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The Doctor’s Rebel Knight

by

Melanie Milburne

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Jacob tipped up her chin with his finger. ‘Want to tell me what happened?’

Fran chewed at her lip. ‘I was all set to go in…Well, I was parked out in front, at least…’

‘And?’

She swallowed tightly. ‘I started to walk up the path when I heard the sirens; I guess it was you on your way to the fire. The fire engine was on your tail, and all the noise…it just got to me. I panicked—really panicked. I thought I was going to pass out.’

‘You poor kid,’ he said gently. Jacob put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Have you had panic attacks before?’

‘Yes…’ Her cheeks went bright red. ‘Everyone expects doctors to be able to cope with anything. We see blood and gore and death and serious injury all the time. But I just can’t seem to walk into a hospital without breaking out in a cold sweat.’

He stepped back and took her by the shoulders again. ‘What if I come with you the first couple of times? Would that help?’

She looked up at him in wonder. ‘You would do that?’

‘I’ll try not to make it too obvious,’ he said. ‘I can come and go, depending on how you are coping.’

‘But what will people think of you being there like some sort of bodyguard?’ she asked.

Jacob picked up her hand and pressed a kiss to the middle of her palm. ‘Just take things a step at a time, Fran. No one is making you commit for life. It’s just for now. Enjoy it for what it is.’

Dear Reader

One of the greatest privileges I have experienced as a published author is to be asked to be part of the Heart Foundation in Hobart. Each year a fundraising ball is held in June, and it is Hobart’s premier event.

A couple of years ago I was asked to be part of the silent auction, donating a book dedication and/or the use of a person’s name as an upcoming character. HER MAN OF HONOUR was that award-winning book—which was, of course, a great thrill.

In 2008 a lovely reader won the bid for the chance to have her name used in one of my books. While I have used her name, the character is not based on her in any other way, and everything else is the work of my imagination and was in no way influenced by a real person. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

I hope you enjoy THE DOCTOR’S REBEL KNIGHT, for I certainly loved writing it, and am once again delighted to be a part of the Heart Foundation’s work in Tasmania.

Melanie

Melanie Milburne says: ‘I am married to a surgeon, Steve, and have two gorgeous sons, Paul and Phil. I live in Hobart, Tasmania, where I enjoy an active life as a long-distance runner and a nationally ranked top ten Master’s swimmer. I also have a Master’s Degree in Education, but my children totally turned me off the idea of teaching! When not running or swimming I write, and when I’m not doing all of the above I’m reading. And if someone could invent a way for me to read during a four-kilometre swim I’d be even happier!’

Recent titles by the same author:

Medical™ Romance

TOP-NOTCH DOC, OUTBACK BRIDE SINGLE DAD SEEKS A WIFE

(Brides of Penhally Bay)

THE SURGEON BOSS’S BRIDE

Did you know that Melanie also writes for Modern™ Romance? Her stories have her trademark drama and passion, with the added promise of sexy Mediterranean heroes and all the glamour of Modern™ Romance!

Modern™ Romance

THE FUTURE KING’S LOVE-CHILD

(The Royal House of Karedes)

BOUND BY THE MARCOLINI DIAMONDS

Next month, look out for Melanie’s Modern™ Romance CASTELLANO’S MISTRESS OF REVENGE

Chapter One

‘I ABSOLUTELY loathe going to the beach with you,’ Carolyn Atkins grumbled with a rueful grin. ‘Compared to you, I don’t just look like the side of a house, I look like the whole damn street.’

Fran smiled softly at her older sister. ‘Well, you would go and get yourself pregnant with twins. That was just asking for trouble, if you ask me.’

Carolyn rubbed her hand over the generous swell of her abdomen, a slight frown starting to pull at her brow. ‘I know…but I would feel a lot happier if we had a permanent doctor in town right now.’

‘Please, Caro,’ Fran said, a scowl swiftly replacing her smile as she clipped Rufus back on his lead. ‘We’ve been through this every day since I arrived. I’m not cut out to be a doctor now. Maybe I never was in the first place.’

