woman walking beside him had rattled every bone in his body.
But why, for heaven’s sake? It wasn’t that there weren’t—or hadn’t been—other such women in his life.
He slid a sidelong glance towards her.
Composed, that’s what she was, which put him at a disadvantage as, right now, he was...well, badly dressed and almost certainly in need of a shower. The boys had been trying to feed the bird small fish.
‘Sorry about the rough sign, not to mention the clothes. There was this pelican, you see...’
She obviously didn’t see, probably wasn’t even listening.
He changed tack.
‘Do you know Vanuatu? It’s a great place—not only the islands themselves but the people. Originally settled by the French, so many people still speak that language, although they speak English as well—tourism has made sure of that.’
He reached the battered 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
