was so out of her league, he was in another universe.
George's long strides brought him closer far too quickly. Sandra averted her gaze and increased her pace. "Good evening," she mumbled as she scurried past, her handbag gripped to her side, hoping it hid some of the dirt on her coat.
"Sandra, are you all right?"
Her already hot cheeks flamed. She slowed, not wanting to appear rude to a fellow doctor, one she had to work with. "Fine, thank you. I'm on call and I'm late. Better go."
She wasn't late, of course. Her job was too important to jeopardize it in even the smallest way. She'd worked hard to win a place at one of the most prestigious universities in the UK. Now she was a qualified doctor, she was determined to excel in every specialty during her rotation so when she applied for a place in general practice, she would have her pick.
"Sandra, wait. You're not all right. What happened to you?"
Sandra's cheeks burned hotter. "I'm fine. Honestly." Unfortunately, at that moment her foot twisted as the loose heel on her shoe finally came off. In her rush to get away from George, she'd forgotten about that.
She bent and grabbed up the shoe with its dangling heel and hobbled on towards the door that led to the sanctuary of the on-call room. She prayed that George got the message that she didn't want his help, and he would leave her alone.
Decisive male footsteps followed and a strong hand slipped beneath her elbow, supporting her awkward gait. "You are not fine," he said as he reached for the door handle and helped her inside.
She wished she could have privacy to repair her appearance, but as a doctor, he had as much right to use the on-call room as she did. The four bunk beds stood empty. George guided her to a lower one and didn't release her until she was sitting on the side of the mattress.
"I'll be okay now." She tried to get rid of him, desperately aware she must look stupid with her broken glasses and the French twist in her hair half fallen out.
She still hadn't looked him in the face and hoped he would leave before she had to. If her cheeks grew any hotter, they would catch on fire.
He ignored her words and hunkered down in front of her. Reluctantly, she raised her gaze from her lap and blinked a few times, adjusting to the half-clear, half-fuzzy view of him through her broken glasses.
Despite her utter mortification, at the sight of his sleek dark hair and brown eyes, her heart still fluttered in the stupid, uncontrollable way that she hated. Every time she'd worked with him in college, she'd turned into a tongue-tied dunce while he took charge—a natural leader, capable, articulate, and bright. He probably thought she was a half-wit and wondered how she'd managed to pass her medical degree.
"You're hurt." He cupped her calf in his large hand and eased off her remaining shoe, examining her grazed knee through the shredded nylons. Tickly streamers of sensation raced up Sandra's leg from his touch and she caught her breath. How many times had she imagined his fingers on her skin? He'd filled her dreams ever since she set eyes on him their first week at college, over five years ago.
"It's only a graze. I can deal with it."
"What happened to you?" he demanded.
When he used that tone, it was impossible not to answer.
"A taxi knocked me off my bicycle." She'd had to push the bike with a buckled wheel the last half mile to the hospital.
"Damn taxis. Are you hurt anywhere else?"
Her elbow, hip, and shoulder ached, but her thick winter coat had protected her. She suspected the other injured places were only bruised. Sandra shook her head, not meeting his gaze. George put a finger beneath her chin and tilted it up until she had to look him in the eye. He elevated an eyebrow, clearly indicating he didn't believe her.
"Take off your nylons. I'll fetch a dressing pack and clean up your knee. I'll be back in a moment." He rose, towering over her, filling the small room. His army uniform only served to increase his innate air of authority, making her swallow back another protest.
The door closed behind him, and her breath whooshed out with a mixture of relief and another emotion that she didn't want to examine. However much she longed for George Knight, it was completely pointless, like grasping for the moon. Even if he had been attracted to her, she should avoid him. It had been clear all the way through medical school that he was dedicated to the army.
Once Sandra found her dream job in general practice, she planned to marry a family man and have lots of children. She would live in a small country town like the one where she'd grown up, and devote herself to the community and her family. Marrying an army officer who would be posted overseas was not part of that plan.
Despite her secret yearning for George, he was off-limits. Not that she need worry about making such a difficult choice. He wouldn't want to marry her in a million years.
She rose, took off her dirty coat, and gingerly slid down her nylons, wincing as the threads caught in the wound. Then she pulled the pins out of her hair, letting it tumble down over her shoulders, before removing her damaged glasses.