‘That’s total rubbish, Fran,’ Caro said as she dusted the sand off her slip-on shoes. ‘You were fabulous at your job. You loved it. You were a borderline workaholic, for pity’s sake. It was all you could talk about until—’

‘Yes, well, that was then and this is now,’ Fran said quickly, giving her beach towel a rough shake. ‘I want to forget about it while I’m here. I’m supposed to be having a holiday before you have the babies, remember?’

Caro’s shoulders went down on a sigh. ‘Honey, I’m worried about you. I know you don’t want to talk about what happened, but don’t you think it might help you move on better if you discuss it just a little bit?’

Fran picked up the bottle of sunscreen and wiped the sand off it with a corner of her towel before she said, ‘For your information, Carolyn, recent studies have shown that people who received post-trauma counselling were no better off than those who had been given none. In fact, there was even some suggestion those who received the counselling were worse off—they got more post-traumatic stress symptoms.’

Caro screwed up her mouth in a wry fashion as she fondled her dog’s floppy ears. ‘You might not want to be a doctor any more but you obviously still keep up to date. That sounded as if you just read it from the latest medical journal.’

Fran slung her beach bag over her shoulder as they started up the sand back to the house with Rufus, who had a piece of driftwood in his mouth in the hope one of them would throw it just one more time. ‘I need this time here away from it all, Caro,’ she said in a heavy voice. ‘It’s not just about the…the incident. Breaking up with Anton was so unexpected. I feel such a fool for not seeing that coming.’ It wasn’t quite the truth but Fran was so tired of being badgered by her friends and family about her decision to leave medicine.

Caro stopped halfway up the path, seemingly to catch her breath, although Fran suspected she had done it for the sake of her damaged leg. It had been weeks now since the cast had come off and her limp was no better. She tried to disguise it as much as she could but there were days when it ached unbearably.

Today was one of those days.

‘Honey, I hate to be the one to say this but I never really thought he was the one for you, as in The One,’ Caro said. ‘And I know for a fact Mum and Dad felt the same. You only went out…what, once a month, wasn’t it?’

Fran tightened her mouth as she held her sister’s gaze. ‘It’s not that I was in love with him or anything but do you have any idea of how I feel now he’s shacked up with his pregnant radiologist lover?’

Caro pushed her tongue into her right cheek for a moment. ‘Well, let’s hope she sees through him sooner than you did,’ she said as she started up the path again. ‘She ought to, being a radiologist and all.’

In spite of the blow to her pride over Anton’s rejection, Fran couldn’t hold back a small smile as she helped her sister over the rough steps to the top. Caro’s dry sense of humour had often helped her over the last few months. The irony was she had always been the happy-go-lucky one with a ready smile in the past, but now she was…well…realistic. Three years working in the department of emergency medicine had seen to that, and the last three months in particular.

‘Oh, darn it,’ Caro said as she opened the fridge once they were inside the house. ‘I forgot to get more milk and that strawberry yogurt I love. I swear it’s pregnancy hormones or something. I keep forgetting the simplest things.’

Fran picked up her purse. ‘You stay here and have a nap while I pick them up,’ she said. ‘There are a couple of things I want from the store in any case.’

‘Are you sure you’re not too tired?’ Caro’s gaze dipped briefly to Fran’s leg.

Fran made a show of searching for her keys rather than see the pity in her sister’s eyes. ‘I am not the least bit tired,’ she said, and once the keys were in her hand she pasted a bright smile on her face. ‘I might even stop for a coffee at that little café you pointed out the other day.’

Caro’s face twisted in disgust. ‘Ew, coffee. Don’t mention the word. I can’t believe that was the first thing that turned my stomach. I used to be a five-a-day drinker before I got pregnant.’

This time Fran’s smile was genuine. ‘I’ll bring you back something you do crave, like chocolate, OK?’

Caro beamed. ‘You’re a honey.’

The drive into the tiny town of Pelican Bay was as picturesque as any Fran had been on, even though she had travelled around most of Australia and had gone on several trips abroad. The deep turquoise of the bay fringed by the icing-sugar-white sandy beach never failed to make her breath catch in her chest. The deeply forested grey-green hills that were the town’s majestic backdrop added to the area’s exquisite beauty.

