Four Weddings

CHAPTER THREE

BEC SCOOPED WATER over herself, savouring the sensation of the cool liquid sluicing in rivulets across her heat-irritated skin. As she tipped water from the bamboo cup along her arm, she fantasised about continuous water flowing from a shower nozzle.

But her fantasy was as close as she was going to get. The villagers bathed in the river but she had a strong suspicion that she’d get out of the silt-filled water feeling grimier than when she’d got in. She laughed ruefully that her definition of luxury had been reduced to using some of her meagre supplies of her favourite shampoo.

Her frenetic workload had finally eased. New medical supplies had arrived to replenish the dwindling stocks and no new cases of cholera had appeared. For seven days and nights she’d worked flat out, grabbing power sleeps when she could.

Just like Tom.

Tom.

She dumped water over her head to wash out the shampoo. To wash out the image of a doctor whose delicious lopsided grin seemed to radiate shafts of sunlight and send tendrils of warmth right down to the dark recesses of her soul. A smile that generated such a need in her that it scared her rigid.

She’d be in the middle of an observation round and find herself deliberately searching for him, glancing around until she found him.

On the few occasions he’d caught her glance he’d smiled. Sometimes a broad smile, other times a quirky grin. A ‘How’s it going?’ smile. A ‘You doing OK?’ smile. And she found herself wanting and needing to see that smile again.

For the first time in her life she had a glaring insight into the trials of someone trying to give up something addictive like cigarettes. She’d tried not to look, but she was fighting a losing battle. She craved his smile.

The knowledge terrified her.

She’d come on this trip to learn about Vietnam’s health needs, not to learn about Tom. But for every time she told herself to focus on her job, a new question about Tom flashed into her head, piling itself on top of the growing list.

Why was he here? What was his connection with Vietnam? In some lights the shape of his wide eyes could be considered Asian but nothing else about him was faintly oriental. He was far from fluent in Vietnamese but his way with the patients showed an innate understanding. The questions went round and round in her head.

She grabbed her micro-fibre towel and started vigorously rubbing her skin dry. These strange and unsettling feelings must be connected to being plunged into a foreign and unfamiliar culture, and being surrounded by a language of which she had minimal understanding. Tom, with his laconic Australian approach to life, was the only thing familiar. Of course she would seek him out. It was only a natural extension of being here and feeling a bit displaced.

It had nothing to do with attraction or need. She did not need a man in her life.

She jerkily pulled on her clothes, jammed her hat on her head and strode toward the clinic. Not that she needed to be there now the crisis had eased. She knew she should be taking a break while she had the chance, but she was restless and agitated.

She poured a bucket of hot water from the big pot above the fire and hauled it up the steps. Keeping busy had worked for her all her life. When things got tough, she worked. There was no reason why that strategy wouldn’t keep being useful.

She sloshed water onto the floor and knelt down, attacking the boards with a brush. Tom had mentioned a meeting with the village elders so she’d take advantage of his absence and scrub the clinic.

‘What are you doing?’

She glanced up from her position on the floor, scrubbing brush poised in mid-air. Her breath stalled, catching in her throat.

Tom leant casually against the doorframe, his bulk making the bamboo casing look very flimsy. A clean, pressed T-shirt outlined his chest and arms, his biceps pushing the fabric to full stretch. Beads of water hung from the curling tips of his black hair and his skin almost sparkled, completely devoid of the grime of village life.

Clean, fresh, wholesome and incredibly sexy.

A surge of heat, carried on a wave of wonder raced through every part of her, awakening areas that had been dormant for too long.

He strode forward and removed the brush from her hand, setting it down on a table behind him. ‘Today we rest.’

She stood up, stretching her arm out for the brush, desperately trying to recover her composure. She spoke without thinking. ‘Who made you the boss?’

He threw his head back and laughed, the muscles of his neck rippling with mirth. ‘Ah, I believe Health For Life, and you did agree in Hanoi I was in charge.’

