Melting the Argentine Doctor's Heart / Small Town Marriage Miracle (12 page)

Jorge watched the woman, her hair more silvery than
ever in the moonlight, studying the thorn tree as if it was giving her some message.

He smiled to himself. Of course she’d like the thorn trees for she was equally persistent.

Music blasted from a nearby dwelling, the rich, vibrant notes of the tango, turned up, perhaps, so someone could dance, and the moonlight, the thorn tree and the music took him back.

‘Remember?’ he said quietly, and even as he said it, although remembering was what he was doing most of the time, he knew this remembering could be fatal, for this remembering meant touching her, holding her.

She turned to him, her face lit by an inner radiance—or maybe just the moon.

‘When you taught me the tango? By moonlight? Near the thorn tree? ‘

She came into his arms as easily as if she’d never left them, as if he’d never pushed her out of them, but he knew that had been before, not now—knew they were both back in the past, in happier times.

If only for a few minutes.

He held her to his chest, for the Argentine tango was chest to chest—the only real tango in his opinion—and she followed his steps, their feet kicking up dust from the street as they swept back and forth, letting the music thrum through their blood, carrying them to another place—another time.

Then, as abruptly as it had started, the music stopped. For a moment it seemed to Jorge as if his heart, too, had stopped, for he’d been lost in the delight of holding Caroline in his arms, of feeling his body come to life
with an urgency he’d forgotten could exist. Desire had pounded, hot and heavy, in his blood, the music driving his need and memory feeding it.

‘
Gracias
,’ Caroline whispered to him, but she didn’t move away. Maybe because his arms still held her, chest to chest, kissing close—more than kissing close.

To kiss her would be worse than dancing with her. His head retained enough composure to remind him of that, yet would it be so wrong to touch his lips to hers?

Just once?

‘And thank you too,’ he said, and because he knew once would never be enough, he dropped his arms, stepping back out of temptation’s way, returning to the clinic, his idea of seeing her safely into the hut, maybe organising some dinner for the pair of them forgotten, or at least set aside while he fought temptation on his own.

But the beat continued to course through his body, rattling his brain so when Juan asked him a question about their patient, Jorge had to shake his head to clear it before he could reply.

‘Go home,’ Juan said to him. ‘You have done all you can for the man. Go home and feed your woman.’

‘She is not my woman.’ The denial was automatic, but saying the words made him wonder.

Could
she still have feelings for him?

Yes, she’d come so Ella would know her father—knowing Caroline he believed that implicitly—but was it possible that he
hadn’t
killed the love they’d shared?

In one part of his brain he was aware that even thinking of these things was putting his defensive structure in danger—he could all but hear the walls he’d built
around his emotions cracking—yet he couldn’t help but wonder.

And wondering he left the clinic, not going home to his woman but drawn to be where Caroline was.

It was too much! She couldn’t go on with this—being with Jorge, near him, working with him, living in his house and pretending all the time she felt nothing for him. It was just too darned hard. Caroline sat in the comfy old armchair, her elbows resting on her knees, her head in her hands, despair in her heart.

She’d
survived without a father, so surely Ella could!

Dancing with him had been the last straw. Being held in his arms, being carried back with the music to such blissful times, moving with him, feeling his body against hers, longing to be lost in it, longing for the touch of love, a gentle kiss perhaps, something—anything—to show he still felt something for her.

Could it be one-sided, the burning heat of desire that swept through her body when they touched, that had all but melted her brain when he’d taken her in his arms?

She’d stayed there, unable to push away, thanking him, wanting more, wanting so much to kiss him or be kissed that she was surprised her need hadn’t been visible in a cloud of steam above her head.

And all he’d said had been, ‘Thank you.’ Then he’d dropped his arms and she’d stood there like a big galoot with her desire, and need, and wanting.

She’d go away, go back home, go tomorrow, for this pretence was killing her. Jorge didn’t want her, that was
obvious, and if he didn’t want her then for sure he didn’t love her, and if he didn’t, perhaps he never had.

