Four Weddings. Fiona Lowe

Чтение книги онлайн.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      BEC STOOD DWARFED beneath the thirty-seven-metre flagpole, the distinctive red flag with the central yellow star fluttering high and proud above her. She turned one hundred and eighty degrees and stepped back in time.

      Built high atop a gated wall, Yin and Yang ceramic roof tiles gave the building its distinctive Chinese-style roof line. Intricate ceramic dragons and phoenixes draped the pitch of the roof, protecting and bringing prosperity. A temple flag, with its distinctive square shape, flew from the middle balcony, surrounded by carved ironwood balustrades. Bec could imagine an emperor in golden robes, holding court.

      They were on their way back to Hanoi and Tom had said, ‘No way could you miss Hué.’ Way being the pronunciation of Hué, he’d chuckled at his play on words. He seemed to be very content with his metaphoric tour guide hat on. ‘The citadel was the home of the Nguyen dynasty, the last imperial family of Vietnam. The defending wall encloses ten kilometres and is two metres thick.’

      He gave a wry smile. ‘over the centuries, dynasties got rolled quite often by other war-lord families.’

      ‘My head’s spinning with temples, pagodas, tombs, dates, people and names.’ Bec fanned herself with her hat as the indefatigable heat sapped her concentration.

      Tom laughed. ‘That happens to everyone the first time they come here. There’s so much history and fabulous architecture to see. Hué was the central pulse of Vietnam for a long time, full of political intrigue and coups, as well as being the religious and educational capital. It’s a fascinating place but it can wear you down.’

      She smiled wanly. ‘I think I just went into temple overload.’

      He grabbed her hand. ‘Must be time for ice cream.’

      Five minutes later they sat by the Perfume River, sharing the biggest banana split Bec had ever seen. ‘This vanilla ice cream is to die for.’

      ‘The French left a few great legacies in this country and my favourites are baguettes, gateaux and ice cream.’ He languidly licked his spoon, his tongue savouring the last traces of the creamy confection.

      Bec’s breath stalled in her throat as an image of his tongue exploring her body exploded in her mind. Oh, no, don’t go there. She’d thought the knowledge that neither of them wanted a relationship would have nailed the lid closed on these unexpected bursts of hormone-fuelled lust. Especially since they’d made their friendship pact.

      She’d been stunned at how easy it was to be his friend. On the surface nothing had changed between them since she’d opened herself up to his friendship, and yet everything had changed.

      She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Tom was still Tom—kind, considerate, laid-back and fun. His respect for her as a colleague remained the same, and they worked together as a team. But it’s a stronger team.

      Was that it? Had she relaxed around him? Had he relaxed around her?

      There were subtle changes. Like him grabbing her hand to pull her toward the ice-cream stall, a squeeze of her shoulder when she’d dealt with a tough case. There was a camaraderie that had been absent before and it warmed her in a way she’d never known. A secure warmth. A companionable warmth.

      Perhaps Tom was right. Perhaps she’d missed out by being too self-contained and independent. She leaned back, full of ice cream but energised by the break in the shade. ‘So what’s next on the tour schedule?’

      Tom checked his watch. ‘I want to stop in at the Buddhist nunnery and do a check up on one of the elderly nuns.’

      ‘A Buddhist nunnery? I had no idea. I’ve heard of Buddhist monks but not nuns.’

      ‘They don’t wear saffron robes, often they’re brown or grey. But they’re the best vegetarian cooks I’ve ever come across and they’ll want to feed you.’

      She rubbed her stomach. ‘Now you tell me. Why did you let me eat such a huge sundae?’

      He grinned his bone-melting smile. ‘That’s why we shared.’ He left some notes and coins on the table and ushered her out the door, back to the waiting four-wheel-drive.

      The vehicle wound up into the hills behind Hué, the lush greenery contrasting with the dusty road. ‘What’s that?’ Bec pointed to a roadside stall. Shaky wooden racks supported the most amazing display of vivid coloured sticks she’d ever seen. Red, green, purple and yellow sticks were tied together at their bases and fanned out in the shape of an ice cream cone.

      ‘It’s incense for the temples and it’s big business in this area. Cinnamon and sandalwood trees grow along the banks of the Perfume River and they harvest the scent from the wood shavings. Would you like to see it being made?’ Enthusiasm for the idea danced across his face.

      She clapped her hands in delight. ‘I’d love to if we have time.’

      Tom gave her an indulgent smile. ‘Sure, we can spare ten minutes.’ He asked the driver to stop and they stepped up to one of the tiny stalls. A woman sat under cover at a small table, holding about thirty thin bamboo sticks, which had been painted red along three quarters of their length. Her hands rapidly rolled the sticks across a pile of fine dust, while she used a trowel with her right hand to scoop more powder over them.

      Bec watched, fascinated. ‘How does the scent stick to the bamboo?’

      Tom pointed to a large glob of rolled up gooey-looking stuff. ‘That’s glue.’

      The woman looked up from under her non la and smiled, pushing some sticks into Bec’s hands.

      Confused, Bec accepted them.

      Tom laughed at her expression. ‘Do you want to have a go at making some incense?’

      Always up for anything new, she nodded. ‘Sure, why not?’

      Gripping the sticks with her left hand, she tried to roll the glue on evenly before attempting to dust it in the cinnamon powder. Laughing, she held up a wonky-looking stick. ‘I can’t seem to co-ordinate my hands.’

      ‘Just as well you’re not a surgeon.’ Tom’s laugh rumbled around her. He moved in, standing behind her, putting his hands over hers. ‘You spin with your left and you push the trowel with your right, like this.’

      She tried to concentrate on the motion of the bamboo and how his hands were moving hers. But every skerrick of attention evaporated the moment his body curved against hers. His breath caressed her neck, tickling and enticing, his chest moved up and down against her back, massaging her as he breathed, and his thighs were against her buttocks, fitting snugly.

СКАЧАТЬ