just survived. He thought about the first time he’d met her. ‘How long have you been scared of the dark?’
She coughed as if she was choking and he realised he’d missed the moment she’d taken a sip.
‘How long have you been blind?’
Again he found himself smiling. Three times in one day had to be a record. ‘I take it that your fear of the dark is off the conversation list.’
‘Is your blindness?’
He thought about it. ‘Yes and no.’
Her blurry outline leaned forward. ‘Okay, I’ll cut you a deal. If either of us asks a question that goes beyond what we’re comfortable answering, we just say, “Enough.”’
He’d never met anyone quite like her. Women usually wanted to know every little detail and got offended if he didn’t tell all. This suggestion of hers, however, was perfect—conversation with a get-out-now option. ‘You’re on.’
‘Good.’ The table rocked slightly as if she was pressing her hands down on it. ‘I’ve been scared of the dark since I was a child and don’t tell me I should have grown out of it by now.’
The heartfelt punch behind her words hit him in the chest and left behind the trace of a question he could easily ignore. ‘I’ve been living in the dark for two years after an urban four-wheel drive, complete with a dirt-free roo bar, ran me off my bike when I was in Perth for a conference. I slammed into the road headfirst.’
Flashes of memory flitted in colour across his mind. Memories he’d learned to control. ‘Ironically, I’m told that my skin’s healed perfectly and I don’t have a single scar but the impact stole my sight.’ He forced his hands to stay in his lap and not grip the edge of the table as he braced himself for the platitudes he’d grown used to hearing.
‘That sucks.’
He blinked. She’d just done it again—defied convention. ‘It more than sucks, and coming back to Sydney is proving to be—’ Never admit weakness. He cut himself off before he said more than he intended.
‘Challenging. Purposeful. A relief?’ The words hung in the air, devoid of anything other than their natural sound.
‘I’m not sure it’s a relief.’ He ran his fingers along the edge of the spoon Wayan had put on the table as his marker to find his drink which was on a coaster directly above it.
‘Why did you come back?’
He shrugged, not really understanding the decision himself. ‘There’s something about the pull of home.’
‘Family?’ Her usually firm voice suddenly sounded faint.
He shook his head and tried not to think about his mother. ‘No, but I grew up here.’
Understanding wove through her voice. ‘And you worked at The Harbour. That’s got to be a strong pull too.’
It was like a knife to his heart. ‘Don’t tell me that lecturing is as important as surgery because you know it doesn’t even come close.’
He’d expected her to object but instead she gave a heartfelt sigh. He knew exactly what that sound meant. Before he’d thought it through he found himself saying, ‘There’s something about holding the scalpel just before you cut.’
‘I know, right?’ Animation played through her voice. ‘There’s an exhilaration that gives you this amazing feeling, but there’s also some tiny ripples of concern because no matter how routine the operation, there’s always the threat of the unknown.’
Her words painted the perfect picture, describing with pinpoint accuracy that one moment every surgeon experienced. The image floated around him but instead of bringing on a cloud of bitterness, it brought back the buzz. A buzz he hadn’t known in two long years.
Hell, he missed talking with a colleague—with a fellow surgeon. Sure, he’d talked to doctors in the last two years, but he’d been the patient and those conversations had been very, very different. ‘And in neurosurgery even the known can bite you.’
He felt a flutter of air against his face and his nostrils flared at the softest soupçon of magnolia. He realised she’d leaned forward again.
‘Even with an MRI?’
He responded to the interest in her voice. ‘They’re a brilliant roadmap, certainly, but just like a photograph often it’s all about what isn’t in the picture.’
‘The human body being a variation on a theme.’
The enthusiasm in her voice pulled him in. ‘Absolutely. I remember once when I’d—’ The strident notes of techno music split the air.
‘Sorry, that’s my phone.’ The noise was immediately silenced. ‘Hayley Grey.’
Tom had no choice but to sit and overhear one side of a conversation. A conversation so familiar that he’d said similar words in the past at dinners, from his bed, in the car and on his bike.
Hayley sucked in a sharp breath. ‘When …? A and E …? How many …? Five minutes … Okay, two, then. Call David Mendez … Bye.’
His pulse rate had inexplicably picked up. ‘Problem?’
‘Road trauma.’ The scrape of her chair screeched, matching the urgency in her voice. ‘I have to get back.’
He carefully moved his chair back a short distance and rose to his feet, hating it that he didn’t know exactly where she was standing, although he could smell her—smell the exhilarating combination of her perfume mixed in with her heady aroma of excitement. The thrill of the unknown—a surgeon’s addiction.
‘Tom.’ Her hand slipped into his, her skin soft, warm and fragrant.
A wave of heat hit him so hard he had to fist his other hand to stop it from reaching out and pulling her against him. It was like his body had just woken up from a long, deep sleep and was absolutely starving. He craved to trace every curve and swell of her body, and he hungered to learn if her body was as lush and as sexy as her voice promised it would be, as her summer garden scent taunted that it was.
She squeezed his hand. ‘Thank you for the best satay I’ve tasted outside Asia.’
‘No …’ Huskiness clung to the word and he cleared his throat. ‘No problem. I’ll walk you back.’
‘Thank you, but I have to run.’
He’d heard the regret in her voice before she’d even said the word. He couldn’t run.
She quickly withdrew her hand. ‘I won’t ask if you’re all right to get home because you’d probably bite my head off.’
He forced a smile against the cold grimness that was washing through him and leaving behind a film of bleakness on every part of him that it touched. ‘You’re right about that.’
‘I’m right about a lot of things. Goodbye, Tom.’
‘Good
