Kitabı oku: «Making Christmas Special Again»

CHAPTER ONE

HELL’S TEETH, IT was cold.

For once the all-consuming distraction of lungs vs arctic winds hurtling in from the Highlands was welcome. Physical pain outweighed Max Kirkpatrick’s rage just long enough to remember that for every problem there was a solution. This time, though...

Trust the festive season to send him another blunt reminder that, no matter how hard he tried, the universe simply wasn’t going to let him put some good back into the world.

He’d genuinely thought he’d done it this time. He really had.

His eyes travelled the length of the scrubby inner-city hospital then scanned the former vacant plot. There’d been snow on and off for weeks and yet there were still patients wandering around with pets and still more in the greenhouse, fostering their plants as if they were their own flesh and blood.

He traced his finger along a frost-singed rose. The parents of a little boy who’d lost his struggle with cancer had planted it three years earlier when Max had only just started Plants to Paws. The lad had loved coming out here to play with the family mongrel. Golden moments, his parents had called them. Golden moments. They still came and tended it as if their son were still with them. In a way, he supposed, he was.

This week.

Max’s disbelief that someone was going to destroy the garden shunted through him afresh. Gone were the piles of rubbish, the burnt-out car, the thick layers of tagging on the side of the Clydebank Hospital walls. In their place were raised vegetable patches, benches with the names of loved ones on shining brass plaques dappled about the small wildflower meadow and, of course, the greenhouse and extra-large garden shed he’d built with a handful of other doctors. They’d recently installed a wood stove for added comfort. That would go, too. Along with the bow-laden wreath someone had hung on the door, despite his protestations that it was too early.

He crouched down to pop a couple of stones back onto the rock garden one of the Clyde’s long-term leukaemia patients had helped build. Her first ever garden, she’d crowed. She’d be gutted when she found out it was going to be demolished, all to help some fat-cat property developer.

As he nestled another rock back into place, a young Border collie ran up to him with the tell-tale wriggle of a happy dog. She rolled onto her back for a tummy rub. He took a quick glance around and couldn’t place her with anyone within sight.

He gave her soft white belly a rub. ‘Hey, there, little one. You’re a pretty girl. Now, who do you belong to?’

‘Some would say they don’t belong to anyone.’

The female voice slipped down his spine like warm honey. Low and husky, it was the type of voice that could talk a man into anything if he didn’t watch himself. Good job he’d put the emotional armour on years back.

Max was about to say he was very familiar with the way canine-human relationships worked, thank you very much, when a pair of very expensive boots appeared on the woodchip path. Expensive boots attached to a public school accent. Still Scottish, but he would put money on the fact their schools had had a mixer dance. The military school his stepfather had deposited him in strongly encouraged shoulder rubbing with the ‘power makers’, as the school head had liked to call them.

‘Deal breakers’ would’ve been a better moniker if today’s news was anything to go by. He still couldn’t wrap his head round the hospital reneging on their word. Sure, they needed the money, but obliterating Plants to Paws to let a developer build a car park?

Bam! There went three years of hard work. Not to mention the slice of peace that came from knowing he’d finally made good on a years’ old vow to do what he hadn’t done for his mother: offer a refuge from a life that wasn’t as kind as it should have been. All for a bit of money they’d never see on the wards. Hello, cement trucks, sayonara Plants to Paws.

The puppy nuzzled against his hand.

‘What’s her name?’ He had yet to look up.

‘Skye,’ the voice said.

She sounded like a Christmas ornament. Angel? Whatever. Too damned nice was what she sounded.

Her leather boots moved in a bit closer. Italian? They looked handmade.

‘I think you’ll find her “love me tender” routine is an act. Skye’s always got an ulterior motive and, from the look of things, you’re playing right into her paws.’

He didn’t even want to know what that meant.

‘Is she a working collie or one of those therapy dogs?’ They’d been trying to introduce the therapy dogs into the hospital but, as ever, stretched resources meant the lovable fur balls weren’t seen much on the wards.

‘Working. Though she’s still in training. Precocious. Just like her mother.’

Damn. This woman’s voice was like butter. Better. Butter and honey mixed together. If he was to add a shot of whisky and heat it up it’d be the perfect drink on a day like this.

‘What type of training?’ he asked, to stop his brain from going places it shouldn’t.