Unlike the busy and crowded resort towns and fishing ports further up and down the coast, Pelican Bay had somehow retained its atmosphere of old-world charm. It had a village-like feel. Here people didn’t walk past you without making eye contact; instead, they stopped and talked about the weather or where the fish were biting—everyday, inconsequential things that made you feel a part of the community even if you were just visiting for a short period. Now that she was here, Fran wondered why she hadn’t visited more often. But, then, as Caro had mentioned earlier, Fran’s work had always come first—she had lived for work, not worked to live.

The general store on the main street was exactly that: general. It had everything from fishing bait to locally grown fresh basil. The shelves were stacked with well-known city brands but also local goods, such as home-made preserves and chutneys and relishes. Every Friday there was a cake stall, where home-baked goodies were sold to raise funds for the local primary school where Caro’s husband Nick was one of only three teachers.

Once Fran had made her purchases and exchanged more than a few words with seventy-year-old Beryl Hadley behind the cash register, she made her way back out to her car. After the old-fashioned and yet surprisingly efficient air-conditioning inside the store, the heat of the late October afternoon was like being slapped across the face with a hot, wet towel. In what had seemed just a few minutes, some angry bruise-coloured clouds had gathered in a brooding huddle over the hills, casting a shadow over the bay that was as dark as it was menacing.

The gathering storm had whipped up the water of the bay into thousands of galloping white horses, each one grabbing at the bit to get to the shore first. Even the gum trees lining each side of the road were almost doubling over as the wind thrashed at their spindly limbs, arching their spines and making them creak and groan.

Halfway back to Caro and Nick’s house the rain started. At first it was just a few plops on the windscreen, but within seconds it became a wind-driven downpour. Fran tried to keep track of the winding road but it was like looking at everything through an almost opaque curtain.

She slowed down to take the next bend but a large black and chrome motorbike suddenly appeared from a side road. She slammed on the brakes, her heart juddering to a stop as the stability control device on her car prevented her from going into a tailspin.

The bike and its rider somehow managed to stay upright, although Fran watched with saucer-wide eyes as it did a slow-motion spin, round and round until it came to a shuddering stop, facing her like a sleek black wolf staring down its prey.

Fran’s fingers were so tightly clenched around the steering wheel she had to unlock them one by one, her heart still pumping so hard and so fast she saw bright dots like miniature diamonds darting past her eyes. There was a roaring in her ears and her stomach felt like it had been scraped out with a super-sized soup-spoon, the hollow, sinking feeling making her feel jittery and nauseous. She was shaking all over, a fine sheen of perspiration already trickling down between her breasts and between her shoulder blades as adrenalin continued to surge through her.

She watched as the motorcyclist swung one long leg over his bike and pushed it to the side of the road, the pelting rain bouncing off his head-to-foot black leather gear like small pebbles thrown at the pavement.

Fran felt her fear switch places with anger. She wasn’t going to wait for him to come to her. She moved her car off the road and, unclipping her seat belt, shoved her door open and went stomping…well, not quite stomping, more a firm right step and then a sort of left leg drag towards him.

‘What the hell do you think you were doing?’ she shouted above the roar of the rain and the whipping wind. ‘You could have killed us both!’

The man didn’t remove his helmet. Instead, he lifted the visor to reveal startlingly ice-blue eyes, the outer rims surrounded by a much darker blue, as if someone had taken a felt-tip marker and carefully outlined his irises. His eyes were fringed with ink-black thick lashes, and from what Fran could see of the length of his strong, forceful-looking nose, it looked like it had been broken at least once.

‘You must have been taking that bend way too fast,’ he said, ‘otherwise I would have seen you.’

Fran frowned at him in fury, her fists in tight knots at her sides. ‘I had right of way. You were the one who should have slowed down.’ She quickly glanced at the side road, looking for a stop sign to add weight to her argument, but there was none.

The man must have seen her glance as he said, ‘The give-way sign was knocked down a couple of months ago by a drunk driver. It hasn’t been replaced yet.’

Fran elevated her chin. ‘So you should have at least paused to check if anyone was coming. This is a main road and it has right of way over T-intersections.’

Those startling blue eyes held hers in a challenging duel. ‘I did pause and check and there was no one coming when I came out,’ he said. He waited a beat before adding, ‘What speed were you travelling at?’

