Melting the Argentine Doctor's Heart / Small Town Marriage Miracle by Meredith Webber / Jennifer Taylor

on the internet was old, and now I have the clinic operating, the government is happy to step in and staff it.’
    ‘And back in Buenos Aires, you have a job to go to?’
    She was watching him closely, as if sensing that returning to the city of his youth, back among people who had known him as a handsome man, working withpeople with whom he had trained, was going to be hard for him, and because he knew himself well enough to accept that it was nothing more than pride that would make it difficult, he hoped his face was as unrevealing as the words he used.
    ‘As you said earlier, doctors are always in demand.’
    Was that enough?
    Would she stop questioning him now?
    Move so the ray of light from the lamp above her—the ray that had found a strand of silver hair to reflect off—would not be picking up the colour?
    Silky!
    Her hair had felt like silk—or maybe softer still, water washing through his fingers. They had loved with a fierce passion but had shared tenderness as well, not worshipping each other’s bodies but learning them, giving and receiving caresses as soft as angels’ wings.
    He had the feeling he’d been split into levels like some multi-storied building, one level in the past with silky hair and angels wings, another, above that, the hidden fire that attraction had reignited in his belly, and on the top level the person he was pretending to be, talking calmly—he hoped—operating normally, keeping up the pretence that his world
hadn’t
shifted beneath his feet, and his life
hadn’t
been thrown into disarray.
    Up on the top level he returned to stir the pot.
    ‘Do you want to eat now? I imagine you must be exhausted.’
    How was it possible to make such conversation, sound so normal, when his mind was replaying images of longago—a film of love and longing, of passion and then pain—such pain—emotional and physical …?
    Now he’d mentioned exhaustion. It dropped down on Caroline like a shroud but, tired as she was, she couldn’t help but wonder if Jorge’s offer to feed her now wasn’t simply because he wanted to get rid of her, if only for the night.
    She’d once thought she could read his mind, but probably she’d only imagined what he had been thinking—certainly imagining he’d loved her. Although that had been more than imagination for he’d said the words.
    But words were empty things without emotion, deceiving those who wanted to believe them.
    Was that how it had been?
    She’d believed he’d loved her because she’d wanted to believe it?
    She shook her head, angry at her thoughts. She was here to find a father for her daughter, not a lover, for all she might have imagined other scenarios. And the fact that Jorge had made it obvious he didn’t want her here only made her more determined.
    ‘Now? You are ready to eat? ‘
    His voice jerked her out of the half-dream state into which she’d sunk.
    ‘Sorry! Yes, please,’ she replied. ‘I must be more tired than I realised. I thought I’d answered you earlier.’
    She had to stay awake long enough to eat. Talking would help. What
had
they been talking about?
    Certainly not love.
    Work, that was it. Even in her befuddled state she could manage work conversation.
    ‘Do you want to specialise in anything when you get back to Buenos Aires? ‘
    He was serving the stew onto two tin plates so didn’t reply immediately.
    ‘I’m going into research.’
    He said the words with the same abruptness that he dumped her plate of stew onto the table in front of her, turning away before returning with two spoons.
    ‘What a waste! You’re the most empathetic doctor I’ve ever met!’ She knew he’d intended the manner of his reply to cut the conversation off, but the scar on his face was the proverbial elephant in the room, there but unmentioned.
    Time to point at it—to talk about it!
    ‘If you think people would be repulsed by your scar, you’re being precious,’ she declared.
    ‘Only some scars are visible!’ he growled,