‘Search and rescue.’

That got his attention. He had been expecting agility. Maybe sheep herding. A voice like that usually came attached to some land. Land managed by someone else. As he tilted his head up, the sun got in his eyes and all he could make out was a halo of blonde hair atop a stretch of legs and a cashmere winter coat that definitely wasn’t from the kind of stores he shopped in.

Miss Boots squatted down to his level and the second their eyes met he stood straight back up.

Piercing blue eyes. A tousle of short curls the colour of summer wheat. A face so beautiful it looked as though it had been sculpted out of marble. For every bit of wrong she elicited in his gut, there was an equal measure of good.

‘Are you a patient?’ It was the only thing he could think to ask, though he knew the answer would be—

‘No.’ She put her leather-gloved hand out to shake his. ‘Esme Ross-Wylde.’

He kept his facial features on their usual setting: neutral. Though society papers weren’t his thing, even he’d heard of the Ross-Wyldes. Scottish landed gentry of the highest order. The Ross-Wylde estate came with about five thousand acres, if memory served. A couple of hours north of Glasgow. Before his mum had married The Dictator, as Max liked to think of his stepfather, she’d taken him there for one of their famous Christmas carnivals. Huge old house. A castle actually. Expansive grounds. Extensive stables. Skating rink. Toffee apples and gingerbread men. It’d been the last Christmas he hadn’t been made to ‘earn his keep’.

‘So.’ He clapped his hands together and looked around the sparsely populated garden. ‘Have you brought Skye along to meet someone?’

She unleashed a smile that could’ve easily lit him up from the inside out. Good thing she’d met him on a bad day. On a good one? He might have had to break some rules.

‘I was looking for you.’ She held up a familiar-looking scarf.

‘How’d you get that?’ He knew he sounded terse, but with his luck she was the developer. If she was trying to sprinkle some sugar in advance of telling him when the wrecking ball would swing, she may as well get on with it.

Esme was unfazed by his cranky response. She tipped her head towards the garden shed as she handed him his scarf. ‘A member of your fan club gave me this to give Skye a go at “search”.’

He glanced over at the shed and, sure enough, there were a couple of patients from the oncology ward waving at him. Cheeky so-and-sos. They’d been trying to blow some oxygen onto the all but dead embers of his social life ever since they’d found out the nurses not so discreetly called him The Monk. He rolled his eyes and returned his attention to Esme Ross-Wylde. ‘I presume that means you’re here for the “rescue” part?’

She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘If you’re interested.’

Skye’s tail started waving double time.

If he wasn’t mistaken, the corners of her rather inviting lips were twitching with the hint of a smile.

Something about this whole scenario felt like flirting. He didn’t do flirting. He did A and E medicine in Glasgow’s most financially deprived hospital. Then he slept, woke up and did it all over again. Sometimes he came out here and dug over a veg patch. There definitely wasn’t time for flirting.

When he said nothing she asked, ‘How do you fancy keeping Plants to Paws the way it is?’

His eyes snapped to hers, and something flashed hard and bright in his chest that had nothing to do with gratitude. It ricocheted straight past his belt buckle and all the way up again. By the look on her face, she was feeling exactly the same thing he was. An unwelcome animal attraction.

Oh, hell. If life had taught him anything, it was the old adage that if something seemed too good to be true, it usually was.

The Dictator had taught him that everything came with a price. Best to rip off the plaster and get it over with. ‘What’s the catch?’

‘Charming.’ Esme quirked a brow. ‘Is this how you win all the girls over?’

‘It works for some.’ Dr Kirkpatrick’s shrug was flippantly sexy.

‘Not this girl.’ Her hip jutted out as if to emphasise the point she really shouldn’t be making. That she fancied him something rotten and her body was most definitely flirting without her permission.

‘Suit yourself.’ His full lips twitched into a frown. Something told her it was for the same reason her mouth followed suit. They’d both been burnt somewhere along the line and if she was right, those burns had been slow to heal. If at all.

She sniffed to communicate she would suit herself, thank you very much, but the butterflies in her belly and the glint in his eye told her Max Kirkpatrick knew the ball was very much in his court.

He wasn’t at all what she’d expected when she’d heard about an A and E doctor who’d set up a multi-purpose garden where patients could grow carrots and play with their pets. For some reason she thought he’d be older. Like...granddad old. And not half as sexy as the man arcing rather dubious eyebrows at her.

