The Ideal Choice Read online

  Damn, he wanted her. Why avoid it?

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright

  Damn, he wanted her. Why avoid it?

  Tricia was only here for a while. Linsey was already desperate to get back to work, and only had four weeks to go before the baby came. Six weeks after that—ten weeks. Just over two months.

  Perfect. Long enough to slake himself, too short to get involved. And it wasn’t as if he was stalking an innocent victim. It was her idea, after all—her and Linsey’s. Rhys was so sure of that, it didn’t even occur to him to question Tricia’s part in it. Of course she was involved....

  Carollne Anderson‘s nursing career was brought to an abrupt halt by a back injury, but her interest in medical things led her to work first as a medical secretary, and then after completing her teacher training, as a lecturer in medical office practice to trainee medical secretaries. She lives in rural Suffolk, England, with her husband, two daughters, mother and assorted animals.

  The Ideal Choice

  Caroline Anderson

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN

  MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT WAS an easy house to find. Even if the directions hadn’t been so clear, she would have had no difficulty in picking it out from the others in the pleasant, tree-lined little road, because the occupants were running amok.

  It was a scene of utter chaos. There were bags all over the pavement, children seemed to be everywhere and the car doors were hanging open and obstructing the path. A young black dog of indeterminate origin and with the most enormous feet bounced around amongst the children, lolling tongue flying, clearly delighted with their company.

  Tricia didn’t want to add to the confusion so she switched off her engine and settled back to watch, a smile edging round her lips as the scene unfolded.

  It was clearly the aftermath of a major supermarket raid. A pair of long legs stuck out of the back of the big estate, and as she watched a man emerged with yet another child in his arms, stepped back and straightened up.

  Lord, he was huge! Not only tall, but big, his body solid, his shoulders broad and heavily muscled. He wasn’t fat—far from it. Just built like a powerhouse. Tricia stared in fascination as he juggled several bags, the sleeping child and the car keys all at once.

  ‘Hey, you lot, come and give me a hand,’ he called, but he was ignored. With a sigh Tricia opened her car door and climbed out. If she could do nothing else, she could carry shopping bags. God knows she’d had enough practice.

  The sleepy child was now snuggled against her father’s shoulder, his arm bulging as he hefted both her and three shopping bags. The other arm was soon reladen and he set off across the lawn towards the side of the house, keys now trapped between his teeth.

  ‘Mark, open the door, please,’ he called round the keys, but yet again he was ignored. The two children, a boy and a girl, ran towards the garden gate, both laughing, and then the boy ran through and slammed the gate behind him.

  The scream ripped right through Tricia. She froze and watched as the man shed the keys and the shopping and sprinted to the gate, the little one still cradled in one arm, and crouched beside the screaming girl.

  Tricia could hear him trying to soothe her, but by the sound of it he was failing dismally. After a moment she realised why.

  The girl’s finger was stuck in the catch of the gate, and her frenzied and hysterical attempts to remove it were just making things worse.

  ‘He shut me in!’ the girl was sobbing. ‘Mark did it!’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose,’ the big man soothed, and hugged the child’s trembling shoulders up against his chest. ‘Hush, love. Mark, get me the pliers from the shed,’ he ordered briskly, then went back to his soothing—or tried.

  The other child had woken by now, wiggled out of his arms and was using his back as an assault course. Tricia watched as the skinny little arms circled his neck and were used to lever her up, to the accompaniment of his choked protests.

  One huge, hair-strewn hand came up and gently disentangled the arms from his windpipe, then resumed the steady stroking of the older girl’s hair.

  At that moment Mark came running back, his face ashen with guilt and remorse. ‘I can’t reach,’ he said frantically.

  The man tried to stand, but the little girl screamed again. ‘Don’t leave me, Daddy!’ she wailed, and he dropped back to his haunches beside her, his face echoing his frustration.

  ‘Stand on something,’ he suggested abruptly to the boy.

