Sold to the Surgeon

  Her heart isn’t part of the deal…and therein lies the problem.

  Between the County General ear, nose and throat department moving to a new facility and constantly cleaning up after an inept student nurse, Abigail Pointer has her hands full.

  At least her life plan is on track. She’s in line to be promoted soon, and in due course she and her fiancé, Rupert, will walk down the aisle and start a family in her inherited stone cottage. Her future looks quiet, predictable, safe. If it’s a bit lacking in the romance department, who is she to complain?

  The new surgical consultant on the ward, Greg Lincoln, is certainly shaking things up—and shaking her composure when a puddle of spilled milk sends both her and Dr. Tall, Dark and American landing in a tangled heap.

  From that moment, Greg is a pain in Abigail’s well-ordered routine…and a breath-taking monkey-wrench in her plan to settle for a less-than-exciting life. Especially when she begins to suspect her nice, safe engagement is on shaky ground.

  This Retro Romance reprint was originally published in 1988 by Mills & Boon.

  Sold to the Surgeon

  Ann Jennings

  Chapter One

  “If that girl drops anything else I shall scream!” Sister Collins’ small birdlike frame shook with suppressed anger. “For goodness’ sake, Staff, go and sort her out. Let’s try to get some semblance of order on this ward, even if we have only just moved in.”

  Abigail Pointer nodded her blonde head; she felt sorry for Sister Collins, even if she was rather a dragon. It was midsummer and very hot, and Abigail felt exhausted herself, so she knew how Sister Collins, who was near to retirement, must be feeling.

  “Yes, Sister—don’t worry. Between us we’ll get it cleared up.”

  “Between you!” Sister Collins snorted derisively. “I’d rather you did it, Staff. Just let Student Nurse Parkins watch you, that way she can’t do any more damage!”

  As her trim figure sped down the corridor towards the ward kitchen where the noise had originated from, Abigail couldn’t help smiling to herself. Poor Student Nurse Parkins, she had an uncanny aptitude for making a mess of everything, and today of all days was definitely not one of Sister’s best days! They had just moved into the new ENT ward, in a brand new wing of the County General Hospital, just across the road from the old block, which now stood silent and empty. Although the number of patients had been kept to the absolute minimum for the transfer, it had still been difficult, and Sister Collins could never bear to have her routine upset at the best of times.

  Abigail smiled again. Today the routine had been well and truly upset, and she doubted if anything would ever be the same again. For a start, they had changed from the old-fashioned long straight “Nightingale” type of ward to the new type of wards, consisting of six and four-bedded rooms, plus a few single rooms for the very sick patients, most of which were opposite the nursing station. The worst thing of all, as far as Sister Collins was concerned, was that the office at the far end of the corridor, the one she’d had her eye on, had been arbitrarily commandeered by the new American consultant, Mr. Greg Lincoln, who had just arrived at the County General on an exchange.

  They had swopped their pleasant, if rather insipid, young consultant, Mr. Wilberforce, for this dynamic young American. A little bit too dynamic for Sister Collins, Abigail surmised shrewdly.

  She had always got her way with all the consultants before; the older ones had fallen in with her wishes for as long as anyone could remember. They never even did formal ward rounds, just informal visits to their patients, because Sister Collins couldn’t stand having her ward upset by the rigours of a ward round! When Mr. Wilberforce had been appointed, he hadn’t stood a chance. Sister Collins had determinedly ridden roughshod over him, and he had dutifully toed the line. Now, apparently, it was she who was being overridden, and although Abigail had yet to meet the new consultant, she had heard all this from Sue Parkins, their disastrous student nurse.

  Her slim form turned the corner swiftly, and went into the ward kitchen. Simultaneously she heard Sue’s voice saying, “Nothing is broken, Staff, but I’ve just spilt a lot of…oooh!”

