Embarrassed by her own reactions, she’d blurted out the question as she’d fallen into step beside him, and when he didn’t answer she turned to look at him, seeing his face in profile, shadowed—seeing still a stranger.
So why did her body respond so forcefully?
‘Yes,’ he finally answered, but his strides had lengthened so she had to hurry to keep up with him and barely had the breath to tell him that a single affirmative was a very unsatisfactory answer.
‘Just yes—is that all you have to say?’ she managed, and he stopped walking and once again turned to face her.
‘What else do you want me to say, Lauren? That you were special to me? Is that what you want to hear?’
His voice was harsh, scraping against some emotion in his throat.
‘Is it important you know details of a past romance, now you’re happily settled with another man and a child?’
A past romance?
The shock was like a physical blow and possibly because her mind was unable to fully process it, she latched onto the end of his sentence.
‘There’s no other man,’ she said, heat rising to her cheeks when she realised how lame that sounded.
And how pathetic!
‘But there is a child!’ he said. ‘You can’t deny that!’
He sounded angry and hurt and—betrayed? Surely not! She was imagining things, but nothing in her imagination had ever prepared her for what Jean-Luc Fournier had, in fact, revealed.
That this man who’d come quite by chance into her life—this French surgeon here to work with the team—was Joe’s father!
Or was that what he’d said?
She sorted through the words in her head.
Past romance? Special to him?
He hadn’t exactly said they were lovers.
Yet she was reasonably certain Joe hadn’t been an immaculate conception and if she’d only been in India six weeks…
Hell! Things were getting worse and worse, although a past romance might explain why she was feeling what she was feeling whenever this man was near. Somehow he’d imprinted on her body, like baby geese imprinted on a human as a mother.
‘You’ve nothing to say?’ he demanded, coming closer to her, facing her, still sounding angry.
‘I was thinking about geese,’ she said, as the imprint thing made her bones go weak again.
‘Oh, geese, of course. What else would you be thinking of on a beach in the moonlight with a man who has just told you that once he loved you?’
‘You didn’t tell me that—just that I was special,’ she protested, still unable to accept where the information might lead.
‘Then I’ll tell you now,’ he said, his voice very deep and very quiet so she had to lean a little closer to hear him. ‘I loved you, Lauren, and when I heard that you were dead, I wished to die myself. I grieved for you and for what we might have had.’
The words were ragged, as if they’d been torn from him against his will, and unthinkingly she again touched his cheek, then she leaned closer and whispered, ‘I’m sorry that you had such pain.’
She hadn’t meant to kiss him, but right then it seemed the only thing to do—to kiss him better as she kissed Joe better when he was hurting. Except she couldn’t think of Joe right now.
Couldn’t think at all because Jean-Luc Fournier was kissing her back, hard and hungrily, devouring her lips, demanding a response, kissing her as she had never, in her memory, been kissed before.
She’d kissed him on the cheek, a sympathetic gesture, nothing more. But Jean-Luc Fournier didn’t accept sympathy from anyone so he’d moved his head and his mouth had captured her lips—parted in shock but still with the power to heat his blood and send it thundering through his veins.
He felt her respond and the kiss deepened, until he no longer knew if he was kissing the Lauren of the past or this new Lauren. One thing was for sure, she was real, not a ghost at all, and he felt a burning desire building inside him, desire that wasn’t a memory but very real, and very, very urgent.
Mon dieu! He had to get a hold on himself.
He broke away and strode towards the waterline, aware of the shock Lauren must be feeling but not wanting to remain near her lest the urge to take her in his arms—to comfort her—proved too great.
Lauren lifted her hand and touched her fingers to her lips, trying to recapture the feel of his mouth on hers.
Hell’s teeth! Was she really standing on the beach at Coogee thinking about a kiss when that man had just rocked her world? Or had he? Was telling her he’d loved her the same as telling her he was her lover? Was he Joe’s father? Dear heaven, what was she to do? What was she supposed to feel?
Not hot and trembly and excited, that was for sure!
They had to talk. She had to explain about Joe!
Or did she?
The man was French—he was here for a short time—what would happen with Joe when he left?
What if he wanted Joe, or worse—what if he didn’t want Joe?
Totally confused, and definitely uncertain which option would be worse, she followed him slowly down to the water.
‘Were we lovers?’ she asked, standing in the soft sand, water washing over her feet.
He swung around and took her hands again.
‘Lauren, I have no idea about amnesia apart from what I learned in medical school a long time ago and what I’ve read in books and gleaned off the internet since Theo told me last night you’d been injured. I don’t know whether knowing things is good or bad for you. Neither do I know what you need to know.’
She looked into his face, shadowed on one side, the other lit by the pale silvery light of the moon.
‘I would like to know it all,’ she said softly, ‘or that’s what I’ve always thought, but I realise now that knowing things isn’t the same as feeling them. And while you can tell me things, how much will they mean if I can’t remember how I felt and what I thought at the time?’
