Just One Last Night.... Amy Andrews

      CHAPTER ONE

      DR GRACE PERRY hated feeling unprepared. She’d happily lived her entire adult life totally prepared for all situations. She liked being prepared. Loved it, actually. It gave her power and a sense of control.

      She loved control.

      And order. And predictability.

      Otherwise there was just chaos. And Grace hated chaos.

      Unfortunately there’d been precious little order and too much chaos in the last eighteen months.

      So today she planned to take back control.

       All she had to do was get the job.

      An interview she was feeling totally unprepared for after her early-morning flight from Brisbane and Tash’s door slamming condemnation from last night still ringing in her ears.

      Grace sighed as she pushed the lift button. How could a sullen fifteen-year-old girl have defeated her—broken her—so utterly? Taken her nice, neat, ordered, controlled world and turned it totally on its ear.

      Grace hated defeat.

      The lift arrived and Grace put the rare moment of self-pity aside as she strode into it and pushed the button for the eighth floor.

      Such negative thoughts did not bode well going into the interview of her life. And however hard it had been on her to become guardian to her niece and nephew, it had been a thousand times worse for Tash and Benji.

      The doors opened at her destination and Grace took a moment to straighten the dark grey skirt that flared around her knees, balancing out the flare of very feminine hips. She did up the large buttons on her matching jacket.

      You can do this, she lectured herself as her strappy pumps sank into plush carpet. You are a fantastic emergency physician with fifteen years’ experience and a respected manager.

       You are outstandingly qualified.

      Opposite the lifts was a large reception desk and she made her way to it.

      ‘Dr Grace Perry to see Dr John Wilkie,’ she said, injecting a note of calm assurance as if the interview was no more trifling than a sutured finger or a strep throat.

      The starched-looking receptionist peered at her over half-moon glasses and frowned. She consulted her watch and then some paperwork. ‘You’re early.’

      Grace blinked, feeling as if she’d committed some horrible transgression. ‘Yes. It’s a terrible habit of mine.’

      Or it used to be anyway before chaos had taken over.

      ‘Sorry,’ she added, feeling the need to apologise to the un-amused woman in front of her. Then she smiled to reassure the receptionist it wouldn’t happen again and to vanquish the horrible feeling of being caught on the back foot.

      The receptionist sniffed then stood. ‘Please follow me.’

      Grace did as she was instructed—she didn’t dare not to—following the woman’s brisk march through a series of corridors until they reached a door and entered a lounge area.

      ‘Take a seat. Dr Wilkie’s conducting another interview.’ She sniffed again. ‘He may be a while.’

      ‘That’s fine,’ Grace murmured, sinking into the nearest lounge chair. ‘I have some work to do,’ she said, patting her bag.

      The receptionist departed and Grace was left to her own devices. Self-directed as ever and rather than think about who was on the other side of the closed door opposite, making a play for her job, she hauled out her laptop, placing it on the low table in front of her. She adjusted her glasses and waited for it to power up.

      Twenty minutes later she was fully engrossed in a report when her mobile rang. Distracted, Grace searched through her bag for it. Normally she’d have it attached to her waistband but she had this bloody impractical skirt on today instead of her regulation trousers with their convenient loops so she’d thrown it in her bag.

      It trilled insistently as Grace pulled out the entire contents of her bag onto the table in an effort to locate it.