Fran put her hands on her hips, inwardly grimacing at how wet her cotton sundress was. ‘I was driving to the conditions, not the limit,’ she said, practically repeating verbatim a road-safety campaign orchestrated by the police force across Australia to reduce the number of fatalities on the roads.

Although she couldn’t see his mouth, she suspected he was smiling. Not a friendly, nice-to-meet-you smile, more a mocking you’re-a-lady-driver-and-don’t-know-what-you’re-doing sort of smile. Maybe it wasn’t a smile at all, she decided. It was probably more of a smirk. The sardonic glint in his eyes made her blood go from simmering to a blistering boil. She had met so many like him during her time in A and E. Men who think they are bullet-proof, hogging the road, taking unnecessary risks and endangering innocent, rule-abiding citizens.

It was hard to guess his age, although Fran suspected he was a year or two over thirty. His voice was deep and what she could see of his skin was tanned and it had been at least eighteen hours since it had last seen a razor. His eyes had fine lines around them, but whether they were from frequent laughter or frowning she couldn’t quite tell. He carried himself with arrogant authority, which was another thing that annoyed her. The way he was standing towering over her with his feet slightly apart, his arms folded across his broad chest and his eyes trained on her, made her feel as if she was in the wrong.

‘I noticed you limping,’ he said, glancing at her left leg, a measure of concern entering his tone. ‘Did you sustain that injury just then in avoiding a collision?’

Fran tightened her mouth. ‘I am not injured, no thanks to you. My leg is…’ She paused over the choice of word. ‘Was broken a few months ago.’

‘Are you new in town?’ he asked, bringing his eyes back to hers, his gaze intent and steady and probing.

Too steady.

Too intent.

Far too probing.

Fran blinked the rain out of her eyes and frowned at him. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I haven’t seen you around before. Are you passing through or staying at the bay?’

Fran licked the droplets of moisture off her lips, deciding she wasn’t going to give him any personal information about herself. Instead, what she was going to do was report him to the local police for dangerous driving. The town was currently without a doctor. If there had been a collision between them it could have been disastrous. As it was, they had been standing here for the last few minutes without another car passing by. Who knew how long it might have been before someone came along to help if one or both of them had been seriously injured?

‘I’m…er…passing through,’ she said, which was almost true, she decided. She was staying three months, two before Caro travelled to Wollongong Hospital to have the babies and the month after to help her get into a routine. After that Fran had to decide what to do with the rest of her life. As far as she was concerned, the longer she could put off that decision the better.

The man flipped his visor back down. ‘I’m sorry if I caused you a bit of a scare but, as I said, I didn’t see you.’

Fran didn’t think much of his apology. It certainly hadn’t sounded all that sincere. In fact, his whole demeanour seemed to communicate he couldn’t wait to get on his way again. She straightened her shoulders, wincing as droplets of rain ran down the back of her neck. ‘You think an offhand apology is enough?’ she asked. ‘Do you realise some people—the ones who don’t get killed, that is—have to live for the rest of their lives with serious injuries or disabilities after accidents like you very nearly caused?’

‘If you’re a stranger to these roads you need to take extra care,’ he said, ‘especially during a sudden storm like this.’

‘Did you even hear what I said?’ Fran asked, still glaring at him.

He strode over to his bike and, throwing one leg over, kicked down the stand, before starting the engine with a throaty roar. ‘Sorry I can’t hang about and discuss the weather with you but I need to be somewhere. See you around.’

Fran narrowed her eyes as she tried to memorise his registration number through the pouring rain, still fuming as he drove off towards town without so much as a wave. She stomped or rather limped back to her car, dripping wet and steaming with anger. She sat behind the wheel for a minute or two as she waited for the downpour to ease. She thought about calling Caro on her mobile but decided against it. There was no point worrying her sister when it would only take a few extra minutes to drive back to town and file a dangerous driving complaint. In any case Caro thought she was going to stop for a coffee, which would have taken much the same amount of time.

The police station was just down from the general store and like many country stations it had previously been a weather-board cottage built by one of the early pioneers. The front entrance led to a small reception area currently attended by a young constable who looked to Fran as if he should have still been at school. She suddenly felt every one of her twenty-nine years as she approached the desk.

