Doctor in New Guinea

by Dana James

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Working on a vaccine to prevent malaria, Dr Maren Harvey is looking forward to a field trip into the highlands of Papua New Guinea, until she arrives and meets her guide, Dr Nicholas Calder. Though the antagonism between them is undeniable, Maren refuses to be deterred. She may be in unknown and dangerous territory ? in more ways than one ? but she's not a quitter, and Nicholas Calder has met his match.

Release date: July 17, 2013

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 167

Sample

Chapter One

Dr Maren Harvey kicked off her sandals, walked barefoot across the wooden floor to the window and looked out on to the exotic flowering shrubs and tall palms surrounding the small, single-storey hotel.

Her sleeveless cotton dress clung damply as she lifted the curtain of dark glossy hair off her neck and revelled in the deliriously cool air whispering across her skin.

The mountain ranges of the Eastern Highlands, swathed in lush tropical forest, rose into the blue sky only a few hundred yards away. Even as she watched, puffs of white cloud, like cotton wool balls, tumbled over the mountain peaks, heralding the inevitable rain which fell late every afternoon.

This was Papua New Guinea, the world’s largest tropical island, three-quarters of it untouched by civilisation.

Maren’s skin tightened with a small shiver of excitement. Soon she would be setting off into those mountains.

During the past four years spent in malaria research at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases in London, she had never dreamed that one day she would have the opportunity to get out of the laboratory and actually see for herself the conditions which produced the disease. This, her first field trip, had been Russell’s idea. It was going to be the adventure of a lifetime.

Maren breathed in deeply. Though the air here in the mountains was as warm as high summer in England, it tasted like nectar compared with the stifling humidity of the island’s capital, Port Moresby, where she had landed that morning.

Reluctantly, Maren turned away from the window. She wanted to freshen up and change her creased and travel-weary dress before meeting Russell to make the final arrangements. She felt as excited as a schoolgirl, which at 26 was nothing short of ridiculous.

As she lifted her suitcase onto the bed, Maren recalled the brown-skinned porter’s smiling but definite refusal of her proffered tip. A small card on the back of the door, unnoticed when she had entered, caught her eye, and she paused to read it.

friendly and courteous service is a papua new guinea tradition and gratuities for what comes naturally are not expected

This was an unusual country in more ways than she had expected.

The telephone buzzed softly, its gleaming white plastic completely out of place among the natural wood, muted earthy colours and traditional designs on the rugs and bedcover. Maren pushed her suitcase aside and sat down on the bed, drawing her long legs under her as she picked up the receiver.

‘Hello, this is Dr Harvey.’

‘Maren, my dear, it’s me.’ The rich tones of Professor Russell Brent’s voice echoed clearly down the line.

A fond smile curved Maren’s full lips as a vivid picture of the short, rotund figure she had known since childhood sprang into her mind.

‘Oh, Russell, I can hardly believe I’m actually here.’ She could barely contain her excitement. ‘And I know if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be. Did you have to pull many strings on my behalf?’

‘Not a single one,’ he laughed. ‘Your research results were recommendation enough. Did you have a good journey?’

Once more Maren freed the damp hair clinging to her neck. ‘I seem to have been travelling for ever. I’ve lost track of the days.’

‘It’s Monday,’ Brent put in helpfully.

‘Well, I left London on Saturday evening, arrived in Hong Kong on Sunday evening, just had time to change planes, and we got to Port Moresby at six-thirty this morning.’

‘I suppose you had a bit of a wait in the capital?’

She appreciated the sympathy. ‘Eight hours.’

‘You will have found it rather hot.’

‘A little,’ she agreed drily. ‘It was like breathing treacle. I was glad to reach Goroka. Russell, about the trip –’

‘How are your parents?’ he cut in, appearing not to have heard her.

‘They’re fine. Father’s in Zurich at the moment. Business will keep him there for several weeks so Mother went with him.’ Maren hitched herself higher up the bed and leaned against the headboard. ‘Then they’re going on to New York. They expect to be back in England to spend Christmas with Lucy and George and the children.’

‘How is life treating our tame aristocrat?’

‘Russell,’ Maren scolded, ‘you make him sound like some rare animal.’

‘My dear girl, a marquis who can run a stately home and estate at a profit in these stringent times is indeed a rare creature, believe me,’ Brent replied. ‘Are Lucy and the brats well?’

The reference to her sister and children made Maren smile again. ‘They’re fine. Christopher starts at Eton next year and the two girls are already terrorising the local Pony Club. As for Lucy –’ Maren’s voice softened ‘– I’ve never seen anyone so utterly content. Despite all the demands on them both, she and George seem to be on a permanent honeymoon.’

‘Do I detect a note of envy?’ Brent’s tone was light.

‘No, you don’t. I’m a dedicated career girl,’ Maren retorted a little too quickly.

‘No one could doubt it. But I have wondered in recent months whether your dedication to your research hasn’t removed you a little too far from the rest of the human race.’

