The Most Magical Gift of All. Fiona Lowe

enough to bother her one little bit. He was a visual gift from the gods, and after her six months in a living hell she soaked him in while half-listening to his detailed explanation about clinic procedures. Procedures that were all neatly printed and stored in an absurdly organised and colour-co-ordinated folder complete with tabbed dividers. His receptionist was obviously a stationery junkie.

      His mellow voice rolled around her like a caress as she followed him on a whirlwind tour. ‘I usually start the day with an early hospital round before heading to the clinic, but it’s your gig, Sophie, so do things your way. The staff have promised me they’ll adapt.’

      She was pretty sure women probably promised him anything, and why not? His large black boots connected him firmly and authoritatively with the world, and his wide, firm stance showcased strong calves and tight buttocks. The whole package was outlined in glorious detail by leather trousers that nipped in at a narrow waist. Tucked in flatly to the belted waistband was a soft white T-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and, given the bronzed and bulging arm muscles that escaped from under the short sleeves, she imaged the rest of the shirt covered very toned abs.

      Jack Armitage exuded the confidence of a man who knew what he wanted and Sophie envied him that. She knew for certain what she didn’t want in her life but she wasn’t at all sure she had any clue what she really did want. She lurched from one vague plan to the next. Australia had beckoned when the stress of working in a war zone had her so worn out that any loud noise made her jump, and every day had become a strategy in survival. She needed some breathing space and she needed to embrace normality. She probably should have gone to see her father but the thought of returning to England in December was unconscionable. She’d have gone just about anywhere to avoid Christmas, just like she’d done for years.

      After fifteen minutes of walking and talking, Jack paused; they were now back at the admissions desk. ‘So is all this making sense?’ Strikingly vivid eyes—the same colour of the purple-blue mountains she’d seen in the distance when she’d hopped off the bus—sought confirmation.

      Eyes that held a current of leashed energy that had sparked like electricity, pinning her to the wall, the moment she’d first locked eyes with him. Eyes that had unabashedly appraised her from across a room and were still doing it.

      His gaze heated every part of her it touched, setting up an itch under all of her skin that she knew no amount of calamine lotion would soothe.

      You’ve been out of circulation for too long and that’s making you imagine this attraction. She had to be imagining it, because nothing like this had ever happened to her before and the intensity was almost scary. She breathed in a long, slow, breath; the technique she’d learned as a teenager when her life had changed forever, and then honed when working with Frontline Aid. Immediately her heart slowed down, her body drained of its heat, and she centred her thoughts firmly on what Jack was saying. ‘It’s all making total sense. The information’s very clear and straightforward.’

      ‘Great. Now, these are the numbers if you need to evacuate a patient.’

      He reached across in front of her and grabbed a bright yellow sticky-note to mark the page; the scent of sunshine and fresh soap tickled her nostrils.

      She breathed in deeply, inhaling the robust and almost decadent scent, but instead of slowing her heart rate it immediately sped it up again, overruling all attempts at calming thoughts. Delicious warmth followed a second later, building into heat which trailed through her veins with addictive sweetness, leaving hot spots of something she knew intimately but didn’t want to name.

      Her brain grinned, totally ignoring her, and with a loud trumpet fanfare named it: longing.

      No. This was just the recognition of, and longing for, normality. This was the longing for a safe haven because for the last six months she’d been working abroad with the stench of war and disease in her nostrils, and she’d avoided such deep, lung-filling breaths. Now she was out in the safe desert of Australia, she could take her fill of the cleansing, pure air.

       Pure lust.

      Jack’s head tilted sideways and concern backlit with a simmering heat flared in his eyes. ‘You OK, Sophie? You look a bit dazed.’

      The flat vowels sounded strange to her ears but the deep melody of his voice moved through her like the rich vibrating bass of a bassoon, before settling inside her where she hadn’t known there was a space. ‘I’m fine.’ No, you’re not, you’re wigging out. No man has ever affected you quite like this. ‘I’m just jet-lagged, with a bit of culture shock on the side.’

      ‘England’s smaller and a lot greener,’ he teased, his face lighting up with that enigmatic look that sent rafts of tingling all the way down to her toes, making them curl.

      She was going mad. This reaction was completely over the top for a guy she’d only met two hours ago, even if he was an enigmatic bad-boy—her type of man. Was this what happened to women who hadn’t had sex in a long time? When the pressure of not knowing if you’d live another day was removed? She felt her fingers dig into her palms, trying to shock herself back into control with some physical discomfort. She’d never experienced such overwhelming need before and she was used to long periods of time between boyfriends. It came with the territory when you took contracts with Frontline Aid. Liaisons were actively discouraged because they could fracture the way the Frontline team worked, and it was enough just to stay safe and keep the nationals alive.

      But living with death every day made you want to grab onto life and her body seemed to be doing that. She tucked an annoying curl of hair behind her ear and tried concentrating on geography rather than the fact that her body had totally disconnected from her brain and common sense, and was careering off the rails like a runaway train. ‘True, England’s small and green, but I’ve just come from working in north-west Pakistan, and when I was looking at its beautiful, snow-covered, jagged mountains and glacial lakes I thought I was in Switzerland.’

      He raised his brows. ‘Except for the mortar fire?’

      She gave a tight laugh. ‘Yes, well, there was a lot of that, which made it very un-Switzerland.’

      He folded strong arms across his broad chest. ‘I think you might find the silence of Barragong a bit unsettling.’

      The concern in his eyes was unsettling. It was as if he saw way past the persona she showed the world. She much preferred the open admiration and banked heat.

      She flicked the folder shut. ‘Dr Armitage—’

      ‘Jack.’ The heat in his eyes flared again.

      Her muscles liquefied and she clutched the folder tightly to her chest. ‘I’ve done locum work all around the world and this—’ she tapped the folder ‘—is the most comprehensive handover I’ve ever had. Between the staff and the flying doctors, not to mention the virtual consultations available with specialists in Adelaide, I’m sure Barragong and I will muddle through.’

      ‘With your experience in the world’s trouble spots, I think you’ll do a lot more than muddle.’

      The deep resonance of his voice cloaked her like velvet and she fought every instinct to close her eyes and lean into him. But this wasn’t a smoky bar or a low-lit dance floor. This was a hospital, and she’d arrived in Barragong so he could leave.

      It’s such a shame he’s leaving. She ignored the traitorous and tempting voice. ‘So, if you can just show me where the hospital flat is, you can start your holiday.’

      ‘Sophie, you’ve no idea how much I’ve longed to hear those words.’ This time a long, lazy smile rolled across his jaw, up along his cheeks and straight to his eyes, giving him a simmering edge of raw appeal. The bad-boy appeal called to her like a siren.

      Except for the dimple in one cheek. A dimple! None of her previous bad-boy boyfriends had dimples, and it certainly wasn’t a look she associated with a biker.

      But the thought vanished when, with one flick of his long, strong index-finger, he pulled his leather jacket