Four Weddings: A Woman To Belong To / A Wedding in Warragurra / The Surgeon's Chosen Wife / The Playboy Doctor's Marriage Proposal

CHAPTER NINE

‘HEY!’ TOM DUCKED as Bec cracked open a cooked crab and fluid sprayed down his arm.

‘Sorry. Crabs are a lot of effort for little return, aren’t they?’ She was nestled between his legs and together they were eating their way through an enormous seafood meal.

She turned her head slightly and flicked out her tongue, trailing a line along his biceps, licking the errant moisture from his skin. ‘Oh, you taste all salty.’ She giggled, leaning back against him and looking up into his face.

Heat slammed him. ‘I imagine you do, too. Perhaps I should find out.’ He leaned down and kissed her, unable to resist the touch and taste of those tempting lips. He felt cocooned in time. Cocooned in Halong Bay, as if they were the only two people who existed in the world.

He released her mouth. ‘Just as I thought—salty. But I might have to do some more research.’

She laughed and leaned forward toward the food, this time shelling the most enormous prawns he’d ever seen.

For three hours they’d had this tiny beach to themselves. They’d spent their time swimming, eating and just enjoying being together. And the best sex you’ve ever had in your life.

Their lovemaking had been exhilarating and intense. He thought his frantic, consuming need to possess her would have been sated after they’d made love, but it hadn’t gone away. Instead, it had evolved into something different, less wild, more defined, more real. He longed to make love to her slowly, to fully explore her in the comfort of a bed. He wanted to know what stirred her, what would cause her to yearn for his touch, and what made her reach for him.

He’d never experienced anything like it with any other woman. The craving to constantly touch her burned strongly—a hand on her shoulder, an arm around her waist, his lips on her hair—and he’d kept her close to him ever since they’d fallen back on the picnic rug, exhausted but replete.

‘Tom, look over there.’ Bec pointed to the sky.

Black clouds bore down on the white fluffy ones that scudded across the sky. ‘Rain coming. We better head back. Do you want to swim or go in the basket boat?’

She gave a wry smile. ‘It’s a moot point whether a trip in the basket boat is really more like a swim. Besides, I’ve eaten so much, I think I could do with the exercise.’ She stood up, stretched and rubbed her belly.

His desire for her, always simmering inside him, boiled over at the sight of her fingers splayed against her rounded belly. He pulled her to him. ‘I’ve got an idea of how we could exercise.’

Her eyes deepened to a purple hue. ‘Is that so?’

‘Mmm.’ He dipped his head to her neck, kissing her, sucking her skin into his mouth as the overpowering urge to mark her as his hit him. ‘After all, it’s going to be raining.’

A wicked grin danced across her face. ‘So we’d need to exercise indoors.’

‘I was thinking behind closed doors. My cabin door.’ He extended his kisses as she tilted her head back. ‘After I’ve washed all that salt water off you in the shower.’

He heard her moan, the sound thrilling him to his marrow.

She spun out of his arms and jogged to the water’s edge calling over her shoulder, ‘Don’t be too long or I’ll have used all the hot water.’ She splashed into the water and dived in.

He followed, chasing a promise.

She outswam him and five minutes later he hauled himself up the steep steps into the stern of the boat. He strode up the long, narrow corridor, water streaming off him. Pushing open his cabin door, he expected to be greeted by the sound of running water.

Silence.

The bed lay empty and so did the bathroom. Confused, he turned and headed back out into the corridor. He met Bec fully clothed again in her Vietnamese gear, her brow creased in concern. She clutched the medical backpack. The transformation from siren to nurse was startling. The only hint of their time on the beach was her wet hair.

Disappointment slugged him.

‘The cook has sliced his hand badly with the carving knife. I’ve bound it but we need your stitching prowess.’

He stared at her, his brain slowly computing as his libido receded.

She smiled at him like he was a child. ‘You might want to grab a towel and meet me up on deck.’

Everything fell into place. ‘Right. Yes, of course. I’ll be up there in a minute.’ He watched her walk along the corridor. He imagined he had X-ray vision, seeing straight through the utilitarian cotton to the shapely buttocks moving seductively underneath. Right now, his imagination was as close as he was going to get.

He quickly shucked his board shorts, towelled himself dry and pulled on his clothes. Taking three steps at a time, he bounded up to the top deck. In the main living area he found the six crew members all hovering around Bec and a young man whose pale face told him he was the patient. He was almost as white as the bandage around his hand.

