Fiona Lowe - Four Weddings - A Woman To Belong To / A Wedding in Warragurra / The Surgeon's Chosen Wife / The Playboy Doctor's Marriage Proposal

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, awakening areas that had been dormant for too long.

He strode forward and removed the brush from her hand, setting it down on a table behind him. ‘Today we rest.’

She stood up, stretching her arm out for the brush, desperately trying to recover her composure. She spoke without thinking. ‘Who made you the boss?’

He threw his head back and laughed, the muscles of his neck rippling with mirth. ‘Ah, I believe Health For Life, and you did agree in Hanoi I was in charge.’

‘Well, sure, when it comes to patients.’ She stuck her hand on her hip, trying to show a cool detachment she didn’t feel. ‘But no doctor ever dares to interfere with nurses and their cleaning. That is our domain. Florence Nightingale mandated it.’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m feeling brave today.’ He put on a mock-serious tone. ‘As the medical officer in charge of this operation I’m invoking section 47 B, schedule 9 of the work charter. That means no cleaning today, Bec.’ A teasing grin danced on his lips.

Her legs suddenly wobbled. She locked her knees for support. ‘You’re making that up.’

‘Only the bit about schedule 9.’ His teasing grin faded, replaced by a serious expression. ‘Yesterday the health workers had a rest day. With no new cases of cholera it’s our turn to take a break. We’re no use to anyone if we fall over from fatigue.’ His intense gaze zeroed in on her. ‘Are we, Bec?’

She shifted uneasily, feeling like a rabbit caught in headlights. ‘I suppose.’ To her horror she sounded like a petulant four-year-old. Part of her knew he was right but the other part wanted to bury herself in the safety of work.

‘Excellent. Glad you agree with me.’ His brows rose wickedly.

Was he flirting with her? Ribbons of excitement spread through her, both delicious and terrifying. She immediately squashed the unwanted emotions. Men couldn’t be trusted. She would never fall for dark eyes and pretty words again.

She tossed her head. ‘As you’ve banned me from work I will go and …’ Her brain blanked. She struggled to think of something to do. She tossed her head. ‘Read my book.’

Tom folded his arms across his chest. ‘I get the feeling I can’t trust you not to scrub every surface of this clinic. I’m taking you to the Sunday market in a village about an hour’s drive away, up by the Chinese border.’ He smiled. ‘You need to see Vietnam’s diversity. Consider it part of your research.’

A day out alone with Tom. Fear collided with desire, tumbling over and over in the pit of her stomach. ‘That’s a kind offer but really you don’t have to. I promise I won’t come near the clinic and—’

‘You’re babbling and you’re coming with me.’

Something in his matter-of-fact tone propelled her to the door and outside. She was being childish and he was trying to be helpful and kind.

Where was the harm? She’d spend the day wandering around the market surrounded by crowds. She’d still be able to keep her safe distance both physically and emotionally. ‘Thanks. It sounds like fun.’ She started to walk toward the four-wheel-drive.

‘Bec.’

She spun around.

‘The road’s too narrow for the truck.’ Tom stood next to a motorbike, extending a helmet toward her.

Her blood rushed to her feet, making her sway. Panic trickled through her, intensifying as it spread. Spending a day alone with Tom at a market full of people was one thing. Sitting behind him on a motorbike, with millimetres between them, was another.

Her need for a safe distance intensified.

Any ideas of exactly how to achieve it diminished fast.

* * *

Tom brought the motorbike to a halt and turned the ignition off. Before the sound of the engine had died away, Bec quickly hopped off the bike, her actions almost frantic. She had to be the most tense passenger he’d ever transported. She’d sat, completely rigid, the entire trip.

She pulled off her helmet, and her hair fell down, framing her unusually pale face.

‘You OK?’ Concern for her ricocheted through him.

She took in a deep breath. ‘Those last few bends were pretty wild.’

‘Sorry. You fought the curves and got motion sickness. You need to be at one with them and at one with the bike. On the way home, lean into them.’

Lean into me and relax. The disquieting thought thundered through him.

Her eyes widened, darkening to an inky blue. A flicker of something vibrated in their depths and faded as quickly as it had appeared. ‘What’s in this box that was so important that I had to have it stick into me for the last hour?’ An unusual huskiness clung to her voice.

He released the elastic straps, which had held the box in place during the bumpy journey. ‘Condoms.’

‘You’ve come to a local market with four hundred condoms?’ She started to giggle. ‘I had no idea they were legal tender. Here I was thinking it was the dong.’

He laughed with her, appreciating her quick wit, enchanted by how her face changed when she completely relaxed. The stress lines around her eyes and mouth faded, her cheeks softened and her eyes danced. Lazy heat spread through him.

‘Cheeky.’ He lifted the box and started walking up the hill to a small cement building.

She quickly caught up with him despite her limp. ‘I thought you said it was a no-work day, that we needed a break.’ Her expression challenged him.