A Wife Worth Waiting For Read online

  ‘I want you to stay. Not just for the practice, but for me.’

  There was tenderness in his eyes, but not just tenderness. She could see desire there, too. A hot and devastating and completely naked desire that made her heart kick up into her throat and her pulses begin to race. She wanted so much to reach out and touch his face, but she mustn’t—because she couldn’t give him a future, she couldn’t give him children, and he was a man who deserved both.

  Blindly she shook her head. ‘Hugh, don’t. Please don’t.’

  ‘Don’t what?’ he demanded. ‘Don’t say I’m attracted to you? Don’t say that I want you? I can’t not say it, Alex, because I do want you—you know I do.’

  ‘Perhaps you think you want me right now,’ she said, her voice trembling, ‘but what you’re actually feeling is pity.’

  ‘Don’t you dare suggest that,’ he thundered. ‘Yes, I feel pity for you, if you mean I wish to God you’d never had to go through the treatment for Hodgkin’s alone, but pity sure as hell isn’t the emotion I feel when I look at you.’ He reached out and cradled her face in his hands. ‘I want very much—if you’ll let me—to make love to you.’

  ‘Hugh…I…I…’

  She couldn’t say any more. Without warning, tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

  Dear Reader

  Can I make a confession? When I sent my first unsolicited manuscript to Mills & Boon I didn’t know what double line spacing was, or the name of the editor of the line I was targeting. In fact—whisper this—I didn’t actually know what line I was targeting.

  Luckily for me, a far-sighted editor didn’t condemn me to the farthest reaches of hell for my naivety. She might not have bought that first book, or the next one, but I learned something very important from those early rejections: that Mills & Boon editors are the most generous in the business, unstinting with their advice, support and help. And when I was eventually accepted I also discovered that becoming a Mills & Boon author means you instantly become a member of a global family. A family that not only brings out the brass bands for a celebration when things go wonderfully well, but is also just as quick to supply the hugs and handkerchiefs when things go wrong.

  Love is the word most commonly associated with Mills & Boon® books. It’s what the company was founded on a hundred years ago, and what I know the company will continue to build on in the next one hundred years. So Happy Birthday, Mills & Boon, and thank you for helping me to become the published author I always wanted to be!

  Maggie Kingsley

  A WIFE WORTH WAITING FOR

  BY

  MAGGIE KINGSLEY

  Maggie Kingsley says she can’t remember a time when she didn’t want to be a writer, but she put her dream on hold and decided to ‘be sensible’ and become a teacher instead. Five years at the chalk face was enough to convince her she wasn’t cut out for it, and she ‘escaped’ to work for a major charity. Unfortunately—or fortunately!—a back injury ended her career, and when she and her family moved to a remote cottage in the north of Scotland it was her family who nagged her into attempting to make her dream a reality. Combining a love of romantic fiction with a knowledge of medicine gleaned from the many professionals in her family, Maggie says she can’t now imagine ever being able to have so much fun legally doing anything else!

  Recent titles by the same author:

  THE CONSULTANT’ S ITALIAN KNIGHT

  A CONSULTANT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE

  THE GOOD FATHER

  THE SURGEON’ S MARRIAGE DEMAND

  For Pam,

  for giving me the key,

  and showing me how to open the door

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  DR HUGH SCOTT stared with mounting incredulity at the plump, middle-aged woman sitting in front of him and decided his brain must have been well and truly out to lunch on the day, fourteen years ago, when he decided to become a GP.

  I could have become a consultant, he thought as Sybil Gordon poured out her tale of woe. Better yet, I could have specialised in anaesthetics where the patients don’t talk at all, but no. I had to decide to become a GP, and what have I got as my reward? The world’s worst hypochondriac who is also quite clearly one sandwich short of a picnic.

  ‘Mrs Gordon,’ he exclaimed, cutting across her catalogue of symptoms without compunction. ‘You cannot possibly have dengue fever. It’s a disease that only occurs in sub-tropical areas, of which the north of Scotland is most definitely not one.’

  ‘But my bones are definitely aching, Doctor,’ she insisted. ‘And I have a sore throat, and my nose is running.’

