A Woman To Belong To. Fiona Lowe

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      ‘Madame?’

      Bec started and turned.

      A young man with an umbrella came toward her, concern crossing his face.

      ‘Bác s

. Doctor.’ Bec repeated the oft-said phrase wondering how bad her accent sounded to the locals.

      The young man grinned a trade-mark wide Vietnamese smile and pointed to the gate in the high wall at the end of the lane. ‘He is there.’

      Bec smiled, nodding her head in thanks, and ran the last few metres to the gate. Her heart hammered against her ribs in anticipation. Finally, after two days of searching, she was making progress. Since arriving in Vietnam on holiday, she’d had an increasing sense of needing to contribute to this glorious country. To do something for the children of Vietnam. At night she lay in bed and tried to work out the best way to help. One week ago she’d decided that a clinic which combined health and education was the best way to go.

      Healthy children had a greater capacity to learn and children who had access to education had a greater chance to improve their lives. Education opened up options even if it was just the option to flee an unsafe situation.

      She’d used that option.

      Now she wanted to give other kids the same chance. Australia had a lot of established services for children and Vietnam didn’t. She hoped to use the ties Australia had with this nation to her advantage.

      But trying to work out how to start the process of working with the Vietnamese health department and education department had almost defeated her. Each bureaucrat fobbed her off with, ‘Talk to Dr Thông.’ She had no idea who this doctor was but she was pinning her hopes on him. He must hold the key to her plan.

      The heavy gate closed behind her. Suddenly she was in a tranquil courtyard; the noise and hustle of Hanoi receded to barely a buzz. Only the sound of heavy rain on the ground broke the peaceful serenity of this haven.

      A French villa stood before her, its green shutters closed against the rain. Bec swore she could hear whispered stories of a life of decadent elegance before years of turmoil. She shook her head against a feeling of light-headedness. The heat and humidity must be getting to her.

      Soaked to the skin, she tugged on the old door pull and a bell sounded in the distance.

      She waited. The bell rang out. Silence descended.

      Her stomach growled—hunger gnawing at nothing as anticipatory acid burned her stomach. She’d given away her breakfast of rice soup to a homeless child. She’d planned to grab something else but had got sidetracked with her search.

      The world tilted slightly and she realised it was now mid-afternoon. Stupid. She needed to be on top of things when she met Dr Thông.

      She pulled the bell again, her hand gripping the pulley tightly for support.

      The bell chimed loud and long. Footsteps sounded.

      Bec bowed her head and breathed in a calming breath. This is it.

      The door creaked open and stilted Vietnamese swirled around her, the accent clumsy and unfamiliar.

      She looked up quickly, her practised greeting dying on her lips.

      She’d been expecting a short Vietnamese doctor. Instead, a tall, broad-shouldered man with designer tousled black hair filled the doorway, a backpack slung casually over one shoulder. He wore a well-known surfing-brand T-shirt, the spun cotton clinging like a second skin to a toned chest and muscular arms. A shadow of dark stubble highlighted a strong jaw and a firm mouth.

      An unexpected quiver spread through her, racing down to her toes. She shook her head. She really needed some food. Blinking, she took another look at him through the rain. A sigh of dismay escaped her lips as her heart sank. This golden-skinned man belonged on a beach. He had tourist written all over him. He couldn’t possibly be Dr Thông.

      Large oval eyes, the colour of dark chocolate, studied her intently. ‘Can I help you?’

      The Australian accent stunned her and she searched for her voice. ‘I’m sorry, I think I’ve been directed to the wrong place. I’m looking for Dr Thông.’

      An ironic smile passed over high cheekbones. ‘That’s me. I’m Tom. It’s written Thông, but pronounced Tom. Tom Bracken.’ He hitched his backpack further up his shoulder. ‘I’m also just leaving so you’d be better off trying the French hospital.’

      Her brain stalled at his smile, driving away the confused thoughts of why he sounded and looked so Australian. She forced herself to focus. ‘No, I’m not sick.’

      ‘Glad to hear it. I’ll be back in a few weeks so make an appointment with my housekeeper.’

      Panic simmered in her belly. Don’t let him leave. ‘I need to talk to you about the orphans.’

      He stiffened. ‘Are you a journalist?’

      She shook her head, confused, her mind racing to find a succinct sentence to make an impression on him and to stop him leaving right away. ‘I’m a nurse.’

      ‘Great. Again, try the French hospital.’ He moved forward, towering over her meagre five feet and two inches.

      She clenched her fists against the surge of unwanted fear that twisted inside her as she looked up at him. ‘You don’t understand. I’m not looking for a job.’

      ‘So, you’re not sick, you’re not looking for a job and you’re not a journalist.’ His black eyebrows rose in perfect arches. ‘Why do you need to see me?’

      She swallowed hard, knowing what she said next would either delay him or see him marching through the gate. ‘I have a mission and I need your help.’

      Don’t stop, you’ll miss your plane. Tom’s grip on the doorhandle instinctively lessened as an irrational need to listen to this woman’s story clashed with his desire to leave immediately.

      Something in her voice made him pause. Energy and vitality rolled off her in waves, matched with a steely determination. Her chin jutted slightly as she stood her ground. He recognised that stance. He’d seen photos of himself doing the same thing.

      When he’d opened the door and seen a petite woman in plain Vietnamese dress, with her head bowed against the rain, he’d immediately assumed she was a patient who’d been given the wrong address. Then she’d raised her face. The rush of heat that had whipped through him when her violet-blue eyes had caught his gaze still simmered inside him.

      He’d never seen eyes that colour before. They reminded him of his mother’s spring irises, the purple-blue flowers she insisted on growing despite the heat of the Australian bush.

      And yet shadows lurked in the sparkle of vibrant colour. For a brief moment he had a crazy desire to chase those shadows away.

      You don’t have time for this, the pilot has a timetable. Ever since he’d been interviewed on local television, people had started approaching him, requesting his time for his perspective on health and his support for their own projects. And the local СКАЧАТЬ