  ‘But I can’t—’

  The baby, fed up with being ignored, was on her way up his back again, arms round the throat as before. ‘You’ll have to try,’ he croaked, and prised the little one off his windpipe again. ‘Bibby, go and help Mark.’

  She shook her head, dislodging a hair ribbon and sending it flying to land at Tricia’s feet.

  It seemed to free her from her trance.

  Stooping to pick the ribbon up, she walked up to him, standing on the other side of the gate and looking down on him and his children. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she offered quietly.

  He tipped his head back and a grateful sigh escaped him. ‘What are you—an angel?’

  She laughed softly. ‘No, just a good Samaritan. Can I help your son get the pliers?’

  ‘Would you? You’ll have to climb over the gate, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Easily done,’ she said, and hitching up her long, soft skirt, she swung one leg over, careful not to touch the gate, and then brought the other leg over to join it. Bibby was about to climb her father’s back again. ‘Shall I take the little one with me?’ Tricia suggested. ‘She could help us.’

  His relief was palpable. “Thanks. Bibby, go with the lady, please—all right, Emmy; we are trying.’ He tipped back his head. ‘The pliers, if you could?’

  ‘Of course.’ She whisked Bibby onto her hip, grasped Mark’s hand and marched down the path, the dog bouncing at their feet. ‘Now, where’s this shed?’

  ‘Here, in the garden. They’re on the top shelf,’ Mark added as they entered the gloomy little shed.

  ‘Up here?’

  He nodded, and Tricia leant forwards over the untidy workbench and stared at the tool rack. No pliers. Now why didn’t that surprise her?

  She took the oilcan out of Bibby’s hand and stepped back a little, scanning the mess in front of her. There they were, the red handles poking out from under a saw and a length of timber.

  She picked them up, righted a can of paint and returned to the front garden, followed by the dog who was now trotting along with a paintbrush in his mouth. ‘Here—are these the ones?’

  The man’s face lightened with relief. ‘Wonderful. Now, if you could just steady her finger while I get this bit here—there we are, sweetheart. All over now.’

  He dropped the pliers, gathered Emma up against his chest and hugged her while she sobbed. Over the little girl’s dark, glossy head he smiled faintly. ‘Thanks. Right, I suppose I ought to put them all back in the car and take them up to Casualty so we can get this X-rayed.’

  Tricia tried to help. ‘Why don’t you leave the other two and the shopping with me and take Emma?’

  For a moment she thought he was going to agree, but then somet
hing happened in his eyes and his expression became shuttered and remote. He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll manage.’

  ‘Because I’m a stranger?’

  He looked uncomfortable, but met her eyes, his expression determined. ‘I never leave my children with people I don’t know very well.’

  Tricia smiled. ‘Then that’s not a problem, because you do know me, actually—or of me, at least. I’m Tricia Page. I’m taking over from Linsey while she’s on maternity leave. And you’re Rhys.’

  He looked faintly stunned. ‘You’re Tricia?’

  ‘That’s right.’ She held out her hand. ‘It’s good to meet you at last. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  He laughed. ‘Likewise. Hello, Tricia—and thank you,’ he said fervently. His hand engulfed hers, and she felt the shiver of awareness run through her skin like quicksilver. Then he released her and despite the late July heat her hand felt cold and very alone. ‘If you don’t mind, I will take you up on that offer,’ he was saying. ‘The last thing they need in Casualty is the entire tribe. I’ll open the house for you. Doodle! Come here, boy.’

  The black dog bounced up, tongue lolling, the paintbrush abandoned in favour of some other game, and Rhys rounded up the other two children and escorted them all towards the back door, Emma quietly watching and sucking her finger from her vantage point on his hip.

  He patted his pockets to no avail, then sighed.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea where I dropped the keys?’ he said hopefully.

  Tricia handed them to him. ‘They were on the lawn.’

