Taming Dr Tempest. Meredith Webber
shrugged off the comment, unwilling to admit he was already regretting the impulse that had put him on this plane, especially since Annabelle had used the words hiding out. Now he considered this aspect of it, although he believed he was a man who could handle any situation, he had to admit there was an element of that in the decision, and a feeling of not exactly shame but something like it washed through him.
The hospital ball was coming up and he was tired of finding someone to take to official functions—tired of explaining to the beautiful women that he wanted nothing more than a companion for the evening. But he knew from experience that not attending prompted more talk and speculation than him taking a different woman every time.
Added to which, Nellie was due in Brisbane for the annual fashion week later in the month and her face would be plastered on billboards and smiling out of newspapers and television screens, and try as he may to control it—control again—his stomach still clenched at the sight of that dazzling smile.
At the cold-blooded treachery it hid.
At the thought of what she’d done.
Control!
Fortunately the attendant was now pouring the coffee, so conversation could be forgotten.
He drank his coffee, looking out the window as he sipped, watching the broad ribbon of land unwind beneath him. Thinking of the past—not only of Nellie but of other losses—knowing it was time to put it all behind him and move forward. The challenge of the new job was just what he needed. He’d be too busy getting on top of that for the past to keep intruding. Control!
But even as his mind wandered, his eyes still registered the scenery.
Every now and then the red turned green and he guessed at crops he didn’t know the names of because he had no real idea what grew where, out here in what all Aussies, he included, called ‘the bush'.
‘See the huge dams?’ Annabelle was leaning towards him, peering past him out the window, unaware her soft breast was pressing against his chest. ‘They’re for the cotton crops. They take more water out of our river systems than any other crop and it’s causing problems for people further down the rivers and also slowly poisoning the whole river system.’
‘You a greenie as well as a geography whiz?’ he asked, finding, as she pressed a little closer, that her short, shiny hair diverted him from thoughts of soft breasts, smelling of lemons, not rotten eggs.
‘Nope, but I think it’s stupid to grow crops that need water in places that don’t have all that much.’
‘Like it’s stupid for a man who doesn’t need the bonus money to take this placement?’
She sat back and frowned at him.
‘I didn’t say that, and I sure as heck wouldn’t criticise you coming out here for whatever reason you came. In fact, I’m really impressed to think you’d do it—to see it for yourself before sending people out. I was just surprised, that’s all.’
But when she gave a little huff of laughter, Nick doubted she’d told the truth.
Until she explained…
‘I was surprised to see you sitting there. In my mind you’ve always been the epitome of city-man. I mean, look at you. You’re wearing suit trousers and a white shirt and a tie, for heaven’s sake. And I bet there’s a suit jacket stashed up there in the luggage compartment. You haven’t got a clue.’
Nick felt a strange emotion wriggle around inside him and tried to identify it. He could hardly be feeling peeved—only women got peeved—yet if it wasn’t peevishness squirming in his abdomen, it was mighty close…
‘Do you insult everyone you meet or is this treatment reserved for the poor people who have to work closely with you?’
She laughed again.
‘I’m sorry, it wasn’t meant as an insult, just an observation.’
The laughter made him more peevish than before.
‘Well, perhaps you’d like to keep any future observations to yourself,’ he grumped, then he turned back to the window, determined not to speak to her for the rest of the journey.
Until he began to consider what she’d said to make him peevish. It had been about his clothes. His decision to come had been so last minute that he hadn’t for a moment considered clothes, simply throwing most of his wardrobe into his suitcase—a wardrobe chosen mostly by Nellie, back when they’d been married.
Now words he’d learned from her—words like ‘linen blend’ and ‘worsted', words like ‘flat-pleated waist’ and ‘silk-knit polo'—came floating back to him.
He turned back to Belladonna, her true name forgotten in his horror.
‘I’ve brought the wrong clothes. I didn’t give it a damn thought, and I haven’t a clue what a country doctor might wear, but you’re right—it won’t be a suit and white shirt.
What do I do?’
To his relief she didn’t laugh at him or say I told you so, but instead regarded him quite seriously.
‘You’ll have a pair of jeans in your case and a couple of polo shirts—you can make do with those.’
He shook his head. The one pair of jeans he’d taken into his marriage had been consigned to a charity shop by Nellie, who’d claimed he had the wrong-shaped butt for jeans.
And silk-knit polo shirts probably weren’t what Annabelle had in mind for everyday wear in Murrawalla.
His companion frowned for a moment then shrugged.
‘No matter. We can get you togged up in town—in Murrawingi—before we head west. There’s a caravan park, which will have a laundry, so we can scruff everything up a bit before washing it and—’
‘Scruff everything up a bit?’ he echoed, feeling as if he was on a flight to Mars rather than the weekly flight to Murrawingi.
‘You don’t want that “new boy at school” look, do you?’ his new wardrobe consultant demanded, and he shook his head, remembering only too clearly the insecurity stiff new clothes had produced when he’d first started at his private school, a scholarship kid from a different social stratum who’d known no one. Lonely but proud, he’d hidden his unhappiness from his classmates with a defiant aloofness, until he’d proved himself on the rugby field, gaining popularity through sport, his intelligence overlooked as an aberration of some kind.
Look forward, he reminded himself, turning his mind back to Annabelle.
‘But I don’t want to be spending money on new clothes either—especially clothes I’ll probably never wear again.’
It was Annabelle’s turn to shake her head.
‘I know you mix in high society, but even there, good-quality country clothing is acceptable. Two pairs of moleskins, a couple of chambray or small-checked shirts, a pair of jeans and an Akubra. Actually, how big’s your head?’
She checked his head. It was a nice head with a good bump at the back of it—not like some heads that went straight down at the back. And the silky black hair was well cut to reveal the shape.
You’re talking hats, not heads, she reminded herself, wondering why she was so easily distracted by this man.
‘My Akubra’s a good size because I always had to tuck my hair into it, so it will probably fit you and, being a woman, I can wear a new Akubra without looking like a new chum.’
‘I’m still back at the first mention of Akubra,’ Nick admitted, looking more puzzled than ever. ‘What the hell is an Akubra?’
Annabelle stared at him in disbelief.
‘What planet do you inhabit?’ she demanded. ‘Surely there’s no one in Australia, and possibly the