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  It only took a minute to put in her details: name, job, home address and a few clinical details. She uploaded a few photos of her house she had on her phone. She’d taken them just the other day to send to her brother in Australia. The next box was the hard part. Where was she looking for a job? She shook her head and just left it open. Fate. She’d leave it to fate.

  The spinning egg timer of doom appeared on the screen in front of her. She groaned. Chances were the website had just died, or the search was too wide and the system couldn’t cope. Any time the whirling egg timer appeared on a computer screen in front of her, it generally meant bad news.

  She pushed her chair back, ready to go back out onto the ward, as the screen blinked and then changed.

  Her mouth fell open. There was a match. One.

  She leaned forward and read everything on the screen. London. In the Royal Hampstead Free Hospital. No way. That place had just as good a reputation as St Christopher’s. Why would anyone want to job swap from there?

  Her heart gave a flutter. Fate. She’d left it to fate. And fate had answered. One job opportunity in a place with a fabulous reputation. Pictures of a flat that looked very swanky. This was just too good to be true.

  There was a big button on the screen, inviting her to find out more. For the first time in a long time her heart gave a little leap.

  She hesitated for only the briefest of seconds before reaching out and clicking on it.

  London. Get ready for Clara Connolly.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Two weeks later

  SHE WAS CRAZY. She was definitely crazy. Yesterday she’d been finishing her last day working in Edinburgh, going back to her cute cottage with a view of the Scottish countryside and being disturbed by one of the sheep pressing its face up against her kitchen window. All entirely normal.

  Now, she was circling the same confusing streets of London over and over again, sweat trickling down her back as she realised there was absolutely nowhere to park.

  She hadn’t thought to ask about parking. It hadn’t even crossed her mind. She’d assumed that there would be somewhere convenient and close to the flat to leave her car...and was learning quickly just how wrong that assumption was.

  Some of the streets had no parking at all. Others only had parking for permit holders. One car park charged thirty pounds a day. Thirty pounds? She wanted to laugh out loud.

  The drive down from Edinburgh had started well. She’d left plenty of time in case of delays—and there had been many. A collision on the motorway near Newcastle had slowed traffic, followed by horrendous roadworks near Doncaster. By the time she’d hit London her timing had been way off, and it was clear she was in the rush hour. It didn’t help that her satnav seemed to have forgotten a vital update and had a completely different idea of which streets were one-way and which streets were totally blocked off. By the time the tenth black cab driver tooted at her, shaking his head, she was close to tears.

  Clara had always prided herself on her driving skills. Touch wood, she’d never been in an accident or even had a near miss before. One hour in London and she’d almost had one head-on collision and more near misses than she wanted to admit. By the time she finally saw the sleek tower block near Canary Wharf that had the correct address, her nerves were more than a little frayed.

  She pulled up outside the building, ignoring all the signs that told her not to stop, and got out, slamming her door and sucking in a breath of the warm, clammy air.

  A man leaving the smart building frowned as she strode past him, trying to see if there was anyone who could give her some directions about where to park. Her car was stuffed full of her possessions. Surely she was allowed to unload?

  The front wall of the foyer was completely glass, with the building at a slight angle, facing towards Canary Wharf. There was a bank of small boxes to her left and she scanned them, finding 14C and keying in the appropriate code. She sighed in relief at the sight of the silver key, a cream key fob and the slim electronic card—apparently both the key and the card opened the door to the flat.

  She glanced back at her car, wondering if she should go back and grab some things before heading up in the lift, but curiosity got the better of her. She wanted to see her home for the next six months.

  The silver doors glided open and she barely felt the lift move before they opened again on the fourteenth floor. A short walk down the corridor took her to the flat and she scanned the card in front of the round pad, letting the door click open.

  As she pushed inside her breath caught somewhere in her throat. The sun had lowered in the sky and the whole apartment was bathed in warm light.

  Everything was so clean-looking! The entrance hall had smooth cream tiles, leading to a matching immaculate kitchen on her right that opened out to a largish sitting room furnished with three curved cream sofas, a glass table and TV set into the left side wall. But it was the view that was the most spectacular. Windows took up the entire facing wall, showing all the beauty of Canary Wharf, just a stone’s throw away. Her feet moved automatically, carrying her over to the windows, and she realised quickly they weren’t windows but, in fact, concertina-style doors. She fumbled for the button then pushed them open, stepping out onto the balcony beyond.

  It wasn’t quite on the edge of the dock, but it was close enough that she could see the activity on the dockside. There was a row of restaurants and bars, boats bobbing on the water. The busy noise of people finishing their day at work and hitting the bars and restaurants below floated across the air beneath her, along with the aromas of food, making her stomach growl.

  She looked out across the London skyline, spotting the event arena and the snaking river beyond. She really was here. She’d done this. She’d left Scotland behind and made a change. For a few seconds she closed her eyes, leaning against the balcony barrier and breathing in the warm air again, letting the different sensations surround her. It was certainly warmer than it was back home, but her skin prickled.

  She opened her eyes again and almost jolted at the view again. Several of the tower blocks around the dock were dotted with lights, sending a purple and pink glow shimmering back upwards from the water. It was beautiful, but could take a bit of getting used to. She spun back around, putting her hands behind her and looking back inside the flat.

