by Annie O'Neil
And that was precisely the moment when Raphael knew why he’d come to Australia.
Not to find himself. Not to make peace with his past. It was to find Maggie. To see if he could put a name to that elusive something that floated around in his heart whenever he thought of her.
She’d named it first. It was love.
* * *
Maggie held up her ice cream cone and tipped it towards Raphael’s wattleseed flavored scoop for a “cheers” bump.
“So this is the world’s best ice cream?”
“Don’t look so dubious. This town may not look like much, but when you’re about five hundred kilometers from civilization it’s the height of sophistication.”
Maggie took a satisfyingly cold lick of her saltbush and caramel cone. Ice cream fixed everything. Even incredibly awkward atmospheres in a car after you’d confessed to the man of your dreams that you’ve loved him since you were a teen and he’s told you that someone’s mom told him not to kiss you.
What she should be taking away from the whole mortifying scenario was the fact that Raphael had, for at least a nanosecond on the universe’s timeline, wanted to kiss her. Not be sulking about having great French and no mother to show it off to. It wasn’t as if she could change anything now.
Besides, if the chaussure had been on the other foot and her mother had laid down a similar order...
No pashing on the French exchange student, love. We’ve got to return that boy to his mother the way we found him.
Pffft.
She would have obeyed, too. Small town kids knew that parents talked. Nothing was a secret.
Except that her mother had already been dying of cancer the day Maggie had boarded a plane for Europe.
Raphael “clinked” her ice cream cone again. “You’re right. This is excellent. I have to confess, finding a gelateria in a petrol station is not something I thought would happen today.”
He was handing her an olive branch. Trying to get rid of the weirdness as well. So it looked as if they’d be friends forever.
If it was good enough for Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart...
Maggie gave him a Strange things happen in Oz shrug and a grin. “There are loads of Italians who settled in Australia, so the country definitely does good ice cream—wherever you are.”
“As good as France?” Raphael arched a prideful brow.
Ruddy French. Not everything was better over there!
“I would bet you any amount of money in the universe they don’t have wattleseed ice cream in Paris.”
Raphael laughed. “You are probably right about that.” He took a lick and made mmm noises as he swirled the entire tip of the cone between his parted lips.
Maggie tried not to stare. Too much.
“It’s good. Tastes a bit like coffee. Would you like to try?”
“Yes, please.” She leaned forward and took a lick, vividly aware of Raphael’s eyes upon her. Was there something...different about the way he was watching her? Something softer?
The man was now aware that she’d been in love with him forever and a day...
Or maybe she had dirt on her face.
Whatever it was, his gaze was making her flush.
“Mmm. That’s good. Want to try mine?”
Maggie held up her cone, felt her eyes going into some sort of crazy blinking fit as once again—almost in slow motion—his lips parted before surrounding the top of her cone and taking a small taste.
Her breath caught in her throat as she imagined the cold ice cream hitting his warm tongue, melting and swirling in his mouth. Hot darts of desire shot across her more intimate regions as he made that delicious noise again. He looked up at her through dark lashes with those beautiful blue eyes of his, and in that instant she felt as though her skin was on fire.
He wasn’t even touching her and she was on fire.
Gulp.
She still loved him.
No, she didn’t.
She lusted after him.
Loving someone meant knowing them, and she was about as far from knowing what made Raphael tick these days as she was from knowing how to fly a jumbo jet.
Road trips were fun only if you weren’t dying of humiliation at the same time. This was obviously a mistake.
Even if Raphael was still gazing at her with that beautiful soft smile on his lips.
She started when he reached forward and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers softly grazing the side of her neck as they passed. It was all she could do not to groan with pleasure.
What would she do when they finally kissed?
You’re not going to kiss!
Madame Couttard had made sure of that.
Pah!
If they kissed then she’d be completely in love with him—which was stupid because they were heading for Broken Hill and her mad-as-a-sack-of-frogs family.
When they arrived Raphael would find out who she was and what sort of place she came from. A universe away from his own background. The whole charade of being someone she wasn’t would come to an abrupt end, her heart would break into a million tiny pieces and then they could all get on with their lives. Which would be a good thing.
Except right here, right now, Raphael was licking a little bit of wattleseed off of his lip and was inches away. If she moved her ice cream cone a tiny bit to the right and went up on tiptoe...
“Maggie? Is that your phone ringing?”
The hum and rush of desire dropped from Maggie’s internal soundtrack and was replaced by the very clear chirruping of her ringtone.
Mortified that she’d been staring at Raphael all goofy-eyed and lovestruck, she turned away and pulled her phone from her small bag. It was Cyclops.
“What’s up, mate? I’m out in the Woop Woop.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Cyclops’ voice was in full business mode. Uh-oh.
“There’s been a car crash reported between Cobar and Wilcannia. Coupla lorries and some secondary vehicles. Quite a few, from the sounds of it.”
She listened intently as he detailed the location.
“You anywhere near there?”
