go together.’
‘You’ll stretch my bra,’ she gasped, and once again he was caught by the sheer guts of the woman. She was hurt, she was in deadly peril, and she was trying to make him smile.
‘Yeah,’ he told her. ‘And if it stretches too far I’ll get an eyeful—but not until we’re safe on the beach. Just turn and kick.’
‘I’ll try,’ she managed, and then there was no room for more words. There was only room to try and live.
* * *
She couldn’t actually swim.
There was something wrong with her arm. Or her shoulder? Or her chest? She wasn’t sure where the pain was radiating from, but it was surely radiating. It was the arm furthest from him—if he’d been holding her bra on that side she might have screamed. If she could scream without swallowing a bucket of seawater. Unlikely, she thought, and then wondered if she was making sense. She decided she wasn’t but she didn’t care.
She had to kick. There was no way she’d go under. She’d risked her life to save this guy and now it seemed he didn’t need saving. Her drowning would be a complete waste.
Some people would be pleased.
And there was a thought to make her put her head down, hold her injured arm to her side as much as she could and try to kick her way through the surf.
She had help. The guy still had his hand through her bra, holding fast. His kick was more powerful than hers could ever be. But he still didn’t know this beach.
‘Keep close to the rocks,’ she gasped during a break in the waves. ‘If you don’t stay close you’ll be caught in the rip.’
‘Got it,’ he told her. ‘Now, shut up and kick.’
And then another wave caught them and she had the sense to put her head down and kick, even if the pain in her shoulder was pretty close to knocking her out. And he kicked too, and they surged in, and suddenly she was on sand. The wave was ripping back out again but the guy was on his feet, tugging her up through the shallows.
‘We’re here,’ he gasped. ‘Come on, lady, six feet to go. You can do it.’
And she’d done it. Rocky was tearing down the beach to meet them, barking hysterically at the stranger.
Enough. She subsided onto the sand, grabbed Rocky with her good arm, held him tight and burst into tears.
* * *
For a good while neither of them moved.
She lay on the wet sand and hugged her dog and thought vaguely that she had to make an effort. She had to get into dry clothes. She was freezing. And shouldn’t she try to see if something was wrong with the guy beside her? He’d slumped down on the sand, too. She could see his chest rise and fall. He was alive, but his eyes were closed. The weak sunshine was on his unshaven face and he seemed to be drinking it up.
Who was he?
He was wearing army issue camouflage gear. It was the standard work wear of a soldier, though maybe slightly different from the Australian uniform.
He was missing his boots.
Why notice that?
She was noticing his face, too. Well, why not? Even the pain in her shoulder didn’t stop her noticing his face.
There was a trickle of blood mixing with the seawater dripping from his head.
He was beautiful.
It was the strongest face she’d ever seen. His features were lean, aquiline...aristocratic? He had dark hair—deep black. It was cropped into an army cut, but no style apart from a complete shave could disguise its tendency to curl. His grey eyes were deep-set and shadowed and he was wearing a couple of days’ stubble. He looked beyond exhausted.
She guessed he was in his mid-thirties, and she thought he looked mean.
Mean?
Mean in the trained sense, she corrected herself. Mean as in a lean, mean fighting machine.
She thought, weirdly, of a kid she’d gone to school with. Andy had been a friend with the same ambitions she’d had: to get away from Kunamungle and be someone.
‘I’ll join the army and be a lean, mean fighting machine,’ he’d told her.
Last she’d heard, Andy was married with three kids, running the stock and station agents in Kunamungle. He was yet another kid who’d tried to leave his roots and failed.
Her thoughts were drifting in a weird kind of consciousness that was somehow about blocking pain. Something had happened to her arm. Something bad. She didn’t want to look. She just wanted to stay still for a moment longer and hold Rocky and think about anything other than what would happen when she had to move.
‘Tell me what’s wrong?’
He’d stirred. He was pushing himself up, looking down at her in concern.
‘H...hi,’ she managed, and his eyes narrowed.
Um...where was her bra? It was down around her waist, that was where it was, but she didn’t seem to have the energy to do anything about it. She hugged Rocky a bit closer, thinking he’d do as camouflage. If he didn’t, she didn’t have the strength to care.
‘Your arm,’ he said carefully, as if he didn’t want to scare her.
She thought about that for a bit. Her arm...
‘There...there does seem to be a problem. I hit the rocks. I guess I don’t make the grade as a lifesaver, huh?’
‘If you hadn’t come out I’d be dead,’ he told her. ‘I couldn’t fight the rip and I didn’t know where it ended.’
‘I was trying to signal but I didn’t know if you’d seen me.’ She was still having trouble getting her voice to work but it seemed he was, too. His lilting accent—French?—was husky, and she could hear exhaustion behind it. He had been in peril, she thought. Maybe she had saved him. It was small consolation for the way her arm felt, but at least it was something.
‘Where can I go to get help?’ he asked, cautious now, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
‘Help?’
‘The charts say this island is uninhabited.’
‘It’s not,’ she told him.
‘No?’
‘There’s Rocky and me, and now there’s you.’
‘Rocky?’
‘I’m holding him.’
Silence. Although it wasn’t exactly silence. The waves were pounding the sand and the wind was whistling around the cliffs. A stray piece of seaweed whipped past her face like