  ‘Because you have a cold,’ he declared, keeping control of his temper with difficulty. ‘An ordinary, common-or-garden, September cold. Go home, and take an aspirin. Better still, go home and burn your copy of the Family Guide to Health.’

  ‘But I’m sweating, Doctor,’ Mrs Gordon insisted, clearly not having taken in a single word he’d said, ‘and I’m sure my eyes look yellow. Don’t they look yellow to you?’

  Heaven give me strength, Hugh thought as Sybil Gordon gazed anxiously at him. He’d been called out three times last night, had endured a long and wearisome surgery this morning, and this evening’s surgery was turning out to be every bit as exhausting. He didn’t need Sybil Gordon’s hypochondria on top of everything else, and especially not when he had a new locum arriving at any minute. A locum he could quite happily have seen at the far side of the moon.

  ‘No, your eyes do not look yellow, Mrs Gordon,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘They are a perfectly normal, healthy, white.’

  ‘Are you sure, Doctor?’ Sybil Gordon insisted. ‘When I stared at them in my bathroom mirror this afternoon I definitely thought they looked yellow, and my skin is starting to itch now, too, right here under my chin, which is another sign of dengue fever, isn’t it?’

  Heaven give me strength, Hugh prayed again, but heaven clearly wasn’t listening because the temper he had been trying so hard to control ever since Sybil Gordon had sat down in his surgery finally erupted.

  ‘Out, Mrs Gordon,’ he said, striding across his consulting room and opening the door.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she faltered.

  ‘Not half as sorry as I am,’ he exclaimed. ‘Mrs Gordon, you do not have dengue fever. You do not have any kind of fever. All that is wrong with you is you’re a woman with too little to do and too much time in which to do it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Do us both a favour,’ he continued, his voice rising despite his best efforts to prevent it. ‘Get yourself a job, or a hobby, because I swear…I swear if I see you in my surgery one more time with some ludicrous ailment gleaned from the pages of your medical book I will come round to your house and burn the damned book myself!’

  He didn’t give Sybil Gordon a chance to reply. He simply hustled her out of his room, catching a brief glimpse of his receptionist’s shocked face as he did so, then slammed the door and walked angrily back to his desk.

  Dengue fever. How in the world did Sybil Gordon imagine she could possibly have contracted dengue fever? Dear Lord, but the farthest the woman had ever travelled in her fifty-eight years had been the occasional visit to the neighbouring village. Built into the Kilbreckan bricks, Jenny used to say. The kind of woman who got homesick when she was more than a mile from her own front door.

  A deep chuckle broke from him despite his anger. How Jenny would laugh when he told her. Except, of course, he thought with a sudden shaft of pain, Jen
ny wouldn’t laugh because she couldn’t do anything any more.

  Hot tears filled his eyes and he had to bite down hard on his lip to prevent them from falling.

  Two years. It had been two years since Jenny’s car had hit that patch of ice and she’d skidded into the path of an oncoming lorry. Two years during which he’d thrown himself into his work, trying not to think, not to remember, but all it would take was something happening, something he’d want to share with her, and the realisation that he couldn’t would make the pain of her loss as sharp and unbearable as the day it had happened.

  ‘OK, you get to put this back up again when you can talk to our patients without chewing their heads off,’ his partner in the practice, Malcolm MacIntyre, declared, pocketing the name tag from Hugh’s consulting-room door as he walked in. ‘Until then you stick to the paperwork.’

  ‘I just lost my temper, OK?’ Hugh flared. ‘It’s no big deal. I’ll go round and apologise to her tomorrow.’

  ‘Like you had to apologise to George Hunter last month, and Peggie Fraser the month before that.’ Malcolm shook his head. ‘Hugh, ever since Jenny died—’

  ‘This has nothing to do with my wife.’

  ‘You’ve been grinding yourself into the ground, trying to bury your grief in work,’ Malcolm continued determinedly, ‘and all that’s happened is your temper’s become more and more explosive. The people in Kilbreckan like you. They have done ever since you took over the practice ten years ago, but liking has its limits, and if you go on like this we’re not going to have a practice any more.’

