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

She laughed and leaned forward toward the food, this time shelling the most enormous prawns he’d ever seen.

For three hours they’d had this tiny beach to themselves. They’d spent their time swimming, eating and just enjoying being together. And the best sex you’ve ever had in your life.

Their lovemaking had been exhilarating and intense. He thought his frantic, consuming need to possess her would have been sated after they’d made love, but it hadn’t gone away. Instead, it had evolved into something different, less wild, more defined, more real. He longed to make love to her slowly, to fully explore her in the comfort of a bed. He wanted to know what stirred her, what would cause her to yearn for his touch, and what made her reach for him.

He’d never experienced anything like it with any other woman. The craving to constantly touch her burned strongly—a hand on her shoulder, an arm around her waist, his lips on her hair—and he’d kept her close to him ever since they’d fallen back on the picnic rug, exhausted but replete.

‘Tom, look over there.’ Bec pointed to the sky.

Black clouds bore down on the white fluffy ones that scudded across the sky. ‘Rain coming. We better head back. Do you want to swim or go in the basket boat?’

She gave a wry smile. ‘It’s a moot point whether a trip in the basket boat is really more like a swim. Besides, I’ve eaten so much, I think I could do with the exercise.’ She stood up, stretched and rubbed her belly.

His desire for her, always simmering inside him, boiled over at the sight of her fingers splayed against her rounded belly. He pulled her to him. ‘I’ve got an idea of how we could exercise.’

Her eyes deepened to a purple hue. ‘Is that so?’

‘Mmm.’ He dipped his head to her neck, kissing her, sucking her skin into his mouth as the overpowering urge to mark her as his hit him. ‘After all, it’s going to be raining.’

A wicked grin danced across her face. ‘So we’d need to exercise indoors.’

‘I was thinking behind closed doors. My cabin door.’ He extended his kisses as she tilted her head back. ‘After I’ve washed all that salt water off you in the shower.’

He heard her moan, the sound thrilling him to his marrow.

She spun out of his arms and jogged to the water’s edge calling over her shoulder, ‘Don’t be too long or I’ll have used all the hot water.’ She splashed into the water and dived in.

He followed, chasing a promise.

She outswam him and five minutes later he hauled himself up the steep steps into the stern of the boat. He strode up the long, narrow corridor, water streaming off him. Pushing open his cabin door, he expected to be greeted by the sound of running water.

Silence.

The bed lay empty and so did the bathroom. Confused, he turned and headed back out into the corridor. He met Bec fully clothed again in her Vietnamese gear, her brow creased in concern. She clutched the medical backpack. The transformation from siren to nurse was startling. The only hint of their time on the beach was her wet hair.

Disappointment slugged him.

‘The cook has sliced his hand badly with the carving knife. I’ve bound it but we need your stitching prowess.’

He stared at her, his brain slowly computing as his libido receded.

She smiled at him like he was a child. ‘You might want to grab a towel and meet me up on deck.’

Everything fell into place. ‘Right. Yes, of course. I’ll be up there in a minute.’ He watched her walk along the corridor. He imagined he had X-ray vision, seeing straight through the utilitarian cotton to the shapely buttocks moving seductively underneath. Right now, his imagination was as close as he was going to get.

He quickly shucked his board shorts, towelled himself dry and pulled on his clothes. Taking three steps at a time, he bounded up to the top deck. In the main living area he found the six crew members all hovering around Bec and a young man whose pale face told him he was the patient. He was almost as white as the bandage around his hand.

Bec glanced up at him as he walked in, her welcoming smile lighting up her face. The same smile she’d given him each time she’d seen him, the same smile she’d bestowed on him for the past few weeks. Today it looked the same, but it felt very different.

He watched her as she unwrapped the bandage. Her aura of competence and friendliness surrounded her, but it lacked the tension that had always been part of her. He suddenly realised that for the first time since he’d met her, she was completely and utterly relaxed.

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I tried to explain stitches to Trang but my Vietnamese didn’t come close.’ She gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I think my charades just scared him.’

‘No worries. I think my Vietnamese is up to this.’ Tom smiled at the youth, greeting him before examining the wound. ‘It’s deep. He’s cut into muscle.’

‘I thought so.’ Bec opened the dressing pack and drew up some local anaesthetic, pre-empting his request. As usual, she was organised and efficient.

Tom changed to Vietnamese. ‘How did you cut your hand, Trang?’ He sat down and applied more pressure to the wound.

‘I don’t know. I didn’t feel it. I just saw the cut.’ Beads of sweat clustered on his forehead.

‘A sharp knife is a dangerous thing.’ Tom checked the edges of the wound.

‘But it isn’t very sharp. It wasn’t cutting well.’

Bec leaned over his shoulder, her chest brushing his back. ‘It’s a pretty jagged cut. How did it happen?’

Tom peered more closely at the gash. ‘He said the knife wasn’t sharp and he didn’t feel the cut which really doesn’t make a lot of sense.’

Trang’s face paled as he suddenly leaned forward, heaving.

Bec grabbed a bucket and pushed it into his hands just as he started to vomit.

‘Lucky save.’ Tom smiled his thanks. Her quick actions had just prevented him being covered in Trang’s stomach contents.

A dreamy look crossed her face. ‘It’s my lucky day.’

The softly spoken words wafted around him warmly, but settled on him uncomfortably. He shrugged the feeling away. Pressing a finger around the wound, he asked Trang, ‘Does it hurt here … here … here?’

The patient shook his head. ‘No, it doesn’t really feel.’

‘Pass me a needle please, Bec.’ This didn’t make sense. He should have a throbbing hand. He should have felt the cut.

‘Here you go. What are you thinking? Some sort of paraesthesia? Perhaps he cut a nerve.’

Tom unsheathed the needle and pressed it around the hand. ‘Tell me when you feel a sharp jab.’

‘No, I don’t feel. My feet are tingling, too.’ Trang slumped at the table as he heaved again.

Bec passed the young man water to rinse his mouth and then mopped his brow with a cool cloth. ‘I know he could be vomiting from shock but do you think he might have cut his hand because he was feeling unwell and lost concentration?’

Tom shrugged. ‘The symptoms are pretty confusing. I’m going to stitch the hand first. That might turn out to be the easy bit. Can you do a set of observations?’

‘Sure.’ Bec picked up the sphygmomanometer and wrapped it around Trang’s upper arm.

As Tom injected the local anaesthetic into Trang’s already numb hand he started to sort the symptoms in his head. Nausea, vomiting, sweating, numb hand, tingling feet. On the surface it could be, as Bec had said, a vaso-vagal reaction. But he had a nagging feeling that if he went with that, it would be the easy diagnosis. ‘Now I am going to stitch your hand.’

Trang gave a feeble nod. ‘Jus doit.’ His words ran together in a slur.