Washing the grit off her hands in the small sink, she sluiced cool water on her face and patted her skin dry with a towel, trying to make herself presentable before George returned.
He probably wouldn't care what she looked like. After five years at college together, she was certain he saw her purely as another professional. But a defiant little part of her desperately wanted him to think she was pretty—even if he was off-limits.
• • •
George strode back down the corridor towards the on-call room, his jaw clenched with annoyance. A London taxi had knocked the side mirror off his new Triumph sports car two days ago. Now a taxi had forced Sandra off her bicycle. It appeared she only
had minor injuries, but she could have been badly hurt. Those black cabs were a menace!
He knocked on the door before entering the room, aware that Sandra was uncomfortable accepting his help. He dealt with injured people every day in the ER and knew they were at their most vulnerable when they were hurt. The last thing he wanted to do was walk in on Sandra while she was removing her nylons and embarrass her further.
At her soft "Come in," he entered and closed the door behind him. She had removed her coat to reveal a navy skirt and dark red cardigan over a pinkish blouse. He switched on the main light to give him a good view of her knee.
"Did you bump your head?" He should have asked her that immediately, but his concern for her had temporarily disrupted his usual cool. He'd never had to treat a friend before, not that Sandra was a close friend, more an acquaintance. Actually, he was surprised how much her being hurt had affected him.
He'd admired her in college. Her hard work and dedication matched his own. There were only a few of his fellow students that he'd trusted to pull their weight in group projects, and Sandra was one of them.
George filled a kidney dish with water from the sink, then kneeled in front of Sandra and lifted her foot to rest on his thigh. He wet a gauze pad to wash the grit from her lacerated knee. "Ready?" He glanced up and paused, his heart giving a strange bump as his gaze met hers.
Her long dark hair tumbled around her shoulders in soft waves and her hazel eyes seemed much bigger than usual. It was incredible how different she appeared without her glasses. "You look…" Pretty, he thought, biting back the compliment that was totally inappropriate right now. What was the matter with him?
He returned his attention to the task at hand and carefully stroked the wet dressing over her knee, ensuring all the dirt was removed before applying antiseptic and covering the wound. The light weight of her slender bare foot on his thigh tugged at his awareness in a way he didn't want to admit. The poor girl had been hurt, and his mind was moving in a direction that shamed him.
He set her foot down gently and returned his gaze to her face. She blinked at him as if dazed. Was she concussed? She might have bumped her head without realizing it. He'd known that to happen.
George rose to sit on the bed at her side, instinctively slipping a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Are you sure you feel up to work? I was going home, but I can stay if you want me to cover for you."
"I'll be fine once I put on clean nylons and another pair of shoes." She winced as George squeezed her shoulder, and he realized it must be sore. If she'd come off her bicycle, it was likely she'd sustained more damage than just a grazed knee.
"Where else are you hurt? Your shoulder? Let me take a look."
"No, honestly. I'm sure it's just bruised."
"You didn't check while I was gone?"
"No, but—"
George was already on his feet, drawing her up with him. "Come on. It'll only take a moment to examine."
With a small sigh, Sandra unbuttoned her cardigan and a few buttons on her shirt and eased the fabric away from her shoulder, revealing the strap and top of a practical white cotton bra. George stared for a moment before he caught himself and focused on the nasty contusion darkening her pale shoulder to an angry purple. But the skin wasn't broken.
Sandra ran her fingers over her discolored flesh and pressed her lips together. "You see. There's nothing you can do to help. I'll just have to be patient until it gets better." She pulled the shirt up and quickly re-buttoned it.
"What about your elbow and your hip?"
"Just bruised, I think. Nothing to worry about." She firmly refastened her cardigan and crossed her arms.
George had noticed her coat sleeve was torn, but he didn't push her. The way he was feeling right now, asking her to remove any more clothing probably wasn't a good idea. "Are you sure you don't want me to cover your shift for you?"
"I'm sure."
"Right, then. I'd better go home and get some shut-eye." He'd been on call for thirty-six hours and should be tired, but his weariness had fled when he encountered Sandra. For some reason he was reluctant to leave her. Strange, when she had never really been his friend at medical school. Although he'd worked with her often, he'd found it difficult to get to know her. She was one of those private people who kept to herself.
"I hope you recover soon. If you don't feel well during the night, go down to the ER and have them check you out."
"That's a good idea." Sandra nodded in a way he knew meant she had no intention of following his advice. She just wanted to be rid of him.
