KAYLEE BALDWIN
Copyright © 2017 Kaylee Baldwin
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.
ISBN 13: 978-1974652570
ISBN 10: 1974652572
Published by Sweetly Us Press
CHAPTER ONE
◆◆◆
Dean Matthias gripped the edge of the sidecar as the motorized tricycle flew through the northern Filipino jungle at remarkable speed. His stomach lurched at another turn on the bumpy road. He dodged a reaching banana leaf, bumping into the older woman crammed beside him.
“Slow down!” Dean called out, but the driver either didn’t understand or ignored him. Instead, he turned to smile a toothy grin, swerving as he did so, and then sped up along the winding road. His English had been sufficient enough thirty minutes ago, but now that Dean thought back through their exchange, the only thing the man had said in English was, “You have money? Where you need to go?”
As the driver skirted too close to the cliff that edged the road, Dean wished fervently he’d waited for the car he’d ordered. But it had been caught in traffic and was still an hour from making it to the tiny airstrip where his plane had landed. Impatient, he’d taken the grinning rickshaw driver up on his offer to transport him to the village in record time. The small vehicle looked like a motorcycle with a tiny three-wheeled golf cart attached to the side. The driver had lashed Dean’s suitcase to a metal rack on the top, and they were off. Dean hadn’t realized they’d pick up passengers along the way or that his driver had an apparent death wish.
His dad would be livid. Time and again he’d lectured Dean on making choices with caution and thinking through potential consequences. The counsel had been especially forthcoming since Dean had been burned by a beguiling woman who nearly left his restaurant empire in ruins. He couldn’t even think about Veronica without the reminder of her betrayal hitting him in the gut. His dad had warned him: Never trust a pretty woman. He should have listened.
The tricycle turned onto a straight road, farther away from the drop-off that had made him perspire through his suit coat. He slipped the coat off his shoulders and folded it onto his lap before loosening his silk tie. No amount of research could have prepared him for the smothering heat and dense humidity of the Philippines. The sickly sweet scent of fruit, mingled with a distant hint of salt from the nearby ocean, was so different from the exhaust and fish smells near his office in Boston. He swiped his tie across his sweaty forehead and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Are we almost there?”
“Sure, yeah.” The man bobbed his head before veering off the main road and onto a dirt road lined with several small houses. “I stop.”
“What?” Dean sat up straighter, the full realization of his folly hitting him. This driver could take him anywhere, and no one would know. “Why?”
“Uno minuto.” The driver leapt off his seat and ran inside a small, rickety house.
Dean rubbed his temples, hearing his dad’s voice in his head: When will you ever learn? He imagined the cool, air-conditioned rental car and a drive to the village free from strange detours.
But he loved strange detours. And his gut told him that he could trust the driver. That might not hold much stock for his dad, but for Dean, it had always been good enough.
The woman beside him pulled a pair of pants and a needle from her bag and worked on sewing a rip in the seam. Her hands moved with practiced precision over the fabric.
The cheeping and buzzing of millions of insects sounded in the quiet. Dean tapped his foot, then his fingers against his knee, the nervous energy difficult to stem. How hard would it be to walk to the village from here? The woman placed her hand over his to still the motion before returning to her sewing.
“Is this normal?” he asked her. She glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow, so he continued. “The stopping for mysterious reasons.” He scanned the area, thick with full, green vegetation. “There’s a lot of places to store a body here. That’s all I’m saying.”
She blinked.
“I’m Dean, by the way,” he said, holding out his hand. Too late he realized that both of her hands were full, but she slid the needle into the fabric and placed her warm, callused hand in his.
“Josie,” the woman said.
“Do you speak English?” Excitement built up in him. He’d tried to learn a few Filipino phrases in the last week, but asking her where the bathroom was wasn’t necessarily a good conversation starter. When he was a kid, it always seemed easier to cobble together a form of communication with the people he met, but he found his pantomime skills rusty from years of being on his best professional behavior.
“English?” She shook her head, but then pulled her fingers together, perhaps indicating she could speak a little.
“Do you know Dr. Rogers?” he asked.
Her eyes lit up. “Dr. Rogers?” She began to speak with enthusiasm, apparently not realizing she’d lapsed back to her native language. Although Dean couldn’t understand a word, the woman’s exuberance gave him the reassurance he’d been looking for—he’d picked the right man to pilot his Worldwide Care Project. So much rode on everything being perfect. It had taken several years and a lot of convincing to get his dad’s approval for the Matthias Foundation to fund his proposal to send doctors to developing nations.
Unfortunately, Dean hadn’t planned on spending the last six months in and out of court dealing with Veronica’s deceptions and had been left to just reading the doctor’s weekly reports instead of making the personal visits he’d intended. Dr. Rogers—a Yale and Harvard graduate—seemed not only competent, but exactly what this project needed to make it a success.
However, Dr. Rogers’s contract was ending, and with Veronica in jail, Dean could finally make a personal visit to the clinic. Even better that the timing happened to coincide with a media-covered awards banquet for his older brother. Dean needed to take a break from being in the news for a while, and his family hadn’t argued otherwise.
