She pulled on some gloves and touched Adilah’s finger to ensure the local anaesthetic had taken effect. Her mother adjusted Adilah on her knee. ‘How many stitches do you think it will need?’
Arissa gave a smile. ‘I think about four will be enough. That’s a nasty cut you gave yourself, Adilah. But I’ll have it fixed in no time and it won’t hurt a bit.’
Arissa bent down and started making the tiny stitches as she sang a nursery rhyme that her mother had taught her as a child. Adilah smiled and joined in. Within a few minutes Arissa was done, giving the wound a final check and covering it with a small dressing. She pulled out her prescription pad. ‘I’m going to give you some antibiotics for Adilah, as the wound was pretty dirty when she got here. She’s more liable to infection than most, so hopefully this will keep things at bay.’
Adilah’s mother gave a grateful nod. Arissa noted the dark circles under her eyes. Having a five-year-old with leukaemia was taking its toll. ‘Bring her back if she shows sign of a temperature or any discharge from the wound. Otherwise try and keep the dressing dry for the next few days. It should heal without any problems.’
There was a movement at the door, and Arissa looked up. Darn it. Another tourist, doubtless looking for the luxury resort that had a similar name to their clinic.
‘Give me a minute.’ She waved her hand as she moved to dispose of the items on the trolley and wash her hands again.
Instead of waiting at the door the curious tourist stepped inside, nodding at Adilah and her mother as they left and then turning his head from side to side, scanning the clinic area.
Arissa felt her hackles rise. He was likely looking for luxury Egyptian cotton sheets, straw parasols, cocktails and personal waiters. This simple clinic would be something completely outwith his normal environment.
She sighed and turned around, trying her best to paste a smile on her face. ‘Are you lost?’ Her heart stopped somewhere in her chest. Wow. Okay, Mr Tourist was about to knock Hugh Jackman off her ‘if only’ list and steal his place.
Dark hair and dark eyes, combined with height and a muscular build. He was dragging some kind of backpack behind him. Not like the usual designer luggage she might have expected.
He was holding a baseball cap in his hand. He tilted his head to the side. ‘Arissa Cotter?’
She blinked. This couldn’t be her guy. Wasn’t Dr Reacher in his sixties? She held her breath for a second. ‘Who wants to know?’
Her heart started thudding against her chest as she tried to control her breathing. Was he a reporter? A private investigator? Had the secret she’d tried to hide for the last few years finally tracked her down?
The man crossed the room in three long strides, holding his hand out towards her. ‘Philippe...’ He paused, then gave the briefest shake of his head. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’
She didn’t like this. She didn’t like this at all. She automatically stepped back and he looked a little surprised.
It didn’t matter that his eyes were the darkest brown she’d ever seen. Her breath was tangling somewhere inside her, as she wondered if things were about to come crashing down around her.
She didn’t answer him. Her words caught somewhere between her chest and throat.
He took a deep breath. ‘I’m really sorry to tell you that I was on the plane next to Dr Harry Reacher. He had a heart attack while we were in midair.’
It took a few seconds for the words to process. ‘Wh-what?’
Her brain jumped away from the fear. For a few moments she felt utterly selfish. She’d imagined this was all about her. ‘Is he in the hospital?’
Something flitted across the eyes of the man calling himself Philippe and she knew instantly what came next. A horrible prickling feeling spread over her skin.
‘Oh, no,’ were all the words she could form. She took a deep breath. She’d never had a chance to meet Harry Reacher but his emails over the last few months had brightened her days, his enthusiasm and passion for his work brimming over in every sentence.
The tall stranger was still standing there, watching her with those intense brown eyes. She gave herself a little shake then tried to give him a smile. ‘I’m really sorry to hear about Harry. I was looking forward to working with him.’ Her heart gave a little twist as she realised she’d need to carry the workload here herself for the next couple of weeks.
He nodded too and ran his hand through his thick dark hair. It was the first time she’d noticed the fatigue in his eyes. ‘I’m just sorry I couldn’t save him. But, up there...’ he let out a sigh ‘...I had nothing. No drugs, proper equipment. I don’t have a doubt what the autopsy will show, but I hate the fact that if we’d actually been on the ground and near a hospital, there might have been a chance to save him.’
It was the way he said the words. As if he had an edge of responsibility for what had happened.
‘You had a defib?’ She couldn’t help but ask, she was curious.
He nodded. ‘But no shockable rhythm.’
Arissa pressed her lips together. She knew exactly what that meant. The heart attack must have been catastrophic. Whether they’d been near a hospital or not, it was unlikely that Harry would have survived.
But how many people knew it wasn’t a shockable rhythm? She opened her mouth to ask when another priority sprang to mind. Of course.
She straightened up as the logical part of her brain kicked into gear. ‘I should contact the hospital. See about making arrangements regarding Harry—speak to the consulate about contacting his relatives.’
‘I’ve taken care of things,’ he said, somewhat carefully.
She frowned. ‘Really?’
That seemed a little odd. Regulations and red tape were notorious on Temur Sapora. Who on earth was this guy? She looked at him again. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she couldn’t place him at all. His accent was kind of strange. A mix of French, Italian and Spanish. He was definitely from Europe somewhere but she couldn’t quite place the rich tone in his voice. Whoever he was, he must have money. The luxury resorts here were for the rich, the very rich and, the very, very rich.
Too expensive and exclusive for anyone less than a millionaire. At some point Temur Sapora would be found by the masses, but luckily that hadn’t happened yet. She cringed every time some billionaire businessman mentioned in an interview that they’d visited a ‘luxury Malaysian island’ putting the spotlight on her home.
Part of her wanted the island to remain unspoiled and undiscovered. But part of her wanted it to share some of the distributed wealth of the rich visitors. The tourist resorts had given jobs to many of her friends. Families that had lived in poverty had started to gain a little income and independence. Healthcare had finally started to become a little more accessible. In the last ten years people around her had flourished. Before, Arissa had had to leave the island to train as a doctor. There was no university here, and the local hospitals weren’t properly equipped. But gradual improvements had happened. She was always glad to return now and give back a little to the place she’d left behind. Her last job was in Washington, specialising in paediatrics. But the plane ride back to Temur Sapora with the familiar sight of the turquoise waters and the backdrop of the volcano always made her heart leap a little in her chest. There was no place like home.
There was a crackle above them. The guy started and Arissa gave a rueful smile. She held up one hand. ‘Give it a second.’
He looked confused—his muscles tense in his neck, his hands in fists. Was he afraid? A few seconds later another noise thundered from the sky followed by a sudden torrent of rain deluging the roof above them.
A half-smile appeared on his face