Читать книгу Tempted By Her Hot-Shot Doc - Becky Wicks, Becky Wicks - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

RYAN STUDIED HIS face in the mirror. He liked to think he didn’t really suffer with jet lag any more, but the truth was he probably threw himself head-first into every new time zone without giving his body the chance to react. This mission was going to be a particularly tough one—not least because he’d have Madeline Savoia on his trail.

He rested his hands on the sink, leaned closer to the glass and frowned at his reflection. His eyes looked tired. Madeline had distracted him from sleeping on the plane.

She looked a lot like her. The first time she’d all but ploughed into him in the studio he’d almost jumped out of his skin. His reaction had been poor, he knew. Angry... The way he always acted when confronted with something he really had no clue how to handle. He’d felt as if he’d seen a ghost.

Josephine.

The name popped into his head like a gunshot. He swallowed hard, jerked the cold tap on and ran his hand under it. Then he said it out loud, straight into the mirror, watching his lips make their way over the word in a way they hadn’t for a long time.’

‘Josephine.’

He rarely let her name past his lips. Every time he so much as thought of her the guilt crashed over him like a tsunami. It had smothered him and almost made him tumble when Madeline’s hands had pressed against him to steady herself. She hadn’t realised, of course, but she’d kind of been holding him up at the same time.

Ryan splashed his face with cold water. The more he tried not to think about this, the more he did. It was something about Madeline’s eyes. And her pursed lips. And the way she’d crossed her arms defiantly over that coffee stain she’d clearly been so embarrassed about. The way she’d lowered her head just slightly when she’d asserted herself, indicating her vulnerability.

A knock on the hotel room door made him jump again. Dammit.

‘I’m coming,’ he called, wiping his face on the towel and running a hand through his hair. It was getting long at the front again. He frowned at the few stubborn greys now making a permanent home in his stubbled chin.

Nothing he could do about it.

Salt and pepper looks better on you than on my French fries.

#DrRyanTobias

A fan of his had tweeted that the other day. He mentally rolled his eyes—such gushing usually went straight over his head. He had quite enjoyed that French fries reference, though. He liked to think years of torment hadn’t marked him physically...at least not as much as they had on the inside.

He threw on a white button-down shirt and pulled on his smartest jeans as the knock sounded out again. ‘Give me one second!’

He hopped across the patterned carpet, still doing his belt up, and pulled the door open.

‘What’s the emergency?’

‘No emergency.’ Madeline smiled. Her hand was still hovering in the air, as if she was about to knock on his face. ‘Sorry to interrupt. You said to knock before I went downstairs.’

‘What time is it?’ he asked, flustered.

He was totally thrown now. She looked entirely different somehow in this light, with her round, beguiling eyes lined with kohl and a hint of green eyeshadow. His hand found his hair again, at the same time as the other started buttoning up his shirt.

‘Almost five thirty,’ she told him, with her gaze now fixed on his exposed chest. ‘Doesn’t the drinks thing start now?’

‘Yes, yes—sorry, I got caught up. There was an issue with the supplies being delivered to Saint Elena, and I’ve been on the phone trying to fix it.’

‘Is it sorted out?’

‘Almost. I did all I could.’

‘OK. Well, don’t worry, I’m sure we can sneak you in late without anyone noticing. It’s not like you’re a VIP or anything.’

Laughter burst from his mouth as he hurried back into the room to pull his shoes out of his suitcase. The dryness in her tone tickled him. He’d always found the British sense of humour quite fascinating.

He grabbed his key card and wallet, turned the bathroom light out and let his eyes travel over Madeline’s petite yet curvy figure as he walked towards the door again. She was wearing another dress, an emerald-green one this time, tied around her waist with a paler green belt. Her hair was up now, in a French braid draped over one shoulder, and her lips were glistening in a shade of burgundy.

‘Were you writing?’ he asked, for want of something to fill the silence.

‘In my room? A bit.’

He nodded. He’d fought the urge, on the journey, to ask her more about her books, aware that he’d perhaps been a little rude about her passion before. It was just that when Samantha had first mentioned a ghost-writer he’d imagined for some reason someone older, greyer, crinklier. Perhaps an avid cat-lover or crochet aficionado. He definitely hadn’t imagined...well. This.

He cleared his throat. ‘You look nice,’ he said.

‘Thank you—so do you.’

‘So, you recognise me OK without the Medical Extremes outfit?’ He smiled now.

‘You’re kind of hard to miss.’

‘Is that right? I thought I’d been watching my weight.’

It was Madeline’s turn to laugh now. ‘As if you need to. I meant you have presence.’

Ryan realised that her cheeks were redder than they had been five seconds ago. He hadn’t exactly intended to get himself dressed in front of her...but, then again, they were headed into the jungle. Tribal villages in the Amazon rainforest weren’t exactly renowned for their privacy.

He stepped past her, closing the door behind him, then put a hand to the small of her back as they walked towards the elevators, noting her shoes—summer wedges with green straps.