A door slammed in the distance, and the tricycle driver appeared beside an old man with a full head of white hair, a bloody rag tied to his arm. The blood had dried on the fabric, leaving a brown edge around the red injury. Dean had seen similar homemade bandages on the humanitarian trips he’d taken as a teenager. This man needed to see Dr. Rogers.
“My father,” the driver said, with his ever-present grin as they arrived at the car. He took the driver’s seat again.
“Hello,” Dean said to the old man, who motioned for Dean to scoot over.
Dean looked at the small space between him and Josie, realizing the man’s intent. There was hardly enough room for two people on the plastic bench; three was impossible.
The old man, who lacked the grin of his son, threw his leg over the edge of the sidecar anyway. Dean grabbed his backpack off the floor and placed it on his lap as the man climbed in and squatted in the empty space near their feet.
His sweat-slicked elbow rested against Dean’s leg, dampening his suit pants. Dean pulled his knees up to give the man more space, but no amount of squeezing made it possible for three people to sit comfortably. The pungent scent of body odor increased in the close quarters. Dean’s eyes watered and he resisted the strong urge to cough.
“We go!” The driver v
eered back onto the bumpy road.
“I’m Dean,” he said to the old man. If they had to be on this uncomfortable journey together, at least they could attempt to get to know each other. He held out his hand.
The man gave him a narrow-eyed stare, leaving Dean’s hand hanging awkwardly between them. Okay. Silence it was. Dean turned his handshake into a small wave and unzipped his backpack.
Josie said something to the old man, and he responded with a short phrase that made her roll her eyes. She pointed at the man. “Rodel.”
Dean filed the name away in his memory. Minute business details often escaped his memory—which was why having a good personal assistant was vital—but he’d always had a knack for learning names. What he lacked in the way of organization, he excelled in interpersonal relationships.
Most of the time.
Rodel stared at the passing vegetation, his body language making it very clear that he had no desire for conversation with Dean.
They took another sharp turn, the side wheel rising up from the ground. Josie and Rodel gave no indication that their pulses ratcheted up a notch like his did. He reached into his bag to pull out his tablet for distraction.
He’d downloaded several articles on the plane, most of them covering the political unrest and terrorist activity in the area. His staff had thoroughly vetted the site, but political conditions had worsened in the last few months. Dr. Rogers had assured Dean in his emails that the clinic was safe from harm and that guards were absolutely unnecessary. Still, he’d hired a couple of locals to guard the clinic at night.
The tricycle bounced over the ruts in the road, and Dean powered down his tablet when it became too difficult to read. He tapped his fingers on the ledge, unused to having nothing to keep his mind occupied. They skidded around yet another corner, revealing movement in the distance.
“Here,” the driver said, pointing ahead.
Dean sat up straighter, excitement rolling through him as people and several dogs walked through the streets. They drove past simple houses erected on stilts, which were interspersed by block-like houses with metal walls. Many had thatched leaves or wavy tin panels as roofs. People, old and young, paused to watch the tricycle go through the town.
The driver stopped in front of a wooden building with a long line of people leading up to the open front door who were standing patiently in the muggy sunshine. The shutters on the window were slatted opened, and a loud generator hummed behind the building. A black plastic sign with white letters hung beside the door reading “Worldwide Care Clinic.”
Anticipation made Dean want to jump from the tricycle and bound into the clinic like the teenager he’d once been surely would have. Instead, he took in the moment with satisfaction. He was here. This clinic existed. It was actually happening.
“We here,” the driver said unnecessarily. He hopped out to help Rodel and Josie from the sidecar, and to Dean’s relief, the old man joined the line of people waiting to get into the clinic.
Dean unfolded himself from the seat while the driver unstrapped his suitcase. His knees and back ached from sitting in the same position for the last hour. He stretched, grabbed his backpack, and pulled out a handful of Filipino money. “Is this enough?”
The man laughed and handed most of the money back, keeping only a few coins. Dean insisted that the driver take some paper money too, before turning back to the rudimentary building.
Unexpected nerves hit him. He’d been too uninvolved until now for a project that needed to succeed. But there was no time for regrets.
He steeled his shoulders, picked up his suitcase, and headed toward the clinic.
He wanted to pause and attempt to speak with people in line, but Dr. Rogers had expected him hours before. He walked inside to find a middle-aged Filipino woman sitting at a table, writing down information from each patient. She looked up and smiled widely at him. “You must be Mr. Matthias.”
He lifted his brows, impressed by her clear English. “I am.” He knew he employed several Filipinos for this project, but he hadn’t learned any names. He held out his hand, and she returned his firm handshake.
“Malaya,” she said warmly. “Welcome to the Worldwide Care Clinic. Dr. Rogers is with a patient right now, but I can show you where you’ll be sleeping tonight.”
