Where The Heart Is

“Rowena. You feel it, too, don’t you?”

Oh, yes. She felt it. A weird kind of humming in the air between them. When he’d touched her just now she’d felt as if her body were supercharged. “I don’t do this sort of thing.”

“Neither do I.” His voice was wry. “But something about you makes me want to.”

Just as well she was sitting down, because her knees had just turned back to jelly. “I…” Her mouth was too dry to force the words out.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. But I’d really like someone to hold my hand right now.”

She reached out and curled her fingers around his hand, keeping the pressure light.

He responded by curling his own fingers around hers.

And everything else vanished. There was just the two of them at the edge of the lake, under the stars.

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Dear Reader,

This is probably the most emotional book I’ve ever written—and probably also the most personal.

It started when my friend Phil did a fund-raising trek through Chile. When I saw her photos, I thought it would be a fabulous setting for a book. I knew I’d need some incredible emotion to balance the incredible setting, and that meant dealing with an issue I’ve found very hard to face for the last eighteen years. My mother died from breast cancer the Christmas six weeks before my twenty-first birthday, and I still miss her terribly. Luckily, being a writer, I’m able to express my feelings in fiction. So this book is a tribute to my mother.

Rowena has a tough time growing up, loses the nearest she’s ever had to a parent, falls in love and then has a health scare that could break the hero’s heart as well as hers. But Rowena is a fighter. Together, she and Luke face the worst, and…Without giving too much away, I think you’ll like the ending. I really believe that after deep heartache you can journey on to find happiness—I have. I have the most wonderful husband in the world, my beloved daughter was actually due on my mother’s birthday (which I don’t believe is a coincidence) and I have a gorgeous son. I can’t ask for more. And I know that my hero and heroine will be as lucky as I am, in the end.

With love,

Kate Hardy

Where the Heart Is

Kate Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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In loving memory of my mother,

Sandra Christine Shirley Sewell, 1945–1986.

So special. So deeply missed.

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

HIS hair was the first thing she noticed. Down to his shoulders, dark and with the tiniest wave to hint that, when short, it curled. Antonio Banderas as El Mariachi, Rowena thought. Beautiful. Her fingers itched to touch it.

As if he’d felt her staring, he turned round. Glanced her way, just for a moment—but enough for her to note that his dark eyes held shadows. Shadows even deeper than her own.

She shook herself. He was a stranger. Though admittedly he was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen—the most gorgeous man any of the other women in the airport had seen, too, judging by the looks he was attracting. Tall, dark and dangerous, with a mouth that promised paradise, dressed in black, he was every woman’s fantasy.

Then she realised his gaze had returned to her. There was a faint question in his eyes; she gave the tiniest shake of her head. The attraction might be mutual, but nothing was going to come of it. She’d bet serious money that he had a wife and kids at home. Despite that faint air of danger, Rowena thought, he was the type. A family man.

And she most definitely wasn’t a family woman.

She hauled the backpack onto her shoulders, ready to join the rest of the group. Carly, the woman she’d sat next to on the flight out, smiled nervously at her. ‘I can hardly believe we’re here in Santiago, over seven thousand miles away from London.’

‘Well, it’s what we’ve been waiting for. Training for,’ Rowena reminded her, returning her smile. ‘Though there’s still a four-hour flight to go.’

‘And then the coach trip. Six hours, the information pack said.’ Carly grimaced. ‘I hate coach travel. It always makes me sick.’

Rowena was just about to ask if Carly had bought some travel sickness tablets before she’d left England, when she remembered. Right here, right now, she wasn’t Dr Thompson, registrar in the emergency department at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Manchester. She was just plain Rowena Thompson, in Chile with a group of people who were doing a one-hundred-kilometre trek through the Torres del Paine National Park in Patagonia to raise money for leukaemia research. If she admitted to medical knowledge, either she’d get annexed as one of the trip’s medical officers—which wasn’t what she wanted—or she’d have people sidling up to her, wondering if she could just give them a bit of advice about a long-standing health niggle or ‘just take a quick look at’ yada, yada, yada.

In another time, another place, she’d have obliged. But not now. The next ten days were for Peggy. And nothing, but nothing, was going to distract Rowena from raising an obscene amount of money. Money that still wouldn’t be enough to find an instant cure for leukaemia. Money that wouldn’t bring Peggy back. But she had to believe it would help. That it would stop someone else feeling as if part of the sun had gone out when someone they loved died from the disease. Because maybe, just maybe, if enough people raised enough money, researchers would finally find a cure.

She shook herself. No doom, no gloom. Peggy had been like sunshine, even towards the end. In the last week she’d admitted to ‘not feeling myself today’. Everyone had known what she’d really meant. She’d known she was dying. They’d smiled in front of their friend and colleague, then left the ward, leaned against the wall in the corridor and wept. Raged at the injustice—that the best emergency nurse they’d ever known had been dying from a disease that couldn’t be cured. And then they’d gone back to the emergency department and got on with their jobs. True professionals who’d ignored the fact that they were bleeding inside and concentrated on their patients.

