Questions Of Trust: A Medical Romance (11 page)

Chloe smiled. ‘I’ve no doubt about it. And those worries you have, about not spending enough time with your daughter? All parents have them. All good ones, anyway.’

He nodded his thanks, sipped his tea.

After a pause he said: ‘Anyhow, the reason I wanted to tell you about Rebecca in person was that I didn’t want to alarm you. A phone call might have sounded like I thought you were in imminent danger or something. I just think it’s best that you be on the lookout, that’s all. Probably just for a few days, while she’s in town. And if you’re worried about her at all, if she approaches you or anything, please let me know immediately, okay?’

Chloe said gently, ‘Thanks, Tom. But I’m sure I can take care of myself.’

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘See, there I go again. Sounding patronising. Of course you can take care of yourself. I didn’t mean to suggest you needed me to come riding to the rescue.’

‘I know what you meant. And thanks again. Advice noted.’

The conversation seemed to come to a natural end there. Chloe finished her coffee and stood.

‘Long day. You for one look like you could do with some rest.’

He rose with her and came round the table. ‘Chloe, I really appreciate what you’ve done today. Both picking Kelly up and… well, and being there to listen.’ He reached out a hand, and Chloe took it.

Whether Tom drew her towards him or whether it was Chloe herself who stepped nearer, she couldn’t for the life of her remember afterwards. But in the next instant she was at him, up close, their torsos not quite touching, her hand gripping his elbow and his on her upper arm. She stared up at his eyes, their blue in contrast to his unruly hair, and was fascinated to see that his pupils were dilated, crowding out the irises. Between them she felt the tingle of near contact.

They said nothing, studying one another’s faces. Her gaze slipped to his mouth, the faintest ghost of a smile settled there in what she’d come to recognise as his resting expression. His cheeks, his neck, were lightly shadowed with stubble. She noticed that his nostrils flared slightly, as if his breathing were quickening.

Once again it was uncertain who moved first, but she found herself pressed against him, the heat of their chests combining into something more intense than the sum of its parts. Her arms twined around Tom’s neck as his slipped about her waist and tightened deliciously, drawing her hips closer so that her loins pushed against his. His mouth descended on hers as she raised her face to meet his and their lips joined, their tongues probing. The heat between them flooded through her, and she felt the pressure of his chest against her breasts tease her nipples into hardness through the fabric of her bra and sweater. And against her lower belly she sensed the nudging of his own arousal through his trousers.

Tom broke free from the kiss and she felt his breath hot against her hair, her ear, before his teeth nipped at her earlobe and his tongue teased it exquisitely. She titled her pelvis so that it pressed even more tightly against his groin and he groaned, low and guttural, in her ear. Chloe became aware that her own breath was coming in little gasps as she buried her mouth against his neck.

And, from a distant part of her that retained a semblance of control, she heard a small voice saying:
No. Stop
.

‘No,’ she murmured out loud, surprising herself.

Tom drew back, still holding her, looking into her face. He was flushed, his eyelids heavy. ‘Why?’

‘No,’ she said again, more clearly this time.

‘Don’t you want to?’

‘It’s just –’ Her words came thickly, as if she’d lost the power of speech and was having to relearn it.

‘If you’re worried Kelly will walk in, we can go in the –’

‘No, Tom. I can’t.’

‘Can’t, or won’t?’ His tone was soft.

Flustered, Chloe stepped away from him, ran her hands over her face, straightened her clothes. She felt dizzy, disorientated. Her heart was hammering and for a moment she didn’t trust her legs to support her.

Somehow she managed to look Tom in the face. The desire was still there in his eyes, but it was dwindling under the fog of resignation.

‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I have to go.’

‘Chloe –’

She held up a vague hand, didn’t look back but walked quickly to the door and let herself out. In the car she paused a moment, sucking in great lungfuls of breath, fighting the urge to hyperventilate which she knew would make her even more lightheaded.

When she felt composed enough to be safe behind the wheel, Chloe started the car and set off for the cottage.

***

She glanced at the green digital display of the clock after what seemed like an hour. It read 2:55. Ten minutes had passed since she’d last checked.

Chloe decided enough was enough. She wasn’t going to get to sleep by lying there waiting to drift off. She rose from bed, pulled on a thin terrycloth dressing gown – the night was still warm despite the hour – and went into the kitchen. There she poured herself a glass of water; caffeine was the last thing she needed.

The shaking had continued all the way home and she’d had to sit in the car outside the cottage and compose herself once more before going in to Mrs McFarland and sending her home. After the older woman had left, having tried unsuccessfully to find out again exactly whom Chloe had been to see, Chloe took a tepid shower, not sure what the stinging needles of water were quite supposed to achieve but hoping they’d somehow settle the turmoil within her.

They didn’t, and Chloe sat up for half an hour more before turning in. Lying in bed, trying in vain to find a comfortable position, she began to realise with a creeping dread that the insomnia which had last plagued her in the months after Mark’s death was planning on paying her a repeat visit tonight.

Standing at the kitchen counter, Chloe took a deep draught of water, then pressed the cool glass against her forehead. She’d had no idea feelings of the power of those she’d experienced that evening were still rousable within her, and the realisation that the capacity to experience sensation so intensely lay dormant within her was breathtaking and more than a little frightening.

She’d been taken completely by surprise by what had happened between her and Tom, yet she knew she ought to have expected it. Part of her even wondered if she was as surprised as she told herself. It had been there between them, nearly from the start, this attraction which neither of them had spoken about or even alluded to, and just because she’d admitted to herself in a careless, throwaway manner that Tom was an attractive man it didn’t mean her true feelings towards him were any less real.