  He grinned ruefully and twisted the key in the lock, then shoved the door open. ‘Sorry about the chaos. Come in.’

  Chaos? She nearly laughed. And she’d thought the scene outside was bad!

  ‘Um—I’ll put the kettle on for you,’ he offered, but the kettle wouldn’t fit under the tap because the sink was piled high with pans, and Emma started to whimper.

  ‘You go,’ she said to him firmly. ‘We’ll cope.’

  He eyed her doubtfully, clearly torn. ‘Are you sure you can cope?’

  Better than you, she nearly said, but she bit her tongue. ‘We’ll be fine,’ she soothed, and shooed him out with a smile.

  The dog whined, Mark looked silent and withdrawn and Bibby’s lip began to wobble. Great, Tricia decided. She’d better distract the toddler first. ‘Oh, look at this—is this your toy?’ she asked, crouching down and retrieving a forgotten, vile-coloured plastic telephone from under the table.

  Bibby grabbed it from her. ‘Mine,’ she said round her thumb, and slid to the ground out of Tricia’s grasp.

  ‘Shall we put it with your other toys?’ Tricia suggested.

  Bibby turned and trotted off, and Tricia followed, trailed by Mark and the dog.

  The sitting room looked like a bombsite. Toys, cushions, half a glass of orange juice, an apple core, professional journals and early-reading books—all were strewn across every surface.

  With the efficiency born of years of practice, Tricia scooped and plumped and straightened and wiped, and within seconds the place looked at least tidy, if not immaculate.

  The dog immediately climbed onto the settee. ‘Hey, you! Down!’ she said firmly, and the dog slid guiltily onto the floor, tail wiggling sideways in appeasement. She patted him, and immediately he perked up and looked his wicked young self again.

  ‘He’s not allowed on the furniture,’ Mark said, ‘but he sneaks on if Dad’s not in here.’

  Tricia smiled. ‘I’ll bet. He’s a lovely dog—what is he?’

  ‘A labradoodle.’

  She laughed. ‘A what?’

  ‘Labradoodle. That’s why we call him Doodle. His mum was a labrador and his dad was a standard poodle.’

  ‘Hence labradoodle. I see. Obvious, really.’ She tugged the dog’s soft, floppy ears and he grinned ingratiatingly at her. ‘You’re a wicked chap, aren’t you, Doodle?’

  The tail thumped.

  ‘Dad says he’s our nanny, like the dog in Peter Pan. He takes us for walks.’

  At that the dog’s ears pricked, but Tricia shook her head. ‘Sorry, old man, not just now. We’ve got jobs to do. The shopping’s still outside.’

  ‘I’ve got a train-set in the garage we can play with,’ Mark told her as they went back to the disaster kitchen, clearly hoping to distract her with an irresistible offer.

  ‘Have you? My brothers had one. Perhaps we’ll play with it later if you like.’

  ‘No,’ Bibby said. ‘Horrid trains.’

  ‘She just takes the hump because I won’t let her touch it,’ Mark said with the bored condescension of a child twice his age. Tricia hid a smile.

  ‘Really? Well, perhaps you could let her do something, if she was very careful.’

  ‘She wouldn’t be. She’s a girl,’ Mark said with scorn.

  ‘I’m careful with things, and I’m a girl.’

  Mark looked at her doubtfully. ‘You’re a grown-up. It’s different.’

  She picked up a pan and tipped cold water and a few strands of over-swollen spaghetti down the sink, and closed her eyes. Different indeed. She had to wash up—he didn’t.

  She opened the back door and went out into the garden to collect the scattered shopping bags. It was a scorching hot day, of course. She just hoped the frozen foods weren’t all melted from standing in the midday sun.

  Mark trailed beside her and she handed him a bag. He looked at it in amazement. ‘What’s that for?’ he asked blankly.

  ‘To take into the kitchen—to help me.’