‘Well, sure, when it comes to patients.’ She stuck her hand on her hip, trying to show a cool detachment she didn’t feel. ‘But no doctor ever dares to interfere with nurses and their cleaning. That is our domain. Florence Nightingale mandated it.’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m feeling brave today.’ He put on a mock-serious tone. ‘As the medical officer in charge of this operation I’m invoking section 47 B, schedule 9 of the work charter. That means no cleaning today, Bec.’ A teasing grin danced on his lips.

Her legs suddenly wobbled. She locked her knees for support. ‘You’re making that up.’

‘Only the bit about schedule 9.’ His teasing grin faded, replaced by a serious expression. ‘Yesterday the health workers had a rest day. With no new cases of cholera it’s our turn to take a break. We’re no use to anyone if we fall over from fatigue.’ His intense gaze zeroed in on her. ‘Are we, Bec?’

She shifted uneasily, feeling like a rabbit caught in headlights. ‘I suppose.’ To her horror she sounded like a petulant four-year-old. Part of her knew he was right but the other part wanted to bury herself in the safety of work.

‘Excellent. Glad you agree with me.’ His brows rose wickedly.

Was he flirting with her? Ribbons of excitement spread through her, both delicious and terrifying. She immediately squashed the unwanted emotions. Men couldn’t be trusted. She would never fall for dark eyes and pretty words again.

She tossed her head. ‘As you’ve banned me from work I will go and …’ Her brain blanked. She struggled to think of something to do. She tossed her head. ‘Read my book.’

Tom folded his arms across his chest. ‘I get the feeling I can’t trust you not to scrub every surface of this clinic. I’m taking you to the Sunday market in a village about an hour’s drive away, up by the Chinese border.’ He smiled. ‘You need to see Vietnam’s diversity. Consider it part of your research.’

A day out alone with Tom. Fear collided with desire, tumbling over and over in the pit of her stomach. ‘That’s a kind offer but really you don’t have to. I promise I won’t come near the clinic and—’

‘You’re babbling and you’re coming with me.’

Something in his matter-of-fact tone propelled her to the door and outside. She was being childish and he was trying to be helpful and kind.

Where was the harm? She’d spend the day wandering around the market surrounded by crowds. She’d still be able to keep her safe distance both physically and emotionally. ‘Thanks. It sounds like fun.’ She started to walk toward the four-wheel-drive.

‘Bec.’

She spun around.

‘The road’s too narrow for the truck.’ Tom stood next to a motorbike, extending a helmet toward her.

Her blood rushed to her feet, making her sway. Panic trickled through her, intensifying as it spread. Spending a day alone with Tom at a market full of people was one thing. Sitting behind him on a motorbike, with millimetres between them, was another.

Her need for a safe distance intensified.

Any ideas of exactly how to achieve it diminished fast.

* * *

Tom brought the motorbike to a halt and turned the ignition off. Before the sound of the engine had died away, Bec quickly hopped off the bike, her actions almost frantic. She had to be the most tense passenger he’d ever transported. She’d sat, completely rigid, the entire trip.

She pulled off her helmet, and her hair fell down, framing her unusually pale face.

‘You OK?’ Concern for her ricocheted through him.

She took in a deep breath. ‘Those last few bends were pretty wild.’

‘Sorry. You fought the curves and got motion sickness. You need to be at one with them and at one with the bike. On the way home, lean into them.’

Lean into me and relax. The disquieting thought thundered through him.

Her eyes widened, darkening to an inky blue. A flicker of something vibrated in their depths and faded as quickly as it had appeared. ‘What’s in this box that was so important that I had to have it stick into me for the last hour?’ An unusual huskiness clung to her voice.

He released the elastic straps, which had held the box in place during the bumpy journey. ‘Condoms.’

‘You’ve come to a local market with four hundred condoms?’ She started to giggle. ‘I had no idea they were legal tender. Here I was thinking it was the dong.’

He laughed with her, appreciating her quick wit, enchanted by how her face changed when she completely relaxed. The stress lines around her eyes and mouth faded, her cheeks softened and her eyes danced. Lazy heat spread through him.

‘Cheeky.’ He lifted the box and started walking up the hill to a small cement building.

