But during these last few weeks his body had shown him how little control he really had, and now Tasha was showing him the same.
‘It’s dumb to feel like this.’
He said it out loud and it echoed in the darkened room. His body was recovering and with Tasha’s help then maybe...no, make that surely, it would recover completely.
All he had to do was let Tasha take control.
All he had to do was let go.
CHAPTER FIVE
SHE WOKE TO the sound of thumping. It wasn’t steady, though. It was a decidedly wobbly thump.
Someone was thumping on the veranda outside her bedroom window.
She glanced at her bedside clock and practically yelped. It was after eight. She’d gone to bed over twelve hours ago. Despite the feigned chirpiness she’d put on for Tom, her body had demanded sleep.
Maybe that was a defence.
For now she was here, the place she’d left eighteen months ago, wondering if she could ever forget.
She didn’t want to forget, but the pain of remembering was appalling. At least in London she could throw herself into her work, but here...
Up on the headland was a tiny grave. She’d thought she’d go there last night but in the end she just couldn’t. She’d declined Tom’s invitation to share dinner. She’d pleaded jet lag, eaten eggs on toast and hit the pillows.
But now... Thump...thump...thump...
Intrigued, she tossed back the covers and hauled up the window. Her bedroom looked straight over the veranda to the ocean beyond. The sea air felt blissful. She breathed in the salt and then she looked along the veranda and decided to stop breathing for a while.
The mixed emotions of moments ago came to a grinding halt.
For Tom was here, and Tom was gorgeous.
There was no other word for it. He was totally, absolutely gorgeous.
He was wearing boxers and nothing else. The weak winter sun was doing its best to make his bronzed body glisten. A sheen of sweat on his chest and brow made him look even more...
Gorgeous. She couldn’t get past that word.
* * *
Tom had a skipping rope and was doing his best to skip, but his lazy leg was dragging. He was forcing himself on, but every second or third skip his leg didn’t lift. He’d swear and keep going.
‘Good morning.’
Tasha’s greeting made him miss the rope again.
She was just along the veranda. She’d stuck her head out the window and she smiled as he turned to look at her.
‘What’s the sound of a centipede with a wooden leg?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know—what?’ he demanded, goaded, knowing something corny was coming.
‘Ninety-nine thump,’ she told him, and grinned as if it was an entirely original joke and she expected applause. ‘That’s you, only you don’t get to ninety-nine.’ She swung her legs over the window sill and perched. She was wearing a long white nightie with lace inserts. It reached her ankles and reminded him of something his grandma would have worn, but there the similarity ended.
Tasha didn’t look like anyone’s grandma, Tom thought. Her brown-gold curls were tousled from sleep, tumbling to her shoulders. She wore no make-up but she needed none. She looked pert and wide awake and beautiful.
And interested.
‘What’s causing the leg to drag?’ she asked, as if it was any of her business.
‘A subarachnoid haemorrhage,’ he said carefully. ‘Pressure in the brain.’
‘I get that, you idiot,’ she told him. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, I have a medical degree, too. So, let me see... Balance problems can be due to muscle weakness and paralysis, damage to the cerebellum—that’s the part of the brain that controls balance,’ she added kindly. ‘You could have loss of sensation in the leg itself, with high-tone or low-tone damage to the vestibular system, though I see no evidence of spasticity. You could have impaired vision, hypotension, ataxia, or poor awareness of body position. You have been assessed?’
‘In hospital.’ He hated talking of his medical problems—especially to a woman in a nightgown, a woman who until now he’d thought of as someone he could help.
Their roles were suddenly upside down and the sensation made him feel like snapping and retreating.
He couldn’t. She’d come here to help. He owed it to her to be cordial, even grateful.
‘But not since you came home, which was three weeks ago,’ she was saying. ‘You have foot-drop. You probably need a brace to support the ankle. Are you having pain?’
‘No!’
‘I’ll bet you get tired. Fatigue is one of the most common after-effects of what’s happened to you, especially if you entertain on the side.’
‘I am not tired and I don’t entertain!’
‘And crabbiness, too,’ she said equitably. ‘Personality changes. You weren’t crabby last time I was here.’
‘Tasha...’
‘So you need a thorough physiotherapy assessment.’ She gave him an almost apologetic smile. ‘You know, I’m not the only bossy woman in your life right now. Rhonda was in full organisation mode before I left England. She’s determined you make the most of me being here, so she’s booked an assessment for you this afternoon. The plan is for me to take your morning clinic and then to drive you to Summer Bay. They have a full physio clinic, with all the rehab equipment you need. They’ll do a full assessment and start you this very afternoon. And every afternoon I’m here.’
‘What...?’
‘Rhonda’s set it up and I agreed,’ she told him calmly. ‘I know you will, too. It’s not worth me coming all this way for you to be put on a waiting list.’
‘I don’t need—’
‘Of course you do and you know it.’ She softened. ‘Tom, you haven’t had time to take care of yourself. I get that, but I’m here now. You know you need specialised physio, targeted specifically for your problems. Jumping rope’s good but it has limitations. The Summer Bay clinic has a neuro-physiotherapist on site and she sounds excellent. She’ll co-ordinate the team.’