‘Sit near the front, try to get a window open if you can, and keep your eyes straight ahead,’ Rowena offered.

‘And don’t think about the way the coach lurches round the bends,’ Carly said with a grimace. ‘Yeah.’ Then her eyes widened. ‘Wow. Is he with us? How did I miss him in London?’

Rowena knew exactly who she’d see, even before she glanced briefly over her shoulder. ‘He’s probably one of the guides.’ He looked Chilean—those deep dark eyes, that olive skin—as did the people he was talking to; she could hear the odd Spanish word she recognised in their conversation. QED: he was a native.

‘Mmm. Well, that’ll keep my mind off the coach journey. Maybe I’ll end up sitting next to him,’ Carly said hopefully.

‘Maybe.’

Rowena had intended to catnap on the four-hour flight, but the view from the window was too good to be missed—a spectacular view of the Andes, and then the dramatic ice fields. Strange to think that when she’d left home yesterday, it had been the middle of an August heat wave, at almost thirty degrees centigrade. Where she was heading, she’d be lucky if it got above two degrees. She smiled to herself. Everyone had said she was mad, planning to trek through Chile. And when the heat wave had started three days ago, they’d added she was raving mad, to give up on a rare English summer.

At Punta Arenas, the group boarded an elderly coach to take them to Puerto Natales. She was the last to take her seat—and, to her shock, the only space left was next to Mr Gorgeous.

Hadn’t Carly been dying to sit next to him? And, anyway, why wasn’t he sitting with the other trek organisers? Stifling the tingle of panic in her stomach, she sat down.

A six-hour trip. Next to a man whose smile had turned every female knee in the vicinity to jelly. Including her own.

Oh, boy.

‘Buenas dias, señora.’

Rowena didn’t bother correcting him to señorita; she simply smiled back. ‘Good afternoon.’

‘Good afternoon. My name is Luke,’ he said, in perfect, unaccented English.

Not what she’d expected. But, then, if he’d been a guide for a reasonable length of time, of course he’d speak perfect English. Probably French, German and Italian as well. ‘Luke’ was probably the Anglicised version of his name.

‘Luke MacKenzie.’

MacKenzie? No way was that a Chilean surname. The surprise made her meet his eyes—and then she wished she hadn’t, because awareness of him turned her stomach to water. Hell and double hell. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

And now he was waiting for her to tell her his name. She could be rude and just ignore him—but she’d still have to sit next to him for the next six hours. He’d probably guess why she was ignoring him, too: that she was trying to suppress the spark of attraction towards him. She decided to play it safe, be polite and throw a much-needed barrier between them. ‘Rowena Thompson.’

Then she made a second mistake. She took his outstretched hand. A brief clasp, a polite handshake—the English way—and yet it felt as if the contact had been much, much more intimate. As if he’d drawn her hand up to his lips, kissed the back of her hand, then turned her palm over and licked the pulse at the base of her wrist.

She felt a muscle work in her jaw. This wasn’t good. She didn’t want to react to him like this. Didn’t want anyone in her life. Not now, not in the future. Not ever.

‘Welcome to Chile,’ he said softly.

‘You…live here?’ she croaked, cursing her voice for letting her down. For telling him that she was affected by him.

‘For the moment.’

So he was an Englishman abroad. He looked the outdoor type. She definitely couldn’t imagine him working in an office, or any place where he’d be trapped indoors, away from the elements. ‘You’re one of our guides?’ she guessed—merely making conversation.

‘Trek medical officer,’ he said.

Luke MacKenzie was a doctor?

The surprise must have shown on her face because he shrugged. Just one shoulder, as if he’d come across this reaction so many times that he was bored by it. ‘Don’t let the hair fool you,’ he said softly. ‘I’m qualified.’

Her face burned. ‘I, um, didn’t mean to be rude.’ This was where she should offer information in exchange. I’m a doctor, too. But the words stuck in her throat, again. Right here, right now, she wasn’t a doctor. She was a fundraiser. And she was going to do this properly. Keep everything compartmentalised and under control. ‘Is this your first trek?’ she asked politely.

He smiled again, though there was something odd about his smile—something she couldn’t put her finger on. ‘No. I’ve been working here for a year.’

A year spent outdoors. No wonder his skin was that beautiful shade of olive: caused by the sun, rather than a Spanish heritage. But why would a trained doctor spend a year out here? Or had he been on secondment to a hospital in Santiago and this was his last chance to see the ice fields before he went back to England?

