by Amy Andrews
He’d had his share of casual flings on his travels but always with women who’d known the score. Helen Franklin sent up a big red flag in his head. Warning bells were ringing loudly. Some women were best left alone—and she was one of them.
‘So this is it,’ Helen said, dumping her bag on the hall-stand and holding the door open for him. He brushed past her on the crutches and her breath hitched in her throat. ‘Your bags are in your room, through there.’
Helen pointed to one of the three bedrooms that ran off the main living area and tried not to blush at the memory of going through his bags to find the clothes he was now wearing. There had been a lot of boxers in his luggage and she felt as if she knew him more intimately than she’d ever known a complete stranger.
‘Kitchen through that door and dining room beside it.’ Helen could feel his gaze on her. ‘I have a casserole from last night I plan on heating up, if you’d like some.’
James nodded, his stomach growling at the suggestion. ‘Sounds good. I wouldn’t mind a shower first, though. I feel like half the bush is still clinging to me.’ He looked down at his leg and grimaced. ‘I guess a bath’s going to be easier.’
Helen nodded while desperately trying to not think about him in the bath. Naked. ‘Probably.’ Oh, God, he wasn’t going to need a hand, was he? ‘Will you be OK to…?’
James watched the play of emotions flick across her face and toyed with the idea of exaggerating his injury. ‘Why? Are you offering?’ he murmured.
Helen felt her cheeks grow hot just thinking about something that was second nature to her. Something that she had helped hundreds of patients with. Running a bath for him…helping him off with his clothes…supporting him as he lowered himself into the bath. She opened her mouth to tell him she wasn’t his nursemaid but no words come out.
James chuckled. ‘It’s OK, Helen. I think you’ve already gone above and beyond the call of duty.’
She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Damn right,’ she said, and stalked into the kitchen, his hearty laughter following her.
An hour later Helen was starting to worry when the door to the bathroom was still closed. She hadn’t heard any pleas for help and she hoped he was just taking his time rather than stuck in the bath, unable to get out. She turned the volume on the television up to distract her from her steamy thoughts.
He joined her a few minutes later, hobbling on his crutches. He was wearing a white T-shirt that hugged his well-defined musculature and a pair of black boxer shorts. His dark wavy hair was damp and wet strings of it brushed the back of his neck. He smelled like soap and something else, some spicy fragrance that she knew was going to stick around long after he’d hit the road.
He was clean shaven and her fingers tingled with the urge to touch his smooth jaw.
‘Better?’ she asked him, hoping she sounded normal and that the husky strain in her voice was just her imagination. She’d known him for less than a day but already he made her acutely aware that she was a woman.
He nodded. ‘Heaps.’
James turned to sit on a lounge chair.
‘No, wait, hang on,’ she said, springing up from the couch she’d been sitting on. ‘You have the three-seater—that way you can put your leg up. I’ll sit there.’
James stopped and stared down at her. She was fussing around with cushions. She seemed nervous. Her ponytail swished with her movements and from his vantage point he could see the nip of her waist and the nape of her neck.
‘OK.’ He sat and put his leg up gratefully. It had started to throb again and he’d just taken two painkillers.
‘Hang tight. I’ll just nuke your casserole.’
Helen fled to the kitchen and leant heavily against the sink for a moment. What the hell was happening to her? She was acting as if she’d never seen a man before. OK, they didn’t really get men of his calibre in Skye. For God’s sake, there were only three unattached men under forty and not one of them looked like James. Locums who deigned to come to the bush usually only came in one flavour—fiftyish, balding and, more often than not, condescending.
But she was going to need to get a serious grip because she had to live with this man for four months and acting like a tongue-tied teenager every time she saw him less than fully dressed was going to get really embarrassing really quickly. So he redefined tall, dark and handsome. One thing was for sure. He’d get back on that bike in four months’ time and ride off into the sunset. And she was damned if he was going to ride off with her heart.
James looked up as she came back into the room carrying a steaming bowl of something that smelled divine, and his stomach growled. He took the tray from her and was pleased to see she’d served him a hearty portion and also added a hunk of fresh grainy bread.
‘This smells amazing,’ he said as he ripped off a chunk of bread and dipped it into the thick, dark gravy.
Helen nodded. ‘It tastes pretty good, too.’
James mouth was salivating even before he could put the soaked bread into it. He shut his eyes and sighed as the meaty flavour hit his taste buds. He chewed and savoured it for a few moments before swallowing. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, it does.’
Helen resolutely turned her attention to the television and tried not to be turned on by the sounds of pleasure coming from his direction. Elsie had always said there was nothing more satisfying than filling a grown man’s belly. Helen had secretly thought that was kind of old-fashioned but being privy to James’s appreciation was strangely gratifying.
As James ate he watched his new housemate surreptitiously through his heavy fringe. She seemed engrossed in the television, sitting with her shapely legs crossed and her hands folded primly in her lap. She was quite petite and the big squishy leather chair seemed to envelop her.
