ONE
FRANCE.
Not a place he’d ever thought he’d return to, and he’d done everything in his power to avoid it. But sometimes honour and duty overrode everything else, even good sense.
Dr Ethan Reid dropped his khaki holdall onto the hotel bedroom floor and chanced his luck for a minibar. After opening all the cupboards and drawers, he grunted. Seemed his luck was all out. But if he was forced to be in France he was going to drink, at least tonight, and then he’d have some chance of sleeping.
After a quick shower and change out of flight-weary clothes he took the stairs down two at a time from the eleventh floor, courting the usual looks of astonishment from anyone he passed peeking out from the generic hotel corridors at a tall, lumbering, sandy-haired and probably sandy-coated—given he’d been in Africa for the last four years—guy gunning down the stairs instead of sedately hitching a ride on the elevator. Seemed no one walked these days.
Never mind. Or, as they said around here, tant pis.
After spending years living under canvas his first instinct was to sit outside on the terrace in the fresh air as he was used to, but the thunderstorm that had threatened as his plane was landing had become a reality, so he was forced to stay in the bar. Even so, the place was quiet with just a few suited singletons dotted at the tables staring at smartphones and laptops, probably in Marseille on business given the outfits.
The end of April was too early in the season for the sun crowd, though he suspected the port city would be busy all year round. He ordered his whiskey and soda, and slumped down at the bar, trying not to engage in extended conversation with the bar staff, which left him plenty of scope to chill and get his head round being back here, in the place that still gave him nightmares.
His instructions were on his phone. He tugged it from his pocket and ran through them again with the same trepidation he’d felt the first time he’d read them. How had he agreed to this?
6.30 a.m. Orientation with Medicine For All Search and Rescue Co-ordinator Chase Barrington on the bridge of the SOS Poseidon.
7.00 a.m. Pre-launch safety briefing
7.30 a.m. Under way
So that was it. A six-week deployment to pluck refugees from the Mediterranean Sea, assess and treat those with medical needs and transport them to a receiving port.
And somehow survive.
‘Aperol spritz, s’il vous plaît.’
A woman’s voice behind him cut through his thoughts. After his initial knee-jerk disquiet at hearing the French language again he was impressed to realise he still understood it a little.
‘Merci. It’s a beautiful night. I love thunderstorms. I know...crazy.’ As she seamlessly switched from French to English she laughed, a soft sound that breathed life through the dull, stale atmosphere in the bar, and continued her conversation with...whoever. ‘Here’s to freedom, excitement. Adventure.’
A strange toast that conjured up all manner of stories in his active imagination. Curiosity getting the better of him, Ethan turned to see who the laugh belonged to and who needed all of those things. A little further along the bar was a petite woman dressed casually in contrast to the suits in a dark blue flared skirt and a navy-and-white-striped T-shirt, a dark silk scarf looped loosely round her neck and a small black leather backpack slung over one shoulder. Very chic. She had large, dark eyes and loose honey-coloured waves framing her face. Pretty too.
As if she felt him looking, her gaze sought him out. Whoa. So much more than pretty. She had the kind of face that pulled you to her, a heady charisma, eyes buzzing with energy, a generous smile, olive skin that had him thinking of cloudless skies and skinny-dipping. And now he was just getting carried away.
Glancing around the room, he noticed all the single suits watching her too.
Ethan looked away. No point getting in any deeper than one look. Tomorrow he was facing a demon or two and he had to keep his head straight. He tried to shrug off the trepidation of meeting up with Chase after all these years, and spending the next six weeks rescuing refugees. The doctoring part he could do in his sleep, but living on a ship would only add more spice to his nightmares. He looked down at the menu but the gnawing sensation in his gut had nothing to do with hunger.
She laughed.
Oh, what the hell? He chanced another look, because he couldn’t not. Something about her compelled him to take a second viewing. And there wasn’t anything else to look at in this place other than a baby grand piano that no one was playing, dark velvet drapes and that bar menu, which he’d scanned and disregarded a dozen times already.
She was talking to, but standing a little away from, a guy who had about fifteen years on her. Thin, wiry. Like a stoat. No, a weasel, in a shiny, cheap suit that was clearly tailored to bulk him up. They seemed oddly matched. Too old to be a boyfriend, too young to be a parent.
The weasel leaned in, leering. Unsteady. He had the kind of smile that was all mouth and no eyes. Greedy. He said something to her.
Her body snapped taut as she stepped back. ‘No. I’m not interested, thank you.’
Something about her reaction and the fleeting shock in her eyes had Ethan on high alert. He edged closer to listen.
Weasel guy’s empty smile kept on giving as he ran a bony finger over her hand. ‘I’m sure you are. A drink. Some fun. Maybe I just need to persuade you?’
Persuade? Nausea roiled in Ethan’s gut, he’d seen way too much fallout from men persuading women in his line of work. But this wasn’t his business. He sat back.
Sure, it wasn’t his business, but he kept a watchful eye open.
Another step back, a flick of her hair as she shook her head. ‘I said I’m not interested. Please, leave me alone.’
‘Oh, chérie. Come on, let’s have some fun.’
Knowing he beat the guy hands down on height and strength and definitely smarts, Ethan walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. When the weasel wheeled round and looked up at Ethan he gulped. Swallowed. Paled.
Ethan stepped into his face. ‘She said leave her alone. So do it. When a woman says no, she means no. And even when a woman says yes to a guy like you, she means no. Okay?’
‘I wasn’t trying anything.’ The man raised palms slick with a sweaty sheen. ‘Just being friendly.’
Ethan shook his head. ‘No. It’s not friendly, it’s creepy. And you’re not trying a thing, mate, because you’re leaving.’
‘Okay. Okay. I get it.’ The wiry man shook his head back, imitating Ethan. Then he nodded sharply to the woman. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Merci.’ The woman breathed out as the weasel disappeared out the door. ‘But I was handling it.’
‘I know you were, but I also know men like him. It’s just easier if we outnumber them.’
‘We?’ Her eyebrows lifted. ‘For a minute there I thought you were going to play