She shook herself. It was none of her business. Maybe he’d left England because he hated all the administration and politics that were slowly strangling hospitals. The latest one—a European Directive to limit the hours they worked—was going to cause even more chaos, and George, their consultant, was neck-deep in paperwork. To the point where he’d threatened to take early retirement and everyone knew he actually meant it.

‘Is this your first trek?’ Luke asked, throwing her question back at her.

She nodded. ‘Though I’ve been in training.’ On the Pennines. Every day off, for the last four months, she’d spent walking uphill and down, across scree and uneven paths, breaking in her walking boots and increasing her strength—in between running events to raise the sponsorship the charity had asked her to find to cover the minimum of her costs for the trip. Once word had spread about what she was doing, she’d raised more than those costs from the emergency department alone. Ex-patients who remembered Peggy had read the story in the local paper and sent donations. And one six-year-old boy had even sent his pocket money along with a note in wobbly childish handwriting, a gift which had brought a lump to her throat and tears to her eyes.

‘I hope everyone else has been as sensible.’

‘Hmm?’

‘We always get at least one,’ Luke said. ‘The type who was too busy to do any training, even in the gym, before flying out here. A hundred kilometres isn’t far. Split over eight days, that’s about two hours’ walking a day.’

‘On level ground, maybe.’ Rowena had read her information pack thoroughly and knew the truth. They’d be walking for up to eight hours a day, over a wide variety of terrains.

‘So we end up with…’

He paused, and Rowena almost fell into the trap. Almost listed the most common injuries—blisters, sprains, strains. And if the novice trekkers were unfit, overweight and not wearing proper shoes, probably a case of plantar fasciitis as well—damage to the tissue that stretched from the heel to the toe. Fascia tissue took months to heal, and plantar fasciitis often needed a steroid injection into the heel to cure it.

‘A problem for you,’ she finished.

Funny, she’d assumed the doctor changed with each trek, though it made sense to have someone permanent, someone who knew the terrain and was familiar with procedures out here. Still, it was an unusual career choice. No chance of progress—more like a sabbatical, taking time out of his career. Why? Had he, too, lost someone to leukaemia?

But that was private, his business, and she didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to get involved. ‘Your wife must miss you if you’ve been out here for a year.’

Hell and double hell. Why had she said that? Now he’d think she was fishing, trying to find out if he was free. He’d think she was trying to flirt with him. Anyway, if he was married—and she stood by her first impression, that he was a family man—his wife was probably out here with him. She could be one of the guides meeting them at Puerto Natales, for all Rowena knew. They probably worked together somehow.

His eyes were unreadable. ‘I’m not married.’

‘Oh.’ How to put both your size sevens in your mouth at once. Maybe his wife had died of leukaemia—maybe that was why he was out here, and Rowena had just managed to scrape the top layer off his scars. Or was that a slight trace of amusement in his voice? She was cringing inwardly to the point where she couldn’t meet his eyes. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy,’ she mumbled, feeling her cheeks burn.

‘No pasa nada.’

‘Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.’ Though it made her look at him.

And he was smiling. With an edge, admittedly, but he was smiling. ‘No worries,’ he translated. ‘Literally, it’s “nothing happens”, but it means more or less “no worries”.’

He had a point. She was over seven thousand miles away from Manchester. Away from the emergency department. Away from the red tape. All she had to do was walk through the Torres del Paine national park—in the shadow of the three huge towers of granite which gave the park its name—and come out the other side. Walk through her own pain, her loss, and start to heal.

No worries.

‘Right.’ She gave him a tight smile, and hoped he’d let the conversation drop for a bit.

It had definitely been a mistake, angling for a seat next to her, Luke thought. But he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d caught her eye at the airport—beautiful eyes, a deep slate blue you could drown in—and he’d felt that instant hot zing of attraction. She’d given the tiniest shake of her head, telling him that, no, she wasn’t interested. He should have respected that.

The fact he hadn’t…was worrying. He didn’t do relationships. Not any more. Not since Charlie.

Charlie. He forced down the gut-wrenching guilt. Hell. He was doing his penance, wasn’t he? A year spent in Patagonia, where Chile’s slender length broke up into hundreds of small islands. A land of glaciers, deep valleys and wooded mountains. The edge of the Andes, where condors flew and the winds tore through you.

Though it wasn’t enough. Would never be enough. It couldn’t blow away the guilt, the feeling that the better half of him had died.

Not that he’d talk about it to anyone. It was still too raw. Which was why he’d stayed aloof for the last eighteen months. Split up with the woman he’d intended to marry—she deserved better, after all—and had turned down every offer since.

And there had been offers.

Most of the people on the charity treks had a special reason for raising money. They usually did it in memory of someone they’d lost, a tribute combined with a pilgrimage. But some did it just to keep a friend company. And those were usually the ones who noticed the guides and the trek doctor. The ones who let the southern hemisphere seduce their senses. The ones who sidled up to his tent under starlight. Offered.

