Four Weddings: A Woman To Belong To / A Wedding in Warragurra / The Surgeon's Chosen Wife / The Playboy Doctor's Marriage Proposal

Hin continued, ‘She says you would be wise to choose a man with hands of delight.’

Bec forced out a polite laugh against a tight chest. It didn’t seem to matter which side of the world she was on, patients always wanted to matchmake. It seemed to be an international hobby.

She caught Tom’s gaze, wanting to share the ridiculous joke with him. His eyes, the colour of dark chocolate, held laughter and mirth, which confirmed that the old woman’s idea was a preposterous notion.

His gaze flickered, a small flare of … what? She couldn’t pin it down. Amusement quickly rolled in as his trade-mark grin streaked across his face at the ridiculous idea.

She laughed again, this time a true laugh, sharing the joke with someone who truly understood.

A sudden feeling of emptiness thudded through her. Crossly, she shrugged it away. People might want to matchmake but love didn’t work for her. If she’d ever believed it could, she’d had the idea knocked out of her at twenty, proving how wrong she could be.

‘What about the children, Tom? Do you skin-check them when you visit?’ She asked the question, needing to fill the silence between them.

‘If their families are concerned, I check them out for lesions but all of them have had the preventative immunisation using the BCG vaccine.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘BCG—I thought that was for tuberculosis?’

He nodded. ‘It is but it has a small protective effect against leprosy. As long as people don’t come into repeated direct contact with the lesions, they’re unlikely to get the disease.’

They worked consistently through to the end of the day.

Bec lost count of how many different wounds she bandaged but she had a long list of items the villagers needed filed in her head. A Rotary Club at home might ‘adopt’ the village and source used crutches and wheelchairs. She’d write a few letters as soon as she had a chance.

‘The village wants to give us a fish barbeque dinner at the beach.’ Tom stowed away the last of the supplies. ‘I’ll race you there.’

She plonked her hat on her head. ‘You’re on!’ She shot out the door ahead of him, racing along the neatly maintained gravel paths, dodging overhanging palm fronds and brilliant purple bougainvillea.

As her foot hit the sand, Tom dashed past her, straight into the middle of a children’s soccer game. He ran backwards, dribbling their ball, his face alive with the joy of life. ‘Come on, join in.’

As she watched him, a companionable and easy warmth spiralled inside her, relaxing her. This was exactly the sort of uncomplicated situation with Tom that she could handle.

She paused to catch her breath then jogged over to one end, taking her place next to the diminutive goalie.

‘Stop ball,’ instructed the boy, who looked about ten.

A line in the sand marked the goal. Bec smiled at his determined expression and nodded. ‘Stop ball.’

With yells and squeals the children charged up and down the beach, dribbling, kicking and bouncing the ball off their heads. Bec was struck by the similarities between Australian and Vietnamese kids—they all loved soccer.

Tom enjoyed keeping possession of the ball and his height gave him a great advantage. Undeterred, the children’s legs powered through the sand, their arms pulling at his shirt, trying to take him down.

She tried to imagine what he would have looked like as a kid playing sport, although he would have played Aussie backyard cricket.

He turned to find her, his eyes seeking hers.

Almond-shaped eyes.

Eyes the identical shape of the kids’ he was playing against.

Realisation thudded into place. She consciously had to breathe. Some Vietnamese blood ran in his veins. Somewhere in Tom’s past he had a Vietnamese relation. How had she missed it before?

She’d spent three weeks with the man. You’ve been too busy admiring his other assets.

She shushed the voice in her head. Anyone could have missed the connection. His height, his Western nose and quintessential Australian manner gave scant clues. So why had he not mentioned it to her?

The game swirled around them but the ball didn’t come near Bec or her buddy as most of the action was down the other end of the makeshift field.

The young goalie shuffled his feet in the sand.

Bec understood. Not only was being goalie a big responsibility, it was often downright boring.

Suddenly the ball hurtled towards them, high in the sky.

The young boy jumped valiantly and missed.

Bec threw herself sideways, arms outstretched. The skin on her palms burned as the ball hurtled into her hands. She rolled on the sand, clutching the precious trophy.

Cheers surrounded her. Small hands touched her back as she sat up. This was what she believed in. Children having a childhood, being able to play even when other things in their life were tough.

Larger hands hauled her to her feet as smaller hands continued to pat her. Golden arms hooked around her waist and suddenly she was airborne.

‘Now, that’s what I call a spectacular save.’

She looked down into dancing eyes, alive with exhilaration and the wonder of life. Happiness rushed through her. ‘It was pretty special, wasn’t it?’

He laughed as he set her feet back on the ground, his arm still holding her body against his. ‘We can’t have you getting too puffed up about it. I’ll get the next one past you.’ He ducked his head, his lips sweeping across hers with a feather-light touch. Almost imperceptible.

Battering every protective defence.

Desire thudded through her, sucking the breath from her lungs, stripping the strength from her legs.

And then he was running back down the beach.

Bec stood immobilised, her body tingling from head to toe, catapulted into sensory overload from the lightest touch she’d ever known. Her tongue darted out, tracing her lips. Tasting him. Tasting Tom.

Heat mingled with salt and spice and she savoured it, needing to memorise his scent and flavour. Keeping it with her, making it part of her.

She’d never been kissed like that before.

Kisses had always been demanding or threatening—taking, never giving. This had been neither of those things. This had been … Wonderful. Amazing. Terrifying.

She didn’t want to feel like this.

She refused to feel like this. Feelings like this meant danger. She knew that. It was why she didn’t get involved with anyone.

That was hardly a kiss, Bec. It was a dare.

She glanced over a sea of black-haired boys to the tall black-haired man, whose face was streaked with wiliness and who was aiming a ball straight at her.