  ‘You’re saying I’m not up to the job,’ Hugh exclaimed, and Malcolm let out a huff of impatience.

  ‘I’m saying I’m worried about you. Hugh, Chrissie and I are your friends—probably your only friends since you’ve pushed everyone else away after Jenny died. You were best man at our wedding, you’re godfather to our kids, and we…well…’ Malcolm rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘Dammit, we love you, you big lug, but you have to let go of the past, to move on, or Jenny’s death is going to destroy you.’

  Hugh’s grey eyes grew cold. ‘I’m never marrying again.’

  ‘Who said anything about marrying?’ Malcolm protested, pulling over a chair and sitting down. ‘I’m talking about you needing to speak to someone—maybe seeing a counsellor, or talking to someone you can trust—getting your feelings out—’

  ‘I have never done group hugs, Malcolm,’ Hugh snapped, ‘and I have no intention of starting now.’

  ‘OK, forget the counsellor,’ Malcolm said, ‘but will you at least occasionally take some time out to smell the roses or, in our case, the heather? Dammit, Hugh, you’re only thirty-nine—’

  ‘We’re too short-staffed for me to go traipsing about any heather,’ Hugh interrupted irritably, and Malcolm nodded.

  ‘Which is why we need another partner in the practice. I know—I know,’ he continued, as Hugh’s eyes rolled. ‘It’s my same old record but that doesn’t make it any the less true.’

  ‘Why do you think I agreed to us employing all these locums over the past eighteen months?’ Hugh demanded. ‘I know we need another doctor, but it’s not my fault if none of the locums turned out to be good enough to be invited to join us full time.’

  ‘Hugh, they could all have been a combination of Marie Curie and Albert Schweitzer and you would still have said they weren’t good enough, because—bottom line—you don’t want to replace Jenny. You think it would be disloyal to her memory if we did.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Is it?’ Malcolm leant forward in his seat and gazed at him searchingly. ‘Hugh, nobody can—or will—replace Jenny. She was a special, unique person, but that doesn’t mean no other doctor can—or should—take her place in the practice. We can’t keep on working like this. You’re exhausted, so am I, and when Chrissie agreed to become our receptionist three years ago she didn’t expect to be working 24/7. Something’s got to give, and it’s already happening.’

  Malcolm was right, Hugh knew he was, just as he also knew that if he wasn’t careful he was going to lose everything he’d worked so hard to build in Kilbreckan, but how to explain to his best friend that he didn’t know how to let go of the past, didn’t know how to move on, didn’t think that he could?

  ‘Malcolm, I know I’ve been difficult to work with recently. OK—OK,’ Hugh continued as his friend shook his head. ‘I’ve been downright impossible, and I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better, and I promise…’ He took a deep breath. ‘I promise if this Alec Lorimer turns out to be even halfway decent we’ll offer him a partnership at the end of his three-month contract. His references are excellent, you said?’

  A faint tinge of colour darkened his partner’s burly cheeks. ‘Dr Lorimer’s references are terrific—quite outstanding, in fact—but…’ He came to a halt as Hugh’s consulting-room door opened, and a plump, blonde-haired woman appeared. ‘Chrissie, love, what can we do for you?’

  ‘It’s gone seven o’clock, and there’s nobody left in the waiting room,’ she replied. ‘Do you want me to just lock up?’

  ‘No sign of Alec Lorimer?’ Hugh said and, when Chrissie shook her head, he frowned. ‘Not exactly the best of starts when he was supposed to be here at six.’

  ‘Hugh.’

  ‘Sorry, Chrissie, sorry,’ he replied, seeing the look she exchanged with her husband. ‘Memo to self. Cut this new bloke some slack. Look, why don’t the two of you get off home?’ he continued, gathering up the folders of the patients he had seen that evening. ‘Dr Lorimer won’t expect the three of us to be here, waiting for him.’

  Chrissie shot her husband another pointed look, and Malcolm coughed uncomfortably.