  He stared at her as if she’d sprouted horns, opened his mouth and then shut it again and trailed after her once more. She set the bags down, checked on Bibby and the dog and went back for the next lot. Mark didn’t come this time. Instead he ambled up the garden, kicking a stone, and went behind the shed.

  Seconds later she heard a rope swing creak. So much for her helper.

  The shopping was harder to deal with than the dishwasher would be, but there was nowhere to stack the shopping until she’d dealt with the washing-up. She cleared the sink waste, tipped out the other pans and rinsed them, then emptied the dishwasher and restacked it with the dishes and pans strewn around the worktops.

  When it was humming nicely and the surfaces were clear, she unpacked the bags onto the worktops in what seemed like the right area, although it was hard to tell because the cupboards were all but bare. The fridge and freezer were suffering the same malady. It seemed that the shopping trip had been somewhat overdue.

  She put the mostly still frozen things into the freezer and the fresh food in the fridge, then took the food out of the fridge again, stripped out the original contents, chucked half of them out and wiped the racks, then restacked the reduced contents into the clean cabinet.

  He was busy, she kept reminding herself. He was holding down a difficult job, keeping his family of three children together entirely without help and maintaining the house into the bargain. So what if the sink was full of spaghetti and the fridge had cholera? The kids looked well, he looked shattered and they were all still together after two years.

  No mean achievement

  She had left a thawed pizza out while the oven heated, and now she popped it in on a reasonably clean oven tray, knocked up a quick salad and went to find Bibby.

  She was in the sitting room, sprawled over the dog on the settee, both of them fast asleep.

  Or more or less. The dog cracked an eye open, thumped his tail once and went back to sleep, confident that he wouldn’t be evicted as long as he was acting as Bibby’s pillow. Bibby didn’t stir.

  Tricia checked Mark out of the kitchen window, watching the dark head appear over the top of the shed as he played Tarzan on the rope. She could hear the odd jungle cry, high-pitched and warbling, and felt a smile tip the corners of her mouth. He was so like his father to look at, with the same gorgeous smoke-grey eyes.

  She had a sudden mental image of Rhys, stripped down to a loi
ncloth, swinging through trees on a liana and pausing to beat that huge, deep chest with his powerful fists. His jungle cry would be deep, echoing through the forests of suburbia and shocking all the sweet little old ladies out of their cotton socks!

  She chuckled, but the image was strong—too strong. Her heart fluttered for a moment, and she closed her eyes and leant against the worktop. Strange, she thought, that in all her talk of Rhys Linsey had never once mentioned just how damned attractive the man was...

  The sound of a car on the drive jolted her out of her fantasy. Mark heard it too and streaked round the corner of the house as she opened the back door. She followed him at a rather more sedate pace and found Rhys, sporting rather more than the loincloth of her fantasy, just helping Emma out of the back of the car, her finger strapped to the next one and both bound in a most impressive bandage. It was held up against her chest by a narrow, padded sling around her wrist.

  She gave the child her attention. ‘Smart sling,’ she said with a gentle smile.

  Rhys grinned wearily. ‘She didn’t want it but I explained how impressive it would be, and with a greenstick fracture—well, it might help the swelling.’

  ‘My finger’s broken,’ Emma told her solemnly.

  ‘So I gather.’ She crouched down, inspecting the proffered bandage. ‘How does it feel now?’

  ‘Funny.’ Her little nose wrinkled. ‘Sort of numb but it feels like it’s bouncing.’

  Tricia smiled, unable to help herself. ‘Bouncing? Is that why the bandage is so big—to make room for it to bounce?’

  Emma giggled, turning her face into her father’s leg and wrapping her arms around him. His hand came down protectively across her shoulders, soothing instinctively, and Tricia found herself mesmerised by the repetitive action of his thumb against the child’s skinny shoulderblade. Such a big hand, she thought, and so gentle—so tender.

  A lump formed in her throat, put there by his action and by her knowledge of his recent history. She blinked away the sudden, unexpected moisture and straightened, turning away.