‘Who told you...?’
‘Rhonda explained the situation,’ she said. ‘You hired a bossy boots, not me, so you have only yourself to blame that she’s getting us organised. But you know she’s right. Muscle weakness, speech... Your recovery needs to be a multidisciplinary effort.’
‘I don’t need...’ He was starting to sound like a parrot.
‘You know you do need,’ she said patiently. ‘You’re trying to be your own doctor and it doesn’t work.’ Her voice gentled again. ‘Tom, when I hit the wall I knew to come to you for help. You took over and I let you. I needed to let you. So now it’s you who’s in trouble. We can’t make you but why not relax and go with what Rhonda and Hilda and I have planned?’
‘“Blast of the trumpet...”’ he managed, and she grinned.
‘“Against the monstrous regiment of women”?’ She even had the temerity to chuckle. ‘John Knox knew what he was up against, although I think it was only two women he was complaining of—the women on the throne. You have three women to rail against—me, Rhonda and Hilda. Now...could you walk me through the clinic work after breakfast? Then you can take a nice nap while I do morning surgery.’
‘A nice nap...’ He was almost speechless.
‘I might need to wake you if there’s something I don’t understand,’ she told him. ‘But I hope I won’t.’
‘Are you really registered to work in Australia?’
‘Of course,’ she said, sounding wounded. ‘I hold an Australian passport and I organised Australian registration and worked here during IVF and the first part of my pregnancy. I know the system. Okay, I’m heading for the shower. Then breakfast. Let’s get this show on the road.’
* * *
She tried not to shake.
She’d done well, she thought. She’d acted as if she knew what she was doing, as if she was on top of her world.
Except she wasn’t. And she wasn’t because when all was said and done, Tom Blake was just that. A Blake boy. The sight of his near naked body on the veranda had shaken her as she’d had no intention of being shaken.
Paul Blake had entered her life like a whirlwind, sweeping her off her feet with his love for adventure, his exuberance and his passion. She’d fallen hard and was married before she knew it. Then she’d spent years watching him take crazy risks. Being terrified for him. Not knowing that he was betraying her and he’d been betraying her almost from the start.
In the end she’d realised marriage vows meant nothing. Personal loyalty meant nothing.
Tom seemed kinder and gentler, but in essence he seemed the same. He admitted openly that he loved women—serial women—and he took the same crazy risks Paul had.
Was she being unfair? Was she judging Tom because of Paul?
No. She was judging Tom because of Alice and Susie, and all the Alices and Susies before, all the women he’d chatted about in his newsy emails. Plus the fact that he’d been injured because of a reckless surfing accident.
She was sensible to judge—so why was she shaking?
Because she was vulnerable? Because the sight of him on the veranda had made something twist inside her that frightened her?
Because she didn’t trust herself.
‘There’s no reason to be scared,’ she said out loud. ‘I have no intention of going down that road again. Besides, he’s not the slightest bit interested.’
‘But if he was?’ She was talking to herself.
‘Then I’d run. I’d head to the cats. Much safer.’
‘Even if they make you sneeze?’
‘Sneezing’s harmless,’ she told herself. ‘As opposed to the Blake boys, who aren’t harmless at all.’
Stuck in the corner of the dressing table was the appointment card outlining the details of the booking she’d made the day before she’d left for Australia.
She’d thought—hoped?—she could be brave enough to try again for a baby.
Now she glanced out the window at Tom, who was still doggedly skipping. She remembered how much she’d needed him.
Fear flooded back.
She picked up the appointment card and thrust it back into the bottom recess of her suitcase.
Her reaction to Tom said that she wasn’t very brave at all.
* * *
Any doubts as to Tasha’s ability to take over were allayed the moment Tom took Tasha into the clinic.
Rhonda and Hilda’s niece was currently filling in for Rhonda. To say Millie was less than satisfactory was an understatement. She was cute and blonde and dimwitted. She chewed gum and watched while Tom and Tasha sorted the morning files. There was half an hour before the first patient was due, and Tom had no intention of leaving unless Tasha seemed capable.
She proved it in moments.
He handed her the list of appointments and watched as she did a fast check of the associated files. As she reached the end of the list she turned to him, looking worried.
‘Mrs Connor?’ she said. ‘Margie Connor? Millie’s booked her in for last on the list but according to her file her last three appointments have been for serious cardio. events. The reason for today’s visit is that her legs are swelling and she’s feeling breathless. Should we—?’
And Tom swore and reached for the phone. Rhonda would have picked this up.
‘Margie Connor never rings unless it’s something major, and her heart failure’s getting worse,’ he told Tasha. ‘Good call.’
Margie answered on the second ring, which was another confirmation that all was far from well. Normally Margie would be on the beach with her dogs at this time of the morning.
‘Margie? You’re coming in this morning? Millie says it’s your legs and you’re short of breath?’ He listened and grimaced.