‘You’re a little better at walking in those,’ he said without thinking, pushing the button.

‘That tripping over in public thing? That was a one-off—don’t worry.’

‘I’d only be worried in the Amazon,’ he replied as the doors pinged and slid open. ‘Big black cables on the floor of the jungle have a nasty habit of not being cables.’

She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

‘Snakes,’ he explained, and she pulled a face that made him chuckle.

In the elevator, Ryan fixed his eyes on their reflections in the full-length mirror. She was at least a foot shorter than him; that was shorter than—He clenched his fist. This was ridiculous. Madeline was not her.

He was determined to count the differences.

Some of her expressions were similar, sure, but Madeline had bigger eyes, wide and unnervingly quizzical—even more so now, framed with make-up. Her hair, long and dark and shiny, was the same...but she was slimmer, perhaps. He didn’t know much about women’s sizes, but he knew when he could hold a waist with both hands without leaving too much room between his fingers.

The elevator doors swung open. The music in the hotel foyer took the edge off his discomfort slightly as he guided Madeline towards the restaurant, past a crowd of tourists in matching floral shorts, speaking hurried German.

‘I’m sure you’ve been briefed about this,’ he said, trying to regain an air of authority if only for his own peace of mind.

‘Not really.’

He frowned, looking down into her sea-green eyes, then cleared his throat again. ‘Well, this is basically a getting-to-know-you event for the new people joining us and the suppliers. We also have a new cameraman from here in Rio, and a local paramedic. It’s about building trust as a team before we get out there, you know? That’s when the real work starts.’

‘It’s a good idea,’ Madeline said. ‘So I’ll introduce myself as your ghost-writer?’

Ryan felt his brow crease. How had he forgotten her mission? He felt that tsunami again at the thoughts of having to regurgitate any of those moments he’d been trying his hardest to bury for so long—of seeing them laid bare on the pages of a book...a book he’d eventually see someday in a bargain bin, with the forgotten demons that would surely plague him for ever tossed aside by a reader who’d lapped them up and promptly let them go, in a way he never could.

His hand found his hair, swept it from his forehead. ‘About this memoir... We need everyone to feel secure in the fact that our attention is fully on the patients. Our work always takes priority.’

‘I know that.’

‘You’re there to write the memoir, of course, but we might need you to help out as a nurse from time to time—’

‘I’d really rather not be a nurse while I’m here,’ Madeline interrupted.

She paused halfway to the table, where he could see the team already waiting, chatting away. She looked nervous again now.

‘Ryan, with all due respect, I didn’t come here to—’

‘Madeline, I get your current role, believe me, but people will be needing you out there. Do you really think, after everything you’ve trained for, that you could actually walk away from someone in pain?’

She opened her mouth to respond, but shut it again quickly. Annoyance was flickering in her eyes. He was concerned that this wasn’t looking very professional; people were looking at them.

‘It’s going to be fine,’ he whispered in her ear, getting a whiff of her floral perfume as he did so. Dear God, she smelled good.

‘Ryan, my man! Good to see you—and who’s this?’

The tall, sandy-blond-haired guy approaching them in smart black trousers and a purple shirt was Evan Walker—a trusted friend and doctor from Wisconsin, and a firm voice of reason on the Medical Extremes team. Viewers loved him for his sense of humour and equally for his ability to take charge at a moment’s notice. He had his own online fan club and was also popular because of his award-winning wife’s efforts in setting up a domestic abuse helpline.

‘Madeline Savoia is my ghost-writer...for the memoir,’ Ryan said calmly as Madeline dutifully held out her hand. ‘But she’s a nurse, too. I’ve explained that it’s all hands on deck at times.’

He felt her eyes burning his cheek as he spoke, but he didn’t turn his head.

‘Excellent,’ Evan enthused, throwing him a look Ryan knew only he could read. Evan knew everything about Josephine. And he hadn’t said a word.

‘I’m a huge fan of your work, Dr Walker,’ Madeline said.

‘Thank you very much. So, have you been out to these parts before?’

A waiter approached and guided them all to their seats.

‘No, I can’t say I have,’ she replied.

Ryan pulled a chair out for her and motioned for her to sit down beside him. He’d noticed the way Evan was looking at her now.

‘You know, you really look a lot like...’

‘What is there to drink?’ Ryan put a hand up for the waiter and signalled for a menu.

Evan seemed to take the hint. He took his seat and started pouring the three of them water from a jug full of ice and lemon.

‘You’re in for a treat, Madeline,’ he continued, ‘these are some of the nicest people on the planet. Always so grateful and patient. It’s harsh out there, you know?’

Madeline pulled her glass towards her. Ryan noticed her nails were drumming slightly on the glass. ‘So I hear.’

‘And they live pretty differently to how we do. Most have no idea that all this is even here, and even if they did they’d probably hate it.’ He gestured around him now at the opulent restaurant, with Rio de Janeiro’s Ipanema in their direct line of vision through the windows.

