Maggie Kingsley – The Good Father (страница 1)
“Do you forgive me?”
She didn’t. It was too soon for her to do that.
“I’m working on it,” she said, and he smiled. A gentle, apologetic smile that coaxed a reluctant answering smile from her.
A smile that slowly faded when his eyes continued to hold hers and she saw the guilt in them replaced by something altogether darker, hotter, more disturbing.
Get out of here, Maddie, she told herself as she felt her pulse kick up and every nerve ending she possessed spring into life. Get out of here, fast.
“I…I ought to get back to my work,” she said, trying to jerk her eyes away from his, only to find she couldn’t.
“Must you?” he said, and she swallowed, hard.
Oh, Lord, it would be so easy to like this man. Hell, she was halfway there already. But this time it wouldn’t just be her who would get hurt if it all went wrong.
I’ve always had a very personal interest in neonatal intensive-care units. My niece and nephew, who weighed just two pounds, seven ounces at birth, spent three months in one, and I learned more than I ever wanted to know about the highs and lows involved in the care and treatment of preemies. The medical staff I met in that NICU was incredible, and I knew I wanted to write a story about their work, but for a long time I struggled to find my hero—until my niece and nephew were squabbling like crazy one morning and suddenly the character of Gabriel Dalgleish popped into my head. What if this big-cheese consultant was terrific with babies, but completely hopeless with children who could talk? What if I gave my heroine, Maddie Bryce, two very opinionated children? And what if, instead of my hero instantly bonding with these children, as heroes so often do in the movies, Gabriel said all wrong things? I started to chuckle. I’m a cruel, cruel person, and it was then I knew I had a story. A story I wanted to share with you all, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Maggie Kingsley
The Good Father
Maggie Kingsley
For Pat, who has listened to my moans and groans over the past year without ever once telling me to shut up, and who has the most tolerant husband in the world in Peter
CONTENTS
SOME days it just didn’t pay to get up, Maddie decided as she sat in the office of the neonatal intensive care unit of the Belfield Infirmary, feeling her confidence evaporate with every passing second. Some days it would have been better if she’d simply pulled the duvet back over her head and forgotten all about trying to get a job, and today was undoubtedly turning out to be one of those days.
‘It’ll be a breeze,’ her cousin Nell had said when she’d told her she’d got an interview. ‘A little typing, some filing, answering the phone… You can do that, Maddie, no sweat.’
Dr Washington didn’t seem to think so. In fact, judging by the way the specialist registrar’s frown had deepened as he’d read through her application form, she’d be better off just leaving now and putting them both out of their misery.
‘Miss Bryce,’ he said at last, putting down her application form and sitting back in his seat, his brown eyes puzzled. ‘Can I ask why you’ve applied for this job?’
Because Charlie and Susie like to eat. Because my cousin Nell thought the job would be perfect for me but now I think she needs her head examined.
‘Well, I’ve always enjoyed working with people,’ she said, all perkily upbeat and trying very hard to look as though a six-month contract to cover the maternity leave of the Belfield’s NICU secretary was the job she’d been secretly dreaming of since she’d been in kindergarten. ‘The position sounded interesting—challenging—and I have secretarial certificates—’
‘One in typing and one in computer studies, both gained at night school.’ Dr Washington nodded. ‘But, Miss Bryce, you’re also a fully qualified nursing sister. A sister who was the ward manager in charge of the nursing staff of the neonatal intensive care unit of the Hillhead General for four years. So why in the world is somebody with your qualifications and experience applying for a secretarial post?’
On days like this she asked herself the same question. On really bad days, when she was trying to work out how she was going to be able to afford new shoes for Susie and new trousers for Charlie, she found herself wondering if this was all there was, if this was how it was always going to be, but she also knew that she didn’t—and never would—regret her decision.
‘I gave up nursing because I have children to look after,’ she said. ‘The hours a nurse has to work—the constantly changing shifts—it’s not a viable option for me.’
‘We have crèche facilities at the Belfield Infirmary.’
‘Charlie is eight and Susie is fourteen. They’re much too old for a crèche.’
The specialist registrar glanced down at her application form, then up at her again. ‘Your daughter is fourteen? But…’ He coloured slightly. ‘It says here on your application form that you’re twenty-nine.’
‘The children aren’t mine. My sister…’ Maddie’s throat closed as it always did when she had to talk about Amy. ‘My sister and her husband John were killed in a car crash two years ago. John’s parents…’ We’d like to help, Maddie, we really would, but we’re much too old to look after children, and with Charlie the way he is…‘They couldn’t look after Charlie and Susie, and my parents are dead, so…’
‘I see,’ Dr Washington said gently. ‘It can’t have been easy for you—I’m sure it isn’t easy now—but I’m afraid my neonatologist, Mr Dalgleish, expects the very highest standards from his staff, and though you have secretarial qualifications you don’t actually have any experience, do you?’
‘I gained a highly commended in my computer studies, and a merit in my typing,’ she said, trying and failing to keep the desperation from her voice. ‘I’m a fast learner. I work well under pressure—’
‘Miss Bryce, I’m not disputing your enthusiasm or your willingness to work hard,’ the specialist registrar interrupted awkwardly. ‘In fact, I’m sure if Mr Dalgleish had been here to interview you and not been called away on an emergency he would have said the same, but we’ve had some very highly skilled and experienced secretaries applying for this post.’
She knew they had. She’d sat amongst them in the waiting room. Eight highly professional women all stylishly dressed in smart office suits while she, the last to be interviewed, had been all too horribly aware that she neither looked the part nor felt it.
‘Dr Washington—’
‘Mr Dalgleish will, of course, give your application his fullest consideration, and you should be notified in about a week if you’ve been successful.’
But don’t hold your breath.
The specialist registrar didn’t say the words—he didn’t need to. This was the third interview she’d been to in as many weeks and she couldn’t even get a job to cover somebody’s maternity leave. Well, there’d be other jobs, she told herself. Maybe they wouldn’t be as perfect as this one—close to home, and with her cousin Nell working as a sister in the neonatal intensive care unit it could almost have been like old times—but there’d be other jobs. There had to be. After not working for two years her savings were all but gone, and what little Amy had left her was almost gone now, too.
With an effort she pasted a smile to her lips. ‘Thank you for your time, Dr Washington. I appreciate it.’
‘It was my pleasure. I just wish—’ She didn’t find out what he wished because the door of the office suddenly opened and the specialist registrar got to his feet, an expression of clear relief on his face. ‘Mr Dalgleish. I was just talking about you.’
‘Saying something nice, I hope, Jonah,’ a deep male voice replied, and as Maddie turned in her seat to face the newcomer her first thought was, Nell, you lied.
‘He’s tall and dark,’ her cousin had said when she’d asked her what Gabriel Dalgleish was like. ‘Around thirty-six, I’d say, and quite good-looking in a chiselled, square-jawed sort of way. Not bad to work for. An OK sort of a neonatologist, really.’
Well, he was tall, Maddie conceded as the neonatologist walked towards her. Six feet two inches tall, she guessed, and broad-shouldered with it. He was also dark. Thick black hair, piercing grey eyes and, as Nell had said, quite good-looking. But an OK sort of neonatologist?
Nope. No way. Her cousin knew as well as she did that there were only two types of neonatologist. There were the neonatologists who supported their staff, worked with them, encouraged them, and then there were the others. The men—and it was nearly always men—who ran their departments as their own personal fiefdoms, men who radiated power and arrogance from the top of their immaculately groomed hair to the tips of their highly polished shoes. One glance at Gabriel Dalgleish was enough to tell her this man was Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun rolled into one.