vehicle and immediately wished it was more impressive—a limo perhaps.
Because she looked like a woman who’d drive in limos rather than battered four-wheel drives?
But some demon of uncertainty had set up home in his mind, and he heard himself apologising.
‘Sorry it’s not a limo, but the budget is always tight and I’d rather spend money on the clinic.’
‘Sounds reasonable to me,’ she said coolly.
He lifted the silver case into the rear, and came around to open the door for her, but she was already climbing in. Elegantly.
He held the door while she settled herself, then held out his hand.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t even know what to call you. It’s been a strange morning.’
She offered a cool smile but did take his hand in a firm clasp.
‘Francesca,’ she said. ‘But just call me Fran.’
He forcibly withdrew his hand, which had wanted to linger in hers, and closed the door.
But not before noticing that her hair was coming just slightly loose from its restraints, a golden-brown strand curling around to touch her chin.
The sun would streak it paler still. And suddenly he pictured this woman on one of the island’s deserted beaches, a sarong wrapped around her bikini, sun streaks in the hair blowing back from her face as she walked beside him.
His body stirred and he shook his head at the fantasy. For a start she was a colleague, and just looking at her he could see she was hardly the ‘strolling on the beach in a sarong’ type, not that that stopped the stirring.
‘Have you been to the islands before?’ he asked, as he settled behind the wheel, coaxed a muted grumble from the engine, and drove towards the exit gates.
‘No, although I know many Australians holiday here.’
‘I hope you’ll like it. The climate’s great, although it can get a trifle hot at times, and the people are wonderful.’
She turned towards him, the blue-green eyes taking in his bright shirt and, no doubt, the stubble on his unshaven chin.
The pelican again...
‘Did you holiday here? Is that why you’ve come back here to work?’
He smiled, remembering his co-workers’ disbelief when he’d told them of his plans to start the clinic.
‘No, but we had a couple—Vanuatuans—who came to my clinic in Sydney. They were so desperate to have a child they had sold everything they had, including the fishing boat that was their livelihood, to fund their trip.’
The words pierced the armour Fran had built around her heart and she felt again the pain of not conceiving. Of not having the child she’d so wanted.
You’re over this, she reminded herself, and concentrated on Steve’s explanation.
‘But to sell their boat—their livelihood?’
He turned more fully to her now, and the compassion she read in his face warmed her to the man with whom she would work—a scruffy, unshaven, slightly smelly, yet still a darkly attractive man.
Attractive?
What was she thinking?
But he was speaking, explaining.
‘Why not sell the boat if they had no child to inherit it?’ he said softly, and she felt the barb go deeper into her heart.
She nodded, thinking of the couple.
‘Few people consider the side-effects of infertility,’ she said softly, remembering. ‘The loss of self-esteem, the feelings of pointlessness, the loss of libido that failure can cause, which must be devastating for any man, but would, I imagine, be even worse for people of proud warrior races like the islanders.’
He glanced her way, questions in his eyes, and she realised she’d spoken too passionately—come too close to giving herself away.
Talk work—that was the answer.
‘So you came here? But not permanently? How does that work?’
He smiled.
‘You’ll see, but for now you should be looking about you, not talking work. This is Vila, capital of the island nation. You can still see a lot of the old buildings that have survived from the days the French ran the country.’
Fran looked around obediently and was soon charmed by the riot of colour in the gardens around all the buildings, from small huts to old colonial buildings, no longer white but grey with age, some in a state of disrepair, but all boasting trailing bougainvillea in rich red or purple, and white lilies running riot in unkempt garden beds. Ferns and big-leafed plants provided lush greenery, so altogether Fran’s immediate impression was one of colour.
They drove up a hill, the buildings becoming smaller and more suburban, and right at the top sat what could only be a mansion with another large building further along the ridge.
They turned that way and an ambulance streaking towards it told her it was the hospital.
‘Is the clinic at the hospital?’ she asked.
‘Not quite—but we’re around the back here. A kind of adjunct to it,’ her chauffeur told her. ‘Our building used to be nurses’ quarters but the hospital doesn’t have live-in nurses any more.’
He pulled up in a driveway beside an enormous red bougainvillea that had wound its way up a tall tree.
Colour everywhere!
And warmth, she realised as she stepped out of the vehicle.
A warmth that wrapped, blanket-like, around her.
They had stopped beside a run-down building that seemed to ramble down the hill behind the hospital. It had cracks in the once white walls, and dark, damp-looking patches where plaster had fallen off. Vines seemed to be growing out of the top of it, and the overall impression was of desertion and decay.
A tall local man came out to greet the car, holding out his hand to Fran.
‘I am Akila. I am the caretaker here and will also take care of you,’ he said, pride deepening an already deep voice. ‘We are very pleased to have you come and work with us.’
He waved his hand towards the building.
‘Outside this must look bad to you, but wait until you see inside,’ Akila told her, obviously aware of strangers’ first impressions.
And he was right.
The foyer was painted bright yellow, making it seem as if the sunshine from outside had penetrated the gloomy walls. A huge urn of flowers—long stems of something sweet-scented and vividly red—stood against the far wall, grabbing Fran’s attention the moment she