Her thoughts floundered, maudlin self-pity, something she abhorred, sneaking dangerously close.

Action, that was what she needed. She’d thanked Mima and sent her home as soon as she’d come in. Now she’d look in on Ella, find something to eat, and if Jorge returned she could leave him with Ella and go for a walk—a promenade.

That might not be a sensible idea at night in a strange place, although from what she’d seen everybody promenaded so it wasn’t as if she’d be walking deserted streets.

She’d straightened in the armchair as she pondered these decisions so wasn’t sitting slumped in despair when Jorge walked in.

‘Have you eaten?’

The question was so abrupt she peered at him but the lighting in the hut was dim and she couldn’t read any expression on his face.

Not that she cared any more what he was thinking or feeling, she told herself, and answered just as abruptly, ‘No.’

‘I will fix us an omelette,’ he said, and moved into the kitchen where the light was slightly better so she could see that, although he was fighting to carry himself as upright as a soldier on parade, there was a tilt to his shoulders and a slight slump to his back.

She closed her eyes against the emotion that seeing his pain had caused, then reminded herself she was done with emotion.

‘I can do omelettes,’ she said, standing up and joining him in the kitchen. ‘You sit down. We walked for hours by the river, you carried Ella, you were bent over your patient for another ninety-minutes, it’s obvious your back’s giving you hell.’

She put her hand on his chest and gave him a slight push, not much but enough to get him down onto a stool.

‘Just tell me what you want in it, the omelette, then you can tell me about your health. Just how badly are you still affected by your injuries?’

She’d lifted the big cast-iron frying pan from the open shelves and set it on the gas ring as she spoke, then added a little oil and reached for a bowl and the basket of eggs.

He hadn’t answered so she turned her attention from beating eggs and looked at him.

‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘There are peppers in a basket under the gas ring, and brown onions, and I think in the refrigerator you’ll find a chorizo to slice and throw in.’

‘Very helpful!’ Caroline snapped. ‘But that wasn’t the real question and you know it.’

She said no more, assembling the ingredients he’d suggested and beginning to peel and chop. The oil sizzled in the pan and she added the eggs, pushing them in at the sides so the omelette would thicken.

‘Your injuries,’ she reminded him.

‘Are my business,’ he said, so coldly she knew immediately she should stop probing, but her despair of earlier—the no-kiss despair—had stirred her anger
again, and although she wasn’t angry she definitely wasn’t full of sweetness and light or about to be put off by coldness.

‘Of course they are,’ she said, as she tipped the colourful mix of vegetables and sausage into the pan on top of the eggs. ‘You’re lifting Ella, carrying her, driving her. Does pain immobilise you at times? Are you on strong painkillers? What should we avoid—long walks, or standing for any length of time? You’re a doctor, you must realise I’m not asking you because I’m sorry for you—heaven forbid—you’re the most self-reliant, self-contained, self-confident man I’ve ever met, the last man in the world anyone could feel sorry for.’

Did she mean it?

Jorge sat on the stool in his own kitchen, his back aching so badly that even sitting was an effort. He watched the woman busy with the omelette, not as he’d have made it but doing not too bad a job, and wondered if she spoke the truth.

To a certain extent he accepted what she’d said, but for too long he’d hidden the pain he’d suffered as a result of the broken bones and torn muscles and ligaments, refusing to talk about it to anyone, fearing the only way it could be borne was to keep it hidden, even, at times, from himself. He was aware that didn’t make much sense but he’d devised ways of distracting himself from it when it was bad, and some instinct told him that if someone else knew of it—perhaps could see it or divine it in some way—then he’d no longer be able to escape it.

‘I don’t take strong drugs—some mild ones from time to time.’

She’d found plates and had flipped the omelette so it was folded in half. Now she slid it onto one of the plates, divided it in two with the spatula, served it out and handed him one of the plates. She settled on a stool across from him and pushed a fork towards him, saying nothing as she tasted her dinner.

He looked across the table at her—intent, it seemed, on the food in front of her. Would it help to share his pain?

