Could she wear it?
Wouldn’t she look foolish?
She folded the garment and returned it to the drawer, her fear of looking foolish overcoming any stupid desire to look pretty for Steve, but even as his name sounded in her head, his voice came through the door.
‘If you need something cool to put on after your shower, there is always a collection of muumuus in a bottom drawer.’
The spurt of what had to be jealousy that shot through her shocked her so much she knew she wouldn’t wear any of the pretty garments. Although he had said he didn’t usually kiss his embryologists so maybe he just knew about the garments rather than having any specific experience with them—or the women in them!
She headed for the bathroom only to find it in use, Steve obviously having decided she’d finished in there.
Totally lost now, ill at ease, and wondering what on earth she was getting herself into, she wandered out the back door, clutching her toiletries bag, clean undies, shirt and shorts, and blinked at the sight before her eyes.
Someone—surely not Steve—had spread flowers across the centre of the outdoor table, the barbecue lid was up and the coals beneath the grill plate were heating, while along the benches on both sides of the grill, banana leaves were spread with food—sliced vegetables, a whole fish, fruits she didn’t recognise, the lot covered with a fine net to protect them from insects.
Could she really wear her shirt and shorts to such a feast?
If she was actually considering a fling with Steve, couldn’t she go the whole way—wear the pretty muumuu?
But uncertainty still dogged her, the restraint she’d developed throughout her childhood brought on by the fear of losing her remaining parent, and then continuing in her marriage. My colleagues, clients and friends expect the best of everything, Nigel had always said, but nothing showy or obtrusive.
Until she felt arms circle her from behind, and Steve press a kiss on her shoulder.
‘You’re fretting about the kisses, aren’t you? They don’t have to lead anywhere, you know. We can be all grown-up and pretend to each other—denying the attraction that seems to have sprung up between us. Although I doubt it will go away. As far as you’re concerned, I find you a very sexy woman, but the last thing I’d want, Francesca, is to push you into something you don’t want.’
She turned in his arms and pressed her body against his, wanting him yet still uncertain, although as he kissed her again, this time just beneath her ear, the desire for him grew strong enough to chase away uncertainty.
‘My friends call me Fran,’ she said, giving in to the delight of his kisses which, now, were trailing down her neck.
‘Fran or Francesca, you are delectably kissable,’ he said, then he lifted his head, dropped a light kiss on her lips, turned her towards the house and patted her on the backside. ‘Go shower while I cook or we’ll never eat,’ he said, making things sound so normal she trotted off to do as she was told, although when she dressed after the shower she did leave the top buttons of her shirt undone.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘NO MUUMUU?’ STEVE TEASED, then he shook his head. ‘Actually, I think you’re more of a sarong type.’
He disappeared into his room and returned with a rolled-up piece of material in dark blue with unlikely green hibiscus flowers on it.
‘These are left for the men—they wear them tied around their waist, but it would fit you as a sarong, wrapped around and tied above the breasts. You could try it now, or for dinner tomorrow.’
The slight smile curling his lips suggested he was already imagining her in it, and though she was sure she never blushed, she was also sure her cheeks were heating.
‘Thank you,’ she managed. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’
But just imagining the sarong, led to images of Steve untying it, unwrapping her, and heat swamped her body.
She plonked down on a chair beside the table—one where she could watch him as he worked—wondering why this man, of all the men she’d met and worked with, could affect her as he did, sending her spinning right off her stable axis into the unknown.
Her mind whirled as she sought for answers, while her fingers idly picked up flowers from the central display, poking them randomly into her hair for something to do.
She looked at the sarong, and excitement skittered inside her, churning her stomach so badly she was sure she wouldn’t be able to eat, when even her normally sensible brain was remembering beach kisses and wondering where they would lead.
Or perhaps that was her body talking...
She lifted a frangipani flower, creamy white with a vivid yellow centre, and breathed in the heady perfume. Tucked it in between her breasts, where the undone buttons showed just a hint of a deep cleavage.
Would Steve like her breasts?
The thought was foreign to her yet it brought warmth sweeping downward between her legs, and a heaviness that made the restraints of her bra uncomfortable.
The idea that she, sensible, practical Francesca Hawthorne, could be sitting lusting over an almost stranger was unfathomable, but that’s certainly what was happening. She could feel the moisture gathering, her nipples pebbling, just thinking about what lay ahead...
Sensible, practical Francesca, however, did recover sufficiently to ask if there was anything she could do to help, but Steve only half turned and smiled at her, a warm, delighted kind of smile.
‘Relax, that’s what you can do. In fact, there might be something here to help with that.’
He reached into a cupboard under one of the side benches and held up a small bottle of beer.
‘Beer, wine, something soft? The French influence spreads to alcohol here in Vanuatu so the wines are usually French and very good. A light, dry white perhaps?’
She nodded agreement then realised she could at least get it for herself and stood up, moving towards him, flowers falling from her hair as she did so.
Totally embarrassed, she raised her hands to pull them out, but he caught her hands.