She sighed and moved away.
‘Will knowing you were my lover, if that’s the case, make me remember how a kiss felt back then, when I was twenty-one and fairly new to kissing?’
Jean-Luc stared at the woman who stood, arms crossed protectively over her chest, staring out at the silver path of the moon across the water. And in the pale light he saw the tears coursing down her cheeks, and guessed that such silent tears must come from pain deep within.
A man would have to be carved from stone to not respond. He went to her and put one arm around her shoulders, then, with infinite tenderness, he wiped away her tears.
‘It may not be the same, not after ten years, Lauren, but this is how a kiss between us feels,’ he murmured, moving so both his arms encircled her, loosely in case she felt trapped or wished to escape, then he bent his head and kissed her without the heat of the previous caress, feeling her lips pliant but not responsive.
He drew her closer and deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring her lips, telling himself he was simply trying to tease some memory to life within her, while his body heated again in response to the inexplicable but undeniable attraction that had sparked between them from their first meeting.
She pushed away—not immediately, but soon enough to make him feel a twinge of guilt that maybe he’d been taking advantage of her. Then she smiled.
‘I imagine kissing you was what got me into strife in the first place,’ she said, and although her voice was teasing her eyes were clouded with doubts and worry. ‘It was you?’ she added. ‘You were my lover?’
It seemed a strange way to ask for confirmation, puzzling, but he could think about that some other time. Now all he could do was nod, so much emotion roiling through his body he doubted his ability to speak—and certainly not to speak in English. But now she was frowning.
‘But you would have been older and no doubt experienced,’ she protested. ‘What did you see in a fairly inexperienced young woman from Coogee Beach?’
That was easy to answer, for only the truth wou
ld do.
‘I saw an honest, caring, beautiful young woman, excited by all the sights and sounds around her, willing to take on any job no matter how dirty or menial. I saw a woman who gave and gave of herself, offering love to those orphan kids in so many ways—in a touch, a cuddle, a walk on the beach, a song at bedtime—countless things. You were, and probably still are, very special.’
She shook her head as if to deny his words, repudiating them so they hung, perhaps slightly foolishly, in the air between them.
‘That is true,’ he added, wanting her to believe him. ‘My question, though, back then, was what did you see in me?’
That seemed to startle her and she studied him for a moment, then smiled.
‘An outrageously handsome man, I would think,’ she said, still smiling. ‘And French as well! To a far from sophisticated Sydney girl, you must have seemed so—so worldly?’
‘We were friends as well, not just lovers,’ Jean-Luc said, somehow needing to reassure her there had been more to their affair than simple lust. But was lust ever simple? He was feeling something now and although he didn’t want to label it as lust, he certainly didn’t know this new Lauren well enough for it to be anything else.
‘I’m glad about that,’ she said, turning away from him and walking along the beach, staying on the wet sand where the tail ends of waves could wash across her feet as they encroached and then retreated in their ceaseless movement.
Lauren moved, thinking if she was further from this man she had known but didn’t know now, she might be able to think straight, but he joined her, walking beside her, not too close, but near enough for her to be aware of him in every cell in her body. This was the man to whom she’d given herself—the man she’d loved. How could this be, that they could walk like this and, yes, she could feel attraction, but not know how she’d felt before?
And the attraction was dangerous, for it would blur her thinking and think was what she had to do. Think about Joe and what knowing who his father was might mean—to her, to him, and certainly to Jean-Luc.
He didn’t look at her as he walked so all she could see was his profile, lit by the moon. Strong nose and determined chin, the scars, barely visible, causing a slight pain in the region of her heart.
But right now she didn’t want to be feeling things—her emotions were too chaotic to cope with the manifestations of attraction. Perhaps if she found out more about the past—found more pieces of the jigsaw she was no closer to putting together.
Apart from the fact she now knew who had fathered Joe and she certainly didn’t want to go there right now!
‘As ex-colleagues and friends, can we talk about what happened—not with you and me but in the typhoon? You talked of an injury—what happened to you?’
They’d reached the rocks at the far end of the beach and as they turned he put an arm around her shoulders. A friendly arm—a colleague’s arm—or so she told herself, although the effect it had on her nerve endings suggested differently.
‘We had a warning that the storm, as they first labelled it, was sweeping across the bay but were told it would cross the land several hundred miles to the south. The staff at St Catherine’s had procedures for such an emergency and they secured storm shutters and made sure everything outside that could blow about was brought inside. Then the storm veered off course and the waves built until even without the radio warnings we could see it was going to hit the village. When the first wave of water swept across the orphanage grounds, the priest in charge suggested we move the babies to the church, which, being brick, should withstand an onslaught better.’
He paused but, hard though Lauren pressed her mind to remember, no images returned.
‘You and I carried the babies over there, and we made a little nest for them beneath the altar. You stayed with them…’
He drew a ragged breath and moved away, as if touching her might make it all too real.
‘I was helping the older children build barricades when the big wave came. I saw the church crumble and collapse and knew you were there beneath it all.’