Luke always, but always, said no. Even though he could hear Charlie’s voice so clearly in his head, asking him when he was going to stop wearing the hair shirt. It wasn’t just for penance: Luke hadn’t wanted to lose himself in mindless sex with someone he’d never see again. And he didn’t want a relationship either. No one-night stands, no for evers, and nothing in between. Staying apart had been his choice. The sensible thing to do.

And that was why Rowena Thompson was dangerous. This had been the first time in eighteen months that he’d felt desire coil hot in his belly.

Desire you can’t act upon, he reminded himself. You’re not going to get involved. Besides, she may not be wearing a wedding ring—he’d checked that out the second she’d sat next to him—but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have someone waiting for her at home. And she’s one of the trekkers, which means she’s under your care. Which means she’s off limits. Another week or so, and you’ll never see each other again.

He could manage a few measly days…couldn’t he?

He had to revise that before they reached Puerto Natales. He hadn’t even managed six hours. They’d had two rest breaks. That meant two chances to move, swap places with one of the regular guides. And Luke hadn’t done it. He’d spent his time sitting right next to Rowena. He hadn’t done the sensible thing and dragged himself away.

Admittedly, they hadn’t had a personal conversation. He’d kept it light, told her about the park’s flora and fauna, the history of the park he’d learned from the guides over the last year.

‘So it’s going to be cold and wet in the national park?’

‘About two or three degrees centigrade,’ he confirmed. ‘But then you have to add in the wind-chill factor. That’s why we recommend people wear a fleece and light layers—and breathable waterproofs. You’ll probably get drenched from rain or just the wind blowing water from the lakes…’ Mmm, he definitely wasn’t going to let his thoughts go any further along that route: the idea of Rowena Thompson in wet, clinging clothing was a bit too much of his self control. ‘But you’ll be able to shower at the end of the day.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I assume you’re going to be sleeping in the refugio?’

‘The hostel, you mean?’ At his nod, she gave him a scornful look. ‘No. I’m sleeping in a tent.’

Like he was.

Maybe next to him.

And that wasn’t going to be good for his peace of mind. Maybe he should try to put her off. ‘I hope you’re good at putting up a tent in the wind.’

She frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

‘We get sixty-mile-an-hour winds in Patagonia,’ he clarified. Not constantly, but some of the gusts could be that harsh. ‘That’s why we use low-rise tents. Anything higher tends to break. And, of course, it’s winter here.’

‘I’ve camped out before.’ Her chin lifted.

Stubborn, as well as beautiful. ‘I’m just warning you. It can be a bit rough at night. No one will think any the less of you if you stay in the refugio.’

‘I’ll think less of me,’ she said simply.

He didn’t have an argument for that. Fine. He’d just make sure his tent was as far away from hers as he could get.

CHAPTER TWO

EXCEPT he didn’t. Luke pitched his tent right next to Rowena’s. OK, so he didn’t go quite as far as offering to help her put up her tent—the look on her face told him she was determined to do it on her own—but Luke kept an eye on her all the same. He didn’t sit anywhere near her when the group paused for a bowl of curanto for their evening meal—a hearty stew of fish, meat and potato, served with a chunk of cornbread—but he was still aware of her, of every single movement she made.

When they turned in for the night, his senses were at white heat. He swore softly. What was it about Rowena that had crashed through his barriers? He never, but never, let anyone ruffle his composure like this. Never let himself feel that fierce ache of wanting. Never let himself wonder how soft her mouth would feel under his. Never lay there fantasising about just how well his body would fit into hers.

Hell. He’d turned into a hormone-crazed teenager in the space of a few seconds. How could it have happened? He was supposed to be the responsible, sober medical officer—the man who was friendly to the trekkers, kept their spirits up when they flagged, and sorted out any medical problems quickly and efficiently. He’d worked out here for a year. He could do the job in his sleep.

But now, here he was, concocting steamy fantasies about the woman in the tent next to his. Picturing her straddling him, her head thrown back in abandon as he slid inside her. Imagining the taste of her skin. Rubbing his tongue along his lower lip as if she’d just nibbled it. Hell, he could almost feel her mouth trailing over his throat, over his pecs, moving slowly south until—

‘Stop it,’ he told himself, and rolled over onto his front. He squeezed his eyelids shut, gritted his teeth and dug his nails into his palms. This was a bad case of lust. It was probably only happening because he’d been celibate for the last eighteen months. It was just a physiological thing. It’d pass.

He hoped.

The next morning, the group set off on the way to Lake Pehoé.

‘I’m glad this first bit’s so flat,’ Carly confided to Rowena as they walked together. ‘I was hoping we’d ease in gently. I mean, I trained in that huge climbing centre in North London and even managed to work up to a couple of levels above the novice climbing walls, but at the end of the day it’s not like doing the real thing, is it?’