  This place wasn’t like any flat she’d been in before. It was like a show home, decked out in gorgeous pieces of furniture, all ergonomically placed. If it wasn’t for the few scattered cushions and the row of books in a nearby bookcase, she might believe no one even lived here.

  Her stomach curled as she thought of her inelegant squishy sofa back home, dark stone walls and temperamental fire. She prayed that Ryan had tidied up the way he’d promised and left the welcoming note and food before he left.

  Clara left the doors open and wandered through the rest of the flat. The bedroom was just as immaculate as everywhere else, with white bedlinen and a big comfortable pink throw at the end of the bed. A space had been cleared for her in the closet and Clara resisted the temptation of looking to see what clothes her counterpart had left behind.

  There was a nice writing desk looking out at the view across London, with a bottle of champagne sitting on it, tied with a big pink ribbon and note.

  I thought if you were anything like me you’d need some of this after your long journey.

  There’s a secret chocolate stash in the drawer on the right and I did an online order for food that, hopefully, Louie the concierge has left in the kitchen for you.

  Any problems, give him a dial on 01 and he’ll be happy to help.

  Other than that, enjoy London!

  Georgie xx

  Clara couldn’t resist; she slid open the drawer on the right to see a whole array of chocolate. Dark chocolate mints, milk chocolate orange, foil-wrapped caramels and a huge sea salted caramel bar.

  Things were d
efinitely looking up.

  She frowned. Concierge? She hadn’t noticed anyone behind the desk in the foyer. She walked back to the kitchen and opened the gleaming fridge. Sure enough, milk, butter, eggs, cheese and bacon were waiting for her, along with a variety of fruit and vegetables in the cool drawer. In one of the cupboards she found bread, some pasta and a few jars, enough to make dinner for a few nights. Her stomach growled loudly. It was so nice. So considerate. But what she really wanted right now was pizza.

  Clara sighed and made her way back downstairs to gather the rest of her possessions. It would probably take her at least an hour to lug everything back up and get unpacked.

  The foyer was still empty and a traffic warden was frowning outside. She ran out, muttering excuses and opening her car door before he had a chance to start scribbling. He raised one eyebrow and pointed to a slim, almost hidden downward ramp directly on the right of the building. ‘Emergency vehicles only out here,’ he muttered. ‘Why don’t you use the parking underneath?’

  Underground parking. Of course a place like this would have parking for residents. But the angle of the building meant she hadn’t been able to glimpse it from the road. She gave a flustered nod and climbed back in, starting her car and swinging it in an uneven arc as she tried to line up her large four-by-four with the narrow lane.

  Clara sucked in a breath as she edged her car down the narrow ramp. She knew it was ridiculous—as if she could actually make her ungainly four-by-four smaller! For the first time in her life she regretted being behind the wheel of the wide, sturdy vehicle. It was perfect for farm roads in Scotland, but not exactly ideal for slim underground parking entrances.

  It was dark—much darker than seemed normal. Weren’t there lights down here? Shouldn’t they at least come on when a car entered? This was like something from a horror movie. Any minute now the weird axe man would jump onto the bonnet of her car.

  She flicked on her car lights and came to an abrupt halt at the low-slung gleaming red car in front of her. Her breath caught in her throat. Darn it—that was close. What was it about London and driving for her?

  She turned her head from side to side, trying to scan the underground parking area. It didn’t seem the biggest in the world, and with no other lighting it was going to be hard to manoeuvre her large car. It was too old to have parking sensors, and she didn’t even want to think about what kind of luxury vehicles could be hidden down here.

  She edged forward, seeing some white lines, and tried to swing into a space. Her headlights lit up the side of another car and she let out an expletive as she moved forward and back, trying to get into the space. It was like being a learner all over again.

  These weren’t the biggest spaces in the world, she couldn’t see properly and she was tired after her long journey. All she really wanted to do was grab her stuff, get back upstairs and open that bottle of champagne.

  She finally stopped edging forward and back and shimmied out of her car, taking care not to touch the neighbouring car with her door. Sweat was running down her back. The capital was much warmer than back home. She hadn’t really thought about that when she’d planned her wardrobe.

  In the dark, she fumbled around the car and opened the boot, grabbing at her boxes in the low light within. She was only taking the boxes that carried the bare essentials—she had no intention of coming back down here tonight. Clara wasn’t easily intimidated but being alone in a strange dark car park would unnerve anyone. She stuck one box on top of the roof of her car as she grabbed another three. In the far corner of the dark parking space she could see a small blue square glowing—that had to be the lift. At least she’d be able to get back upstairs. Hopefully, tomorrow she’d get a chance to talk to the concierge about the lighting down here. Or at least find somewhere to buy a flashlight.

  As if by magic, the lights came on all around her as she reached up to close the boot. She jerked. The box at the top of her pile teetered then spilled onto the concrete floor.

  Clara groaned as another car glided down the ramp. The driver paused, scowling at her, before sweeping into a space opposite. Friendly type then.

