Читать книгу Island Doctor To Royal Bride? - Scarlet Wilson, Scarlet Wilson - Страница 9

PHILIPPE SETTLED INTO his seat and pulled his baseball cap over his eyes. It was a four-hour flight to Temur Sapora, the Malaysian island in the South China Sea, and he intended to sleep the whole way.

Two minutes later an ample gentleman tried to slide into the seat next to him. Philippe looked up briefly, shifting a little to allow the man more room to sit down. It was an instant mistake. The red-faced man instantly started talking. ‘Pardon me. I’m a little bigger than the standard-sized airline seat.’ He laughed, then stuck out his hand towards Philippe.

‘Harry Reacher, I’m from Minneapolis in the US. Are you going to Temur Sapora too?’

Philippe let his practised face slide into place. He didn’t say the word obviously that was floating around in his head. This aircraft had only one destination.

‘Philippe,’ he said simply, leaving the last name blank. It didn’t matter that this guy was American. His surname was pretty well known worldwide. The whole point of this trip was to remain anonymous—hence why he was heading to an island in the South China Sea that few people had heard of.

‘I’m a doctor,’ added Harry quickly, pulling a cotton handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘I’m going to work at one of the local medical centres for a couple of weeks. They’ve apparently made huge advances on wound healing.’

‘They have?’ Now Philippe’s curiosity was definitely piqued. He sat up a little in his chair. ‘What are they doing?’

There was a spark in Harry’s eyes. ‘You in the business?’

Philippe nodded. ‘I’m a doctor too.’

‘Ah-h-h.’ Harry gave him a careful stare, which Philippe hoped wasn’t a glimmer of recognition. ‘You here to work too?’

Philippe shook his head and smiled. ‘Absolutely not. This is a holiday. My first in five years. I’m going to lie low for two weeks, drink a few beers and sleep.’ He left out the part about needing a bit of time and head space to regroup after his last patient in the ER. That experience would never leave him.

‘If this is a holiday, where are all your friends?’ Harry looked around in surprise. ‘Don’t you young guys all go on holidays together?’

Philippe gave a shrug. He had years of experience at avoiding questions he really didn’t want to answer. ‘Thanks for the compliment but I’m not that young—thirty-one now. And I can guarantee if my friends were with me I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep and that’s what I need right now. Five years of fifty-hour weeks is enough for anyone. I’m starting another job in a few weeks and just wanted some downtime.’

Harry smiled again. ‘And you chose Temur Sapora? It’s a little off the beaten track.’

Philippe nodded. ‘Which means it’s perfect. Beautiful beaches, perfect ocean and an anonymous luxury resort.’

Harry shrugged. ‘I guess we all need some downtime.’

‘Except you. You’re here to work.’ He was still curious to hear about the advances in wound healing.

Harry smiled again. ‘But it’s for selfish reasons. I’m hoping to learn as much as I can and take it back with me. And for me, coming here, it’s the trip of a lifetime.’ His smile got wider. ‘I can’t wait.’

Philippe settled back in his seat a little as the ‘fasten seat belt’ signs lit up. Harry struggled to fit his around his wide girth, eventually closing it with a bit of a squirm. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Where were we? Ah, yes, let me tell you about the effects of the ointment they’ve developed on necrotising fasciitis.’

Philippe kept a smile on his face as the plane taxied down the runway and the possibility of sleep slipped further and further from his grasp.

* * *

‘Harry, are you okay?’

Three hours later Harry was rubbing at his chest again. He’d hardly touched the food when it had come and had been drinking only water. Sweat was pouring off him and his face was getting redder by the second.

‘It’ll pass. Just a bit of indigestion,’ he said.

Philippe shook his head. ‘Let me take a proper look at you.’ He grabbed his backpack from under the seat in front and pulled out a tiny monitor and a stethoscope. Every doctor’s first-aid kit. Before Harry could say any more, Philippe slipped the tiny probe onto his finger.

‘Do you have any health conditions I should know about?’

Harry shook his head. ‘Just a bit of high blood pressure but it’s been under control for the last few years.’

Philippe reached over to touch him. The skin on his chest was cold and clammy. He positioned the stethoscope, knowing it was unlikely to help. Harry’s lungs were functioning—it was his heart that was having problems.

‘I have to be okay,’ murmured Harry. ‘I’m meeting Arissa Cotter at the medical centre. She’s expecting me. They’re down a doctor right now so the timing has worked out perfectly.’ He gasped as his hand went to his chest. ‘She needs me.’

For the first time Philippe could see real fear in Harry’s eyes. He signalled to one of the air stewards. ‘How soon until we land?’

The steward shot an anxious glance at Harry. ‘Another hour.’

‘Anywhere closer we can land?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Not for a plane this size. There’s only the South China Sea. Temur Sapora is the nearest airport from here.’

Philippe grimaced. For the first time he wished he’d taken the royal private jet. It was smaller and could probably have landed on a much shorter airstrip. But he’d wanted to be incognito—he’d wanted to have the chance of having a true holiday before he had to head back home to Corinez to take up his role in spearheading some changes in the healthcare system. The King had trained his children well. One trained in the armed forces to be the next King, one trained as a doctor to help facilitate changes in healthcare, and one trained as an accountant to join the advisory committee on finance.

But bringing the royal jet to Temur Sapora would just have alerted most of the news agencies around the world. Not the kind of holiday he wanted.

‘Give me a number for your chest pain, Harry, between one and ten.’ He couldn’t help it. Moving into complete doctor mode was so natural to him.

The redness started to fade from Harry’s face, replaced by a horrible paleness. Harry didn’t answer.

Philippe’s stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. As a doctor he’d dealt with many emergencies, but not at thirty thousand feet—and not without any real supplies. He had a horrible sinking feeling that what he needed right now was some kind of anticoagulant to stop the current damage to Harry’s heart. This guy was having a heart attack. And those kind of meds weren’t available at thirty thousand feet.

Within a few seconds Harry slumped over.

The steward panicked and ran to get their emergency kit and defibrillator. Philippe slid Harry to the floor. The passengers close by were wide-eyed but moved swiftly aside to let Philippe work.

Ten minutes later Philippe ran his fingers through his dark hair and let out an angry sigh. It was impossible. The defibrillator wasn’t even picking up a shockable rhythm. CPR was having no effect and they were too far away from landing to continue indefinitely.

He stared down at Harry and withdrew his hands slowly, making a final check of the pulse before he glanced at his watch. ‘Time of death, two-fifty-six,’ he said as he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ he said quietly. ‘I guess you’re not getting the trip of a lifetime any more.’