He was good at reading most people, but he'd never been able to work Sandra out. She confused him. That was unusual and a little intriguing.
• • •
George pulled up in the drive of his parents' house in Wimbledon and cut the engine. He flipped his keys in his hand, his thoughts still back at the hospital. Sandra had been on his mind as he made his way home through the London traffic, still busy even after midnight.
He should have covered her shift and insisted she go home. She was clearly shaken by her accident, even if she wasn't badly hurt. He tapped the steering wheel, annoyed with himself for not insisting.
A streak of light flashed across his vision as the sitting room curtains parted briefly. Was someone still up? George glanced at his watch to confirm what he already knew. It was nearly one a.m. His parents would be in bed, and likely most of their houseguests would be asleep as well.
He had a nasty feeling he knew who was waiting up for him, and he really didn't want to see her. She was the reason he'd dawdled after he finished work.
With a resigned sigh, he slid out of his sports car and locked it. As he approached his parents' front door, it opened and a waft of sickly sweet perfume enveloped him.
"George, I thought you'd never get home. I've been waiting up for you."
Celia Featherington's arms looped around his neck and she aimed a kiss at his mouth. At the last moment he turned his head, and the sticky lipstick planted on his cheek instead. He extracted himself from her embrace, pretending to check his pockets for something. It took all his concentration to resist rubbing his face where her lips had touched him. From experience he knew he'd have a red imprint there.
"Thank you for waiting up, Celia. I wish I had time to chat, but I've been on call for thirty-six hours. I'm afraid I need my bed."
"I could always come with you." She giggled and George took a subtle step back.
He'd known Celia all his life and had never really liked her. She just wasn't his sort of girl. She was giggly and high maintenance. When they were children, she'd simply irritated him with her endless girly babble. Recently she'd become worse. Everything about her was fake—dyed hair, false eyelashes, awful long plastic fingernails, and makeup that caked her face like cement.
He liked fresh-faced, intelligent women who only spoke when they had something meaningful to say. An image of Sandra flitted through his mind and he pressed his lips together thoughtfully. Although he didn't know her well, he suspected she was exactly the sort of woman he should marry—bright, hard-working, and sensible. The army would keep him away from home for long periods of time. He wanted to know his children were being raised by a wife who shared his values.
Unfortunately, his parents had earmarked Celia as a potential daughter-in-law and started pushing her at him.
Celia put her hand through his arm and clung. "No fair, Georgie. I've nearly finished a whole bottle of wine because I've been waiting so long."
"Come on. I'll walk you upstairs." She was obviously tipsy and he didn't want her falling off the ridiculous high heels she tottered about on.
She babbled on about all sorts of things as they mounted the wide staircase. George only half listened, weariness finally fogging his thoughts. He generally didn't need much sleep, but after so many hours at work, he was ready for his bed.
He led Celia along the hall and stopped outside the door of the guest room she was using. "Thank you ag
ain for waiting up. I'm sorry I couldn't spend more time with you."
She gave him another sticky kiss and he held still to receive it, his teeth gritted. Since she arrived, he'd been trying to signal his disinterest without hurting her feelings, but it was difficult when their respective parents were matchmaking.
"Never mind, Georgie. We'll have lots of time together at Robert's wedding."
A shot of horror wiped the fog from George's mind. Why hadn't it occurred to him that the parents would expect him to escort Celia next week? Robert Mackenzie was one of George's best friends, but he'd been so wrapped up with work, he hadn't given the wedding much thought.
They had to travel up to Scotland and spend two nights in a hotel. He'd have nowhere to hide from Celia. The thought gave him hives.
He pinched the bridge of his nose as his normally quick brain stalled. "I can't, Celia. I'm sorry."
Her eyes widened. "Don't tell me you have to work. That wretched hospital takes up too much of your time. People need to have some consideration and stop being sick for a few days to give you a break."
"It doesn't work that way, I'm afraid."
"But you must come. Your parents told me you'd booked the time off."
And so he had. He couldn't miss his best friend's wedding. George squeezed his eyes closed, grasping for an excuse for why he couldn't escort Celia. Then it came to him. He drew in a calming breath and summoned an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry if Mum and Dad misled you. I'm afraid I already have a date for the wedding."
An image of Sandra flitted through his mind, and he prayed she would be free and willing to help him out.