Читать книгу The Rebel Of Penhally Bay / Spanish Doctor, Pregnant Midwife / Falling For The Playboy Millionaire / A Mother For The Italian's Twins - Kate Hardy - Страница 8

HE WASN’T concentrating.

If he’d been concentrating, he might have seen it, but he wasn’t. He was miles away, in Cornwall, thanks to his mother and the letter he’d just been handed on his way out of the hospital.

It was all the usual blah.

Hope you’re well, Jamie’s done well in his exams, goodness knows how, he’s so idle, who does that remind you of? Oh, well, if he turns out as well as you he’ll be all right but why you want to bury yourself in Africa, goodness knows. I wish you were here, you could keep him in order…

Fat chance of that. They were like peas in a pod, and the only thing that would keep Jamie in order was Jamie, as Sam very well knew.

But then the letter changed.

I’ve seen Gemma again, by the way, and she asked after you. I can’t believe it’s ten years since you had that fling with her. You’ve hardly been back since, but maybe you’ll come now, with her here. Bit of an incentive for you—more interesting than your boring old mother. She’s a brilliant practice nurse, and still single, though I can’t imagine why when she’s so gorgeous, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone else around for her and she seemed very keen to hear all about you. You missed a chance there, Sam. Maybe you should come home and take up where you left off…

He hadn’t read the rest. He’d screwed it up, hurled it into the bin and stalked out into the sun. Damn. He’d meant to leave before dawn, but what with one thing and another, and now the bloody letter…

The bike was loaded, stocked up for the run to the makeshift little clinic thirty miles away, and he had enough to do without distractions. He really—really!—didn’t need to be thinking about Gemma, or that summer all those years ago. Ten, for God’s sake. A whole decade. Ten long, lonely years. And he hadn’t missed his chance, he’d had it snatched away from him—

‘Oh, dammit to hell.’

He kicked the starter viciously, dropped the bike forwards off the stand and straddled it while he fastened his helmet. Why the hell was she back in Penhally? And why, more to the point, was she working as a practice nurse? So much for her dedication to medicine—but that was just par for the course, really, wasn’t it? After all, she hadn’t stuck to him, either.

He twisted the throttle, listened to the feeble sound of the little engine and mourned his old bike. Gemma had loved his bike, and they’d gone everywhere on it. They’d been inseparable for a year, every time she’d come down from Bath with her parents to their holiday cottage, and they’d had so much fun.

Not that her parents had approved of him, but, then, they wouldn’t, would they? Not with his bad-boy reputation, and they’d had to do a fair amount of sneaking around to be together. But that second summer she’d come down alone after her final school exams, for the last summer before uni, and instead of it being the end, in a way it was to be the beginning—the beginning of the next phase of their lives. They’d got places at the same medical school in Bristol, and everything was panning out perfectly.

So he’d asked her to marry him and crazily, unbelievably, she’d said yes, so on a glorious day in early August they’d made their vows—vows he’d really meant, vows from the heart—and they’d honeymooned in the tumbledown little wooden shack on the beach that was his home for the summer, a retreat from the demands of home, a haven of tranquillity at first and then, with Gemma, a place of paradise—until her parents had come down from Bath and found them there.

They’d gone crazy, and Gemma had been in floods of tears, but she’d stood her ground, told them they were married and he’d shut the door in their faces and held her while she cried.

And then just days later, she’d left a note to say she’d changed her mind about them, and about going to uni. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to read medicine after all, and she was deferring for a year and taking time out to think about things, going travelling—Gemma, who’d already seen the world with her wealthy parents—and going alone. She didn’t want to see him again. And she was gone, she and her parents who’d obviously meant more to her than he had, their holiday home empty, closed up for the winter.

He’d never seen her again. Not a word, in all these years, all the time he’d been at med school in Bristol, keeping an eye on his family from a close distance and waiting and hoping for her to change her mind—he’d even been to see her parents, but they’d told him she didn’t want to see him, and he wasn’t going to beg.

So he’d given up on her and finished his degree, then moved to London, trained as a GP, then done a surgical rotation, and now here he was ten years down the line, working for an aid agency in Africa, and still she was following him in his head, in his heart, eating holes in him like some vile flesh-eating bug that wouldn’t leave him alone. Asking after him, of all things!

How dare she? How dare she ask after him?

And he’d dream about her again tonight, he thought bitterly as he let out the clutch and shot off down the dirt track on the start of his journey. Every time she was mentioned, every time he thought about her, which was pretty much daily, she haunted his sleep, the memory of her laughter, her smile, then those few days and nights they’d had together, so precious, so tender, so absolutely bone-deep right that he’d just known she was the only woman he’d ever love—the memories were enough to drive him mad.

As mad as his mother, if she thought he was ever going back to Penhally to expose himself to that again. No way. It would kill him. But just to see her again—to touch her—to hold her in his arms, to bury his nose in her hair and smell the warm summer fragrance that was Gemma…

So he wasn’t concentrating when he swerved off the road to avoid the broken-down car. He wasn’t thinking that it was strange for the car to be there, that it was possibly a booby trap. He wasn’t looking out for the rebels who’d left it there to trick him into going onto the verge.

He was thinking about his wife, about the soft sighs, the taste of her skin, the sobbing screams as she came apart in his arms.

And then he hit the landmine.