She was still in her clothes from that morning, navy shorts which had ridden up to mid-thigh and a plain white cotton blouse. He assumed it was her uniform. Apart from the tantalising glimpse of her leg, it was kind of shapeless. If he hadn’t known about the pink lace beneath he would have even said it was boring.
‘So, what’s the story with this place?’ James asked as he mopped up the dregs of his bowl with the last piece of bread. ‘It looks quite old.’
Helen steeled herself to look at him and was grateful he was looking at the fancy ceiling cornices. ‘It’s a turn-of-the-century worker’s cottage that’s been added onto over the years. It’s been used as a residence for the Skye Medical Practice for about forty years since Dr Jones bought the property and built the original surgery at the front of the land.’
‘Did he live in it?’
Helen nodded. ‘Until it got too small for his growing family. He had seven children. And it’s been used ever since by successive doctors. Frank lived in it when he first came to Skye until they bought something bigger, so did Genevieve until she moved in with Don.’
‘Frank’s the boss?’
Helen nodded.
‘Has it ever been empty?’
‘Off and on.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
Since Duncan and Denise’s growing brood had made her realise it had been time to move on. They hadn’t asked her to go, had been horrified when she had suggested it, but she’d known it was the right thing to do. As welcome as they’d always made her, as much a part of the family as she’d always been, the facts were the facts. They’d needed an extra room and she was an adult.
It had been an odd time. She’d realised that she’d never had a place she could truly call her own. A place she’d felt like she’d belonged. That deep down, despite Elsie’s love and assurances, she’d always felt on the outside. Her mother was gone and her father was more comfortable with the open road than his own daughter.
She looked around, feeling suddenly depressed. Even this place wasn’t hers. ‘A couple of years.’
James heard a sadness shadowing her answer. He saw it reflected in her eyes. He recognised the look. Had seen it in his own eyes often enough. Beneath the surface
Helen Franklin was as solitary as him. Looking for something to make her feel whole. Just like him.
He felt a strange connection to her and had a sudden urge to pull her close, and perhaps if he hadn’t been encumbered with a cast that seemed to weigh a ton he might have. She seemed so fragile suddenly, so different from the woman who had dragged him from the bush. ‘Is that how long you’ve lived in Skye?’
Helen laughed. ‘Goodness, no. I was born here.’
Of course. Everything about her screamed homey. From her casserole to her prim ponytail. She looked utterly at home in this cosy worker’s cottage in outback Queensland.
He felt a growl hum through his bloodstream as the affinity he’d felt dissolved with a rush of hormones. She wasn’t his type. In fact, she was the type he avoided like the plague.
‘Have you lived here all your life?’
Helen didn’t miss the slight emphasis on the word ‘all’. Obviously staying in one place was a fate worse than death for him. She looked at his beautiful face, into his turquoise gaze, and saw the restlessness there. The same restlessness she’d grown up seeing in her father’s eyes. He was a drifter. A gypsy.
‘Except for when I went to uni.’
James nodded his head absently. Definitely not his type. He preferred women who had lived life a bit. Travelled. In his experience they were much more open-minded. They knew the score and didn’t expect an engagement ring the second a man paid them a bit of attention.
‘You don’t approve.’
He shrugged. ‘Not at all. It’s just not for me. I’d feel too hemmed in.’
Heed his words, Helen, heed his words. But a part of her rebelled. The arrogance of the man to assume that because she was still living in the place she’d been born that she’d not done anything with her life. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being grounded. Doesn’t running away get tiresome?’
He chuckled at her candour. She didn’t look fragile any more. She looked angry. ‘I prefer to think of it as moving on.’
God, he sounded like her father. ‘I bet you do.’ He chuckled again and goose-bumps feathered her arm as if he’d stroked his finger down it. ‘So where are you moving on to from here?’
He shrugged. ‘Central Queensland somewhere. Wherever they need a locum. I haven’t seen much of the state and I want to make my way up to the Cape. It’s supposed to be spectacular.’
Helen had been up to Cape York with her father during a very memorable school holiday. It was spectacular. But stubbornness prevented her from sharing that thought. She wasn’t going to elaborate and spoil his image of her as a small-town, gone-nowhere girl.
‘Where are you from originally?’
‘Melbourne. But I haven’t lived there since I finished my studies.’
‘Let me guess. You’ve been travelling?’
James laughed. ‘Very good.’
‘Do you still have family in Melbourne?’
‘My mother.’
Helen noticed the way his smile slipped a little. It didn’t appear that they were close. ‘Your father?’
James sobered as he fingered the chain around his neck. ‘He died in my final year of uni.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said quietly. She met his turquoise gaze and she could see regret and sorrow mingle.
He shrugged. ‘We weren’t really close.’
There were a few moments when neither of them spoke. The television murmuring in the background was the only noise. So James’s relationship with his parents had been as fraught as hers had been with her parents? She felt a moment of solidarity with him.
James stirred before the sympathy he saw in her gaze blindsided him to the facts. Helen Franklin was a woman who liked to be grounded. He’d avoided her type for years.
They were incompatible. He was just a little weakened from the pain that was starting to gnaw at his leg again and her terrific home cooking.
‘Still, I inherited his bike. I guess I have that to thank him for.’