  ‘Hugh, about Dr Lorimer…’

  ‘Mr Sweetness and Light when I meet him, Malcolm, Mr Sweetness and Light,’ Hugh said as he walked into the waiting room followed by Chrissie and Malcolm.

  ‘It isn’t that,’ his partner began. ‘Well, of course, I don’t want you to jump all over Dr Lorimer’s head on your first meeting, but…’

  ‘But what?’ Hugh demanded and Malcolm opened his mouth, then closed it again, and shook his head.

  ‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Nothing.’

  It was clearly something, Hugh thought as Chrissie glared at her husband and Malcolm shrugged ruefully back. Maybe they’d had a row. Maybe they were worried about one of their kids. As godfather to their twins he should have known, but he hadn’t seen either of the children in months. His fault. His decision.

  ‘How are the kids, Chrissie?’ he said awkwardly as he piled the folders he was carrying onto her reception desk. ‘Still enjoying school?’

  ‘Laurie is, but Tom wants to leave. He reckons they’ve taught him all they know.’

  A small smile curved Hugh’s lips. ‘Perhaps they have. He’s a pretty bright ten-year-old.’

  Chrissie chuckled. ‘He’s not that bright. Look, why don’t you come round to dinner one night soon? Tom and Laurie are always talking about you.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘When?’ she demanded as her husband wandered over to the waiting-room window and stared out. ‘You’re always saying you’ll come, but you never do.’

  ‘I’ll come soon, I promise,’ Hugh replied evasively. ‘I noticed Ellie Dickson didn’t show up this evening to have her BP checked,’ he continued, deliberately changing the subject.

  ‘I’ve told her it’s vital she has regular blood pressure tests now she’s six months pregnant,’ Chrissie replied, with a look that told Hugh she knew exactly what he was doing, ‘but…’

  ‘As usual it’s gone in one ear and out the other.’ Hugh nodded. ‘I’ll drop by her house tomorrow, remind her again.’

  ‘Hey—Hugh,’ Malcolm suddenly exclaimed. ‘Come over here and take a look at this.’

  ‘Unless somebody’s handing out free money, I’m not interested,’ Hugh replied, but he joined Malcolm at the window nevertheless and blinked when he saw what his partner was lo
oking at.

  It was a motorcycle, parked beside his Range Rover, but not just any old motorcycle. It was a gleaming monster of red and chrome. A Ducati Sport 1000.

  ‘Who in our neck of the woods owns a beauty like that?’ Malcolm declared, envy plain in his voice, and Hugh shook his head.

  ‘It can’t be anyone local. If it was, the news would have spread like wildfire.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Chrissie said, peering round them. ‘I mean, it’s just a motorcycle, isn’t it?’

  Hugh and Malcolm looked at one another, then at her.

  ‘Chrissie, that is not just a motorcycle,’ Malcolm protested. ‘That is a work of art. A perfection of engineering, poetry in motion, every serious biker’s wet dream.’

  ‘Boy’s toy.’ Chrissie sniffed, and her husband shot her a withering glance.

  ‘A state-of-the-art mean machine, more like. I wonder if the owner would let me take it out on the road for a couple of hours?’

  ‘No chance.’ A muffled feminine voice chuckled, and both men turned to see a small and slender helmeted figure encased in black leathers standing in the waiting-room doorway. ‘Nobody rides my baby but me.’

  ‘And you are?’ Hugh asked, his thoughts immediately going to their drugs cupboard though common sense told him no drug thief would drive such a distinctive motorcycle, or could possibly afford it.

  The figure reached up and removed her helmet.

  ‘I’mAlex,’she replied, holding out her hand. ‘Alex Lorimer.’

  Hugh automatically took her hand and, for a second, his gaze took in a pair of startlingly green eyes and a shock of very short and spiky red hair, then her words registered.

  ‘But…you’re a woman,’ he said, dropping her hand as though it stung.

  She grinned. ‘Well, I was the last time I looked.’

  ‘But your name…’ He glanced across at Malcolm who seemed suddenly to be finding the posters on their notice-board extremely interesting. ‘I was told it was Alec. Alec Lorimer.’