Hearing his pain—the anguish he must still feel—Lauren moved towards him, putting her arms around him and holding him tightly.
‘You did what you thought best and I escaped,’ she reminded him, but she didn’t ask about the babies for Russ had found out details for her and she knew many children and infants had perished.
He returned her embrace and they stood together, seeking solace and reassurance from the close physical contact.
Then, subtly, the chemistry of it changed, and this time it was Lauren who initiated the kiss.
Exploratory, she told herself, excusing her boldness in pressing her lips against Jean-Luc’s. Experimental, even.
But excuses were soon forgotten as the warmth even a casual touch from this man could generate spread throughout her body and his lips joined hers in exploration and experimentation and just plain kissing.
Plain kissing?
Surely plain kissing couldn’t leave you breathless?
Couldn’t make your body quiver with some emotion you couldn’t understand, let alone name?
Her lips opened to his demands and the kiss deepened until Lauren could feel the heat of it right down to her toes.
This was folly! There was so much to be sorted out. But if this man could make her—a mature woman—feel this way, how much more intoxicating and entangling would his kisses have been to her twenty-one-year-old self?
Eventually he drew away and, embarrassed by the heat of her response, Lauren hurried up the beach. They weren’t even at the hospital and the love dust was affecting her—that had to be the answer. She had no memory whatsoever of this man, yet here she was kissing him with…fervour, a weird word she’d never used but surely it was the only one that fitted now.
Jean-Luc caught up with her but thankfully said nothing, although perhaps if he had then she could have answered and they could both have pretended the kiss hadn’t happened. They climbed the steps to the promenade and as they did so she again noticed his limp.
‘Your leg—it was injured in the typhoon. You said three months in hospital. It must have been bad.’
‘Pretty bad, but the main problem was that infection set in before I was repatriated back to France so I had operations to remove that and to remove infected bone. Learning to walk again took the time.’
Lauren smiled at him across the car.
‘You forgot how to walk and I forgot my lover. What a pair!’
She was deliberately keeping this light-hearted, Jean-Luc realised as they slid into the car. Then he silently acknowledged that this was good—for how else should lovers from the past react to each other?
Yet he didn’t think either of their reactions to the kiss had been connected to the past, except as far as it acknowledged the attraction between them still existed…
But attraction was dangerous—he knew that.
Attraction wasn’t enough for a stable, long-term relationship, but the strength of it could blur that fact, and tempt the people feeling it into mistaking it for love.
Lauren was turning into their street—the drive had seemed incredibly short.
She stopped outside his temporary home and he turned towards her, reluctant to get out of the car—to leave her—yet not understanding why.
She was looking straight ahead, her head slightly bowed, so the dark curtain of hair hung forward, hiding her face from him. Without thinking, he lifted his hand and tucked the wing of it behind her ear.
‘Has it helped, us talking?’ he asked, wondering if his gesture was so he could see her face as he asked the question or an excuse to touch her again.
And if it was the latter, why? He didn’t know this woman so was the attraction he felt for her or for a dream?
She smiled but the smile didn’t take the worried look from her face.
‘It will help,’ she said, turning to face him fully. ‘Once I’ve got it straight in my head.’
He stared
at her, so beautiful in the dim light in the car, and felt a response that definitely wasn’t lust. It caught at his lungs and squeezed in his chest and he had no idea what it was but knew it could be dangerous…
CHAPTER FIVE
A SLEEPLESS night was not the best preparation for another day in theatre with Alex’s team, but Jean-Luc knew his focus would be solely on the work they were doing, and blessed his ability to compartmentalise his life.
Or so he thought, until he arrived at the hospital—very early because his confusion over his walk on the beach was too great for him to handle a normal conversation with his upstairs neighbour, and he knew Grace was perceptive enough to guess something was wrong.
The first person he saw as he entered the PICU was Lauren.
‘On an early shift?’ he asked, compartmentalising nicely in his head while his body rebelled, remembering the kiss they’d shared on Coogee beach.
She looked at him—hard—then shook her head.
‘Off duty, in fact,’ she said, holding out her arms so he realised she was wearing jeans—snug-fitting jeans—and a T-shirt, not a nurse’s smock. ‘Little Brooke Symonds is having her operation this morning and I knew her mother would be worried so I came in to talk to her and make sure she had breakfast. It could be a long day.’
‘Brooke is the TGA? Alex’s operation?’
Lauren nodded and led him to where the tiny baby lay sleeping in her cot, wires from the monitors taped to her chest and an oxygen tube feeding into her nose.
‘I know with transposition of the great arteries the op has to be performed as soon as possible after birth,’ Lauren said, washing her hands in the waterless cleanser beside the crib then touching the baby girl’s hand, ‘but she’s so tiny to be going through major surgery.’
The infant’s little hand had curled around Lauren’s finger, and Jean-Luc felt a loss akin to pain that he had never felt a child—his child—curl a hand around his finger.
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