Maggie closed her eyes and pictured the road. “We’re about ten kilometers east, give or take. Is anyone else on the way?”
“Yeah. They’re sending a chopper out from the Blues, but it’ll take at least an hour to get it crewed up and in the air. The fire crews in Cobar are all out on other jobs, but I’m coming in a chaser air ambulance. Probably two hours out. The coppers are on their way. I think they’re trying to send a fire crew in with some Jaws of Life, but they’ll all be volunteers. Not sure how up on first aid they’ll be. It sounds serious. Any chance you can get to them and help until we arrive? Got any gear on you? Is Frenchie with you?”
“Yes, yes and yes.” She looked at Raphael and gave him a tight nod. “I’ve got a small run bag in the boot, but not much else. Hang on a second, Cyclops.”
She took the phone away from her ear, tugged a couple of notes out of her pocket and handed them to Raphael.
“Do you mind grabbing a few extra bottles of water from the guys in the shop? Loads, in fact. And as much paper toweling as you can get. Tell them it’s for a medical emergency. Car crash up the road.”
Raphael’s features tightened instantly, and the all too familiar clouding of the bright blue in his eyes shifted into place.
This was difficult terrain for him, given his recent history, but it was an emergency. And it was what Australian paramedics did. They mucked in when there was no one else.
He was gone before she had a chance to ask if he was up to it.
Good.
Maybe working on the ambos was helping take the edge off the guilt he felt.
You couldn’t save everyone, she thought as she signed off with Cyclops, gra
bbed her medical kit from the boot and threw it in the back alongside a perplexed-looking Monster.
But you sure could try.
CHAPTER EIGHT
RAPHAEL SAW THE smoke before the vehicles came into view. These weren’t his first crash victims since he’d left Paris, but it was the first time he’d been on-site at a multi-vehicle accident. Adding scent and sound to a scene he’d imagined again and again might be torture. Or it might be the first step in putting the past right.
A couple of kilometers down the road cars were already starting to tail back on the wide highway.
“I don’t suppose you have a spare set of blue lights in your car?” Raphael asked rhetorically.
Maggie shook her head. “No. But I do have a red and blue top in my bag on the back seat, if Monster hasn’t turned it into a bed. Do you mind digging through my things to find it? Hopefully it’s not too near my undies.” She shot him an apologetic smile.
He shook his head and smiled. Trust Maggie to problem-solve her way out of a situation other people would duck out of at the first hurdle.
“Here it is.” He held out a red shirt with blue polka dots.
“Right. Your job is to hold that thing out of the window.”
“What for?”
She yanked the car brusquely out of the slowing traffic and onto the hard shoulder. “Tell Monster to cover his ears. You’re the lights. I’m the siren.”
Clamping her lips together with a determined expression, Maggie pressed on the horn of her car with one hand and gunned the car down the hard shoulder with the other.
It was impossible not to be impressed.
He ventured a guess. “Older brothers?”
“Got it in one.” She flashed him a smile. “As I said, there wasn’t much to do in Broken Hill as a girl.”
When they were close enough to start picking out details, Raphael’s gut told him the next few hours were going to be grim.
“You ready for this?” Maggie’s tone suggested she didn’t really care if he was or he wasn’t. Either way, he’d be rolling up his sleeves and getting to work.
“Of course. You can count on me.”
He meant it, too. Medically, of course. But also to support Maggie. The last thing he wanted was for her to have to worry about if he’d be all right on the accident scene.
“Why don’t you have a dig around the medical kit and familiarize yourself with what we have? From the sound of things, we’ll have to make it last for about an hour. Criticals first.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I forget you’re hardly a stranger to trauma. Talking it through before I arrive always helps me calm down.”
“Bien. Talk away.”
He secured the blue and red top between the window and the window frame, keeping half an ear on Maggie’s ideas for the best tactical approach as he pulled her medical kit onto his lap and had a quick run through it. Rather than the handful of plasters and couple of bandages he had been expecting, it was a proper first responder bag, full of wound dressings, burn gels, eye gels, thermal blankets, Epi-pens—the lot.
“I like your version of a ‘small’ kit.”
“Things happen out in the Woop Woop.” Her eyes remained glued to the road. “There’s also a couple of picnic rugs in the back. No doubt some of the other drivers will have them as well. Blankets are going to be our stretchers, our braces...just about everything until the choppers arrive.”
Raphael nodded. Though it wasn’t as good as having an ambulance’s worth of gear, for some of these people the difference between no equipment and this soft bag could be critical.
Maggie slowed as they approached the jack-knifed road train. Its accordioned cab was enough to produce shivers. The trailers lay sprawled across the highway amidst a tangle of combis, caravans and utility vehicles—or utes, as the Australians called them.
When they pulled up at the apex of the crash Maggie was pure business.
A police car was already on the scene and she quickly identified herself and Raphael, offering to start setting up a triage area on the side of the road farthest away from the smoking vehicles.
“That’d be great.” The officer introduced her to a nearby female in uniform and pointed them toward a spot they’d already pre-identified as being appropriate for triage. He lifted his chin towards Raphael. “You’re a doctor?”
