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The food was good, as he had promised. She was careful not to drink too much of the wine, having heard lurid tales of its potency. But she trusted Steve, who didn't even attempt a pass. She wasn't too sure about herself, she thought wryly, feeling that she might be too encouraging too soon only to regret it later. Even a level-headed girl like herself could be swept off her feet by the combination of an attractive man and the reckless consumption of an unfamiliar drink!

They talked and laughed a lot. Gillian discovered that he liked the same books, the same music, the same kind of films as herself. She didn't play golf and he didn't dance, and they came from very different backgrounds, but those were minor flaws, Gillian didn't know if he was just being nice to a newcomer or if he really was interested. Nor did she know which way she wanted it at the moment. It was much too soon to commit herself to any kind of relationship—and no doubt he felt that, too. For there was only a warm, reassuring friendliness in his eyes and not even a hint of amorous intent.

Woman-like, Gillian didn't know whether to be glad or sorry.

Steve passed on some very useful information that evening about Greenvale and its staff, its many and varied types of cases, its rules and routines. For some reason, he didn't mention Mark Barlow—and Gillian was determined not to ask about the surgeon. She knew as much as she wanted to know, after all—and she didn't mean to let him intrude on a pleasant evening.

Just after eleven-thirty the doorbell pealed. Gillian was making coffee in the kitchen and she appeared in the doorway, pot in hand, rather startled and glad that Steve was with her. It was late for casual callers and she didn't know anyone who'd be likely to ring her bell at this hour, anyway. Living on her own in the heart of the town with its late-night revellers could have its disadvantages, she felt.

'Who on earth ... ?'

'Oh, that'll be my chauffeur,' Steve said lightly, swinging long legs to the floor from the sofa where he had been lounging, entirely at his ease. 'My car's in for repair and I had to cadge a lift this evening.'

Gillian knew before she opened the door that it was Mark Barlow with an insistent finger on the bell. Typically impatient, she thought with dislike. She realised by the gleam of surprise in his eyes that her presence was unexpected. It seemed that Steve had chosen not to tell his friend that he was spending the evening at her flat.

'If you want to wake the dead, try the churchyard,' she said coolly. 'It's just across the road.' It wasn't friendly. She didn't mean it to be. She didn't like the look that had replaced the surprise in the grey eyes. She was suddenly conscious of the way that the silk kimono clung to every line of her slender body. She wondered why she hadn't felt at all self-conscious with Steve and why this beastly man should make her feel that she was deliberately parading her feminine attractions.

'Sorry. I'm looking for Steve.'

'You've found him.' She couldn't leave him standing on the doorstep, much as she'd have liked to do so. She stepped to one side. 'You'd better come in.' She knew it was ungracious. She didn't care.

'Thank you.' He was very dry.

'We might even give you a cup of coffee,' Steve said in light-hearted greeting. 'Just made, isn't it, Gillian?'

'I'll get another cup.' It was said without warmth as she moved towards the kitchen.

Mark looked after her and then down at his friend, comfortably ensconced on the sofa in front of an ancient television set showing an equally ancient film. He never ceased to be amazed that Steve managed to score so quickly and without obvious trying with every pretty newcomer to the clinic. He had only met this girl that morning, apparently. Yet here he was, lounging about in her flat as though he owned the place and looking very well-pleased with himself. She hadn't been at all pleased to be caught in her dressing-gown, he thought wryly, feeling an odd flicker of dislike that she had obviously been a willing participant in Steve's amorous games.

Steve grinned at his friend and colleague, indicating a chair. 'Sit down, Mark. Make yourself at home!'

'I can see that
you
have,' he returned, dryly.

'She's a great girl,' Steve said warmly, unconscious of innuendo. 'I feel as if I've known her for ever.' He leaned forward to switch off the television set. 'How was your evening?'

'Very interesting.'

Gillian came back with the extra cup and poured coffee for the three of them as the surgeon gave Steve a brief resume of the lecture on hypnotherapy he had attended that evening.

Genuinely interested, she asked one or two questions.
He answered impatiently as though he suspected her of merely making polite conversation. Gillian bridled. He ought to know by now that she found it extremely difficult to be polite where he was concerned, she thought indignantly, glowering.