  There was also a male voice with a distinct American twang to it saying, “Be careful, there’s a…”

  Too late—the rubber on the soles of her shoes went skidding immediately as she stepped into the kitchen, straight into a huge puddle of milk. Feeling herself losing her balance, Abigail grabbed at the first thing that came to hand—a white coat. Vaguely she was aware of someone cursing as she hung on trying to save herself, but it was impossible. Down she went, dragging the unfortunate occupant of the white coat with her.

  The sticky wetness of the milk soaked through her pale uniform as she slithered on her back across the ward kitchen floor, and a blurred impression of pungent after shave assailed her nostrils, as a heavy form slid with her—cursing all the way!

  “Is everyone in this darned hospital mad?” demanded a deep and very angry voice.

  Abigail found herself staring into a pair of dark brown, annoyed eyes.

  “Oh, you must be Mr. Lincoln,” she said. It was an idiotic thing to say, she knew that as soon as she blurted out the words; but they popped out before she could stop them.

  “Yes, I am,” growled the man in question, pushing back a lock of jet black hair which had fallen over his brow. Then, levering himself to his feet, he unceremoniously dragged Abigail up from the floor. “And who might you be, and what’s more to the point, why did you come charging in here like a damned hurricane?”

  “I did not come in like a d…like a hurricane,” retorted Abigail indignantly. “I came to help, but…” her voice trailed away awkwardly as she suddenly realised what an awful mess she must look. Milk was dripping from the hem of her uniform on to the floor, her cap was a sodden, crumpled heap in the corner of the kitchen; and her long blonde hair, usually so neat and in a tight bun, had come unravelled and was cascading, attractively, if rather untidily, around her shoulders.

  “You look as if you need a little help yourself.” he observed drily, looking her up and down through narrowed coal-black eyes.

  Abigail glared at him, her large grey eyes fringed by dark lashes sparkling angrily. There was a suspicion of a twitch in the corner of his mouth, and she could swear he was laughing at her.

  “So would you, if you’d been lying in a great puddle of milk,” she snapped.

  “I was,” he reminded her, “but luckily for me, you provided a perfect cushion.” He raised his black eyebrows and suddenly gave a wickedly expressive grin. Much to her intense annoyance, Abigail found herself blushing.

  “I’m sorry I pulled you over,” she could hear her voice gabbling, the wretched man was making her inexplicably nervous. “I’m afraid I just grabbed the first thing I could when I felt myself going.”

  “So I noticed,” he replied coolly, giving a wry smile as he continued, “I’ve only been here a short while, but already I’ve ascertained that Sister Collins has a pretty short fuse. Not the most tolerant of women! So I for one would rather not be around when she sees the mess in this kitchen, or you for that matter!”

  With that parting shot he strode out of the disaster area, leaving Abigail fuming. She stood dripping dribbles of milk on the floor, glowering at Sue Parkins, who by now was cowering in the furthest corner of the kitchen.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she whispered, “the jug slipped out of my hands and…but it’s not broken,” she added on a more cheerful note. “Thank goodness the new jugs are made of plastic.”

  “I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies,” said Abigail grimly. Then she looked at her un
iform. “Heavens, I do look a mess! Are there any spare uniforms in the linen cupboards? I hope we brought them over with us in the move.”

  “I’ll go and see,” said Sue helpfully, anxious to get away from Abigail and the kitchen.

  “No,” said Abigail, fixing her with a steely eye, “I’ll go. You start mopping up this mess, and do it in double quick time. You’re late with the patients’ teas as it is.”

  “Yes, all right,” said Sue disconsolately, taking the mop from the kitchen cupboard. She swished miserably at the puddle on the floor. “Will you be coming back?”

  Abigail’s expression softened; she couldn’t stay cross with Sue for long. She was a nice, well-meaning girl, but terribly clumsy. “Yes, I’ll be back to help you clear up, and do the teas as well,” she said. “You need someone to chaperone you!”

  Sue brightened visibly, and started on her mammoth task of mopping up the spilt milk.

  Luckily for Abigail there was a spare uniform in the linen cupboard, even though it was much too large for her slender frame. Still, beggers can’t be choosers, she thought philosophically, pulling the belt tight as she changed, and hastily made herself respectable once more.