Ryan gazed out with Madeline at the swirling cormorants and emerald hills in the distance. The beautiful side of the jungle, he thought to himself, feeling a sudden twinge of familiar guilt.

He forced himself to think of something else.

He couldn’t help but wonder yet again what the story was with Madeline quitting nursing. Whenever anyone brought it up she looked as though she might run for the hills. He kind of understood how that felt, though. He’d been running for years.

He’d hidden behind deadlines and responsibilities, creating more work for himself than one man should probably have to deal with in a lifetime. But now it had caught up with him in the form of this woman—sent to spill his secrets to the world.

He motioned to the waiter approaching with the wine. ‘White, please,’ he said. He turned to Madeline. ‘You?’

‘Red,’ she said. ‘Just a bit, though, I don’t want to fall asleep at the table. I’m trying to outsmart my jet-lag.’

He smiled.

Evan was still talking. ‘Last time we were here we helped a little baby—just nine months old, I think. She had a temperature of one hundred and two and climbing...and she wasn’t getting enough oxygen. She had pneumonia...she was malnourished. If we hadn’t been there...if Ryan hadn’t been there...she would have been dead in two days.’

Madeline turned to him as a starter of fresh fruit was placed before her on the table, and he was surprised to notice the glistening of tears in her eyes at the mention of the baby.

Casual conversation about supply checks and sleeping arrangements at the camp kept them going as their starters were consumed and everyone’s glasses were refilled, and then, just as the waiters hovered on the periphery with their main courses, Ryan tapped his fork on his glass to silence the table.

He rose to his feet, dropping his napkin.

‘Ladies and gents,’ he said, smoothing down his white shirt and holding up his glass. ‘I’d like to thank you all for coming on this brand-new mission with Medical Extremes. Let’s welcome Pablo, our new cameraman from right here in Rio, who’ll be joining us where thousands wouldn’t and hopefully not capturing everything on camera. No one looks their best after living on bananas and tropical rain for a few weeks.’

He paused for laughter, which flittered around the table as he’d known it would.

‘I’d also like to introduce Madeline, here. She’ll be working on some writing and lending a hand wherever possible, so I’d like you all to give her the Medical Extremes welcome we give everyone and make her feel like one of the family.’

He raised his glass higher, but before she or anyone could say another word, a noise from the kitchen made the entire room jump in their chairs.

‘Fogo! Fogo! Fogo!’

The voice was female.

‘Help!’

Ryan just had time to see Evan grab his medical bag before they were both off their chairs in a flash, running for the kitchen. He made it to the back of the restaurant just in time to see the blaze of orange fire running up a woman’s sleeve—just before he plunged her arm into a nearby sink, under a gushing tap. She was sobbing.

‘What happened?’ he asked, and was flooded with a stream of Portuguese. The fire was gone, but a crowd of people in white coats and chef’s hats were all talking at once.

Evan was behind him, pulling out a sterile bandage from his bag as Ryan moved closer to keep the woman’s arm under the water. It was blistered and red, but he could already tell she wasn’t going to need hospital treatment—thank God.

‘I’ll go tell everyone not to panic—you got this?’ Evan said.

‘All good,’ Ryan told him, and watched him shoot back through the door.

‘She was pouring pecans into the chocolate mix when her sleeve caught on fire. That’s why they’re all over the floor.’

Madeline.

Ryan had only just realised she was there, too. She was holding the bandage Evan had given her and translating every word. He took the bandage from her, noticing the pecan nuts under his feet for the first time.

‘She says she’s worried the dessert is ruined. It’s been cooking too long now without being stirred.’

Ryan listened as Madeline spoke in Portuguese to the crowd and someone moved to stir the pot she was pointing at. She reached for a clean dishcloth, soaked it under another tap and handed it to him. On autopilot Ryan placed it over the woman’s arm for a moment, before wrapping the bandage around it and fastening it behind her wrist. Her tears were subsiding already and she really did seem more concerned about her dessert.

‘Can you tell her I’ll give her some ibuprofen, and that she should go home and get some rest?’ he asked Madeline, who promptly did as she was asked.

Back at the table, when the ibuprofen had been dispatched and the drama was all but forgotten, the party resumed its happy chatter while the glorious Rio sunset made way for a sky full of stars.

‘You were pretty impressive in there, Nurse Madeline,’ he whispered, when he couldn’t keep it in any more.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it—the way she’d sprung into action and known what to do, and say. His Portuguese was limited, as was his Spanish. He got by—but mostly on charm and miming, he had to admit.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ she said quickly.

He frowned. ‘Yes, you did. It was instinctive.’

She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with his eyes on her. Her jaw started pulsing and he knew not to say anything else.

He also knew without question that keeping away from Madeline Savoia was going to be impossible. Not only was she impossibly intoxicating—whether she liked it or not—she wasn’t just a writer.

If he had his way she’d be helping him with medical duties so frequently that the details she really needed for the memoir to be a hit would be the last thing on her mind.