by Annie O'Neil
“I was actually surprised by how easy it was to get my working papers. Something about a shortage of Mobile Intensive Care paramedics?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Maggie nodded, her brain more at ease in work mode. “They’ve really been struggling over in Victoria. Well, everywhere, I think. The most skilled mobile intensive care paramedics seem to be running off to the Middle East, where the pay is better. Well, not all of them. And it’s not because working here is horrible or anything... I mean it’s actually pretty great, when you consider the range of services we provide to the community—and of course to the whole of New South Wales when they need it. Like when there are forest fires. Or big crashes out in the back of beyond.”
She was rambling now. And in serious danger of sending Raphael packing.
He was one of the only people in her life who had known her before her mum had passed. There was something about that link that felt precious. Like a tiny priceless jewel she’d do everything in her power to protect.
Maggie looked up, her eyes widening as Raphael’s expression softened into an inquisitive smile. The trees behind him were laced with fairy lights and the buzz and whoosh of the city faded into a gentle murmur as her eyes met with his.
A flash of pure, undiluted longing flooded her chest so powerfully that she had to pull in a deep breath to stave off the dizzying effect of being the sole object of those beautiful blue eyes of his. The ache twisting in her lungs tightened into a yearning for something deeper. How mad would the world have to become for him to feel the same way?
Slowly he reached out his hands and placed them on her shoulders. The heat from his fingers seared straight through her light top, sending out a spray of response along her collarbone that gathered in sensual tingles along the soft curves of her breasts. He tipped his chin to one side as he parted his lips.
Was Raphael Bouchon, man of her dreams, going to kiss her?
“I think this is where I catch my bus.” Raphael pointed up to the sign above them. “I am afraid I will need my jacket back if we are going to part ways here. Will you be all right?”
“Of course!” she answered, too loudly, tugging off his jacket and checking her volume as she continued. “I’m the one who should be asking you that, anyway. Where was it you got a place again?”
It was the one thing she hadn’t helped with. Finding him a place. He’d told her it was already sorted, but that didn’t stop a case of The Guilts from settling in.
She should’ve offered him a bed...well, a sofa...while he sorted something out. Played tour guide. Called estate agents. Cleared the ever-accruing mess off of her countertops and made him dinner.
Not invited him to a movie and then scarpered.
But that level of support would have been slipping straight into the mode she was still trying to release herself from with her family.
The girl who did all the chores no one else wanted to do.
Besides, her home was her castle and there wasn’t a chance on God’s green earth that she would be inviting him round—or anyone, for that matter. She’d had almost seven years of looking after her brothers and father—enough housekeeping, laundry and “When’s the tucker gunna hit the table, Daggie?” to last a lifetime.
“It’s a place I found on the internet, near Bondi Beach. I thought it sounded...” he paused for effect “...Australian.”
Maggie laughed good-naturedly and leant forward to punch him on the arm. At the same time he leant down to kiss her on the cheek. Their lips collided and skidded off of each other’s—but not before Maggie caught the most perfect essence of what it would be like to actually kiss him.
Pure magic.
Raphael caught the sides of her arms with his hands, as if to steady them both, and this time when their eyes met there was something new shining straight at her. That glint. The shiny spark in Raphael’s almond-shaped eyes that erased every single thought from her harried brain except for one: I could spend the rest of my life with you.
The fear that followed in its wake chilled her to the bone.
* * *
An hour later Maggie held a staring contest with herself in her poorly lit bathroom mirror. Red-haired, freckle-faced, and every bit as unsure whether she was a country mouse or a city mouse as she had been thirteen years ago.
Closing her eyes, she traced her fingers along her lips, trying to relive the brush of Raphael’s mouth against hers. It came easily. Too easily. Especially when she had been in love with him for almost half her life.
Her eyes flickered open and there in the mirror was the same ol’ Maggie. The one who would never live in Paris. The one barely making a go of it in the big smoke. The girl born and raised and most likely to return to a town so far from Sydney it had its own time zone. In other words, she could dream all she wanted, but a future with Raphael Bouchon was never going to be a reality.
CHAPTER THREE
RAPHAEL TUGGED HIS fingers through hair that probably could have done with a bit of a trim. He chided himself for not putting in a bit more effort. For not trying to look as if he cared as much as he genuinely did.
Seeing Maggie yesterday had done what he’d hoped. It had re-awoken a part of him he’d feared had died alongside Amalie that day in the operating theatre.
When their lips had accidentally brushed last night there’d been a spark.
He was sure of it.
Enough so that he sorely regretted not kissing her all those years ago. But Jean-Luc’s mother’s warning had been a stark one. “Hands off!” she’d said, and so he had obeyed.
If he hadn’t been relying so heavily on Jean-Luc’s family for that vital sense of stability his parents had been unable to provide he would’ve gladly risked his pride and seen if Maggie had felt the same way.
For an instant last night he’d been certain of it.
This morning... Not so much.
Not that Maggie was taking a blind bit of notice of his does-she-doesn’t-she? conundrum.
Listening to her now, reeling off the contents of the ambulance they’d be working on, was like being in the middle of an auctioneer’s rapid-fire pitch.