She called Skye to her and gave her head a little scrub. Here was someone she could rely on. Even as puppies, dogs were completely honest. Constant. Loyal.

Men? Not so much. Something she’d learned the hard way after her entire life had been splashed across the tabloids as a naive twenty-year-old who’d been taken for a fool. These days the Esme Ross-Wylde people met was friendly, businesslike and, despite the inevitable tabloid update on her charitable activities, able to keep her private life exactly that. Private. Which was a good thing because the rate of knots at which she was mentally undressing him would’ve won a gold medal.

‘Are you going to tell me what the catch is or are you going to make me beg for it?’ His frown deepened. As if he was fighting exactly the same onslaught of images she was. Sexy ones that most definitely shouldn’t be drowning out any form of common sense.

Normally sponsoring a struggling charity was incredibly straightforward.

Normally she didn’t feel as though her entire body was being lit up like a Christmas tree. Flickering and shimmering in a way she hadn’t thought possible after years of protecting her broken heart. All of which was tying her insides in knots because feeling like a lusty teenager was not a safe way to feel. And yet...she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

C’mon, Esme. You know the drill. Find a charity. Offer a lifeline in the form of a Christmas ball. Donate a couple of service dogs after two weeks of training up at Heatherglen. Job done.

She forced herself to answer. ‘From what I hear, you might need my help.’

The doctor crossed his arms and squared his six-foot-something form so that she could see nothing else but him. Classic macho male pose. Designed to intimidate.

Although...she wasn’t really getting that vibe from Dr Kirkpatrick. It was more protective than aggressive. There was something about the ramrod-straight set of his spine that suggested he’d done some time in the forces. Her brother had had the same solid presence. Unlike everyone else, who was bundled up to the eyeballs, Max Kirkpatrick wore a light fleece top bearing the hospital logo over a set of navy scrubs and nothing else. A normal human would’ve been freezing.

A normal human wouldn’t be messing with her no-men-for-Esme rule. This guy? Mmm... Dark chestnut-brown hair. A bit curly and wild. The type that was begging her fingers to scruff it up a bit more. Espresso brown eyes. The fathomless variety that gleamed with hints of gold when the sun caught them. Everything about him screamed tall, dark and mysterious. And she liked a mystery.

No!

She did not like mysteries. She liked steady and reliable. Although...steady and reliable hadn’t really floated her boat the last few times her brother had presented her with ‘suitable dating material’.

Dr Kirkpatrick broke the silence first. ‘Any chance you’re going to explain this rather timely offer to rescue me?’

Ah. She’d forgotten that part. An oversight she was going to blame on Skye for unearthing the softer side of this impenetrable mountain of man gloom towering over her. Sometimes being short was a real pain.

‘I run the Heatherglen Foundation. I founded it after my brother—an army man—and his service dog were killed in a conflict zone.’

A muscle twitched in his jaw. She’d definitely been right about the military.

She continued with more confidence, ‘I am particularly interested in helping charities that use animals as therapy and who, more to the point, are in danger of closing. It’s relatively straightforward. I select the charity, and in a few weeks the foundation will be hosting a Christmas ball, where the bulk of the funds raised will be donated to said charity, and ongoing support from the Heatherglen Foundation will also be provided.’

‘Sounds great. Have a good time!’ Max said in a ‘count me out’ tone.

‘But—it’ll save Plants to Paws.’ Didn’t he want his charity to survive? ‘The ball’s just before Christmas. It truly is a magical event.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘So...what? Is this your stab at being Scotland’s very own Mrs Claus?’

‘There’s no need to be narky about it. I’m trying to help.’ She didn’t like Christmastime either. Her brother had been killed on Christmas Eve and ever since then her favourite time of year had been shrouded in painful memories, but it didn’t mean she took it out on others. Quite the opposite, in fact. The Christmas ball was her attempt to recapture the love she had for the festive season. Ten years and counting and it still had yet to take.

He opened his hands out wide. ‘How would you feel if the one thing you’d poured three years of hard graft into was going to be paved over for a pay by the minute car park? At Christmas.’

‘I’d do everything in my power to save it.’

‘Trust a stranger I’ve never met to save a charity she’ll most likely never make use of? I don’t think so.’