She quickly caught up with him despite her limp. ‘I thought you said it was a no-work day, that we needed a break.’ Her expression challenged him.

‘We do, but seeing as we’re in the area I’m just dropping off some gear at the clinic.’

She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. You’re as bad as I am for not turning off.’

He met her gaze and grinned. ‘No one is as bad as you for not turning off.’

‘Hey.’ She playfully elbowed him gently in the ribs, her face alive with fun.

The moment she’d done it she flinched, her body stiffening as if she’d received an electric shock. Her arm shot back to her side and regret tinged with fear scored her face. Immediately, she stepped away, putting a large space between them.

Again.

Her shocked expression surprised him. Hell, what did she think he would do to her? The idea that she thought he might hurt her, that he wouldn’t know her action was part of a joke, sliced through him like a razor, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in its wake.

She stepped slightly ahead of him.

He caught up in two long strides. ‘Seeing as we’re in the area, I’m just killing two birds with one stone.’

‘As will the condoms.’ She fanned herself with her hat as they reached the clinic and stepped into the shade.

Respect for her insight swirled through him. ‘That’s right. Condoms for family planning and to help stop the spread of HIV. It’s a problem all over the country but up here with the opium trade and the illegal trade of women back and forth across the border, it’s worse.’

‘So whenever you’re in the area you make sure the health workers are well supplied.’

He nodded as he turned his back to her, putting the box down next to a large poster about HIV. He ripped off the duct tape.

‘You’re a good man, Tom Bracken.’

He shouldn’t have heard the softly whispered words over the noise of tape coming off the cardboard. Words tinged with wonder. The unexpected, almost secret compliment stroked him like a soft caress. Warming him.

Completely puzzling him.

He’d never met a woman like her. She was kind, caring and generous with her time, her skills and money. Professionally, she was always in control and yet out of the work environment she lurched from open and fun to completely closed up, verging on timid and fearful.

She was a bundle of contradictions. What had made her like this?

His need to know intensified. He had to find out, and he would. He just had to choose his moment. He stood up and turned around to face her.

She met his gaze with her hands on her hips, eyebrows arched and a slight sardonic twinge to her mouth.

Now wasn’t the time.

‘So, you promised me a market tour.’ The in-control, assertive Bec was back.

‘You’re right, I did. Let’s go shopping.’

* * *

Bec gently fingered the brightly coloured motif. For the last hour she’d lost herself in the buzz and hum of the market, letting the crowd jostle around her, listening to the calls of ‘You buy’ and ‘Come my stall.’ Letting all of it push the mess of thoughts out of her head.

All thoughts of Tom.

She needed to think of him in terms of a doctor and a humanitarian aid worker. Not a man. She gave herself an internal shake. What was wrong with her? Usually, she could resist men. For eight years she’d had no problem resisting men. No problem at all.

But when Tom’s heat had radiated into her body on the motorbike all her hard-fought resolve had taken a pounding.

She ran her finger over a piece of intricate embroidery, the vivid colours of red, green and blue woven closely together.

‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ Tom appeared by her side, having wandered behind her as if he knew she wanted to be alone for a while. ‘The Dzao women are incredibly skilled at this needlework.’ He turned to the hovering woman who owned the rickety stall and asked her a question in Vietnamese.

The woman answered, her words rapid. She put her hand on Bec’s arm. ‘You, come.’

Bec glanced at Tom for confirmation, wondering what he had asked her.

He nodded for her to follow the woman. ‘She’s going to show us how they make the thread and stitch the designs.’

‘Fantastic.’ She followed the woman a short distance where pots of boiling water contained fabric and women stirred the contents with big wooden sticks.

‘They buy the raw silk at the markets and boil it to make it smooth. Then they dye it using natural dye from plants like tea and turmeric.’ He picked up the distinctive yellow turmeric. ‘The colours represent their ancestors who they worship.’

‘The designs are so interesting. What’s that?’ She pointed to a motif.

Tom peered at it. ‘Gibbon hands. They use all sorts of things to inspire their designs, even food.’ His long fingers pointed out cabbages.