‘Russell, I’ve already got one mother. I don’t need another.’ Maren knew her laugh was too bright, too brittle. ‘I adore my job. Working on a malaria vaccine is not only fascinating, it’s vital. I’m simply too busy for distractions.’ Becoming aware of the ache in her knuckles she release tight grip on the phone and flexed her fingers.

In some respects she was closer to Brent than to her parents. But she could not reveal, even to him, the fear that fluttered inside her like the wings of a dark bird.

‘Besides,’ she went on quickly, swallowing the dryness in her throat. ‘If I hadn’t been so dedicated this trip would not have come about. And there’s no other place on earth I’d rather be at this moment.’ The crisis had passed. She was firmly in control again. ‘Please don’t keep me in suspense. When do we leave and where exactly are we going?’

There was a silence.

‘You did mention the upland valleys in your letter,’ she went on. ‘Are there aid stations there? Or … Russell? Are you still on the line? Hello?’

‘I’m still here.’ His voice came back as strong as before. ‘Maren, there’s no way to break this gently. I’m afraid I can’t make the trip.’

It was Maren’s turn to be silent. She was stunned, devastated. ‘Can’t make it? But – but …’ She couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it. Not after all the months of planning, of waiting. After all the arrangements she’d needed to make at work to ensure experiments were covered, results noted, reports drafted. All the red tape and last-minute details. No, it couldn’t be true.

‘Russell, I don’t understand.’ She gripped the phone with both hands, sitting bolt upright as tension, anger and utter desolation chased one another. ‘When did – why didn’t you let me know sooner? I’ve come all this way …’ She broke off while she could still control her voice. Her throat was stiff and aching.

‘Of course you did. This is exactly where you should be.’ Brent spoke with exaggerated patience. ‘I didn’t say you weren’t going. I said I couldn’t make it.’

‘Then how –’

‘If you will give me a chance I’ll explain. I have to go to America for a World Health Organisation conference. It’s related to funding. It’s a chore but one I cannot escape. I’ve arranged that you join a colleague of mine who has a research trip of his own arranged. He’s a lecturer at the Faculty of Medicine both at Port Moresby and here in Goroka. The purpose of his trip is to collect follow-up data on a disease which only occurs in one group of people living in the Eastern Highlands.’

In spite of her disappointment Maren’s interest was immediately caught. ‘Won’t he object to me suddenly being dumped on him?’

‘He owes me a favour,’ Brent replied. ‘Now I must go, I have a plane to catch.’

Panic surged. Once he put the phone down her only contact in this alien country would be broken.

‘Russell, wait. Where – I mean, what’s his name?’

‘His name is Nicholas Calder. He’ll meet you in the lobby of your hotel at six-thirty this evening. Now I really must go. Enjoy your trip, Maren. I think you’ll discover you have a lot in common. And this trip will be one you’ll never forget.’

‘Don’t hang up,’ Maren shouted frantically. ‘What does he look like? How will I know him?’

‘He’s 36 years old, white, and an academic. How could you miss him?’ Brent’s cryptic reply was tinged with a hint of laughter. But absorbed in her chaotic thoughts, Maren didn’t have time to wonder why. ‘Goodbye, my dear. I’ll be in touch.’

There was a click and Maren was left staring at the disconnected phone.

Slowly she replaced the receiver. So, 36, white, and an academic. Well, that was clear enough, if lacking in detail. She did a mental check of the men she knew who fitted that description. There were three in the lab.

Charles in Immunology was five feet six inches tall and, if she was being tactful, on the plump side. With his rosy complexion, high forehead and rapidly receding hairline, he reminded Maren of an earnest gnome.

Then there was Guy from Haematology. She had always imagined that someone with a name like that would be a strapping rugby player or rowing blue. But though Guy was, at five feet ten, exactly the same height as her, not by any stretch of the imagination could he be termed husky, as he tried self-consciously to disguise his acne scars beneath long hair, a beard and moustache.

The only other man who fulfilled those criteria was William. Though he topped six feet, he was thin to the point of emaciation and walked with a pronounced stoop, like a sapling bowed by the breeze. He wore thin, wire-rimmed glasses, and his fair hair flopped over his forehead and collar looking as though it had been cut with a knife and fork.

They were not only her colleagues, they were her good friends, caring deeply, as she did, about their work, often assisting each other with experiments, working late into the night. She was at ease with them. As she scrambled from the bed and lifted her toilet bag out of her suitcase, the image she formed of Nicholas Calder was a mixture of those three.

Cool and refreshed from her shower, she put on a deceptively simple long sleeveless dress of crinkle cotton. The blue and green colour mixture suited her dark hair and emphasised the luminous green of her eyes. A fine gold thread through the fabric caused it to shimmer as she moved, and a gold belt and matching sandals completed the outfit.

Her only jewellery was her watch, a slim model from Cartier, her 21st birthday present from her parents.