She was hardly going to tell him to search the internet because, depending on which site he hit, he could definitely get the wrong impression. She took a deep breath and started over. ‘The donors are personally selected by me. People who believe in giving back to communities that have treated them well.’ The look he threw her spoke volumes. He wasn’t biting. She spluttered, ‘Think of it as your first Christmas present.’

‘I don’t trust things that come in pretty wrapping.’

The way he looked at her made it crystal clear he wasn’t talking about ribbons and sparkly paper. He was talking about her.

Now, that was irritating.

She wasn’t some little airhead who bolstered her ego by doing seasonal acts of charity.

He shoved up his sleeve to check his watch. ‘I’ve got patients to see and bad news to dispense, so if you don’t mind...?’

‘I do, actually. I mind very much.’

He rolled his finger with a ‘get on with it’ spin.

What was with the attitude? Founders who believed in their charities tended to drop it. Not this guy. Either he’d been royally screwed around at some point or was just plain old chippy. Even worse, somehow, in a handful of seconds, Max Kirkpatrick had slipped directly under her thick winter coat, beneath her cashmere sweater and burrowed right under her skin, making this interaction feel shockingly personal.

The Heatherglen Foundation wasn’t a platform for her to prance about Scotland, giving away her family’s money. It was the one good thing that had come out of the most painful chapters in her life. As quickly as she’d been unnerved by his attitude, she’d had enough. She wasn’t going to beg this man to take her money. He didn’t want it? He couldn’t have it.

She wiped her hands together as if ridding them of something distasteful. ‘I came here with a genuine offer of help and a list of donors as long as my arm. If you’re not interested in stopping Gavin Henshall from paving Plants to Paws over, I’ll be on my way.’

He blinked. Twice.

Ooh. Had she found a chink in the strong, silent man’s armour?

‘I suspect it’ll take more than a few thousand to keep Henshall at bay.’

He was right. She told him how much the last charity she’d sponsored had received.

He blinked again. ‘Can we skip straight to the what do I need to do to get the money part?’

Blunt. But it was a damn sight better than being dismissed as a bit of society fluff.

Her frown must’ve deepened because he suddenly folded into a courtly bow before unleashing an unexpectedly lavish charm offensive. ‘I do humbly ask your forgiveness. Etiquette school clearly failed me. I didn’t mean to be rude, Miss Ross-Wylde. Or is it Mrs?’

‘Ms,’ Esme snipped.

His eyes narrowed. Probably the same way hers had when he’d stiffened at the mention of Gavin Henshall.

He’d found her chink. She’d found his. Normally this would be her cue to run for the hills. But something about him made her want to know what made him tick. Sugar. Why couldn’t Max Kirkpatrick have looked like a troll or been long since married to his childhood sweetheart? She checked his ring finger.

Empty.

Her heart soared so fast she barely knew what to do with herself.

Explain the details. Accept his refusal—because he will refuse—then leave. Problem solved.

She crossed her arms, aiming for nonchalant, not entirely sure if she’d hit her mark. ‘I’ve just been up to speak to the hospital administrator, who has agreed to stall the sale until the new year. If the Christmas ball goes to plan, the hospital is happy to leave Plants to Paws as is.’

‘In perpetuity?’ Max obviously had his own set of conditions.

‘Precisely. The only thing—’

He huffed out a laugh. ‘I knew there was a catch.’

She let her eyebrows take the same haughty position his had earlier. ‘The only thing, Dr Kirkpatrick, is that I require the head of each charity to select two patients whom you think might benefit from a service dog.’

‘Oh. You require it, do you?’

She ignored him and soldiered on. ‘We can offer the patient two weeks of one-to-one training at the canine therapy centre, all expenses included, and a follow-up care package if they have financial difficulties.’

His expression didn’t change, but she could see he was actively considering her offer.

‘What sorts of things do your dogs do, apart from search and rescue?’ Max asked.

She smiled. She might have trouble bragging about herself, but she could big up her dogs until the cows came home. ‘We have service dogs specially trained to work with epileptics, diabetics, people with cancer, people with mobility problems. I imagine you see the full gamut of patients in A and E. I’ll forward you a full list of the services we can provide. We also have emotional support dogs, who work with people suffering from PTSD or anxiety.’

He nodded. ‘Would I have to play any part in this?’

