Reunited With Her Parisian Surgeon. Annie O'Neil

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СКАЧАТЬ effortlessly elegant appearance. Not that he’d said anything of the sort when he’d first caught sight of her at their prearranged rendezvous point. Rendezvous? Get her! Far from it. He’d even complimented her on her butterfly print vintage skirt and the “land girl” knotted top she’d dragged out of the back of her closet. Not because it was the prettiest outfit she owned, but because it was the only thing that was ironed apart from her row of fastidiously maintained uniforms.

      Appearances weren’t everything. She was proof of that. Freckle-faced redheads were every bit as competent as the next person. Well...maybe not literally, seeing as the person sitting next to her was a surgeon and she was “just” a paramedic. Anyway, her hair was more fiery auburn than carrot-orange. On a good day.

      When they’d first met, in the corridors of the Parisian Lycée, she’d shaken off her small-town-girl persona and found the butterfly she’d always thought had been living in her heart. Well...a nerdy butterfly. Raphael had been every bit as nerdy as she back then. Or so she’d thought. But he’d called it...academically minded. He had been the best friend of her host’s brother and she’d fallen head over heels in love with him.

      Her mother had been right when she’d cheekily told her daughter to keep her eye on the “Nerd Talent.” Now, at thirty years old, Raphael was little short of movie-star-gorgeous. His tall, reedy body had filled out so that he was six-foot-something of toned man magnificence. His chestnut hair looked rakishly windswept and interesting. He looked like a costume drama hero who’d just jumped off his horse after a long ride along the clifftops in search of his heroine.

      Whether his cheekbones were über-pronounced because of the weight he claimed to have lost on his travels or because his genes were plain old superior was unclear. Either way, he was completely out-of-this-world beautiful.

      Even the five o’clock shadow that she thought looked ridiculous on most other blokes added a rugged edge to a man who clearly felt at ease in the most sophisticated cities in Europe. Although she would bet her last dollar he’d do just fine in the Outback too. His body confidence spoke of a man who could change a car tire with one hand and chop wood with the other.

      Not that she’d been imagining either scenario. Much.

      Those blue eyes of his still had those crazy long black lashes...but shadows crossed his clear azure irises more often than not...

      As if feeling the heat in her gaze, Raphael looked away from the flickering screen, giving her a quick glance and a gentle smile as she accidentally swooshed her out-of-control hair against his arm. The most outlandish hair in Oz, she called it. If she wanted it curly it went straight. Straight? It went into coils. Why she didn’t just chop it all off, as her brothers regularly suggested, was beyond her.

      Again she stared at the half-moons her nails had pressed into her hands. After her mum passed it had seemed as if her hair was the one thing she had left in her life that was genuinely feminine. So she’d vowed to keep it—no matter how thick and wild it became.

      “So!” Raphael turned to her, with that soft, barely there smile of his that never quite made it to a full-blown grin playing upon his lips. “Did you have anything else in mind?”

      Maggie threw a panicked look over her shoulder.

      Like holding hands underneath the starlit sky?

      Gazing adoringly into one another’s eyes in between soul-quenching kisses?

      She glanced at the screen and to her horror realized the credits were running. Sitting beside him and not making a complete fool of herself had been hard enough, but—Oh, crikey. She hoped he didn’t expect her to conduct an actual conversation in French. It had been hard enough when she was in her teens, but now that she hadn’t spoken a word in over thirteen years...

      All of her tingly, flirty feelings began to dissolve in an ever-growing pool of insecurity.

      “Sheesh. Sorry, mate... Raphael. Sorry, sorry...”

      She stumbled over a few more apologies. Years of being “one of the guys” at work and growing up as the tomboy kid sister in a house full of blokey blokes had rendered her more delicate turns of phrase—if she had ever had them—utterly obsolete.

      She puffed up her cheeks and blew out a big breath, trying to figure out what would be best. A meat pie and a pint?

      She took in a few more blinks’ worth of Raphael, patiently waiting for her to get a grip, and dismissed the idea. French people didn’t go out for meat pies and pints! Why had her brain chosen this exact moment to block out everything she could remember about France?

      Oysters? Caviar? More champagne?

      Crêpes! French people loved them. Sydneysiders did, too.

      There was a mobile crêpe caravan she’d visited a couple of times when she was in between patients. She grabbed her backpack and began pawing around for her mobile to try and find out where it might be parked up tonight.

      What was it called? Suzettes? Flo’s Flaming Pancakes?

      “Actually...” Raphael put his hand on Maggie’s forearm to stop her frantic excavation. “As I am starting work tomorrow morning, perhaps we’ll take a rain check?”

      Maggie nodded along as he continued speaking. Something about heartfelt thanks for her help in getting him the job. The stacks of paperwork she’d breezed through on his behalf.

      In truth, it was far easier to stand and smile while she let herself be swept away with the rhythm and musical cadence of each word coming out of Raphael’s mouth than to actually pay attention to what he was saying. Each word presented itself as a beautiful little stand-alone poem—distinctly unlike the slang-heavy lingo she’d brought with her from her small-town upbringing.

      That year in Paris had been her mother’s last gift to her. A glimpse of what the rest of the world had to offer.

      She’d found out, all right. In spades.

      A glimpse of Raphael’s world, more like. And she wasn’t just talking about trips to a museum.

      For her there was only one Raphael and he was standing right here, speaking perfectly fluent English, his mouth caressing each vowel and cherishing each consonant so that when his throat collaborated with his tongue and the words hit the ether each word was like an individually wrapped sweet.

      A bon mot.

      She smiled to herself. Of course the French had a phrase for it. In a country that old they had a beautiful phrase for everything. Including the exquisite pain of unrequited love.

      La douleur exquise. And, wow, was she feeling that right about now. Why had she been so useful when he’d written to her a couple of months ago from...? Where was it? Vietnam? Or was it Mozambique? Both?

      Regardless, his email hadn’t suggested he was intent on coming to Australia. Just “considering a change.”

      Typical Maggie. She’d just picked up the reins and run with it. Filling out forms. Offering to get the right information to the right people on the right date at the right time.

      “Best little helper this side of the equator,” as her mother had always said.

      And now that he was here...

      Total. Stage. СКАЧАТЬ