From the moment she’d arrived at the station she’d barely been able to look him in the eye. More proof, if he needed it, that he hadn’t meant to her what she’d meant to him. After all, who took someone to a movie when they hadn’t seen each other in over thirteen years?
Someone with a life. Someone who’d moved on.
“Raphael?” She clapped a hand on the back door of the ambulance to gain his attention. “Are you getting this?”
He nodded, not having the heart to tell her he’d actually spent the long flight over memorizing the equipment breakdowns and layouts he’d been sent along with the confirmation of his posting.
“And over here we’ve got your pneumocath, advanced drugs, syringe pumps and cold intravenous fluids. It’s not so much a problem this time of year. The hypothermia. What with it being summer. But...” She screwed up her face and asked, “Is hypothermia a problem in Paris?”
She quickly flicked her green eyes towards him, then whisked them back to the supply bins as if looking at him for longer than three seconds would give her a rash.
“Well, you’ve got snow, so I suppose so,” she answered for him. Then, almost sheepishly, she turned back to him and said, “Neige, right?”
He nodded, parting his lips to say he was actually ready to head out if she was, but she had already turned back toward the ambulance and was reeling off yet another list of equipment specific to the MICA vehicles.
“Hey, Mags. Looks like the A-Team is being broken up.”
Maggie stopped mid-flow, her green eyes brightening as a beach-blond forty-something man came round the corner of their ambulance with a timorous woman who only just prevented herself from running into him when he abruptly stopped.
“All go
od things must come to an end I guess, Stevo.” Maggie heaved a sigh of genuine remorse, then shot a guilty look at Raphael with an apologetic smile following in its wake.
“Raphael, this is my partner—my former ambo partner—Steve Laughlin.”
“Crikey, Mags. It’s only been ten minutes. And no lines have been drawn in the sand yet. No offence, newbie!”
He turned to the young woman behind him and gave her a solid clap on the shoulder that nearly buckled her knees before turning back to Raphael.
“Nice to meetcha, mate.” Steve put his hand out for a solid shake. “You’ve got yourself one of Bondi Junction’s finest here, so consider yourself lucky. I’m counting on you to look after her. She can be a bit of a klutz—”
“I’m more than capable of looking after myself, thank you very much!” Maggie cut in.
“Yeah, yeah. Help me, help me!” Steve elbowed Raphael in the ribs and laughed. “You know what I’m saying, mate? All these girls really want is a big strong bloke to look after ’em. Get a load of these pecs, Casey. This is what happens when your partner doesn’t carry her fair share of the equipment bags.”
He flexed his arm into Popeye muscles and grinned as his new charge instantly flushed with mortification.
“Yes, Steve. Nothing to do with the hours you spend at the gym instead of helping your wife with the dishes,” Maggie answered drily, clearly immune to Steve’s über-macho version of charm. “And, for the record, I think I can live without a big strong Tarzan swinging in to rescue me, knowing that there’s a fully qualified surgeon sitting in your old seat. Twice as many patients in half the time, I’m betting.”
She gave Raphael a quick Am I right, or what? smile.
Raphael winced. Bragging rights over his surgical skills was something he’d rather not be a party to.
“Ah, well, then.” Steve gave Raphael a knowing look, completely missing his discomfort. “If you’re not busy curing everyone in Sydney over the next couple of hours, perhaps you’ll be able to shake a bit more fun into our girl, here. Tell her there’s a bit more to life than work, will ya? When we heard you were a Frenchie we all started laying bets on how long it’d take for you to get her out on the town after her shift. She’s got a thing about France, you know?”
He rocked back on his heels, crossed his arms over what looked like the beginnings of a beer belly and gave him a solid once-over.
“You’re a better looking bloke than I am, so maybe you’re in with a bit of a chance.”
“Hardly!” The word leapt out of Maggie’s throat, lancing the light-hearted tone of Steve’s comments in two.
“Easy, there, Mags.” Steve rolled his eyes and gave her a half-hug. “I’m just messing with you. Give the bloke a chance, all right? We’re just worried about you. All work and no play...”
“Yeah. I get it, Steve. Don’t you have some work you should be getting on with?”
Raphael stayed back from the group, preferring silence to watching the increasing flush heating up Maggie’s cheeks.
He stepped forward for a handshake when Steve did a quick introduction of his new junior partner, Casey, before heading for their own ambulance. As soon as they’d left Maggie poured her obvious irritation into filling up all the supply bins in their ambulance.
The idea of spending time with him outside of working hours obviously didn’t appeal. Had he said something last night to offend her? Perhaps taking a rain check on a post-film drink had been bad form if it wasn’t her usual mode opératoire to go out.
Raphael swallowed against rising frustration. Hitting the wrong note seemed to be his specialty of late. Making the wrong move. Insisting upon operating on a little girl he was far too close to, only to have to break the news to his best friend that his young daughter had just died on the operating table because of his mistake.
Jean-Luc would never forgive him. Not in this lifetime anyway.
He tried to crush the memory of what Jean-Luc had said to him to the recesses of his mind. A near impossible task as he revisited the cruel words each and every night while trying to fall into a restless sleep.