  That done, she joined Sue, and soon had the kitchen clean and tidy; at least clean enough to last until the morning cleaners came on duty the next day. Then together she and Sue wheeled the tea trolley around the small side wards, and dispensed cups of afternoon tea and biscuits.

  “You’d better ask Mr. Lincoln whether or not he thinks Mr. Weatherspoon can have tea today,” said Sister Collins as they walked past her desk. “He did ask Nurse Orchard for some, but I’m not certain whether he’s recovered sufficiently from his laser surgery to drink tea just yet.”

  “Yes, Sister,” replied Abigail, feeling slightly annoyed. Why should she have to ask Mr. Lincoln? She would rather have kept out of his way. Nurse Orchard should have done it, but of course Nurse Orchard never did anything if she could possibly get out of it.

  Abigail sighed. Everyone got annoyed with Penelope Orchard’s lazy ways, but there was little they could do about it. She was the daughter of the senior consultant surgeon at the County General, Sir Jason Orchard, and Sister Collins never reprimanded her in any way. It really wasn’t fair, but Sir Jason Orchard had tremendous power which he used ruthlessly, and Penelope had no qualms about using her father’s name and position to ease her way through life. Abigail walked along the corridor towards Mr. Weatherspoon’s room, leaving Sue Parkins to finish pouring out the teas. The new consultant was inside, talking to the patient who had undergone laser surgery for the removal of a tumour on the tongue, only the day before. It was a new technique to the County General, performed by Greg Lincoln with equipment he had brought over from the United States. Abigail knocked on the door, wishing she didn’t have to face the new consultant so soon after their first unhappy encounter.

  “Come in,” called a voice, and Abigail found herself thinking how attractive his accent was.

  “Ah, nurse,” he said as she entered. Then he turned back to his patient with a smile. “I haven’t been in England long,” he said, “but one thing I have noticed is that most of the young women here have real English peaches and cream complexions. Perhaps it’s something to do with all that milk you produce on your farm.”

  Mr. Weatherspoon’s face lit up, and Abigail knew the doctor was trying to take his mind away from his surgical problems by talking about something he knew; he was a dairy farmer and the subject of milk was dear to his heart.

  “Plenty of milk is good for you,” he said, nodding his head vigorously, “that’s why our lasses look so bonny,” He smiled at Abigail standing behind the seated form of the consultant.

  “Especially if you bathe in it.” Greg Lincoln glanced back at Abigail, his dark eyes glinting with amusement at the memory.

  Abigail maintained a stony silence as Mr. Weatherspoon ejaculated, “Bathe in it! That would be a terrible waste of good milk.”

  “Sister Collins wondered if you thought Mr. Weatherspoon could have a little tea this afternoon,” said Abigail, avoiding the dark eyes she knew were on the point of openly laughing.

  “I should think that would be in order, don’t you?” He turned back to his patient with a smile.

  Abigail turned, and started to leave the room, but was stopped in her tracks at the sound of the consultant’s voice. “Oh, nurse,” he said.

  “Yes, sir?” replied Abigail, turning back to face him.

  “Be sure to use plenty of milk!” he said, grinning openly this time.

  “Yes sir.” Her grey eyes flashed ominously.

  There was really no good reason for her to feel so annoyed—after all, she knew she must have looked pretty ridiculous lying flat on her back in a puddle of milk. But somehow his overt teasing had the effect of making her hackles rise. Added to that was the fact that for some reason she couldn’t fathom, she found his presence strangely disturbing.

  Back at the trolley she poured out the tea for Mr. Weatherspoon, and was about to give it to Sue to take up to the room, when Penelope strolled by. Her passage down the corridor could only be described as strolling, because Penelope never hurried anywhere in case one hair on her elegantly coiffured head might by chance fall out of place.

  “Take this to Mr. Weatherspoon,” said Abigail, holding the cup and saucer toward Sue. “Mr. Lincoln is in with him, so do try not to spill it, or even worse, drop it on the patient!”