Their eyes clashed across the room. She was annoyed with herself for being the first to look away. But there was an unexpected flame of angry contempt in the depths of those grey eyes. He really despised her, she realised with a sense of shock. It didn't matter in the least, of course. Didn't she despise him just as much? But no one likes to be weighed and found wanting by a stranger and Gillian found herself resenting that harsh, too-ready judgment.

He was the kind of man that any self-respecting woman would love to bring to his knees, she thought with feminine indignation, wishing that she knew how it was done! She didn't have the looks or the cool sophistication or the cleverness of a Louise Penistone—or a wealthy father to attract an ambitious man. He wasn't going to look twice at her, obviously, and he was the last man on earth that she would want as any kind of friend. But oh! she would dearly love to humble that proud and disdainful arrogance!

She made a point of not offering a second cup of coffee to either man. She was tired and she wanted her bed, and she wanted to be rid of Mark Barlow. His unexpected and unwelcome arrival had ruined everything, she felt. She had enjoyed the evening so much, the food and the wine, laughing and talking with Steve, mowing the lawn together with the ancient mower threatening to collapse on them at every push, watching the old Bogart movie as it flickered across the small screen. It had all been so
innocent, so heart-warming. Then Mark Barlow had turned up to make her feel that there was something unacceptable about a girl spending an evening with a man she scarcely knew in the privacy and comfort of her flat. His manner implied that he suspected them of spending most of it in bed, she thought bitterly, hating him.

Steve took the hint and rose to his feet. 'You must be wishing us at Jericho.' he said lightly, smiling at her. 'It's late and I know you're tired. Mark and I have this tendency to talk all night when we get together but we mustn't do it here. We'll be off and let you get to bed, love.' At the door of the flat he bent to kiss her, friend rather than would-be lover, lips brushing her mouth so lightly that it was scarcely a kiss at all but it warmed her heart. 'It was a fantastic evening,' he said warmly. 'We must do it again.'

'Yes. We will. When the grass needs cutting again, perhaps,' she said, teasing him, smiling. She laid her hand along his cheek in an impulsive gesture of affection that had unconsciously endeared her to many men. 'Thanks—for everything.' Glancing at Mark Barlow, she saw that he watched them with a slight, mocking smile. She felt like throwing something at that handsome head. Her chin tilted. 'Goodnight,' she said coldly, meeting his eyes.

'Goodnight, Gillian,' he returned carelessly, turning away and striding towards his parked car.

She fumed. She hadn't made him a present of her first name! How dared he use it so casually—and how dared he walk away as though she didn't merit the common courtesies? He hadn't even thanked her for the coffee!

His Mercedes, gleaming opulently in the light from a street lamp, was parked just behind her Mini, almost touching its rear bumper. Worlds apart and with nothing in common—just as they were and would always remain, she realised.

She watched the competent economy of his movements as he produced car keys, opened the door and swung himself behind the wheel. He turned on the ignition then leaned across to open the passenger door for Steve.

Gillian waved goodnight. Only Steve responded with a cheerful wave of his hand and his ready smile. Mark Barlow had already dismissed her, she knew.

As the Mercedes drew smoothly away from the kerb, she went back into the flat and closed and locked the door.

The rooms seemed empty as she went from one to the other, clearing away the coffee cups and rinsing them beneath the running tap, tidying the living-room and kitchen, securing the windows, getting ready for bed. Steve wasn't a big man by any means but he had seemed to fill the place with his warm, extrovert personality. It was absurd but she missed him already.

She continued to think about Steve as she undressed and brushed her pale hair into a silky cloud about her head, then climbed between the sheets of the wide double bed. He was a dear. She liked him so much. He hadn't put a foot wrong all evening. Gillian hoped that he liked her just as much and felt reasonably confident that he did, recalling the smile in his eyes and the warmth in his voice and the way he had kissed her on parting. That kiss had been a promise for the future, she decided with satisfaction.