Bec glanced up at him as he walked in, her welcoming smile lighting up her face. The same smile she’d given him each time she’d seen him, the same smile she’d bestowed on him for the past few weeks. Today it looked the same, but it felt very different.

He watched her as she unwrapped the bandage. Her aura of competence and friendliness surrounded her, but it lacked the tension that had always been part of her. He suddenly realised that for the first time since he’d met her, she was completely and utterly relaxed.

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I tried to explain stitches to Trang but my Vietnamese didn’t come close.’ She gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I think my charades just scared him.’

‘No worries. I think my Vietnamese is up to this.’ Tom smiled at the youth, greeting him before examining the wound. ‘It’s deep. He’s cut into muscle.’

‘I thought so.’ Bec opened the dressing pack and drew up some local anaesthetic, pre-empting his request. As usual, she was organised and efficient.

Tom changed to Vietnamese. ‘How did you cut your hand, Trang?’ He sat down and applied more pressure to the wound.

‘I don’t know. I didn’t feel it. I just saw the cut.’ Beads of sweat clustered on his forehead.

‘A sharp knife is a dangerous thing.’ Tom checked the edges of the wound.

‘But it isn’t very sharp. It wasn’t cutting well.’

Bec leaned over his shoulder, her chest brushing his back. ‘It’s a pretty jagged cut. How did it happen?’

Tom peered more closely at the gash. ‘He said the knife wasn’t sharp and he didn’t feel the cut which really doesn’t make a lot of sense.’

Trang’s face paled as he suddenly leaned forward, heaving.

Bec grabbed a bucket and pushed it into his hands just as he started to vomit.

‘Lucky save.’ Tom smiled his thanks. Her quick actions had just prevented him being covered in Trang’s stomach contents.

A dreamy look crossed her face. ‘It’s my lucky day.’

The softly spoken words wafted around him warmly, but settled on him uncomfortably. He shrugged the feeling away. Pressing a finger around the wound, he asked Trang, ‘Does it hurt here … here … here?’

The patient shook his head. ‘No, it doesn’t really feel.’

‘Pass me a needle please, Bec.’ This didn’t make sense. He should have a throbbing hand. He should have felt the cut.

‘Here you go. What are you thinking? Some sort of paraesthesia? Perhaps he cut a nerve.’

Tom unsheathed the needle and pressed it around the hand. ‘Tell me when you feel a sharp jab.’

‘No, I don’t feel. My feet are tingling, too.’ Trang slumped at the table as he heaved again.

Bec passed the young man water to rinse his mouth and then mopped his brow with a cool cloth. ‘I know he could be vomiting from shock but do you think he might have cut his hand because he was feeling unwell and lost concentration?’

Tom shrugged. ‘The symptoms are pretty confusing. I’m going to stitch the hand first. That might turn out to be the easy bit. Can you do a set of observations?’

‘Sure.’ Bec picked up the sphygmomanometer and wrapped it around Trang’s upper arm.

As Tom injected the local anaesthetic into Trang’s already numb hand he started to sort the symptoms in his head. Nausea, vomiting, sweating, numb hand, tingling feet. On the surface it could be, as Bec had said, a vaso-vagal reaction. But he had a nagging feeling that if he went with that, it would be the easy diagnosis. ‘Now I am going to stitch your hand.’

Trang gave a feeble nod. ‘Jus doit.’ His words ran together in a slur.

‘Tom, his blood pressure is really low.’ Bec’s questioning and concerned gaze fixed on him. ‘Food poisoning?’

Tom threaded the curved needle and started to bind the muscle layers of the hand together in a series of small stitches. ‘Maybe.’ Without looking up, he asked the other crew. ‘Does anyone feel sick or dizzy?’

‘I don’t know what you just asked them, Tom, but they’re all shaking their heads.’

‘I think we just ruled out food poisoning.’ He changed over to the finer thread for the skin closure stitches.

Bec encouraged Trang to drink some more water. ‘Not necessarily. Trang’s the cook. He could have tasted dinner as he prepared it and the contamination could be from that. We’re well because we haven’t eaten that meal yet.’

He smiled at her logic as he snipped the thread. ‘Very perceptive.’ Keen intelligence wrapped up in a delicious body. It was a powerful combination. One he couldn’t wait to explore again. And he would as soon as he’d solved the Trang puzzle.

The sick man took a sip of water but most of it dribbled out of his mouth.