The thought was startling—he, who’d shared so little of the whole episode of his accident even with his father, thinking such a thing. It must be because tonight the pain was bad, although when he’d danced.

‘You must have medical reports, X-rays and things.’

She’d put down her fork and was leaning on the table, close enough for him to see the slight flecks of gold in her blue eyes, mesmerising him.

‘So if you don’t want to talk about it, maybe I could take a look at them and figure out the ongoing damage for myself.’

Mesmerising him was bad—probing into his pain, which was very personal to him, was even worse.

‘It was four years ago,’ he said, looking away from her eyes, turning his thoughts away from her probing. ‘They are long gone.’

‘I don’t believe you. You’re a doctor. You’ve permanent injuries so you must have regular—yearly or two-yearly—checks and X-rays and, being you, you’d want to compare them to the originals, if only to see if there’s been degeneration.’

She lifted her fork and began eating again, but the questions hovered in her eyes every time she glanced up at him, curiosity, not pity, in that steadfast blue gaze.

‘I don’t talk about it.’

Would that stop her?

Knowing Caroline, probably not, but it might bring him enough respite to get his omelette—which was delicious—eaten. She’d finished hers and had stood up to rinse her plate then bring two glasses and the water jug to the table. She poured the water and pushed one glass across to him, lifting hers and saying, ‘Cheers,’ before drinking from it.

So much for a respite. He put down his fork and just looked at her, the desire that had shaken him to his core as they’d danced now flooding back.

Dios mio,
why now? They were at odds, barely civil with each other, yet watching her raise that glass and draw water into her mouth had set fire to his groin so now new pain rattled his body and set alarm bells clanging in his mind.

Eat.

Had she said it or was it his bewildered brain giving the order? The word echoed in his head for a moment, and finally lodged where it needed to, telling his hand to pick up his fork, his lips to open and close, his throat to swallow.

‘Thank you,’ he managed as he finished the meal and in turn stood up to rinse his plate. She’d moved away and stood near the door, looking out at the moonlit area beyond his hut, so he busied himself boiling water and
washing the dishes properly, the silence growing heavier and heavier in the air between them.

Should he tell her about his injuries, share things with her he’d not shared before?

He could understand where she was coming from. She was asking out of concern for Ella, not for herself, and that, though he hated to admit it, cut into him more than it should, if he really was all the things she’d called him—self-reliant, self-contained, self-confident.

Once he might have been all of these, back when she’d known him he’d have to say he
had
been, but now, he knew, they were largely pretence—a costume of self he wore for the world, hiding the wounded, broken man within.

‘There was a time I thought I’d never walk again—never work again.’

He said the words very quietly, testing them out, talking to her back. She was turning towards him when a cry from the bedroom brought Caroline back through the kitchen, heading for the bedroom, and something he had to call fatherly instinct had him following close on her heels.

Ella was sitting up in bed, obviously distressed, although when Caroline lifted her, her crying ceased.

‘Bad dreams?’ he asked quietly, and Caroline nodded. She was rocking back and forth, the movement obviously soothing as Ella’s eyes were closing again.

‘She has them sometimes when she’s overtired,’ Caroline explained, speaking quietly. ‘I suppose I should have expected it. The good thing is she goes right back to sleep after a cuddle and they don’t seem to recur.’

Was it hearing her mother’s voice that made Ella open her eyes?

Probably, but for whatever reason, to Jorge’s delight, she looked right at him when she did and murmured a sleepy ‘Hor-hay?’

‘Yes, I’m here,’ he said gently, moving closer and holding out his arms. To his delight, without a qualm, Ella slid from her mother’s arms to his.

Jorge felt the little body settle confidently against his and something he’d never felt before surged through him. This was
his
child,
his
flesh and blood, and just like that he recognised the surge as love, a love so deep and profound he knew he’d do anything in his power to stay in her life.

And not as a bystander—a weekend father. Oh, he knew full well that could and did work in many families, but it was not for him. Somehow he and Caroline had to come to some arrangement where they could live together and share one hundred per cent in Ella’s upbringing.