Normally he would, but no way was she inviting Max Kirkpatrick to Heatherglen. He was setting off way too many alarm bells. Before guilt could set in, she reminded herself that she made the rules. She could also bend them.

‘Apart from attend the ball to receive a big fat cheque?’ She shook her head. ‘Not necessary. We’re an all bells and whistles facility, so...’ The lie came a bit too easily. She always invited the charity founder to join the patients and their families up at Heatherglen, but two weeks in close proximity with Max Kirkpatrick at this time of year, when the castle was romantically bedecked for the festive season? Not. Going. To. Happen.

Her mouth continued talking while her brain scrambled to catch up. ‘We run the training sessions at our canine therapy training centre. There’s also a medical rehabilitation clinic my brother runs in the main building. I have a week-long slot from December fifteenth up until the twenty-third of December, when we hold the ball. I understand the timing could be awkward with Christmas and family obligations, but as the developer is so keen to get construction under way, I thought we’d best get cracking. The patients could take the dogs home over the holidays then return for a second week of training sometime in January. If that suits.’

She watched his face go through a rapid-fire range of emotions. All of which he erased before she could nail any of them down.

‘I’m fine with that,’ he said evenly. ‘As long as we make a few of my guidelines clear.’

Esme couldn’t help it. She laughed. ‘Excuse me, Dr Kirkpatrick. If I’m not mistaken, I’m the one helping you here and as such—’

‘As such,’ he cut in, ‘I don’t want you steamrolling my charity into something it isn’t.’

‘And what makes you think I plan on doing that?’

‘Bitter experience.’

The second the words were out of his mouth Max regretted them. Hearing Gavin Henshall’s name had a way of catapulting him straight back into the scrawny fourteen-year-old kid who’d mown lawns, taken out rubbish and thrown himself at all the rest of the chores his stepfather had set him as if his life had depended on it, only to discover he’d changed the goalposts. Again.

Military academy, apprenticeships over the summer holidays, boot camp. No matter what he’d done or how hard he’d worked, he had never been permitted into the house to shield his mum from the emotionally abusive relationship she’d unwittingly married into.

Not that he blamed her. They’d both fallen for Gavin’s smooth lines. He’d promised her love, respect, a house with a big garden on the right side of town. A proper education for her ‘shockingly bright boy’, the son he’d always hoped to have.

How the hell Gavin had convincingly passed off the lies still astounded him. The only plus side of the cancer that had taken his mother’s life was that it had freed her, at long last, from Gavin. It was more than he’d been able to do.

He shook his head and forced himself to focus on the here and now.

Esme Ross-Wylde didn’t strike him as a steamroller socialite. The type of do-gooder who blithely floated round the city flinging gold coins for the ‘have nots’ to do her bidding. Sour memories teased at his throat. Money brought power and no one had made that clearer to him than Gavin. ‘You earn your keep? You’re in. You don’t? You’ll have to learn how to make a real man of yourself.’

‘What’s your role in all of this?’ Max had already been hit by one bombshell today. This one—the Henshall H-bomb—was making it harder to harness any charm. If he was going to tell everyone who cared about Plants to Paws it was going to survive, he needed to trust it was a genuine offer. Trusting a woman who could clearly cut and run from any scenario that didn’t suit her was a tall order.

‘Apart from being Mrs Claus, you mean?’ She pursed her lips in a way that suggested he’d definitely hit a sore spot then said, ‘As well as running the foundation, I’m a vet and an animal behaviour specialist. I also pick up poo, in case that’s what you’re really asking.’

It was all he could do not to laugh. Brilliant. Esme Double-Barrelled-Fancy-Boots picked up poo. It was a skilful way to tell him there was a vital, active brain behind the porcelain doll good looks. A woman who wanted to be mistress of her own destiny as much as he’d worked to be master of his.

‘That it?’ He knew he was winding her up, but...his flirting skills were rusty. Rusted and covered in a thick layer of dust if he was being honest.

Her smile came naturally, clearly more relaxed when talking about her work. ‘The vet clinic is the only one in our area and the therapy centre’s busy pretty much round the clock. The service dogs are trained to aid patients with specific tasks they are unable to do themselves. Like press an alert button for someone having an epileptic seizure, for example. Much like a dog who works on a bomb squad or for drug detection, they are not for the general public to cuddle and coo over.’