He nodded.
“Good. Come with me.”
After rolling down the windows of the car and pouring Monster a bowl of water, he shouldered the medical bag and jogged along after the policeman to the other side of the road train.
“We need as many people as possible. There’s a motorcyclist who landed under a ute when he was skidding to a halt. Bloody miracle he’s still alive. Don’t think he’s conscious, though. Hasn’t said a word.”
They rounded the corner. About ten people in crouching positions surrounded a mid-sized car still smoking from a recently doused engine fire.
“Quel desastre!”
The officer shot him a sideways glance. “You’re not from around here, are ya?”
“France.”
He let out a low whistle. “Well, this is a far cry from France, mate. Prepare to get sweaty. If we lift this ute on a three count are you good to pull him out?”
The officer had a couple of people shifting the vehicle, including the ashen-faced male driver who looked close to fainting. Raphael made a quick mental note to find him later and check for symptoms of shock or whiplash, then knelt down to see where the motorcyclist was. His lips thinned when he saw just how much of the vehicle’s undercarriage was resting on his chest. He slipped two fingers beneath the man’s helmet to check for a pulse. Thready. But it was there.
“Okay.” He looked up at the officer, feeling his adrenaline kick in. “Whenever you are ready.”
The three count came fast.
“Now—lift!”
Amidst the groans and grunts of exertion Raphael channeled his strength into a swift and fluid move, pulling the motorcyclist out and away from the undercarriage of the ute.
Leaving the biker’s helmet on, he flicked the visor up, unsurprised to see the man was unconscious, a blue tinge appearing on his lips. Raphael dropped his gaze to his chest, taking in the depth, rate and symmetry of his chest as he struggled to breathe. The shallow, jagged breaths suggested a pneumothorax or flail chest.
It was difficult to tell what had happened without taking off his leathers. But taking off the leathers would come with its own set of complications. In a worst-case scenario the motorcycle gear might be the only thing holding together compound fractures and preventing massive blood loss. But palpating the man’s chest with them on was pointless.
His brain kicked up to high gear.
“Can I get a couple extra pairs of hands, please?”
Protocol in France dictated leaving the helmet on, so he did. On his instructions, a pair of bystanders rolled the man onto a thermal blanket from Maggie’s medical kit and, with their help, he carried him away from the site to the triage area Maggie had magicked out of nothing.
Most of the color coding seemed to come in the form of pieces of colorful fabrics secured to the white road reflectors on the edge of the hard shoulder.
Maggie appeared by his side. “What’ve you got?”
“Possible pneumothorax. Do you have any fourteen-gauge needles in there?” He nodded to the run bag. “His lung will need decompressing. It’ll keep him stable—”
“For up to four hours,” Maggie finished for him. “When you’ve done that are you happy to attend the patients still in their vehicles?”
Raphael nodded, taking a fraction of a second longer than he needed to search her eyes for any doubt in his ability. But, no. She was already pawing through the medical kit for the equipment he’d need for decompression.
Faith. Loyalty.
Two of Maggie’s standout qualities. A shot of pride surged through him. Maggie believed in him. She trusted him in spite of everything she knew about him. It meant more to him than he’d expected. All he wanted to do now was make sure he kept it. Earned it. Sustained her belief in him as a doctor. As a man.
With the help of one of the women who’d carried the man over he quickly rolled thick supports to place on either side of the motorcyclist.
Once satisfied the patient was supported, he unzipped his leather jacket and inserted the fourteen-gauge needle, his head tipped to the man’s lips as he waited for the return of steady breathing.
Beat. Beat. And breathing returned.
“Is he going to be all right?” The woman who had helped carry him over was still kneeling on the other side of the motorcyclist.
“He should be.” Raphael did a quick scan of the man’s abdominal area. No blood. No obvious sign of other injuries. A miracle, really.
“Will you be all right to watch him?”
The woman nodded, yes, still wide-eyed from seeing the quick-fix release of air from the man’s chest cavity.
With a renewed sense of determination Raphael set out again with the police officer, who seemed to have a good handle on all the people involved in the accident.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of serious traumatic injuries and quick fixes.
Supplies were severely limited, forcing him to come up with an innovative way of stabilizing one particularly bad compound fracture.
“Oooooh...maaaaaaate! That really, really—”
Raphael blanked out the stream of blue language coming out of the middle-aged man’s mouth.
He was lucky to be alive. He was lucky the volunteer fire crew had been able to cut him out of his car.
Raphael’s features tightened as he tried to stem the flow of blood with the pile of assorted clothing and towels other drivers had been bringing to him.
This man would be lucky to keep his leg. Keeping the area clean, blood loss to a minimum and the rest of his organs functioning properly was paramount.
“Incoming!”
Calls signaling the arrival of the first helicopter began to ring out. Raphael used himself as a cover for the man, steeling himself for the screams of pain he knew would follow as he continued to keep pressure on the open wound.