She brushed her hair till it gleamed, then quickly twisted it into a coil on top of her head. Though the heat had lessened as evening approached and the rain had begun to fall, she wanted to remain as cool as possible.

It was too hot for make-up, not that she ever wore much. But a critical glance in the mirror revealed the strain and demands the last year’s work had made upon her. Slight shadows under her eyes, the skin drawn a fraction tight across her high cheekbones, and a slight pallor beneath her light tan.

It was just the travelling, she told herself firmly. Anyone was entitled to look pale after flying halfway across the world. For her ego’s sake she applied a soft rose gloss to her mouth, closed the tube and dropped it into her evening bag. Straightening her spine she lifted her chin, closed her eyes, and inhaled then and released three slow breaths. It was a trick she had picked up during university days to combat her chronic shyness and unease at meeting strangers.

The mirror reflected an image of serene confidence. She gave it a nod, took a final deep breath then left her room. After locking the door she walked along the passage with an elegance born of childhood ballet and deportment lessons. The insistence of her mother and her teachers that she be proud of her height and never, ever seek to minimise it had been a hard lesson, but it was one she had learned.

The lobby was deserted. Even the smiling receptionist who had so warmly welcomed her seemed temporarily to have vanished.

Glancing at her watch Maren saw it was a couple of minutes after six-thirty. Obviously Dr Calder had been delayed, perhaps by the rain, now falling in a relentless torrent.

There was no point in returning to her room so she wandered over to look at the display in the small shop and was immediately entranced by the wood carvings and brilliantly plumed head-dresses on sale. Pottery and basketwork lay beside woven and beaded headbands, belts and necklaces.

Dresses and shirts of soft, butter-yellow cotton printed with traditional designs in red, brown and black were arranged at one side. One in particular caught her attention. As she moved closer to examine it the outside door crashed open. She swung round, startled by the noise.

He stood at least six feet four. The short-sleeved jacket of his beige safari suit stretched tightly across massive shoulders as he shook the rain from a huge umbrella and tossed it into the stand. Raindrops glistened in his black hair and on his deeply tanned arms.

His gaze raked the lobby, stopped at Maren, and she was shaken to the core by the icy disdain that spread slowly across his chiselled features.

Chapter Two

Oh no. Not him. It couldn’t be him. She had never seen a man so aggressively masculine. His physical impact exploded her imaginary picture of a 36-year-old, white academic into a thousand fragments.

There was something predatory about him, an aura more suited to a hunter or explorer than a medical lecturer. Perhaps that’s what he was and she had jumped to the wrong conclusion. She desperately hoped so.

But as he came towards her, his lithe strides covering the floor as smoothly and silently as a leopard, the horrible sinking feeling in her stomach told her differently.

‘I’m Nicholas Calder,’ he said abruptly, his voice gravel and steel. ‘You, I presume, are Maren Harvey?’

Maren tilted her chin a fraction higher. Whatever had caused his obvious bad temper she had no intention of being his scapegoat. Instinct warned her that this man judged by his own standards and made no allowances.

The strong and instant antagonism between them was undeniable. It was equally obvious that the disadvantages were all on her side, though she had no idea why.

‘I am Dr Harvey, yes,’ Maren replied coolly, extending her hand as she met his cold gaze.

His brown eyes, so dark as to be almost black, were hooded as they swept over her and Maren knew that no detail of her appearance had escaped that fleeting scrutiny. Heavy brows met in a frown above an aquiline nose. Deep creases were scored on either side of a surprisingly sensual mouth set in an uncompromising line above a lean hard jaw.

His face and neck, down to the black hair that curled in the “v” of the immaculate beige safari jacket, were tanned mahogany. The evenness of his colour told Maren that it would be the same all over his body. She felt herself grow hot at the unexpected intimacy of that thought.

He shook her hand, reluctantly it seemed, and the contact though firm was brief. ‘I suggest we eat straight away. Unless you want a drink first?’

As an invitation it left a lot to be desired. The inflection in his tone made Maren’s hackles rise. She rarely touched alcohol. But after the frenetic activity of the past week and two days of non-stop travelling she had looked forward on her first evening in Papua New Guinea to a leisurely meal preceded by a glass of wine.

But the prospect of trying to make polite conversation over a drink with this terse forbidding man was not appealing. ‘No, thank you. I’m quite happy to eat now.’

Without another word he turned and led the way into the dining room. They were the first diners to arrive and were greeted by a smiling waiter who led them to a corner table. The walls of the low-ceilinged room were split bamboo, the floor polished wood. A huge fan set in the ceiling stirred the air and wall lights with leaflike shades cast a soft glow over the room.

Arrangements of exotic flowers with petals of crimson, gold, purple and ivory amid lush green foliage stood on carved wooden pedestals against the walls. The tablecloths were crisp and spotless, and ice cubes tinkled in the jug of crystal water brought by the white-shirted waiter. In the background the constant drum and hiss of the tropical rain provided its own music.

The meal of chicken and pineapple served on a bed of fluffy ri. . .