met Dr Thông.
She pulled the bell again, her hand gripping the pulley tightly for support.
The bell chimed loud and long. Footsteps sounded.
Bec bowed her head and breathed in a calming breath. This is it.
The door creaked open and stilted Vietnamese swirled around her, the accent clumsy and unfamiliar.
She looked up quickly, her practised greeting dying on her lips.
She’d been expecting a short Vietnamese doctor. Instead, a tall, broad-shouldered man with designer tousled black hair filled the doorway, a backpack slung casually over one shoulder. He wore a well-known surfing-brand T-shirt, the spun cotton clinging like a second skin to a toned chest and muscular arms. A shadow of dark stubble highlighted a strong jaw and a firm mouth.
An unexpected quiver spread through her, racing down to her toes. She shook her head. She really needed some food. Blinking, she took another look at him through the rain. A sigh of dismay escaped her lips as her heart sank. This golden-skinned man belonged on a beach. He had tourist written all over him. He couldn’t possibly be Dr Thông.
Large oval eyes, the colour of dark chocolate, studied her intently. ‘Can I help you?’
The Australian accent stunned her and she searched for her voice. ‘I’m sorry, I think I’ve been directed to the wrong place. I’m looking for Dr Thông.’
An ironic smile passed over high cheekbones. ‘That’s me. I’m Tom. It’s written Thông, but pronounced Tom. Tom Bracken.’ He hitched his backpack further up his shoulder. ‘I’m also just leaving so you’d be better off trying the French hospital.’
Her brain stalled at his smile, driving away the confused thoughts of why he sounded and looked so Australian. She forced herself to focus. ‘No, I’m not sick.’
‘Glad to hear it. I’ll be back in a few weeks so make an appointment with my housekeeper.’
Panic simmered in her belly. Don’t let him leave. ‘I need to talk to you about the orphans.’
He stiffened. ‘Are you a journalist?’
She shook her head, confused, her mind racing to find a succinct sentence to make an impression on him and to stop him leaving right away. ‘I’m a nurse.’
‘Great. Again, try the French hospital.’ He moved forward, towering over her meagre five feet and two inches.
She clenched her fists against the surge of unwanted fear that twisted inside her as she looked up at him. ‘You don’t understand. I’m not looking for a job.’
‘So, you’re not sick, you’re not looking for a job and you’re not a journalist.’ His black eyebrows rose in perfect arches. ‘Why do you need to see me?’
She swallowed hard, knowing what she said next would either delay him or see him marching through the gate. ‘I have a mission and I need your help.’
Don’t stop, you’ll miss your plane. Tom’s grip on the doorhandle instinctively lessened as an irrational need to listen to this woman’s story clashed with his desire to leave immediately.
Something in her voice made him pause. Energy and vitality rolled off her in waves, matched with a steely determination. Her chin jutted slightly as she stood her ground. He recognised that stance. He’d seen photos of himself doing the same thing.
When he’d opened the door and seen a petite woman in plain Vietnamese dress, with her head bowed against the rain, he’d immediately assumed she was a patient who’d been given the wrong address. Then she’d raised her face. The rush of heat that had whipped through him when her violet-blue eyes had caught his gaze still simmered inside him.
He’d never seen eyes that colour before. They reminded him of his mother’s spring irises, the purple-blue flowers she insisted on growing despite the heat of the Australian bush.
And yet shadows lurked in the sparkle of vibrant colour. For a brief moment he had a crazy desire to chase those shadows away.
You don’t have time for this, the pilot has a timetable. Ever since he’d been interviewed on local television, people had started approaching him, requesting his time for his perspective on health and his support for their own projects. And the local government officers referred to him anyone who asked about starting health programmes. He’d tried to convince them not to, but to no avail. He was flat out keeping up with his own patients and clinics, let alone taking on other people’s work. His patients came first every time.
Thank goodness Jason, the PR person for Health For Life, was due back from his extended leave next week. He couldn’t wait to hand over all the admin stuff and get back to focusing completely on medicine. His review of the rural outreach programme was overdue. He’d been jealously watching the other staff heading out around the country. Although he enjoyed the Hanoi hospital work, he’d missed his outreach work and the chance to assess new projects.
Water trickled down his neck, the droplets jerking him back to the present. For the first time since opening the front door he realised it was raining. Remember the plane. Dragging his gaze away from his visitor’s mesmerising eyes, he countered the nagging voice inside his head. Five minutes is all this will take.
‘Ms …?’
‘Monahan. Rebecca Monahan, but please call me Bec.’
He smiled. ‘You’d better come in out of the rain, Bec.’
‘Thank you. I thought you’d never ask.’ She took off her hat and long chestnut hair streaked with sun-kissed blonde cascaded down around her shoulders.
He stood stock-still, staring at her, completely captivated.
With a flick of her head, water bounced off her hair, spraying him. She giggled then smiled broadly, her face creasing in delicious laughter lines. ‘Sorry, the monsoon and I are still adjusting to each other.’
She stepped forward, stopping abruptly when he didn’t move, leaving a wide space between them. A flash of something lit her eyes and faded as fast as it had appeared.
He tried to catch it and read it, but it had vanished.
She tilted her head and raised her brows, her mouth pursing slightly. ‘May I come in?’
Concentrate, Tom. ‘Of course. Sorry.’ He moved back, dropping his pack to the floor.
She walked into the entrance foyer, slightly favouring her left leg.
Tien, his housekeeper, used to people arriving at all times of the day and night, silently appeared holding a towel which she handed to Bec.
‘Oh, dear, I’m dripping all over your floor.’
His country hospitality, drummed into him by his mother, came to the fore. ‘Don’t worry, that’s why we have tiled floors. Would you like some lemon juice and water or tea? Something to eat?’
‘Yes, please, I’m completely starving.’ The moment she’d spoken she clapped her hands over her mouth like a child who believed she’d