“You just take! All you do is take!”
The medical report had told a different story, had said that Amalie would have died anyway. Her injuries had been too severe. The loss of blood too great. But Raphael knew the truth. He was the one who had made the decision that had ultimately led to the little girl’s death.
He returned his gaze to Maggie, who had shifted back into her efficient self and was doing a swirly ta-da! gesture with her arms in front of the ambulance.
“Clocked that? Are we good? Am I going too fast? Too slow? Should I just stop talking altogether?”
Her eyes widened and he saw that his worries about Maggie not wanting to work with him had been ridiculous. Those green cat’s eyes of hers were alight with hints of hope and concern, making it abundantly clear that her nervous energy wasn’t anti-Raphael. It was worry that he might not be interested. It was hope that he shared her passion for the job she loved. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, there was an underlying pride at what she did for her community.
“All right, Frenchie? How’re ya settlin’ in, mate?”
Raphael turned at the sound of the male voice, not missing the pained expression taking hold of Maggie’s face as her eyes lit on the paramedic behind him.
A tall black-haired man—big—was holding out a hand. “Marcus Harrison. Fellow paramedic. Friends call me Cyclops. I’ll give you three guesses why.”
Raphael threw a quick look to Maggie, who shrugged, rolling her eyes rolling as if to say, Indulge him. It’ll be over in a minute.
When he turned back he was face to face with an eyeball.
“It’s glass. Get it? I’ve only got one eye. Been that way since I was a nipper. Too much rugby, and one day...” Marcus pinched his fingers in front of his eye then made a flying object gesture.
Behind him Raphael could hear Maggie muttering something about putting it away, already.
Totally unfazed by Maggie’s disgust, Marcus popped his eye back into the empty socket and doubled up in a fit of self-induced laughter. “Oh, mate. You should see your face. Priceless.”
“Are you finished?” Maggie asked, her tone crisp, but not without affection.
“Yeah, but...” Marcus bent in half again, another hit of hilarity shaking him from head to toe.
“Marcus, I’m trying to show our new colleague the truck.”
“What? He’ll be all right.” Marcus waved off her concerns. “You were a surgeon or something back there in Paris, right?”
Raphael nodded, knowing that a flinch had accompanied the reminder.
“Leave the poor man alone. He’s got enough on his plate without you showing off your wares and quizzing him about his credentials.”
Marcus strutted in a circle in front of Maggie. “Darlin’, let me assure you, you can look at my wares any day of the week.”
Again Maggie rolled her eyes. This clearly wasn’t Marcus’s first flirt session. Nor Maggie’s first refusal. Clearly having three older brothers had toughened her up.
Marcus crossed to her, leaned in, gave her a loud smack of a kiss on the cheek, then gave Raphael a good-natured thump on the back as he passed, heading towards the tea room whistling a pop tune.
“He seems...”
Raphael searched for a good word, but Maggie beat him to it.
“A right idiot. Except—” she held up her index finger “—when it comes to work. He is a first-class paramedic. Claims he always wanted to be a paratrooper, but the eye thing made that dream die real quick—so he became another kind of para. Paramedic,” she added, in case he hadn’t caught the shortened term. Something the Australians seemed to do a lot of.
“And you two are...?” Raphael moved a finger between Maggie and the space Marcus had just occupied. “Were you a couple?�
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He caught himself holding his breath as he waited for an answer. Was he hoping she would say no?
“Pah!” Maggie barked, her eyes almost tearing up as she laughed at the suggestion. “You have got to be kidding me!”
Just as quickly she recovered, throwing an anxious look towards the tea room.
“I mean, he’s a lovely bloke, and will definitely make someone incredibly happy, but he’s not...” Her eyes flicked to his so quickly there was no time to catch her expression. “He’s a really good bloke. I’m lucky to know him. He’s taught me loads.”
Loyalty.
That was the warmth he heard in her voice. And it was a reminder of why he’d come to Sydney. She was loyal. She hadn’t even questioned why he was here. Just helped in every way she could.
He swallowed. She didn’t know the whole story.
He turned at the sound of Maggie snapping her fingers together before displaying a clear plastic bag of kit as if she were a game show hostess.
“Right. Back to work. So, we call these nifty little numbers the Advanced Airway Management Sets—or AAMS if you’re in a hurry.”
“Très bien. It all looks very familiar.” He nodded, aware that his attention was divided.
Again and again his eyes were drawn to the fabric of Maggie’s dark blue overalls tightening against her curves as she leant into the truck to replace the kit and then, by turns, pointed out the defibrillator, the suction kit, the spinal collars, spine board, inflatable splints, drugs, sphygmomanometers, pulse oximeters and on and on.
In her regulation jumpsuit she looked like an action heroine who donned a form-fitting uniform before bravely—and successfully—battling intergalactic creatures for the greater good of the universe.
Her fiery hair had been pulled into submission with a thick fishtail plait. Her green eyes shone brightly against surprisingly creamy skin. Ample use of sunblock, he supposed. An essential in Sydney’s virtually non-stop “holiday” weather.