The woman shoved a large square into Bec’s hands, covered in intricate stitches. Then she turned and patted her own bottom. ‘Luy khia.’

Bec looked beseechingly at Tom. ‘What’s this for?’

He grinned. ‘It’s the lower flap of a jacket. I think she wants to dress you like the Dzao. The trousers are actually strips of fabric wrapped around the legs and decorated with stripes of colour.’ His deep voice rumbled around her, solid, reliable and informative.

‘How do you know so much?’ Most men didn’t know anything about women’s clothing.

He shrugged his shoulders in an almost overly casual way. ‘I guess I was interested and as my language improved I asked questions.’

‘Did you learn Vietnamese on the dairy farm?’ She threw the question out, her tone informal, trying to hide how much she craved to learn more about him.

A momentary shadow crossed his face, immediately replaced by a lightness that softened his expression. The two conflicting emotions puzzled her.

‘Not much call for Vietnamese in Gippsland.’ His laugh, normally deep and warm, sounded shallow. ‘That flap of embroidery you’re holding goes at the base of the jacket. Then there’s a belt to hold the flap up out of the rice when you’re working in the fields.’

‘Sounds complicated.’ She glanced at him. Damn it, if he hadn’t done it again and changed the subject.

His open expression denied any sign he was actively avoiding answering her question. ‘That’s only part of it. Their headdress is a triangular-shaped turban decorated with silver coins.’ He moved closer to her, showing her the silver decorations stitched to the fabric.

‘The wealth of a woman is measured by the weight of the coins carried in her costume.’ He gave her a sly look. ‘Your headdress would be heavy indeed.’

She ignored his comment, not wanting to think about her father or his money. ‘Perhaps I could buy one of those?’ She picked up a tasselled shoulder bag.

‘Good idea. You could use it to hold all those other knick-knacks you bought. There’s no pannier on the bike.’

The motorbike. How could she have forgotten that?

With much serious head-nodding and hand-wringing Bec went through the bargaining process. She’d have been happy to hand over the first price asked but then everyone would lose face.

Thrilled with her purchase, she slung the bag over her shoulder and turned to Tom. ‘How does it look?’

His eyes gazed appreciatively at her. ‘Totally gorgeous.’

Heat flared inside her, whipping through her and racing across her cheeks like a grass fire. She wasn’t used to this. Men didn’t look at her like that.

Nick had.

Reality doused her, a chill creeping through her. The stars in her eyes had blinded her to signs of the cold, calculating man he was.

‘Bec?’

She heard Tom’s voice and realised she was gripping the handle of the bag so tightly her knuckles were white. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘It’s time to head back.’ Tom tilted his head back up the road.

Five minutes later she climbed onto the bike, her bottom as far back on the seat as possible, her hands gripping the metal bar of the package rack behind her.

The bike roared into life and Tom cautiously wove through the crowd as they made their way out of town. He headed off the main road onto a track which climbed steeply.

The bike shuddered as it hit a deep pothole.

A silent scream exploded in Bec’s chest. She flung her arms around his waist and threw her body against his back as visions of being splattered against an unforgiving baked clay road came into her head. She buried her face in his shoulder, closing her eyes, and tried to think calm thoughts.

The bike bounced again.

Where was that image of a waterfall when she needed it? Terror roared in her ears. She tried to breathe in and out slowly, focusing on the breath.

The firmness of Tom’s back against her chest was soothing as his warmth trickled through her. Her breaths came more easily.

Like spring sunshine after a long winter, his heat gently warmed her, calming her, bringing a languid peace. She relaxed against him, the contours of her breasts and belly moulding to the muscles and sinew of his back.

The bike steadied.

You can let go now, the scary bit’s over. The cotton of his shirt softly caressed her cheek.

The bike took a curve, leaning into the bend. I need to lean into the curves to avoid motion sickness.

You need to keep a safe distance.

She hummed a song to herself, blocking out the argument in her head. This was transportation. Nothing else.

Bend after bend, curve upon curve, she swayed with Tom and the bike, keeping her eyes closed, drinking in the sensation of heat, wind and motion. Holding reality at bay.