‘Can I help you?’ the young ginger-haired and freckled constable asked with a helpful smile.

Fran tucked a wet tendril of hair behind her right ear. ‘I would like to make a complaint about a dangerous driver,’ she said. ‘He almost caused a serious accident just out of town.’

The constable reached for an official-looking form. ‘Right,’ he said, unclicking his pen. ‘Can you describe the vehicle?’

‘Yes, it was a motorbike,’ she answered.

‘Would you happen to know the make?’

Fran rolled her lips together. ‘Um…no, but it was black and silver…I mean…er…chrome.’

The young man stopped scribbling to look up at her. ‘What about the registration number? Did you happen to see that?’

Fran frowned as she tried to remember. ‘I should have written it down. I’ll remember it in a moment…Let me see…there was a V in it, I think, or it might have been a W. It was raining so hard I couldn’t really see the numbers but there was a six in there somewhere…’ Her frown deepened. ‘Actually, it could have been a nine.’

‘What about the driver?’ the constable asked with a deadpan face. ‘Did he stop?’

‘Yes, he did,’ she said with a huffy look as she crossed her arms over her chest. ‘He made a paltry apology and got back on his bike and drove off towards town.’

‘So you weren’t hurt or your car damaged or anything?’ he asked with the same deadpan expression.

‘No, but that’s not the point,’ Fran said. ‘This town is currently without a doctor. Can you imagine what would have happened if there had been a collision?’

The constable nodded grimly and resumed his scribbling. ‘I’ll file a report to see if we can find this guy and issue him with a warning,’ he said, and then, looking up again, asked, ‘Would you be able to recognise him if you saw him again?’

Fran chewed at her lip. ‘We-ll…he was sort of covered…you know…in black leather, all over, boots and all. He didn’t take his helmet off, he just lifted the visor, but I would definitely recognise his eyes again.’

The constable lifted his gingery brows. ‘What colour were they?’

Fran unfolded her arms. ‘Blue,’ she said with authority in her tone. ‘An icy shade of blue. Sort of like the underside of a glacier. But they had a darker blue around the edges.’

There was a strange little silence.

‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked.

The young constable’s eyes contained a hint of amusement. ‘Maybe I should get my superior, Sergeant Hawke, to deal with this,’ he said, clearly trying his best not to crack a smile.

Fran pursed her lips. ‘I would definitely like to speak to him if he can do something about this irresponsible motorcyclist who is putting innocent people’s lives at risk with his inconsiderate behaviour. Is he here now?’

The constable cleared his throat in a manner that suggested he was trying to disguise a chuckle. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He came in a few minutes ago.’ He reached for an intercom button on the reception desk and leaned forward to speak into it. ‘Sarg? There’s a young lady here to see you.’ After a moment he looked up at Fran and asked, ‘Er…your name, miss?’

Fran flicked her long wet hair back behind her shoulders. ‘It’s not Miss, it’s Doctor, actually,’ she said, only because it was true in theory and on paper, if not currently in practice. ‘Dr Frances Nin.’

The constable relayed the information to his superior and then got to his feet to direct Fran to the door down the narrow hall, still with that hint of a smile lurking about his too-young-to-be-taken-seriously-as-a-cop mouth. ‘Sergeant Jacob Hawke will see you now.’

As Fran made her way to the door marked with the officer’s name she suddenly realised how soaked through her clothes and hair were. Just before she raised her hand to knock on the door she glanced down at herself and realised her sodden sundress was practically see-through. She could clearly see the outline of her yellow and pink bikini, which was fine when one was on a remote beach with one’s sister, but hardly appropriate attire when one was reporting an incident of the gravity of this to a senior officer of the N.S.W. police force. She considered turning around and hot-footing it out of the building without formally lodging the complaint, but then she remembered one of the trauma cases she had assessed in A and E a few months before she had quit. A young female driver of only twenty-two had been run off the road by a speeding motorcyclist and as a result had ended up a paraplegic. Her career as a ballet dancer had ended in a matter of four or five seconds, not only destroying her dreams but taking the life of her equally young and hope-filled passenger.

