sleep than a mere sixteen-hour time difference and a few hours without food.
‘Shall I let go?’ he asked cheerfully.
‘Not yet.’
It seemed like a long time since she’d had a man’s physical support, and it felt better than she could have imagined. He wasn’t in a hurry. He didn’t have an agenda. He was polite and steady, and she felt very safe.
‘OK,’ he said, tightening his grip a little.
Their eyes met and held for a moment before they both looked away. He was very good-looking. She hadn’t taken in this fact until now. It was in the shape of his face—the square forehead, the strong cheekbones and chin. It was in his easy, even smile, too, and in what that smile did to his blue eyes. They twinkled and softened, and looked a little wicked.
But this wasn’t just about looks, she realised. This was about—
Dear heaven, we’re going to have an affair!
The thought sliced into her mind without a shadow of warning, leaving her breathless. She could almost see it—the alluring progression of it—laid out before her like the squares on a life-sized Monopoly board, improbably perfect. A sizzlingly hot, totally heedless, carefree, life-affirming, fabulous affair, which would come to a painless, mutually-agreed-upon end some time before she was due to head home to that much chillier place called Real Life.
She dropped his delicious, masculine forearm like a live snake, her heart pounding.
This doesn’t happen to me. The whole idea is ridiculous. I don’t have intuitions like this. I’m scared. Would I really want something like that? No! Surely I wouldn’t! And surely I’m wrong! Of course I’m wrong!
‘I’m starving,’ she said aloud.
Wow.
Say it again.
Wow.
Don’t let it show on your face, Steve.
This woman is…No, she’s not gorgeous. Not even pretty. Something much better, and much more interesting. She’s magnetic, womanly, responsive.
He hadn’t felt it at first. He had been too busy thinking about the last time he’d been at Sydney airport, several months ago, seeing Agnetha off on her flight back home to Sweden.
The memory was like a splinter in his thumb. Yes, sure, he knew it wasn’t a major wound, but that didn’t stop it from hurting. And it had preoccupied him more than he’d wanted it to, during his wait for the visiting American doctor.
Did I even consider getting serious, asking Agnetha to marry me? No!
If she’d asked me to go to Sweden with her, would I have gone? No!
So what’s my problem?
One of sheer, bloody male ego, perhaps. He was…miffed…that Agnetha had apparently viewed him the same way she’d viewed the second-hand surfboard she’d bought at the surf shop in Narralee. Something to be enjoyed during her stay, but not something to take home with her, except in a photo or two. The surfboard was still in the back shed, beside his own. Agnetha had smiled as she’d waved goodbye. Five months down the track, she hadn’t even sent a postcard.
Now, here was another visitor from the northern hemisphere, equipped with what was known as special needs registration so that she could work here in a rural hospital in her surgical specialty. She was about fifteen years older than Agnetha. She had a long, thick, satisfying rope of honey-gold hair, bound back in a braid, instead of a fine thatch of short, Scandinavian blonde.
She had skin that would probably freckle like bits of melted milk chocolate under the Australian sun, while Agnetha’s skin had remained a perfect pale gold. Candace had almond-shaped eyes like brown pebbles, polished by the sea, while Agnetha’s were blue and clear and round. She had a ripe, luscious figure, with exquisitely full breasts and rounded hips, instead of a lean, almost boyish slimness.
And she had a lot more living evident in her face.
Terry had told him that Dr Fletcher had been divorced last year, and that she had a fifteen-year-old daughter. Well, it showed. Some of the sadness and complexity showed, around her tawny eyes and her generous mouth. For some reason, it actually added to the quiet richness of her unconventional beauty.
There was one thing that Candace Fletcher and Agnetha Thorhus had in common, however. With both of them, Steve had recognised within an hour or two of meeting them that there was a definite, undeniable and very bewitching spark. In this case, he wasn’t yet sure what he intended to do about it.
He took Candace to the café that was housed in the little town’s former bank. The place had a lot of charm, and excellent Devonshire teas.
‘My stomach is suddenly saying dinner, very loudly, at eleven-thirty in the morning,’ Candace confessed, so she began with a bowl of pumpkin soup, some salad and a hot, buttered roll. Then she moved on to scones with strawberry jam and whipped cream.
Not particularly hungry himself, Steve drank black coffee while he sat back and watched her eat. She was good at it. Just the right combination of fastidiousness and relish. Her response to the whipped cream was particularly appealing, and when she had finished there was a tiny beauty spot of white froth left just beyond the corner of her mouth.
Knowing that it wasn’t just a casual gesture, he leaned forward and used the tip of one finger to wipe it off. She didn’t object. Didn’t even look startled.
She knows, he thought, and felt an odd little flutter inside his chest which he didn’t have a name for.
She knows, too, just the way I do. She knows that something could happen between us. Whether it will or not, neither of us has decided yet…
It was a very pretty drive, Candace decided.
Dairy country, according to Steve. To the right, cliff-like escarpments rose above thick forests of eucalypts, but as the steepness of the terrain shelved away, the forest gave way to fenced farmland that was lush and green. To the left, in the distance, Candace glimpsed the sea. It twinkled in the sun like Steve Colton’s eyes.
And I’ll be looking at this sight every single day for the next year…
Looking at the sea, not the eyes.
Terry had arranged the rental of a furnished beach cottage for her, sending details, including photographs, of three or four for her to choose from. Narralee wasn’t quite on the coast but a mile or two inland, built on the banks of a river’s coastal estuary.
She hadn’t wanted the tameness and tranquillity of a river, no matter how pretty it was. She’d wanted the sea, fresh and wild and as solitary as possible, and the place she’d selected was in a little seaside community called Taylor’s Beach, about ten minutes’ drive away.
Steve had the address, and the keys. As soon as he pulled into the short driveway, she knew that the house and its setting were going to go way beyond her expectations. The house was built high, with the utilitarian parts beneath—carport, laundry, storage. On top, with magnificent views of the sea, were the living areas. There were other houses close by but, with tangles of bushland garden surrounding them, they didn’t impinge.
