‘But…’ Fern stared. ‘St Martin’s…If you were in charge there…’
If Quinn was in charge of Casualty at St Martin’s then he had to be good. St Martin’s was one of the biggest emergency hospitals in Australia, coping not only with local trauma but also the complex trauma from almost everywhere else. A man breaking his spine in the Simpson Desert would probably be transported to St Martin’s, and the hospital had a neo-natal team that brought desperately ill babies from all over Australia.
‘So what on earth are you doing here?’ Fern whispered.
‘R and R,’ Quinn smiled. ‘Change of pace.’
Change of pace! From racing with the best to a comparative crawl! Quinn’s income would be a tenth here of the income he was accustomed to-and with his skills…
‘But…your skills are wasted here,’ Fern managed.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s in the eye of the beholder and if I’m the beholder I don’t think I am. Someone else stepped into my shoes with enthusiasm as soon as I left St Martin’s. Here, though…Well, even the locally raised doctor refuses to come home to look after her own people on Barega.’
‘That’s unfair,’ Fern whispered. ‘I can’t…’
‘Can’t come home?’
‘No.’
There was a groan from around the corner of the verandah. Silence as if the groaner was waiting for a reaction and then another groan. Louder.
Sam…
Quinn grimaced and motioned to Fern to stay where she was while he went to investigate.
‘I should go…’ she whispered.
‘No.’ Quinn ran his hair through his brown-gold hair in a gesture of exasperation. ‘If you go then your beloved Sam will likely as not berate you-going on past performance-and I don’t want raised voices in Frank’s room.’
‘F-fine.’
Quinn smiled as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. He placed a hand firmly on her shoulder
and pressed her back into her chair-and then left.
Fern was alone.
She should make her escape while she could. Fern should walk right back into Maud’s ward and close the door behind her.
Fern did no such thing. She couldn’t. The night was drifting into something resembling a dream. It had little to do with reality. The moonlight shone on her face and held her in thrall while she waited for Quinn to return.
She didn’t have long to wait.
Quinn was back in two minutes, hands dug deep in his pockets and the laughter lines gone from his eyes.
‘What…what was wrong?’ Fern asked.
‘Your beloved has a sore stomach.’ Quinn grimaced. ‘He wants drugs to remove the pain and he grew very hostile when I told him he risked making himself ill again if he had painkillers. My assurance that half the island must have stomach-ache tonight-and they weren’t writhing round in hospital beds demanding drugs-went down like a lead balloon.’
‘I…I can imagine it would,’ Fern said faintly.
‘What the hell do you see in him?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me,’ Quinn said harshly. ‘The man’s nothing but a self-opinionated, hypochondriacal bore, and you’re planning to marry him?’ His voice rose on a note of incredulity.
‘That’s my business.’
‘Oh, sure,’ he mocked. ‘But I’m asking anyway and if you don’t tell me I’ll ask louder and louder until that boyfriend of yours yells out that we’re disturbing his beauty sleep.’
‘That’s unfair.’
‘You’re right.’ Quinn’s infectious grin flashed out once again. ‘But life’s like that, Dr Rycroft. Most unfair. Now, are you going to tell me or is my voice going higher…?’
‘I love Sam…’
‘Nonsense.’
‘I do,’ Fern said hotly. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re on about, but marriage isn’t…shouldn’t be like it is in the movies. Real love isn’t like that. I mean, if you fall romantically in love with someone how can you tell who you’re ending up with? Sam and I have known each other since we were teenagers. We have the same backgrounds. The same ideals. And when we’re in the city we can talk about the island and remember…’
‘You mean you’re marrying the man because you’re homesick?’ Quinn’s mobile brows were disappearing into his hair.
‘No. Yes…Look, this is ridiculous,’ Fern said desperately. ‘You have no right to interfere…’
‘I have a right to stop a tragedy,’ Quinn said grimly. He reached out and took her hands in his, not gently. ‘Good grief, woman, you could do better than that noise-box. Do you have any idea just how beautiful you are?’
‘No!’ Fern’s voice was a barrier of pain. She tugged her hands back but they were held in a grip of iron. ‘Look, I don’t know what on earth you’re doing…’
‘Well, that makes two of us.’ Quinn stared down at her in the golden moonlight and there was a trace of confusion in the grimness around her eyes. ‘But I know that there’s love and laughter right near the surface behind that practical, sensible mind of yours, Dr Rycroft. And I know one day you’ll wake up with that boring little creep in the next ward and think “what have I done?”‘
‘Why should I?’
‘Because he’s as passionless as a frog,’ Quinn threw back at her, and then that irrepressible laughter surfaced again. He chuckled. ‘Mind, there might be some pretty passionate frogs out there, for all I know. If there are, then your Sam doesn’t compete.’
‘Look, will you let me go?’
‘Do you know how passionate your intended is?’ Quinn asked. ‘You didn’t dash to his rescue at first groan. You hardly gave yourself time to kiss him goodnight-and I wouldn’t mind betting all he gave you was a peck on the cheek.’
‘There’s more to life than passion,’ Fern retorted.
‘“There’s more to life than…”‘ Quinn’s repetition of her words died away to silence.
There was a long, long silence.
Quinn didn’t release the pressure on Fern’s hands for a moment. He stood looking down at her in the moonlight and the expression in his eyes was one of baffled anger.
‘If I was your man…’ he said at last.
‘Well, you’re not.’
The touch of Quinn’s hands on hers was doing strange things to her. Fern pulled back again but his hold only tightened.
‘I’m starting to think you don’t even know what passion is…’ Quinn was almost talking to himself. ‘“There’s more to life than passion,”‘ he repeated.
‘Good grief, woman…’
‘There is!’
‘There might be,’ Quinn agreed, ‘but it sure as heaven helps life along. If you can find someone who makes you feel…’
‘Feel what?’ Fern was past lowering her voice now. She was just plain angry and this man holding her was making her feel torn in two. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Quinn’s deep eyes darkened. For one more moment he stood looking down at her in the warm night air and then he swore softly to himself.
‘I dare say I’ll regret this in the morning,’ he muttered savagely. ‘But it’s time to show-not tell!’
And he pulled her to him in one swift, effortless movement. His mouth lowered to hers and in the next instant Fern was being ruthlessly kissed.
She should have struggled.
Of course she should have struggled. She didn’t want this man to kiss her. She didn’t…
Fern could never tell afterwards if she lifted her face at the critical moment. She could never tell if she had expected-wanted-what happened as Quinn’s mouth met hers.
All she knew was that some weird feeling was sweeping through her-something connected with the warmth of this man’s strong hands and the feel of his mouth brushing her lips.
Brushing?
The kiss was a gentle brush for only a moment-a feather kiss of a question while she stood still and mute and unable to draw away.