Now, she had to face up to the fact that the situation was different. She couldn’t deny any longer that what she felt for Tom was more than the harmless appreciation any woman might have for a good-looking man. Her feelings for him were intense, as visceral and as powerful as any she’d ever known, and yes, while she was being honest, that included her dear Mark. It wasn’t even just adolescent lust. She understood that Tom appealed to her on multiple levels: he was, yes, physically sexy, but he was also warm, funny, gentle, a kind and honest man and a great father.

Chloe hadn’t been with a man for over a year, since Mark’s death. She hadn’t even looked at a man in that way. But now, for the first time, she recognised that she wanted,
needed
a man. Not as some sort of saviour, not to protect her or make up for some inadequacy – Chloe was an independent, self-sufficient woman, something she’d proven to herself since being widowed – but as a soulmate, a partner with whom to share her thoughts and her fears, somebody to walk with and comfort and be comforted by in turn. And, yes, someone to writhe entwined with, naked in bed, to indulge in adult pleasures with and then to wake up alongside in the drowsy warmth of a new morning.

But it couldn’t be. Not yet, not with any man. Mark had been gone a little more than a year, and it was far too soon for her to be “moving on”, as the phrase went. And in any case, it couldn’t be with Tom. Not now, not ever. Tom was a doctor, trustworthy as an individual but always carrying the mark of Cain which his profession conferred on him. Doctors weren’t to be trusted. Tom was a doctor. Therefore Tom could never be trusted, however trustworthy he was. It was illogical, it was absurd, Chloe knew. It was also what she believed, as deeply within her bones as some people held religious convictions.

She had a problem, then. She was passionately, ardently drawn to Tom; and she could never, ever, let matters progress any further than they had this evening, or even get as far as they had. Chloe filled her water glass again and, as she drank, considered her options.

There were two, as far as she could tell.

She could discuss the matter openly with Tom, face to face. Acknowledge that there were powerful feelings between them but that there was no possibility of their getting together romantically, and sound him out as to whether or not he wanted to stay platonic friends. Even if he agreed, it would always be a spectre between them, as real as it was before it made itself known; and there’d be times, surely, when they’d let their guard down and succumb as they had done tonight.

Or, she could break off contact with Tom, explaining her reasons as painlessly as she was able. She could register herself and Jake with the other GP practice on the opposite side of Pemberham, and revert to the cordial, nodding acquaintance she’d had with Tom until recently.

The second was the more painful option, at least in the short term. But in the long run it was the more likely to work.

Her mind made up, Chloe went back to bed. This time, after only an hour, sleep came to her.

Chapter Seven

‘Late night, doc?’

The young man was the third patient to ask Tom that, though the others had done it in a more diplomatic day. Tom began to get the message: he really must look tired, the bags under his eyes visible to everyone and not just to him. He’d often reflected that doctors were one of the few groups of workers in whom obvious tiredness was considered somehow an acceptable and even admirable quality; it suggested the heroic medic had been up all night, tending to the sick, which often was the case. In other professions, the bleary-eyed look was usually taken to be a mark of excessive partying the night before, and frowned upon.

Tom had in fact slept very little, but the reason was neither that he’d been partying nor that he’d been caring for patients.

He’d got in to work early, having woken once more at five and decided to get up rather than risk sleeping past the alarm. And he was driving himself harder than ever this morning, keeping up with his caseload and seeing Ben Okoro’s patients when his colleague lagged behind. Working at a breakneck pace meant not having to think about other things, because that was all he’d been doing as he tossed and turned the night before, and it would drive him crazy if he continued with it.

Refusing to think any more about what had happened between him and Chloe the night before was one thing. Shaking off the feelings that had been engendered was quite another. As the night had dragged on, Tom had become aware not only of the obvious physical frustration he’d felt, but also of disappointment, bewilderment – and, most corrosively of all, guilt.

The guilt was on two counts. First, although Chloe technically wasn’t his patient but Ben’s, the distinction was fine enough that Tom felt the ethics of the situation were hazy at best. A clinch with your own patient was clearly unethical, there were no two ways about it. But with a colleague’s patient? Tom didn’t know if the regulatory authorities had ever adjudicated such cases. He supposed they must have.

The second, and more powerful, source of Tom’s guilt came from his knowledge that he and Chloe had fallen into each other’s arms at a time of high stress and emotion for him. He’d relied on her help during the day because of a problem of his own, involving his ex-wife, which wasn’t Chloe’s problem at all. Then, he’d asked her round to warn her to keep a look out for his ex, thereby reinforcing the notion that his problems were being turned into hers as well. And then he’d kissed Chloe. Whether he’d made the first move or whether she had didn’t really matter. He was the needy one in this situation, and it felt as though he’d taken advantage of Chloe’s helpfulness by pressing his further needs on to her.

And yet… guilt wasn’t the strongest of the feelings kindled within Tom by the encounter. Chloe had responded not with shock, or outrage, or a slap in his face, but with eagerness, with passion, however short-lived her reaction had been. She clearly had strong feelings for Tom. And those feelings would still be there within her, however more tightly she wrapped that mantle of reserve and coolness around her that he’d noticed from his first meeting with her onwards. 

He needed to speak to her about what had happened, that was certain. But it was too soon this morning. Perhaps they needed even as long as a couple of days to cool off, to get some perspective. One way or another, a decision would have to be made. Would they write off what had happened as a mistake, a product of the long, trying, emotional day they’d had? Or would they – and Tom hardly dared allow his thoughts to wander down this avenue – accept the complexities of their situation, get over the reasons against their getting together, and make a go of it?

After he’d finished seeing the young man, Tom glanced into the waiting room. His next patient was there, but ten minutes early. Otherwise, he was up to date. He decided to reward himself with a cup of coffee. Tracey at reception met his eye, read his thoughts and mimed raising a mug to her lips. He grinned, gave her a grateful thumbs up.