“Thank you.” The village didn’t have any hotel rooms, so Dean was going to sleep in the clinic for his one night in town. Dr. Rogers lived in a small, one-bedroom house that didn’t leave any room for guests, but Dean didn’t mind staying in the clinic. At least he’d have a roof over his head, unlike many of the humanitarian trips his mom had dragged him and Cole on as teens.
Dean followed Malaya down a short hallway with two exam rooms. From one, he heard the soft murmur of voices, and from the other, the sound of someone moaning. Malaya opened the door into an office at the end of the hallway. A desk and three chairs took up most of the space, but someone had set up a cot beneath the far window.
“It’s not enough,” Malaya said, shaking her head.
“It looks perfect,” he told her. He set his suitcase and bag on the floor and gave the office a cursory glance. Clean, organized, and professional. Exactly what he’d hoped to see.
“I’d love to meet the doctor,” he said.
“Would you like to watch Dr. Rogers in action?” An excited twinkle shone in her eye.
“Absolutely.” He didn’t want to waste a second of the time he had here.
Malaya led him down the hall to a door labeled Room 1. An empty plastic chart holder hung from a nail beside the door. The moaning from Room 2 had morphed into a violent cough that made Dean wince.
“What’s going on in there?” Dean asked.
“Pneumonia, maybe,” Malaya said, her tone solemn. “But I’m taking you in to see our favorite little boy getting stitches on his chin.”
“I had my fair share of stitches as a kid.” Much to his parents’ chagrin.
Malaya knocked twice before pushing the door open to reveal a teary boy of about six sitting on a table while a nurse patted the fresh stitches with an alcohol swab. The nurse was young, younger than he was, and pretty. Her dark hair was long and pulled back into a ponytail, showing off pink cheeks and turquoise eyes that matched her shirt almost exactly. A stethoscope hung from around her neck.
Her gaze fell on Dean, her expression unreadable.
“This is Mr. Matthias,” Malaya said.
The nurse nodded. “Thank you, Malaya. Can you please explain to Jerome’s mom how to take care of the stitches? I need to see him again in a week.” She said something simple in Tagalog to the little boy, who gave her a wide grin. She gave the boy a fond smile in return, sending a tug of attraction through Dean.
The nurse looked at Dean, her mouth set in a serious line once again, the delight in her expression extinguished. “Why don’t we chat in my office.”
Dean followed her past the room with the coughing. He heard the rumble of a man’s low voice from within and paused. As much as he didn’t want anything to do with whatever illness was going on in there, he hadn’t come here to talk with a nurse. He’d only scheduled twenty-four hours in the village and needed to make the most of his time. “I’d really like to meet Dr. Rogers.”
The woman turned, her eyebrows close together, her long hair swinging in an arc behind her. She folded her arms, and the awful realization hit him in the moment she opened her mouth.
“I guess we haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Dr. Riley Rogers.”
CHAPTER TWO
◆◆◆
“You can’t be Riley Rogers,” Dean Matthias said, his brows pinched. “Dr. Rogers graduated from Yale and Harvard and is an experienced doctor.”
Riley stepped back, her defenses raised. How often over the years had people thought she was too young or too pretty to be a doctor? Yet it hadn’t happened once since coming to the Philippines. “And a woman can’t be those things?”
He groaned. “Of course a woman can be those thi
ngs. But not … you.”
She tried not to be offended at the way his gaze measured her from head to foot. Tried and failed. “What do you mean, me?”
The door to Room 1 opened, and Malaya came out with a warning smile on her face, followed by Jerome and his mother. Jerome waved, holding the sucker Malaya had given him for being so brave about getting his stitches. He’d tripped and fallen into the corner of a house post, catching his chin at just the wrong angle. After seeing so many people with diseases and life-threatening injuries, it was nice to treat something so normal. Besides, she had a soft spot for the mischievous boy, who couldn’t seem to keep out of trouble for longer than a few weeks.
“I’ll start on Room 2. Take your time,” Malaya said, shaking her head meaningfully at Riley. Riley didn’t know what she’d do without Malaya. She’d shown up on Riley’s second week of work after she’d floundered with not knowing the language or culture and took over as her translator, nurse, and friend.
Malaya knew how much Riley had been dreading this meeting. From the moment Dean had emailed to say he was arriving, she’d been on edge. He held all the power over whether this program continued—and even more pressing for Riley, if she continued to work here. Her six months were up in a week. If she wanted to stay in the Philippines with the people she’d grown to love, away from all the things she was trying to escape at home, she needed to be on her best behavior.
Dean’s physical presence wasn’t doing anything to dispel her trepidation. He stood several inches above her five-foot-eight frame. His dark brown hair was shaved short at the sides, but longer at the top, swooping over from his side part. Even in this damp heat, his suit looked barely wrinkled—who wore a suit into the jungle?—but all in all, he looked like he could step into a photo shoot with almost no touch-ups.
She’d expected arrogance and narcissism. But misogyny? Although from someone who’d been in the news for foisting all blame for his drug operation onto his fiancée, she shouldn’t have been surprised.
Hearts In Peril (Billionaire Romance) Page 1