  She dropped to her knees, stuffing toiletries and underwear back into the box as fast as she could. Last thing she wanted was Mr Grumpy getting an uninvited view of her smalls.

  There were a few muffled sounds next to her. She looked up. The guy was carrying a sleeping bundle in his arms, the scowl still firmly in place as he swept past her.

  ‘At least try and park in your own space,’ he muttered as his long strides ate up the ground under his feet.

  She blinked from her position on the ground. Now the lights were on, she could see that each parking space had a number. The parking space she was in was labelled 24F. Oops.

  She glanced down the long slim space, trying to work out the numbering. If she’d got this right, 14C would be right down at the other end. Great. Further to carry her boxes. Should she move her car? Maybe not right now. Now there were some lights she could do it when she came back down to collect the rest of her things. She jumped up quickly and hurried after the man.

  He was tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders and an irritatingly quick stride. The doors to the lift slid open and he stepped inside.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly, still walking towards the lift. ‘I couldn’t see what I was doing. The lights didn’t come on when I came down and I haven’t had a chance to speak to the concierge yet and—’

  She was babbling. She knew she was babbling.

  He spun around and she sucked in a breath. Darn it, he was handsome. Really handsome. Dark hair, tall, muscular structure, a shadow around his jaw line and penetrating eyes. And it struck her that it had been a while since she’d noticed something like that.

  For the last few months all men had just merged into one. This was the first time she’d actually noticed someone in a long time. Her brain gave a hopeful flicker of recognition. Too bad it seemed that he was as arrogant as he was handsome.

  It didn’t help that she was still babbling—and she hated appearing nervous. Especially in front of a man whose sole intention seemed to be to frown at her and look at her as if she was something on the bottom of his shoe. How dare he? Wasn’t he even going to try and be slightly friendly?

  This was a horrible situation. He clearly lived here—last thing she wanted was to make an enemy of someone who’d be her neighbour for the next six months. But, on the other hand, he could clearly see that she’d just arrived. Couldn’t he give her a break?

  No. Those dark blue eyes were still glaring at her. There was a noise behind her—a sliding sound, followed by an ear-splitting car alarm that made them both jump. The child in his arms gave a start and instantly started crying.

  She turned around to see the box she’d left balanced on the roof of her car had now vanished, and the car next to hers was the one with the screeching alarm. The words formed on her lips, ‘Oh, sorry...’ and she turned back just in time to see the lift doors slide closed and the man turn his back on her.

  Clara heaved in an enormous sigh. ‘Welcome to London, Clara,’ she muttered as the lights flickered out around her and plunged her into darkness. Again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JOSHUA WOODHOUSE WAS not having a good day.

  Correct that. He wasn’t having a good week. Not since his sister had sprung the fact on him that she was transferring her post for six months and disappearing to Scotland at short notice. He still couldn’t get over it. Had Georgie been unhappy? Depressed? Bored? Why hadn’t he realised? She’d denied all those things, just telling him she needed a change of scene for a while. The truth was, he couldn’t blame her. Her husband had been killed in an accident a while ago, and Georgie just seemed to have carried on. In fact, she’d continued working in his paediatric department in the Royal Hampstead Free, and continued to help him out with his young daughter, Hannah.

 
He’d kept pressing. And so Georgie had told him the real reason she was leaving and he’d wanted to slap himself. Her husband had been having an affair. Joshua had been shocked. He’d had absolutely no idea, and neither, apparently, had Georgie, finding out only after her husband had died. At first, he’d felt a flare of anger that she’d kept secrets from him. But she’d quickly put him in his place, letting him know that it was her business, and up to her to decide if she wanted to share. Guilt had swamped him. He should have been a better support to his sister, instead of just thanking her for continuing to show up at work and helping out at a moment’s notice with Hannah. He should have realised something else was going on. But he hadn’t stopped to ask. And now his sister had decided she needed a change of scene for six months.

  What could he say when he’d apparently already let her down so badly? Of course, he had to see her off to Scotland with his complete blessing, no matter how he felt about it.

  He had too many balls in the air at once. He knew that. Being Head of Department at one of the busiest hospitals in London, as well as being sole carer for his young daughter, sometimes made him feel as if he couldn’t think straight.

  There had been a nanny. But two days after Georgie had told him about her job swap, he’d got a tearful call from her to say her father had been diagnosed with terminal cancer back in Sweden. It had struck a chord, and he’d booked her a flight home with his blessing, and the knowledge that she wouldn’t be returning. It had added yet another ball to juggle and he’d had to hire someone at short notice who he hoped would work out for himself and Hannah.

  His parents kept telling him to move closer to them in Norfolk—they loved their granddaughter and would gladly help out. As it was, they came to London frequently to help when they could. But part of him didn’t want to push his responsibility onto them.

  Hannah was his daughter. He had to be the constant in her life. Her mother had died three weeks after delivering their new baby, having been diagnosed with acute myeloid leukaemia. It had taken him a while to come to terms with the fact that Abby had realised she was sick while she was in the late stages of pregnancy, and waited until she’d delivered before telling anyone. Hindsight was a horrible thing. The tiredness. The paleness. The few bruises.