  “I’ll take it,” said Penelope, unexpectedly taking the tea from Abigail’s outstretched hand. She smoothed back her immaculate hair, adding with a sultry smile. “They tell me Mr. Lincoln is quite a dish. This will be a good opportunity to meet him.”

  “I haven’t had time to notice whether he’s dishy or not,” Abigail’s voice was short, “I’ve been too busy.”

  “One should never be too busy to notice interesting men,” announced Penelope loftily, sauntering off down the corridor, holding the tea cup in her hand.

  “At the rate she’s going, it’ll be stone cold by the time she gets there,” observed Sue disparagingly, watching Penelope’s retreating figure. Then she added, “I don’t know how you didn’t notice that Mr. Lincoln was dishy, because he certainly is. He’s absolutely gorgeous, and oh, his hands!” She let out a long ecstatic breath of air. “Long, tapering fingers. Didn’t you notice them when he picked you up?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Abigail crossly. “How on earth could I notice his hands? I was rather preoccupied at the time!” However, as she bent her head over the tea trolley she felt her cheeks burning as she remembered his words—you provided the perfect cushion! Pity he didn’t meet me in a slightly more glamorous light, she reflected wryly, but common sense told her there was no point in dwelling on that!

  It was almost as if Sue had been reading her thoughts, because she said with a sigh, “It’s a pity really. I think you’re much prettier than Penelope, but he didn’t see you in a very good light, did he? I mean when you were all dripping in milk.”

  Abigail raised her head. “And whose fault was that?” she snapped. Then she smiled as a conscience-stricken look flitted across Sue’s face. “Don’t worry, I’m not out to impress our new consultant from across the Atlantic. I’m engaged already—remember? And I don’t collect scalps like Penelope.” She smiled at the still worried-looking Sue. “Come on, let’s start collecting the cups now. I’m off duty at five tonight, and I’d like to be on time for once!”

  As they collected the empty cups from the patients and took the trolley back to the ward kitchen, Abigail wondered about their new consultant. If he wasn’t married, Penelope would certainly set out to ensnare him, although she’d probably do that even if he was, Abigail reflected a trifle cynically. It was a cynicism born of experience. As far as Penelope was concerned, anything in trousers, who was reasonably attractive, and who she considered to be on a par with her as
far as social status went, was fair game. Her main preoccupation in life was men, and Abigail often wondered why she had ever bothered to take up nursing at all. She had so little interest in it.

  However, once Abigail had escaped the stuffy confines of the new wards, and started the drive home, she soon forgot all about Penelope, the new consultant, and everything else to do with the County General.

  It was a beautiful early summer’s evening, and the plan was to go out for a meal in a riverside pub with her fiancé Rupert Blair. He had been her fiancé for six months now, a quiet steady young man, whom Abigail loved dearly, if not exactly passionately. Passionate romance existed only between the pages of romantic novels, she told herself. She was much more content with the way things really were; their relationship meandering along in a comfortable sort of way, and would end eventually in marriage, when they were both ready.

  All her nursing friends who had met Rupert thought Abigail quite mad not to snap him up and marry him immediately. But for some reason she couldn’t define, even to herself, Abigail wanted to wait; and Rupert never pressed her to set a date. It was a tacit agreement between them that they would know when the time came.

  Shampooing her hair vigorously in readiness for the evening ahead, she thought of Rupert, and a gentle smile curved her generous lips. She couldn’t understand why her friends wanted her to be so impatient, she was quite happy with things as they stood.

  She had known Rupert for about two years. He was an ambitious young solicitor, and she’d met him after her father’s death when he had helped her through the legal jungle of settling her father’s estate. Now, she lived on alone in the ancient flint stone cottage she had once shared with her widowed father; the cottage, in fact, was the only thing about which she and Rupert had nearly come to blows.

  Rupert was continually telling her that she couldn’t afford to stay there, that the roof needed fixing badly, and that she should sell it; but Abigail was stubborn. She had promised her father she would stay on in the cottage. It was where he and her mother had first set up home, and for her it was the last tenuous link she now had left with a happy past.