Fran had dealt with the relatives and friends of the two young victims with the training that had been drummed into her, but the human, deeply feeling part of her had lain awake many a night ever since, thinking of how unjust life was, how the ones at fault so often got off with barely a rap over the knuckles. A fine, a licence suspension or even a short prison sentence was never going to bring an innocent victim back to life, and it was never going to console the grieving relatives.

Never

Fran took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock on the door and then listened as strong, even strides approached the door before it opened.

Then she felt her jaw drop. She had never really felt that before. Jaws didn’t really drop, at least not in medical terms. Mouths opened in shock and surprise, eyes flared or bulged, jaws didn’t actually drop.

But hers did this time.

Fran stared at him, her mouth hanging open, her eyes taking in his features in one goggle-eyed look. Without the cover of his shiny black helmet she could see he was in the category of heart-breakingly gorgeous, with olive skin, a sharply chiselled jaw that was still liberally peppered with stubble and a sensually sculpted mouth that she suspected had wreaked havoc on many a female mouth in its time, which according to her rough calculations was about thirty-two or thirty-three years.

His blue eyes—those glacier-blue eyes—were centred on hers, making her heart skip in her chest.

‘You!’ she gasped, barely able to pull in a breath to give the word the force she had intended to deliver.

‘Dr Nin,’ he said with a movement of his lips that indicated mockery. ‘And here I was thinking we had no doctor in our midst. Welcome to Pelican Bay.’

‘I am not practising at the moment,’ she said with chilly emphasis. ‘I’m on leave.’

She watched as his raised brow made a perfect arc over one of his eyes. ‘Have you been warned you are likely to be on a busman’s holiday while you are in town, Dr Nin?’ he asked.

Fran set her mouth. ‘When I say I am on holiday, I mean it, Sergeant…er…Wolf.’

He gave her another movement of his lips that didn’t even come within a whisker of a smile. ‘Hawke,’ he corrected her. ‘Jacob Hawke.’

Fran was annoyed with herself for blushing. She couldn’t remember the last time she had blushed. She had dealt with naked men’s bodies ever since she had started med school but for some reason the fully clothed, black leather coated body of Sergeant Jacob Hawke made her flush inside and out. In fact, she could feel every hair on her blonde head lifting as if each one was trying to get away from the blast of warmth his presence induced. And it was a blood-heating presence without a doubt. She felt the rush of hot blood in her veins, the electric charge of tension just sharing the same air he breathed.

‘Would you like to come into my office?’ he asked, holding the door open for her, although she thought the invitation lacked enthusiasm.

Fran knew she would look a fool if she turned on her one good heel and left. She also knew she could end up looking an even bigger fool by staying and saying her piece. But the scare she’d had made her fight response win over her flight one, and, taking a breath that barely inflated her lungs, she stepped past him into his office.

‘Take a seat,’ he said, and moved around to the other side of his desk.

Fran sat on the hard plastic chair, her eyes scanning his desk for any clues to his personality. She decided in the end he wasn’t super-neat but neither was he untidy and disorganised—he was busy.

There was a photo frame next to his computer but she couldn’t see the subject of the photo it contained as it faced him, not her. There was a glass paperweight pinning down some papers, containing a dandelion puff inside. She found herself staring at it, marvelling at the way it had been captured there, its fragility permanently protected by its spherical armour.

Fran became aware of the fact he was still standing, again giving her the impression he was not intending this interview to last very long. She met his eyes and felt another wave of colour wash over her face.

‘So, you’re Carolyn Atkins’s sister,’ he said, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back against the filing cabinet. ‘You don’t look much like her.’

Fran felt her back come up against the hard spine of the plastic chair. ‘Is that a crime?’ she asked. She had spent most of her life being compared to her beautiful sister and consistently falling short. The events of the last few months hadn’t helped her confidence one little bit, which made his comment all the more stinging.

His mouth lifted at one corner but she couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a smirk, but she suspected it was something in between. ‘Constable Jeffrey informs me you would like to lodge a dangerous driving complaint,’ he said. ‘I take it that would be against me.’

She raised her chin. ‘I realise you’re a cop but that doesn’t mean you can drive like a maniac,’ she said. ‘Besides, you weren’t in police uniform or on a police bike or official vehicle, neither, as far as I could see, were you travelling to an emergency.’