That explained why he’d been so concerned about the machine. It wasn’t just because it was highly valuable, it obviously had sentimental value to him.
‘She’s a beautiful Harley,’ Helen commented. ‘Is it a ’60 or ’61?’
James regarded her for a moment. ‘You know something about bikes?’
Helen stifled the smile that sprang to her lips at his amazement. ‘I know a little.’
‘It’s a 1960.’
‘It seemed to survive the crash OK.’
He smiled. ‘An oldy but a goody.’
She grinned back at him. It was something her father would have said, his own classic Harley being his most prized possession. Looking at James, she could see why her mother had fallen for her father. The whole free-spirit thing was hard to resist. James’s handsome face was just as charming, just as charismatic as the man who had fathered her.
She blinked. ‘So…what…you just roam around the country, going from one locum job to the next?’
He nodded. ‘Pretty much.’
‘Sounds…interesting.’ Actually, she thought it sounded terrible. No continuity. No getting to know your patients or your colleagues or your neighbours. It sounded lonely.
‘Oh, it is. I love it. The bush is drastically under-serviced. There are so many practices crying out for locums. Too many GPs working themselves into the ground because they can’t take any time off. Much more than city practices. I really feel like I fill a need out here. And bush people are always so friendly and happy to see you.’
‘But don’t you ever long to stay in one place for a while? Really get to know people?’
He shrugged. ‘I prefer to spread myself around. Locums are in such high demand out here—’
‘Tell me about it,’ Helen interrupted.
He smiled. ‘I’d like to think I can help as many stressed out country GPs as I can rather than just a few for longer. And, anyway, it suits my itchy feet.’
She suspected James Remington could have done anything he’d put his mind to. He looked like a hot-shot surgeon at home breaking hearts all over a big city hospital yet he chose to lose himself in the outback. ‘Not a lot of money in it,’ she commented.
‘I do all right,’ he said dismissively. ‘General practice has its own rewards.’
As an only child growing up in a very unhappy household, James had never felt particularly wanted by either of his parents. Oh, he hadn’t been neglected or abused but he’d been left with the overwhelming feeling of being in the way. Being in the way of their happiness. They’d stayed together for him and had been miserable.
Being a GP, especially in the country, looking after every aspect of a patient’s health, had made him feel more wanted and needed than his parents ever had. Not just by his patients but by his colleagues and the different communities he’d serviced. And James knew through painful experience you couldn’t put a dollar value on that. Some rewards were greater than any riches.
Helen nodded. ‘I agree.’
They watched television for a while. Helen found her gaze drifting his way too frequently for her own liking. She yawned. ‘Think I’m going to turn in for the night.’ She stood and leaned over to take his tray, his spicy scent luring her closer.
‘Yes, I’m kind of done in myself.’
She straightened, pulling herself away. ‘See you in the morning.’
‘Night,’ he called after her retreating back.
James woke at two a.m. his leg throbbing relentlessly. He shifted around trying to get comfortable for fifteen minutes and gave up when no amount of position change eased the constant gnaw. He reached for his crutches and levered himself out of bed. He’d left his painkillers in the bathroom.
Quietly he navigated his way through the unfamiliar house to the bathroom. He didn’t want to switch on any lights in case he woke Helen. He didn’t know whether she was a light sleeper or not and the last thing he wanted to do was annoy her on their first night under the same roof.
He located the pills and s
wallowed two, washing them down with some tap water. The thought of trying to get back to sleep before the painkillers had worked their magic didn’t appeal so James decided to sit in the lounge, put the television on low and try and distract himself.
He picked his way gingerly through the lounge room, trying not to make too much noise or bang into any furniture. He felt for the couch as he balanced himself on his crutches and was grateful when he finally found the edge. But as he manoeuvred down into its squishy folds his crutches wobbled and one of them fell.
James made a grab for it but the sudden movement jarred through his fracture site. He cursed to himself as he clutched his leg, helpless to prevent the crutch from crashing down loudly on the coffee-table.
Helen sprang from her bed as the noise pulled her out of her sleep. James? Had he fallen? She dashed outside pushing her sleep-mussed hair out of her face.
She snapped on the light, flooding the lounge room in a fluorescent glow, putting her hand to her eyes at the sudden pain stabbing into her eyeballs. ‘What? What’s wrong?’
James squinted, too, the pain in his leg still gripping unbearably.
‘Are you OK?’ Helen asked, slowly removing her hand as her eyes adjusted.
He nodded. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’
James’s eyes came open slowly and he wondered if the pain and the medication were making him delirious. Before him stood a very different Helen Franklin. Gone was the prim ponytail. Her hair was down, a deep rich brown tumbling in sleep-mussed disorder to her shoulders. It made him want to put his face into it, glide his fingers through it.
Gone was the shapeless uniform. She was wearing some kind of silky sleep shirt the colour of a fine merlot, which barely skimmed the tops of her thighs and clung in interesting places. It left him in no doubt that her pert breasts were no longer encased in pink lace. In any lace at all. He could see the jut of her hip and the curve of her waist and a whole lot of leg.
