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And then he lifted his head and stared straight at her.
Polly’s mind seemed intent on vacating her body. She ground the heels of her pumps into the floor to tether her butt cheeks to the seat. Great waves of heat pulsed up her neck and radiated into her face. She stared back down at her pad and squeezed her pen until the tips of her fingers turned white, then fixed her eyes back on Dr Death’s wizened little face as if she’d never seen anything more lovely.
Totally oblivious to her state of inner pandemonium, Dr Death poked his glasses up his nose and turned, first tohim, the sexfraudster, and then back to the assembled team.
“Sorry we’re late getting started. I was showing our new psychiatrist around the ward. This is the locum senior registrar I told you would be starting this week. Let me introduce Dr Solomon Jakoby.”
* * *
Solo already knewshe’d be here.
He’d checked.
When he arrived in Perth at 4 a.m. on Sunday morning he’d ridden down to the Swan River, then did what he only ever allowed himself to do in extreme circumstances: smoked two more cigarettes from his stash, one after the other.
Afterwards he’d got out his phone and scrolled through the website of Western State hospital.
Echidna Ward staff, he read.
Psychologist Ben Tan.
Head Nurse, Leon Novac.
Occupational Therapist, Judith Davenport. The photo looked familiar; the pleasant girl-next-door smile and long blonde hair—oh yeah, she’d interrupted them on the hotel patio.
Which likely meant… Yep, sure enough.
Senior Social Worker, Polly Fletcher.
Solo inhaled, let a stream of smoke out the side of his mouth and stroked his thumb over the image. It was the typical mug shot you had taken for passports or work ID, and it certainly didn’t present her at her best. Without make-up her complexion was pale and her curls had been harnessed into a tight ponytail, giving her face a round, bland appearance. But those wide green eyes, the full definition of her lovely mouth…
His groin sprang alarmingly to life. Because he knew what those lips were capable of, the way her eyes turned vivid at his touch.
He got up and paced, took another drag, threw the half-smoked butt on the ground and drilled his heel into it.
What were the chances?
He’d lied to her. She’d sure find that out soon enough, wouldn’t she? Solo Jakoby, manual labourer turned psychiatrist—slightly different job description. When she’d said she was a social worker he’d freaked out and said the first thing that entered his head. Perth wasn’t as big as Sydney when it came to their line of work.
It was supposed to be a one-off. They weren’t supposed to ever meet again.
Christ! He’d run away from complications over east, straight into the arms—literally, it seemed—of another one.
So here he was, and here she was. Solo could feel a trickle of sweat running down the back of his collar as he tried to keep his face expressionless.
As their eyes met, colour erupted like hives from her neck up to her cheeks, her mouth forming a momentary O before she snapped her gaze away.
Solo braced his shoulders and made polite noises as Pritchard went laboriously through the introductions.
Judith the occupational therapist gave him a quizzical smile. He smiled blandly back and wondered if his skin was going to shed.
“And,” Pritchard was bumbling on in his peculiar toneless voice, “last but not least, Polly Fletcher, our very experienced social worker. Polly can help you out with any practical issues.”
An explosion threatened at the back of Solo’s throat. He swallowed and almost gagged.
Polly’s eyes drilled into him for a second before sliding past his shoulder.
“Hi,” she said woodenly to the air.
