on his shoulder, the pressure firm. ‘You’ve gone a bit green. Sit down before you fall down. I’ll just go grab my bag.’
Bag? He really was dizzy because that made no sense at all. He wanted to say he was fine but his legs felt decidedly wobbly so he sat and automatically dropped his head between his knees in the way he’d told so many of his patients to do in his role as a volunteer ambulance officer.
A minute later, Meredith’s black leather boots appeared in his line of vision and a blanket slid across his shoulders. ‘Pull that around you. I don’t want you getting cold.’
‘Thanks.’ He raised his head to see her drop a backpack from her shoulder and he instantly recognised the medical logo. ‘You’re a doctor?’
‘GP.’ She moved as if she was going to kneel down next to him on the wet grass.
‘Stop.’
‘Excuse me?’ Her tone was both bemused and commanding at the same time, as if she wasn’t used to taking instructions.
‘The grass is sopping. I’ll stand up and we’ll go inside.’
Her light brown brows pulled down. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah.’ He wasn’t sure at all but, he wasn’t about to let a heavily pregnant woman kneel in wet grass.
She gave him a scrutinising look and her lips pursed into a perfect bow like those painted on dolls. ‘Pull up on my hand.’
‘I don’t need—’
‘Just do it.’ Her hand hovered in front of him. ‘I’m not going to break and, believe me, you don’t want concussion from falling over.’
With her baby-blue eyes, dark brown lashes, pale complexion and that mouth, she looked like a fragile china doll but her firm tone said otherwise. He extended his hand. ‘I think I’m too scared to say no.’
The edges of that very beautiful mouth tweaked up slightly—not quite a smile but as close as he’d ever seen her come to one. Her warm hand closed around his wrist with a surprisingly strong grip and he pushed against his injured hand to help them both. Red-hot pain ripped through him and he swayed on his feet.
‘Steady.’ Meredith pressed her shoulder under his and put her arm around his waist. ‘Just stand still for a second and wait for everything to catch up.’
Her warmth flowed into him and he had the craziest sensation that she fitted in against him as if she was his matching piece in a puzzle.
What the hell? The pain was making him hallucinate. ‘I’m good to go.’ He started to walk, fighting the silver dots that danced in front of his eyes.
He thought he heard her mutter something about men taking stupid risks and then her fingers were digging into his forearm and stalling his progress. ‘This isn’t a race walk, okay?’
With one hand holding her bag and the other on his arm, they made their way slowly through the front doorway and into the house. ‘Where’s the kitchen?’
Right now it seemed a million miles away. ‘Down the hall and to the left.’
A minute later Raf gratefully slid into the chrome and vinyl kitchen chair and rested his arms on the green Laminex-topped table. Meredith blinked twice as if she was clearing her vision and then she pulled up a chair and opened her medical bag.
He gave a wry smile. ‘Yes, you have stepped back in time to 1975.’
She didn’t say anything, just pumped hand sanitiser onto her hand before deftly rubbing it into her skin. After she’d snapped on gloves, she finally spoke. ‘Let’s see how much damage you’ve inflicted on yourself.’ She gingerly unwrapped the blood-soaked shirt and more oozed from a deep and uneven cut. ‘You did a good job.’
‘I only ever do my best,’ he joked feebly as he forced himself to look at his hand. His gut flipped as a wave of nausea washed through him. Being objective about a cut was much easier when it wasn’t his hand that was bleeding.
‘Wriggle your fingers for me,’ she said, not taking her gaze off his hand.’
‘One, two, three, four, five,’ he said as he moved each one individually. ‘No tendon damage.’
Surprise crossed her face as she pressed a wad of gauze against the wound and then she picked up his other hand and placed it over the top to apply pressure. ‘That’s right. Are you in the medical profession too?’
‘Not exactly, but I’ve been a volunteer ambo for years. I work the big events in Melbourne like the tennis and the footy grand final.’
He heard the combined noises of shuffle and thump echoing down the hall—the new sound of his father’s gait that had replaced his previously brisk and determined thwack of work boots.
A few seconds later, Mario appeared in the doorway. ‘Rafael.’ His voice was coolly censorious. ‘You didn’t mention we have a visitor.’ He turned his attention to Meredith with a smile. ‘Hello, I’m Mario Camilleri.’
‘I’m Meredith,’ she said crisply in a doctor’s voice. ‘I’m your neighbour but I’m not here on a social call.’
Before Raf could open his mouth she added, ‘I’m a doctor and Raf’s injured himself with the saw.’
Mario’s gaze moved to the blood-soaked shirt and gauze and then flicked to Raf’s face, his expression critical. ‘I taught you better than that. Just as well you didn’t use the chainsaw.’
‘Meredith,’ Raf said, trying to stay calm, ‘meet my father.’
Meredith thought she saw Raf’s jaw clench and had the almost palpable tension that ran between father and son been an object, it would have been a big, solid brick wall. Mario’s hand gripped the handle of his cane and despite the fact his face hadn’t blanched at the sight of the blood, she really didn’t need two men down. ‘I’m going to stitch Raf’s hand so if that makes you feel queasy …’
‘I’ve been a professional fisherman all my life,’ Mario said. ‘It takes more than some blood to upset me.’ He flicked a disapproving glance at Raf. ‘My wife had a rule about wearing a shirt in the house. I’ll get Raf a clean one.’ He turned and walked away, his left leg dragging every few steps.
As a doctor, Meredith had seen a lot of bodies in her day and she could understand how some men’s torsos—especially lily-white-skinned ones with flabby abdomens—could be off-putting and a definite appetite suppressant in a kitchen. Raf’s, on the other hand, was olive skinned, muscular with a hint of a six pack and not at all unappealing.
Eye candy for you, Merry. Richard’s teasing voice sliced into her.
She quickly snapped open an ampoule of local anaesthetic and concentrated on drawing the clear liquid into the syringe, desperate not to think about Richard. Whenever she thought about his unnecessary death, she never knew if she was going to start screaming at him, start sobbing, or both. She’d learned in the last weeks that there was a minute distance between anger and despair.
She shot the clear anaesthetic liquid out of the needle until it measured the correct amount. ‘Let’s get this hand stitched up.’
Raf grimaced. ‘That stuff stings.’
‘Sorry.’
He shrugged. ‘There are worse things.’
‘Yes,’ she said savagely. ‘There are.’
‘That was heartfelt.’ His large, kind chestnut eyes—the same deep, rich colour as the eyes of the Jersey cows she’d grown up surrounded by—studied her intently, as if he was searching for something.
She dropped his gaze. ‘This might hurt.’ She jabbed the needle into the back of his hand and injected the local.
He flinched. ‘You’re not wrong.’
‘We