‘If they’re that swollen get Ron to bring you in straight away. Pack a nightie and toothbrush—you know the drill. We might get away with adjusting your medication but if the swelling’s too much you could need a couple of days in hospital to get rid of the fluids. It’s nothing to panic about but the sooner we see you, the less fluid we’ll have to get rid of. I’ll be waiting at the clinic. Straight away, Margie. Don’t spend time making yourself beautiful for me. You’re gorgeous as you are.’
He replaced the receiver and turned and Tasha was glaring at him. Strangely her glare made him want to chuckle. She was like a mother hen, defending her territory.
Only her territory was actually his.
‘You aren’t staying here,’ she said severely. ‘I can deal with this.’
‘Margie’s scared,’ he said simply. ‘She has grounds for being scared. I’m not having her face a strange doctor.’
‘I’m not strange.’
‘No,’ he said, and he had to suppress a grin as her glare continued. ‘You’re not. Apologies. But you are different. I need to be here and you need to accept it. Tasha, what you’re proposing will only work if you let me share when it’s appropriate. It’s appropriate now.’
Was it a glare or was it a glower? He couldn’t decide, but either way it was cute.
Um...cute wasn’t on the agenda. She was a colleague.
He held up his hands, as if in surrender. He wasn’t in control. He knew it, he didn’t like it but he had to accept it. ‘Tasha, I know I’ve been pig-headed in keeping on working,’ he told her. ‘But until now I haven’t had much choice. I accept I need help. Believe it or not, I’m deeply grateful that you’re here and I will do the rehab. Of course I will. But this is my town and these are my people. You need to accept that I care.’
‘You’re supposed to rest.’
‘Rest doesn’t mean lying in bed for the next couple of months. We can share. I’ll back off when I need to—and, yes, I’ll concede you may be a better judge of that than I am—but we have two consulting rooms. I’ll work mornings, but at half-pace. You’ll work next door and if you need me, call.’
She stood back and considered, while on the sidelines Millie watched on with vague interest. It was like an intellectual decision was being made, he thought. A clinical assessment with a prognosis at the end.
She was very, very cute.
‘Okay,’ she said at last. ‘That seems fair but there’s a deal-breaker. In the mornings we share your work. In the afternoons you let me share your rehabilitation.’
That took him aback. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that. You let me come with you this afternoon and hear what the physios say. I have no intention of watching as you complete every exercise, but someone close to you should have an overview. You know patients often hear only what they want or think they need to hear. You don’t have a mum and you don’t have a partner—unless you’re considering taking Millie or Susie. Are you?’
‘No!’ he said, as Millie recoiled in horror at the idea.
She grinned. ‘Then let me in, Tom. You know rehab is gruelling. You’ll need encouragement and sometimes you’ll need pushing. You need to share.’
‘I don’t need...’
‘You keep saying that, but is it true? You don’t need my help? Like Bill didn’t need a doctor at the foot of the steps yesterday? Tom, be honest.’
‘I don’t want to share.’ How ungracious was that, but the words seemed to come from deep inside. Handing over to Tasha was losing even more of the control he valued so much.
She raised her brows and gave him a long, hard look. And then she seemed to come to a decision.
‘Tom, th
e way I see it, we have three alternatives. One—you leave everything to me. Two—you share. Three—I leave.’
Things were suddenly serious. ‘What the...?’
‘I told Rhonda and Hilda I’d take over your workload, whether you want me or not. But of course I can’t.’
‘It’s good of you to see it.’
That earned him a wry smile. ‘I am being good,’ she told him. ‘I’m trying my hardest to see this from your point of view. I’m thinking of you as yet another gung-ho Blake boy, but what you just said has made me brave enough to push my luck. You said, “This is my town. You need to accept that I care.” So I accept you care, but—accepting that—do you concede that the town needs me? You can’t cope yourself. Do you need me to be here?’
There was a moment’s silence. He met her gaze and she met his gaze right back. Her eyes flashed a challenge.
And amazingly he also saw the faintest hint of laughter, as if she knew the dilemma he was in and was faintly enjoying it. Whereas he wasn’t.
‘Yes,’ he said at last, and then added a grudging ‘Thank you.’
‘And do you also concede that most people dealing with head injuries need a support person?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Concede it,’ she said. ‘You said it yourself—for now, I may be a better judge than you are. I’m here not only for this town or for your patients. I’m here for your care as well.’ The laughter faded. ‘Tom, eighteen months ago I realised I needed a support person and I came to you. I followed your advice and you were with me every step of the way. If you were treating someone for a head injury now, would you say they needed to take someone with them for at least the initial assessment at rehab?’
‘I don’t need...’ He stopped. The three words were like a repetitive mantra in his head but the worst thing about this mantra was he knew it wasn’t true.
‘The Blake boys don’t need,’ she said, and her voice was suddenly grim. ‘Not usually. But for now face the fact that you do. When people are listening to what medical practitioners are telling them their hearing’s often limited. They hear the first thing but they’re so busy taking it in that they miss the next.’
Falling for Her Wounded Hero Page 6