‘Hanging loose,’ he reminded her, touching the frangipani nestled between her breasts. ‘Remember?’
All right, so she could blush! She’d obviously not had any need for blushes before.
She bent and found the wine, together with some glasses, frosted with cold, but as Steve had already knocked the top off the beer, she pulled out only one, unscrewing the top off the wine—pleased screw-tops had become commonplace so she didn’t have to fight a cork—and poured herself a glass of the pale liquid.
It was deliciously cold, and so refreshing she’d finished her glass before she realised it, and though tempted to pour another one, she waited, deciding to have one with her meal, determined not to look as if she needed the Dutch courage of alcohol to get her through whatever might lie ahead.
But thinking of what might lie ahead set her body on fire once again, so she poured another glass of wine, and a glass of cold water as well.
Was he always so aware of women he’d been kissing? Steve wondered. Or was it because Francesca—Fran—was so different from his usual women that he was hyper-aware of her? It was obvious she was feeling awkward and uncertain after what had happened at the beach and this knowledge made him feel very protective of her. Made him want to hug and reassure her, but touching her was dangerous.
So cooking for her, eating with her, became a kind of foreplay, unusual for him but no less tantalising for that.
The meal done, they sat at the table and talked of work, of experiences they’d had, Fran—yes, he liked the shortened version—proving a humorous conversationalist as well as an intelligent one.
She could joke about her lab work, which obviously fascinated her, and told stories of the things that had happened there, but she steered away from personal questions and he guessed for all her talk of happy family Christmas
es there’d been pain and disillusion in her life.
He’d have liked to ask but she was talking about work again.
‘About the IVM?’ Fran asked, although what she really wanted to know was more about this man. ‘Andy mentioned you wanted someone with experience in taking immature eggs and maturing them in the incubator. Is there some reason you’d consider doing that here?’
He grinned at her, no doubt guessing she was deliberately introducing work into the conversation to keep away from anything personal, but the hint of mischief in his expression did something weird deep inside her.
More than physical attraction?
Surely not!
She concentrated on his answer.
‘I know the idea is still very new,’ he was saying, a smile still lurking around his lips, ‘and it’s probably presumptuous of me to want to try it here, but there’s a couple who have been through two cycles of IVF and each time the drugs have made the woman quite ill.’
He paused, looking around the deck before he looked back at her.
‘I wouldn’t have given her the second lot of treatment if she hadn’t been insistent.’
‘Desperate for a baby?’
Steve nodded.
‘So I thought,’ he began, breaking into Fran’s thoughts of the couple she didn’t know, and what they must have suffered, ‘that instead of giving her the drugs we take a few immature eggs and raise them in the incubator, then fertilise them when they’re ready.’
‘That’s a fabulous idea,’ Fran told him, secretly thrilled at the idea of having total responsibility for nursing the immature eggs to maturity. ‘Andy has had a good deal of success with IVM, and I’ve been involved with the immature eggs. Me and a couple dozen lab assistants and other embryologists.’
But here they’d be her babies, those little eggs, and the thought of having sole responsibility for them made her smile at the man who had brought her to this place.
Unfortunately he smiled back and she felt again that tug of something deep inside.
Don’t think about it!
‘You cooked so I’ll clear up,’ she said, standing up and collecting the scattered dishes and cutlery from the table, walking to the kitchen, so aware of Steve the nerves in her spine were prickling from his presence behind her.
She rinsed off the plates and tucked them in the dishwasher, wiped down benches, dithering.
Two kisses on the beach didn’t mean a thing, really, so why the dithering?
Because she wanted them to mean something—to at least lead somewhere...
She went into the bathroom to wash her hands and freshen up, splashed water on her face and returned to the table outside, where Steve had moved their chairs together so they could look out through the wilderness of bushes to faint glimpses of the sea.
He’d also poured her another glass of wine, and one for himself.
She sank down into the chair and picked up the wine, sipping at it carefully because he was so close, his shoulder all but brushing hers, the closeness causing a slight tremor in her fingers.
She wondered if he’d noticed, because he took the glass from her hand and set it on the table, then turned and licked the wine from her lips, murmuring appreciation—of the taste?
Or of her lips?
‘There is no need to hurry this, whatever this might turn out to be,’ he whispered. ‘In fact, Hallie had a very good rule.’
He pulled Fran onto his knee, his lips against her ear.
‘And that was to never make decisions at night.’
‘Never make decisions at night?’ Fran echoed, looking into the face so close to hers.
‘Exactly,’ Steve said. ‘Sleep on it and if, in the sober light of day, you still want whatever it was then you know it’s okay.’
‘Sleep on it?’
Fran knew she was repeating his words like a demented parrot, but her mind was so befuddled she couldn’t help it.
‘Sleep on it,’ he repeated, then he set her on her feet, gave her a pat on the bottom, and pointed her in the direction of her bedroom.
‘Now!’ he added, in a stern voice. ‘Before I stand up and kiss you again and then it will be too late!’
