Four Weddings: A Woman To Belong To / A Wedding in Warragurra / The Surgeon's Chosen Wife / The Playboy Doctor's Marriage Proposal. Fiona Lowe
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tone slugged him. ‘Sorry.’
She shrugged. ‘You had a valid point. I was vague. I do want to fix it all. You’ve forced me to focus. I wanted to rush in and now I see that I need to take my time and work out what I want to do, how I can best help.’
He shot her a glance. ‘Or how you’re going to generate funds to do it.’
She sipped her tea. ‘Oh, I’ve got the money, that isn’t the problem.’
Her naïvety both entranced and frustrated him. ‘It’s going to take more than a few thousand dollars to start up a clinic.’
‘Will two hundred and fifty thousand dollars do it?’
He choked on his tea. ‘You have a quarter of a million dollars at your disposal?’
She grimaced, her expression unexpectedly hard. ‘I do.’
Her expression worried him. ‘Are you certain you want to use all of it in aid? I mean, I assume you’ve allowed enough for your own needs.’
‘I won’t have anything to do with that money.’ The words, almost menacing, rolled out on a low growl. ‘It needs to work off its origins and do some good in the world. Every child deserves a childhood so they can grow up to be a productive adult. This money will help them achieve that.’
She stood up abruptly. ‘We need to get back.’
Before he could start to ask even one of the numerous questions that had slammed into his mind, she’d turned and marched off toward the clinic, her hair tumbling out of its restrictive band, softening the rigid line of her shoulders.
Part of him wanted to go to her and let his fingers caress the tension from her shoulders, entwine with the softness of her hair …
Stop it. It was official—sleep deprivation had finally got to him. Massaging her shoulders—it was an insane thought. Besides, she’d hate it. Hell, she’d shuddered when his hand had accidentally touched hers.
Getting involved with a woman wasn’t an option. He’d made that decision after two failed relationships. Both women had demanded his full attention. He couldn’t offer anyone that until he’d sorted out his own life. Filled in the missing gaps. So why was he wasting time, thinking like this?
Because she intrigues you like no one else ever has.
He tried to push the voice away, empty his thoughts but Bec’s voice whooshed in. I won’t have anything to do with that money.
That statement generated more questions than answers.
He sighed. He hadn’t wanted her to come on this trip but instead of carrying her, as he’d expected he’d have to, she’d proved her worth in a thousand ways.
But the more time he spent with her the more he needed to know about her. She was a bundle of contradictions. What lay behind her determination to work here? He’d stake his life it wasn’t just a philanthropic desire.
Tom understood that well. For years he’d ignored the call of Vietnam. He was Australian. And yet he was Vietnamese. He had Australian parents who loved him. But their DNA wasn’t part of him. And Vietnam continued to call to that empty space inside him that craved answers.
He pushed himself to his feet. He was working with the best nurse he’d ever met. That was all he needed to know about her. Nothing else mattered. Everyone had their own journey and he needed to focus on his. He didn’t need to get involved in hers.
They were colleagues—pure and simple.
BEC SCOOPED WATER over herself, savouring the sensation of the cool liquid sluicing in rivulets across her heat-irritated skin. As she tipped water from the bamboo cup along her arm, she fantasised about continuous water flowing from a shower nozzle.
But her fantasy was as close as she was going to get. The villagers bathed in the river but she had a strong suspicion that she’d get out of the silt-filled water feeling grimier than when she’d got in. She laughed ruefully that her definition of luxury had been reduced to using some of her meagre supplies of her favourite shampoo.
Her frenetic workload had finally eased. New medical supplies had arrived to replenish the dwindling stocks and no new cases of cholera had appeared. For seven days and nights she’d worked flat out, grabbing power sleeps when she could.
Just like Tom.
Tom.
She dumped water over her head to wash out the shampoo. To wash out the image of a doctor whose delicious lopsided grin seemed to radiate shafts of sunlight and send tendrils of warmth right down to the dark recesses of her soul. A smile that generated such a need in her that it scared her rigid.
She’d be in the middle of an observation round and find herself deliberately searching for him, glancing around until she found him.
On the few occasions he’d caught her glance he’d smiled. Sometimes a broad smile, other times a quirky grin. A ‘How’s it going?’ smile. A ‘You doing OK?’ smile. And she found herself wanting and needing to see that smile again.
For the first time in her life she had a glaring insight into the trials of someone trying to give up something addictive like cigarettes. She’d tried not to look, but she was fighting a losing battle. She craved his smile.
The knowledge terrified her.
She’d come on this trip to learn about Vietnam’s health needs, not to learn about Tom. But for every time she told herself to focus on her job, a new question about Tom flashed into her head, piling itself on top of the growing list.
Why was he here? What was his connection with Vietnam? In some lights the shape of his wide eyes could be considered Asian but nothing else about him was faintly oriental. He was far from fluent in Vietnamese but his way with the patients showed an innate understanding. The questions went round and round in her head.
She grabbed her micro-fibre towel and started vigorously rubbing her skin dry. These strange and unsettling feelings must be connected to being plunged into a foreign and unfamiliar culture, and being surrounded by a language of which she had minimal understanding. Tom, with his laconic Australian approach to life, was the only thing familiar. Of course she would seek him out. It was only a natural extension of being here and feeling a bit displaced.
It had nothing to do with attraction or need. She did not need a man in her life.
She jerkily pulled on her clothes, jammed her hat on her head and strode toward the clinic. Not that she needed to be there now the crisis had eased. She knew she should be taking a break while she had the chance, but she was restless and agitated.
She poured a bucket of hot water from the big pot above the fire and hauled it up the steps. Keeping busy had worked for her all her life. When things got tough, she worked. There was no reason why that strategy wouldn’t keep being useful.
She sloshed water onto the floor and knelt down, attacking the boards with a brush. Tom had mentioned a meeting with the village elders so she’d take advantage of his absence and scrub the clinic.
‘What are you doing?’
She glanced up from her position on the floor, scrubbing brush poised in mid-air. Her breath stalled, catching in her throat.
Tom leant casually against the doorframe, his bulk making the bamboo casing look very flimsy. A clean, pressed T-shirt outlined his chest and arms, his biceps pushing the fabric to full stretch. Beads of water hung from the curling tips of his black hair and his skin almost sparkled, completely devoid of the grime of village life.
Clean, fresh, wholesome and incredibly sexy.
A surge of heat, carried on a wave of wonder raced through every part of her,