Resolutely thinking about Steve as she put out the bedside light and snuggled down, she didn't know why such a vivid image of Mark Barlow should be stubbornly etched on her closed eyelids for all her efforts to thrust it aside and go to sleep.

A handsome, sensual face with its strongly sculptured features and deep-set eyes and mobile mouth, spoiled for Gillian by the sardonic expression , the cold smile and the haughty lift of an eyebrow. But, remembering the way that he had smiled and looked at the lovely Louise Penistone, she could believe that he might be very attractive to women.

He dressed too formally for her liking although she admitted that he looked well in his obviously expensive clothes. But she preferred Steve's casual and comfortable appearance. He wore his dark, crisply curling hair a little too long, she thought critically, seeing in her mind's eye the impatient hand brushing it back from his brow in an habitual gesture while he talked. The best thing about Mark Barlow was his hands. They had impressed her.

Strong, sensitive, capable—they were surgeon's hands. Competent hands, inspiring confidence. Hands that would always know exactly what to do, whether wielding a scalpel to save a life or moving across a woman's body in experienced caress.

Gillian jerked her thoughts to a halt, slightly shocked that they had wandered in such a dangerous direction. She might admire Mark Barlow's hands but she had not the slightest desire to know the touch of them on any part of her body, with or without a scalpel!

She didn't know him. She didn't want to know him. But she had the uncomfortable conviction that he wasn't a forgettable man. If only because he roused her to a degree of dislike and loathing such as she had never felt for anyone before.

It was mutual, she knew. It was as much as he could do to be civil to her—and so far he hadn't tried very hard.

Gillian was a warm-hearted girl. She liked people very readily as a rule. But it was impossible to like someone as insufferable as Mark Barlow, with his exalted opinion of himself and his scornful opinion of her as a mere nurse who had yet to prove her ability to his satisfaction.

The
second day at Greenvale was much more enjoyable. Gillian found herself slipping easily into the routine and feeling more at ease with the other nurses who were beginning to accept her now that they found she was an efficient and cheerful worker as well as a friendly girl. She had shaken off the new-girl feeling.

She didn't see Steve. She had no occasion to visit Theatre and he apparently had no reason to come down to the floor where she was working. Gillian didn't mind that he made no attempt to see her, she didn't feel that it was a deliberate policy. He might not be on duty that day. Mark Barlow wasn't operating and it seemed that they usually worked together as a team.

Mrs Maddox was still on the monitor. She was making good progress but she was reacting to a routine pain-killing drug with some excitability. Naturally a jolly woman, buoyed up by morphine, she was making little of her obvious discomfort and was ready to turn everything into a huge joke.

Having spent a lively half-hour with the big woman, giving her a blanket-bath and making her as comfortable as possible for drip and drainage tubes and electrodes, and trying to calm her with very little success, Gillian emerged from the room, dark-blue eyes sparkling with suppressed merriment from some of the outrageous things that Mrs Maddox had been saying. She almost collided with Mark Barlow.

'Oops! Sorry!' she declared gaily, hastily swerving the trolley out of his path before realising that the tall man in the dark suit was the surgeon. He regarded her with a sardonic lift of an eyebrow, disapproval in the grey eyes. 'Oh, it's you,' she said without enthusiasm.

His eyes narrowed at the sudden change of tone. 'I don't think you are going to be an asset to this place,' he said coldly, glancing through the open door at his patient who was flushed and bright-eyed and beaming, obviously over-stimulated. He had heard the loud voice, and gusts of painful laughter as he strode along the corridor and had wondered what on earth was going on in Room Four. 'One would think that you know nothing at all about post-operative nursing,' he swept on angrily. 'I believe I stressed that Mrs Maddox was to be kept very quiet for a few days. She's a very excitable woman with a history of hypertension. Things must have changed considerably at St Christopher's if its nurses behave like third-rate music-hall entertainers instead of doing their work in an orderly manner and having proper care for their patients!'

Without giving her a chance to defend herself, or explain the reason for Mrs Maddox's excitability, he strode into the room. Gillian was speechless with indignation anyway. She glared at his broad and totally uncompromising back as he stood at the foot of the bed, chart in hand, talking in clipped tones to his patient.