Which left her in no doubt about the decision she had to make...
* * *
You’re here to work!
The reminder, her first thought on waking, was enough for her to put all thoughts about decisions right out of her head. She ate her breakfast and drank her coffee—alone, as Steve was apparently out somewhere.
Work?
Or absent because he didn’t want to discuss the previous evening and whatever decision she might have reached?
Setting aside the skittering of excitement even thinking about making her decision triggered, she turned her mind resolutely to work and headed to the lab to see how things were going.
As she crossed the courtyard, she was adding up the hours. Mrs Red’s eggs had been introduced to Mr Red’s sample at about three in the afternoon so now, seventeen hours later, she should be able to tell if any of the eggs had been fertilised.
After sixteen to eighteen hours you could usually tell, so maybe Mr and Mrs Yellow’s might be showing some success as well.
Excitement for her work took over her thoughts and she hurried into the lab, pulling out the first of the four red dishes that held Mrs Red’s eggs. As she put it beneath the microscope and peered at it, she saw the two tiny bubbles—the pronuclei—in the centre of the egg.
This one was already dividing.
Perfect!
She couldn’t help just a little fist pump. Working alone in the lab—Steve had mentioned an assistant but so far he hadn’t appeared—she had no one to share her excitement, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t show it.
Returning the dish to the incubator, she took the next red one.
Damn! Joy never lasted long. There were definitely three bubbles in it, which meant two sperm had penetrated and the egg was unlikely to develop normally.
But dishes three and four were both good. One thing she and Steve had covered in one of their colleague-type conversations over dinner the first evening had been that he was happy to implant two embryos but not three, although implanting two would only be at the request of the client. They had facilities to freeze any extra ones, so that was no problem, but as yet these weren’t embryos, not until cell division began.
She tucked the three good dishes back into the incubator and pulled out one of the yellows.
No luck so far, and no luck with any of the dishes. Still, some eggs took longer to show they’d been fertilised.
The reminder didn’t help the uneasy feeling inside Fran’s stomach. Sometimes the outer shell of the egg was too tough for the sperm to penetrate and they had to be helped. It was a delicate procedure but she was adept at it, although here—without the necessary equipment?
But they had the eggs—good eggs...
She went in search of Steve, her mind so wholly on the problem at hand—or the suspected problem—that for the first time since she’d met him she didn’t feel a start of awareness at his good looks, although her heart did skip a beat when he smiled.
‘I know you haven’t got a stable table for ICSI but do you have the other equipment? A really good microscope, an ultra-fine pipette, some medium to slow the sperm? I’ve more of Mr Yellow’s sample—’
‘Whoa!’ He held up his hands to stop her flow of questions. ‘Do you always get up and rush straight into work mode no matter how late or long the night was?’
She had to smile.
‘Don’t know,’ she admitted, relaxed in a way she’d never felt before. ‘I’m not used to late, long nights. And, anyway, last night was hardly late.’
She thought it best to ignore the part where she had
lain awake for hours, wondering what she was letting herself in for...
‘But you could get used to them?’ he murmured, coming so close the words seemed to wash across her skin.
‘I guess,’ she said, remembering her earlier decision to be mature about this—to play it as a game, to have fun! ‘But to get back to the Yellows?’
He looked so confused she had to explain.
‘I call them by their colours. I find it easier than trying to remember names and match names to colours.’
‘And if they’re just colours you don’t have to get personally involved?’ Steve queried, amazed at how much he was learning about this woman—learning and liking. But why would she hide her deep humanity behind her brisk all-business disguise?
‘Self-protection?’
‘Of a kind,’ she admitted, ‘not that it always works, as you saw yesterday.’
He touched her lightly on the shoulder.
‘Don’t hide your true self,’ he murmured, then finally answered her original question.
‘Yes, we have the necessary equipment for the rather amazing intracytoplasmic sperm injection. How could we consider doing IVM without it? Surprisingly enough, while we don’t have a laparoscope, we do have a microscope with micro-manipulators. You wouldn’t have seen it as it’s locked away. The manufacturer donated it when we bought a number of new ones for the lab in Sydney, and arranged for us to get the pipettes and other equipment needed for the clinic here. Do you want to have a go?’
‘I thought I could try one egg,’ she said. ‘You drew five out of Mrs Yellow, so I could do one egg and the others could still be fertilised anyway, but I’d like to try now while Mr Yellow’s specimen is still viable.’
‘Go for it. I’ve got the next couple coming in, but Alex is there and I think Arthur, your lab assistant, has finally turned up, so he can stand by for the eggs. What colour next?’
‘Green,’ Fran said without the slightest hesitation, so definite he had to ask.
‘For any particular reason? Do you go in order? Red, yellow, green? Traffic lights?’
She grinned at him and his heart felt as if a giant fist had grabbed it and squeezed hard, jolting him enough that it took a moment for him to catch up with Fran’s reply.
A Miracle for the Baby Doctor Page 7
