to the contrary, dropped her medical bag with a thunk onto the growing mound of luggage.
She winced. ‘Things can only get better from here, right, Stevie?’
Moving a few yards toward the vacant exterior of the airport terminal, she prayed someone was inside to meet her. She’d only dealt with the director of Projeto Vida, and though the woman had been cordial, she’d given a noncommittal ‘Have the applicant e-mail his full résumé, including qualifications and a copy of his medical license. We’ll get back to him.’ She’d rung off before Stevie had a chance to admit the ‘friend’ she’d been calling for was actually herself.
Much to her shock, after sending in the requested information, she’d received an affirmative response, along with a list of necessary vaccinations and visa requirements. A month later, here she was.
Free and clear.
Free from her lying fiancé-cum-hospital-director and the political maelstrom that had arisen in the wake of their broken engagement. Free from the subtly averted eyes of the nursing staff that had torn at her heart and shredded her confidence.
She was free to do what she’d gone into medicine to do: treat those in need. And if traveling down the Amazon on a floating hospital ship was the only way she could meet that goal, so be it.
She tugged her sticky cotton shirt away from her body and fanned it against her ribcage, hoping her deodorant proved to be as Kevlar-strong as the ads claimed. A flatbed cart raced by, heading toward the growing mountain of luggage. Well, at least she didn’t have to worry about unearthing the rest of her bags from that stack. Except that if her medical bag was now on top of the heap, it would soon be …
Turning, she took off at a sprint towards the pile and waved frantically at the two men. They stopped what they were doing, obviously wondering what the crazed foreigner was so upset about this time. She skidded to a stop and motioned to her bag, telling them what she wanted in Portuguese. Well, continental Portuguese, which she’d been told was different than the Brazilian version of the language, but it was all she had.
They evidently understood because the thumbs-up signs were again flashed in her direction before her bag was plucked from the stack and handed down—rather than tossed, this time.
‘Obrigada.’ She pulled a couple of small bills from her wallet and handed them to the men, directing them to her bags and asking if they’d bring them to the terminal for her. They nodded as she righted her case and set it on its wheels so she could tow it behind her.
A minute later, she was inside the main building, where the lack of air-conditioning—or even a fan—made the closed space seem more oppressive than the air outside. A rivulet of sweat ran down her back, lodging in the waistband of her low-rider jeans. Glancing around, she saw no one, other than employees and the fellow passengers who’d boarded the air taxi with her in Manaus. Stevie wondered for the first time if she’d made the right decision in coming. She’d expected—if not a giddy cheer by a pack of overworked doctors—at least one person to meet her at the airport and help her get to the boat.
Making her way to the desk, she asked if anyone had mentioned meeting a doctor here today.
‘Ninguém, Senhora, desculpa.’
Not the answer she’d hoped to hear. She moved away from the counter and stood in the center of the room just as a wave of panic broke over the top of her. Despite her sensible flat sandals, her legs wobbled threateningly. Ignoring the scolding she’d just given the baggage handler over her medical bag, she shoved the telescoping handle into place and plunked herself down on the hard plastic casing. She dropped her handbag onto the cracked concrete floor beside her, wondering if she needed to put her head between her knees. No, then she might miss whoever was coming to pick her up. She settled for propping her elbows on her thighs and sinking her chin into her cupped palms.
Slow, deep breaths. That’s it.
Surely she wasn’t going to be abandoned.
A door on the other side of the building swung open and a man appeared, his gaze sweeping across the interior of the terminal as he strode toward the ticket counter. His height and close-fitting khaki slacks—as opposed to the uber-casual clothing worn by the male workers—marked him as an outsider. She couldn’t quite see his eyes, but 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
