He’d politely dropped her back to her own front door, conversation flowing gently all the way. Then: nothing. Days passed. She kept an ear for the phone, but it was irritatingly silent. She recognized he had to observe a professional distance between them: he was still one of her physicians. He had less to do for her now, other than monitor her antibiotics and watch for rejection, but it was still a professional bond, with parameters, and it came with a reality check. It made sense to forget him.

But she couldn’t. She consulted Grace. Thinking back, she revised her dismissive description of a working lunch and told her friend they had enjoyed a lively conversation for an hour, and a lot of relaxed laughter; though Alex had told her nothing personal about himself, she admitted. Grace cautioned her: this didn’t bode well to her. Usually the woman listened while the man strutted his stuff. And yes, it was different, Lucy agreed, but she had an inkling that was just what made this man attractive. She was intrigued, and it didn’t help that he was physically so appealing, tantalizingly divorced with a young son. Far too much trouble, she decided. As soon as she could return to work, she’d forget him in a day, she contented herself.

And then suddenly there was Alex, after nine days of silence, inviting her quite openly into a situation that involved his colleagues. It was the hospitals’ Halloween party. Apart from a get-together for the staff of both sister hospitals, it was also a fund-raiser. He had cautioned her not to expect the Chelsea Arts Ball. Only staff, students, and friends would get a ticket, but it did raise money for the hospitals, and if she could bring her best sense of humor—a must, apparently—it was a performance he had to attend, and he would enjoy it much more if she could join him.

“I promise to look after you properly,” he’d said. “These kind of do’s can get a little exuberant when the crowd becomes overrefreshed, as Amel reminded me when I mentioned I’d like to invite you.”

Concerned not to overtax the fledgling’s health, he’d assured her it was for a couple of hours only—a pleasure boat going up the Thames, the duration limited by tide, and time of hire. He’d apologized that she’d have to meet him there as he would be running straight from work at Harefield that day; but he would see her home after a quiet supper—if she wasn’t too tired. “Oh…it’s a themed party—did I say that? ‘The Spirits of the Dead from the Past.’ You’ll need some kind of costume, if you can manage it.”