The woman opened one eye—the other was swollen closed—and studied Rachel curiously for a few moments before the eyelid drooped shut. But not before Rachel noted the pain lurking in that enormous brown orb. One cheek bled slightly from deep scratches. Twisting her head around, she asked the man, ‘Do you know what happened?’
‘She’s dazed. Might’ve been unconscious briefly.’
His accent sounded similar to what she’d heard locally these past couple of days but he didn’t look like an islander. His skin was suntanned rather than naturally brown. His big frame was all lean, well-honed muscle. She asked, ‘Where are you from?’
An exasperated sigh, followed by a begrudging answer. ‘Next door.’
Right, so he didn’t do friendly. Odd for around here, but who was she to complain? Her own temperament didn’t go all-out friendly these days. Then she really heard what he’d said. He was her neighbour. Gulp. So they’d probably see a bit of each other. Rare excitement fizzed across her skin. Reality check, Rach. Why would she be seeing much of this guy? He had a life, probably one that included a wife and kids. But she’d been told that in the Cook Islands there was no such thing as aloofness, no such thing as a stranger. So there’d be waves and hellos over the fence as they all went about their daily lives. Nothing like her old life in London, then.
With a flick of her head she returned her attention to the woman. Hopefully she’d be able to patch her up and send them both on their way quickly. But there were things Rachel needed to know. ‘What do you think caused the wound? Did you see it happen?’ she asked.
‘Found her lying on the kitchen floor when I got home. It looked like she slipped. She’d been mopping.’
Wow. Getting more vocal. Just. Rachel bit down a retort and straightened up, locking eyes with him. ‘So she’s not your partner?’
He shook his head. ‘My housekeeper.’
No wife, then? Or one who worked long hours and didn’t do housework? Rachel pulled back as hope flared that he might be single. Wrong, wrong, wrong. ‘I’ll need my medical kit.’ As she turned around, the police insignia on the sleeve of his blue shirt registered in her brain. Blimey, was she awake enough to deal with a patient if she’d missed that? ‘You’re a cop.’
He raised his eyebrows as though to say Yeah, what took you so long?—but said nothing.
‘Daddy?’
Rachel spun around to face the door, her heart thumping at the sound of hope in her son’s voice. ‘Riley, sweetheart.’ Every time Riley made this mistake she had to let him down, hurt him all over again. When would it stop? When would he finally come to understand that he’d never see his daddy again? The endless expectation that his father would walk through the door one night had driven her to shift halfway around the world in an attempt to get him past that hurdle. ‘Riley, you’re meant to be in bed, fast asleep.’
‘Daddy.’ Her son stood hesitantly in the doorway, his head tipped back as he stared up expectantly at the man dominating the lounge. He waited for some recognition, desperate to be lifted up and hugged by those strong arms. Riley could be forgiven his mistake. In the dull light she understood how a small boy might think the cop was his father, given both men were tall and broad, both had short, straight black hair and both wore police uniforms. At least this guy did. And Riley’s dad used to.
‘No, love. Not Daddy.’ She swept Riley up into her arms. The uncertainty in his eyes, the longing, the bewilderment broke Rachel’s heart all over. And cranked up the ever-present resentment at her late husband for dying. If Jamie stepped into the room right now she’d kill him all over again.
Riley shrunk into her chest, slid his arms around her neck. ‘I’m tired, Mummy.’
‘Let’s put you back to bed.’ They’d have to repeat the ritual of reading his favourite story before he’d agree to go to sleep in this new house, this new country, so far from home and everything familiar.
She glanced across at the woman lying waiting, her good eye still screwed tightly shut. The blood loss from the thigh wounds had slowed to an ooze. Nothing urgent but this poor woman still required her understanding and care.
Rachel pressed Riley’s head harder into her breast so he wouldn’t see the unpleasant sight he’d so far not noticed. He was distressed enough without having to face up to a woman lying in bloody, torn clothes on the couch. She turned to leave the room.
‘I can put him to bed.’ The deep voice caught at her, jinking her attention sideways.
‘He doesn’t go to strangers.’ Not since the day his father had died. Jamie’s police colleagues had swamped Riley with the best of intentions of being kind and friendly to a hero’s son. But unfortunately Riley now associated friendly strangers with the disappearance of his father.
‘Riley.’ The deep, rumbling voice became softer, gentler, coaxing. ‘Want me to read you a story?’
Against her chest Riley’s head lifted, nodded once. Dumbfounded, Rachel stared at her son, then across at this man who’d managed to get such a positive response. Without any effort. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered.
‘Ben Armstrong, Senior Constable, Cook Islands Police Department.’
Now she got the accent. Kiwi. Like her best friend, Lissie, who’d wangled an obstetrics job for her at the local hospital where there never used to be an obstetrician. Lissie, who’d also arranged this house for her to rent, having believed it was time Rachel moved on and made a new life for herself and Riley away from that big, empty apartment back in London.
Ben Armstrong held his hands out to Riley, who slowly shifted his weight and stretched to meet his new friend.
Amazed, Rachel handed her son over and muttered around a lump in her throat, ‘Second room on the right.’ She watched Ben’s large hands as he gently held her boy. Envy uncurled in her comfort-starved body. She’d love to be the one being held against that broad expanse of chest.
‘Have you got a book?’ he asked.
Somehow she managed to hear the question above the thudding in her ears and even gave a sensible answer. ‘On the bedside table.’
As the cop strode out of the room, Riley still didn’t say a word or make any sound. This wouldn’t work. Any moment now her son would realise what was happening and call out for her. All the more reason to hurry. Hefting her medical bag from the corner of the room, she went towards her patient.
Hot. Hot. Hot. Ben suppressed the urge to run his finger under his open collar. Dr Rachel Simmonds was something to be reckoned with.
Or would be if he was remotely interested in getting to know her. Which he absolutely was not. But, phew, she could set an iceberg on fire. What chance did his dormant hormones have of remaining indifferent? She stood tall and slim. Too slim. Except for the deep shadows staining her skin her face was very pale, delicate. Until she opened her mouth. Then she was very resolute. An intriguing, exciting combination that had already tripped a few switches within his brain. So his brain was below his belt these days? Why wouldn’t it be? When those eyes that reminded him of the wild bluebells growing on the family farm back home had rested on him he’d felt as though he’d been raked with a fire iron. Scorched. Seared. Sizzled.
She was a looker. That exquisite, fine-featured face, those big eyes laden with sadness, and the wildly curly hair that wasn’t quite blonde or brown haphazardly tied up with a gold ribbon: they all added up to a very neat and enticing package. Then there was the English accent that made him melt inside. She’d turn heads wherever she went, no doubt about it.
But his head would stay firmly facing in the right direction. Away from the new doc. He’d managed to avoid any sort of entanglement since … Pain sliced through his heart. Since that awful night that had turned his world upside down for ever. He leant into the agony. Anguish was good. It focused him, underlined