‘He’s dribbling, Tom.’ Apprehension clung to her words.

‘And he’s slurring his speech.’ He quickly finished the last stitch, his brain frantically searching his memory for clues. ‘Trang, is your mouth feeling numb?’

‘My mouf an’ my tong.’ The words sounded thick.

‘Squeeze my hand as hard as you can.’ Tom placed his hand against Trang’s uninjured hand.

The pressure was weak. Far too weak for a young man of twenty.

Bec’s words about tasting a meal rang in his head. ‘What were you cooking?’

The young man’s gaze slid away. ‘Soup.’

A red flag hoisted itself in his mind. ‘What sort of soup? It’s important you tell me. You could be very, very sick.’

Trang threw an imploring look at his captain and then dropped his head. ‘Puffer fish.’

All the symptoms dropped into place. He’d been cooking the delicacy that the Vietnamese government was actively discouraging. Discouraging because fugu was deadly. ‘Bec, you were right. He’s poisoned himself with his cooking. He’s got tetrodotoxin poisoning.’

A stunned look passed across her face. ‘But that’s a neurotoxin and it will slowly paralyse his respiratory system. We’re hours from the mainland. Hours from a respirator.’

‘I know, but he said he was making soup. Let’s hope the fish had been gutted and that there were only traces of toxin heavily diluted by water.’ He turned to the now frightened young man. ‘How did you prepare the fish?’

‘I took out the guts. I know these are where the poison is.’

Tom sighed. ‘Did you boil the heads and skin?’

Trang sobbed. ‘I did.’

‘There’s no antidote, is there?’ Bec bit her bottom lip.

‘No. None. It paralyses the victim, leaving them fully conscious. A living death.’ He stood up and gave Trang’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘He cooked the eyes of the puffer fish, which are full of the toxin. But we’ve got charcoal to absorb it and if we can give him a gastric lavage and empty his stomach we have a fighting chance.’

Bec started rummaging through the medical kit. ‘I guess we can use the IV tubing as a lavage tube.’

‘Good thinking. All we can do is address the symptoms. Let’s hope that this is as bad as he gets.’ He touched her arm. ‘I’ll tell the captain to head the boat back to Halong City.’

She nodded, a flash of regret streaking across her face. He knew exactly how she felt. It was going to be a long night but not the type of long night they’d both imagined.

* * *

Bec woke with a start. Rain pounded the porthole as the boat rocked violently. Her stomach lurched and she dragged in a deep breath, trying to calm the seasickness. Tom had sent her to bed. His bed. Only problem was, he wasn’t in it.

Just as she’d finished the gastric lavage and charcoal treatment, the storm had hit. The tranquil sea she’d swum in only a few hours before had become a roiling, churning mass of white-capped waves, thudding hard against the hull of the boat, making it roll back and forth. Making her stomach roll. Just like on the motorbike when she’d succumbed to motion sickness. Tom had taken one look at her and ordered her to bed.

She lay staring at the inky blackness outside, guilt nibbling at her. She wondered how Trang was doing. She should get up and help Tom. Sitting up, she edged to the side of the bed and then stood. The boat lurched. She fell back as acid burned the back of her throat. She hated this. Hated feeling this weak.

She lay down again and closed her eyes. The sound of the doorhandle being pulled down made her turn over. Tom’s bulk filled the small cabin. Wondrous delight wound through her. She could lie and watch him for hours. ‘How’s Trang?’

He sat on the edge of the bed, his weight tilting her toward him. His long fingers stroked her temple. ‘He’s stable. And damned lucky. His decision to make soup saved his life as it diluted the toxins. He hasn’t deteriorated and his breathing is OK. The first three hours are the most dangerous and we’re into four now. He’s improved slightly.’

‘Thank goodness. I’m sorry I let you down.’

His hand cupped her cheek. ‘You didn’t let me down. You were there when I needed you. The last couple of hours have just been observation. He’s being monitored by one of the crew who will come and get me if anything changes.’ He kicked off his shoes. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fine as long as I stay lying down.’ She put her hand over his. ‘You look worn out.’

‘Yeah.’ He tried to stifle a yawn. ‘Is there room for me in there?’

‘Absolutely.’ She moved over to make some space.

He lay down next to her, drawing her back against his front, moulding his body to hers and wrapping his strong arms around her in a tender hug. He gently kissed her hair and sighed, his arms tightening around her.