‘That bad?’ Her head jerked up, her eyes instantly caught and trapped by a gaze so vivid she thought she must be dreaming. He was fair, his sun-streaked hair falling in defiant strands across the bronze skin of his high forehead, and he radiated health and energy. He was also drop-dead good-looking, and Clare was instantly wary. ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t realise there was anyone in here—not that I usually talk to myself, but this morning …!’ ‘Losing your grip already?’ His voice was like rich silk sliding over pebbles. The stranger glanced at his watch and raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s only ten past nine!’ ‘Yes, well, if you’d met Danny Drew and his gang of fellow-sufferers, you’d understand!’ ‘I shall look forward to the experience.’ He took a long, lazy stride forward and held out his hand across the desk. ‘We haven’t met. Michael Barrington. I’m Tim Mayhew’s senior reg., as of about ten minutes ago. And you’re Clare Stevens,’ he added, engulfing her hand in his long, lean fingers.
