Doctor's Guide To Dating In The Jungle. Tina Beckett
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Stevie sat up straighter anyway and attempted a smile, praying this was her ride. But his glance merely clipped hers as he went by, a frown now marring the tanned flesh between thick, dark brows. He continued on to the desk and spoke in hushed tones, his black polo shirt pulling taut across powerful shoulders as he leaned over the counter. When the woman’s hand swept in Stevie’s direction, her heart leaped and she waved, stopping in midstream when he looked right past her.
As if she were invisible!
The flicker of hope went out, and she cringed at how desperate her madly waving arm must have appeared.
Desperate with a capital D.
She forced back her thoughts before they took a more destructive path. The man wasn’t rejecting her personally, he was simply here to meet someone else.
‘Onde?’ he asked the woman at the counter, his voice loud enough for Stevie to hear this time.
‘A loira sentada na mala, senhor.’
The blonde sitting on the suitcase? She glanced behind her just to be sure. There was no one sitting on a suitcase, except for …
The words slowly sank in. Oh, no. Surely not.
If her expression was horrified, the man’s was doubly so. Triply so, if the brackets now etching the sides of his mouth were anything to go by.
He stalked toward her, every step appearing a battle of wills, one that he seemed determined to win. Stopping in front of her, he paused. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘Excuse me?’ Her neck had to crane back to look up at him, and her sunglasses slid off her head in the process, crashing to the floor. She ignored them, forcing herself to keep meeting those icy blue eyes.
‘I’m here to meet Dr. Stefan Wilson,’ he said, mangling her first name.
Stevie bit her lip, realizing just how tall he actually was, especially from her perch on the suitcase. If she weren’t so worried about the still-shaky condition of her legs, she’d stand up. ‘It’s Stefani, not Stefan. ‘Dr. Stefani Wilson. Most people call me Stevie, though.’
He shoved a hand through his hair and swore, before pulling a folded group of papers from one of his back trouser pockets. He took his time opening them and going over the documents. ‘It says Stefan on the application. I was expecting a man.’
She gulped. Maybe he really was rejecting her.
Taking the papers he handed her, Stevie perused them, frowning over the missing ‘i’ on the application. So that’s why he’d brushed her off earlier. ‘I don’t understand. I filled this out online and sent it to the director of Projeto Vida myself.’
She flipped the pages until she found her license. ‘Here. See? It says Stefani, right here on my medical license. I also included a copy of my passport photo … hmm, which doesn’t seem to be here either.’
‘Great.’ He took the papers and jammed them back into his pocket then looked off into the distance. ‘Looks like the joke’s on me.’
A woman.
Matt couldn’t believe Tracy would have the nerve, when he’d specifically asked for a male doctor. She knew what this job was like. So far, no one—not even the last three men who’d signed up for the position—had been able to endure the tough working conditions. And Tracy thought this little scrap of a person could? That she’d be able to hack off a putrid, rotting leg, if the situation called for it?
He took in her white blouse, which clung to her curves wherever perspiration had gathered, becoming almost sheer in spots. At least it was thin and cool, which was so … Practical was the only word he allowed himself.
Even as the unlikely description bounced around his skull, he noticed a heavy droplet of moisture beside the coil of wheat-colored hair. As he watched, it slid down the side of her neck, gathering speed until it dipped into her collarbone. It hesitated as if unsure where to go next, then found the right path and headed down. Straight down. He swallowed and tore his eyes from the sight.
‘Forget it. You’re not staying.’ He sent her a glare that he hoped would send her fleeing back to whatever cushy hospital job she’d left behind. If she was looking for adventure, she’d come to the wrong place. And he sure didn’t need his mind wandering into areas it didn’t belong.
‘Forget it? You’ve got to be kidding me! I’ve just traveled four thousand miles to get here.’ Her eyes flashed a warning. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a well-qualified vascular surgeon—’
‘For which there’s little use in the jungle.’ He ignored the silent voice that reminded him he could have used her skills on the leg wound he’d treated a month and a half earlier.
‘I’ve also done a year’s residency in the emergency room, which means I’m well versed in the art of triage.’
‘The art of triage?’ He gave a hard laugh. ‘It may be an art form where you come from, but battlefield triage is something completely different.’
Her head came up, and a vein in the damp skin just below her jaw pulsed with what could be either anger or fear. He’d bet fear. Good. That meant she’d soon be running back home, like Craig had done before her. And Mark before that.
And he’d bet his life he’d never once stared at a pulse point in either man’s neck.
A baggage carrier came up behind them and set three giant red bags beside her, color-coordinated matches of the one she was currently sitting on. They were all spotless, evidently purchased just for this trip.
It figured.
He was surprised there weren’t white roses embroidered across the fronts of them, or little save-the-rainforest slogans like the ones Craig had had on several of his T-shirts.
The carrier held up three fingers as if asking if these were all of her bags.
The woman in front of him gave the ubiquitous thumbs-up signal. The carrier nodded and hurried away without even waiting for a tip. Probably knew it was a lost cause.
Matt rolled his eyes. She knew nothing about this culture. ‘I bet you don’t even speak Portuguese.’
‘Well, that’s a bet you’d surely lose. And as far as ‘battlefield triage’ goes, the last time I checked my history books, Brazil was a pacifistic nation.’ She scooped up the sunglasses, which lay broken on the floor, and dumped the remains into the open handbag that sat beside her. Picking up her purse, she stood to her feet, the top of her head barely reaching his chin.
‘You can’t learn everything about a country from a history book.’
‘Ri-ght.’
The sing-song intonation she gave the word only served to tick him off further. Women. When he got hold of Tracy, he was going to give her hell.
But Tracy wasn’t here at the moment, and Dr. Stefani Wilson was. ‘I don’t think you and this job are going to mesh.’
She hitched her handbag higher onto her shoulder, but there was now a hint of wariness in her gaze that made him frown. ‘Is that right? You know … I don’t believe I caught your name.’
‘Matt. Matt Palermo.’
‘Well, Mr. Palermo. Why don’t you let me worry about whether the job and I are going to suit each other? If you’ll just take me to Tracy Hinton—who evidently felt I was adequately qualified for this position—I’ll soon be out of your hair.’
‘Not bloody likely.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Two things. One, if you take this job you won’t be “out of my hair” for a very long time. And, two, Tracy obviously didn’t inform you of the living arrangements.’
‘She spelled it out quite nicely. She and I will be