Northern Heat

by Helene Young

  They edged around each other as they climbed aboard. It was almost as though they were savouring the exquisite torture of not touching. She certainly was.

  ‘The deck shower’s warm or you can use the one downstairs.’

  ‘Great, the deck shower sounds fine.’

  A pump whirred somewhere deep in the yacht as he flicked the switch. ‘Left for hot,’ he said, pointing at the little tap on the side. ‘Hold the trigger down and the water will flow. I’ll get some lunch.’

  She heard his feet thud down the steep stairs and turned to face the back of the boat. The jet of water was surprisingly firm and the warmth took the residual chill from her bones. She turned her face to the sun, smoothing her hair down to her shoulders. The fine needles stung as she ran the stream down her arms and legs. She could hear clatter in the kitchen. He was definitely below. She peeled the straps of her swimmers down, tucking them just above her breasts.

  ‘Don’t use it all,’ he called. ‘There’s only so much water you can carry on a boat.’

  ‘Oops.’ She released the trigger. ‘Sorry.’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Are you going to have a shower?’

  ‘A very cold one,’ was the retort as he popped out of the hatchway holding a dish of salad. ‘Jesus, woman, don’t ask me to keep my hands to myself if you’re going to stand around half naked.’

  Kristy moved before she could change her mind, placing the shower on the deck, taking a step towards him.

  ‘Who said I wanted you to keep your hands to yourself?’ Her chin was up, daring him to argue.

  The moment held, his chest rising with each deep breath. Her blood was roaring in her ears and she knew she couldn’t turn back now. One day for her, one hour of pleasure without thinking about the world outside, about what has been or what will be. She wanted to catch this moment, suspended in a cocoon of blue without another living soul in sight, hold it in her hands and imprint it on her mind forever.

  He placed the dish on the table and covered the distance between them in one long stride, placed a hand on her shoulder and tipped her head towards him with the other. The intensity, the question was there in his eyes, but the sardonic self-deprecating smile was missing. She was drowning in the flare of desire she saw there, his finger under her chin burned into her skin. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she touched her lips to his.

  His sigh ripped into her as his fingers whispered over her skin, brushed through her hair. His lips drifted across her cheek and down to the point of her jaw. She caught her breath, her body aching with need. He drew her down onto the soft cushions, onto his lap.

  His breath scorched for the instant before his lips touched the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. ‘You taste so good,’ he murmured, as his tongue burnt a trail of tiny licks to the collarbone.

  Her body swelled with need, opening in a way she’d never understood, never experienced in eleven years of marriage. This was raw, rampaging and unstoppable. There was nothing polite or reserved. This was wild, overwhelming; a driving need that had her turning, raising a hand to his face, cupping his chin, feeling the rasp of stubble on her palm and smelling the musk of her own arousal.

  She pulled him closer, pressing her softness to the angles and edges of his work-hardened body. She needed to take him deep inside and fill the ache at her core, to run her hands down the length of his back, the muscles of his legs.

  She thought she knew all about sex, but nothing in her life had prepared her for the shameless urgency as her fingers slid over his chest, down his taut stomach to the line of his shorts. She dipped inside his waistband, feeling the smooth skin at the head of his erection. She trembled as his hands rolled her swimmers down to her waist and broke the kiss. The breeze off the ocean played across her bare skin as he cupped her breasts in his hands, running his thumbs over her tight nipples and higher across the pale skin where the sun never reached. He bent, raining kisses and nips that seared her. She arched against him.

  ‘Conor,’ she breathed.

  She felt him smile against her breast as he turned her body so they were lying on the soft cushions. ‘No doubts?’ He looked down at her now, her head resting on his arm. In the shaded light his eyes almost glowed in his face, hypnotic and intense.

  ‘None,’ she replied, reaching for the stud at his waistband.

  He used his foot to slide his shorts clear then rolled her on her back, peeling the swimmers lower so he could touch his tongue to the lines of her stomach and further, down to the vee in her thighs. He inhaled sharply before sliding his hands to ease the wet garment down her legs, tantalisingly slowly.

  She’d never lain so open before, forgetting about the baby weight she’d never lost, the stretchmarks that striped her hips and thighs. All she could think about was the burn, the pressure, and the tenderness in the kisses that were creeping lower and lower as his fingers tangled in her curls. When he touched her clitoris with the tip of his tongue she didn’t try to stop the cry as she came in one long glorious shudder that he extended with smooth strokes. Who could hear her out here?

  He rested his cheek on her belly and she could feel the roughness of his new beard on the sensitive skin. Gradually her breathing came back to something closer to that of a marathon runner. Her heart was still hammering, but she wanted to hear him gasp, feel him shudder with his own release.

  His muscles quivered as she drew her nails over his back and she felt him draw a deep breath. She tugged gently on a lock of hair. ‘Conor.’

  ‘Yes?’ He raised his head and she was struck by the contrast of his tanned skin against her paleness.

  ‘Do you think you could wiggle up here a little?’

  ‘Enough of a wiggle?’ he asked as he slid alongside her, their skin damp in the heat of the afternoon.

  He was poised above her, with the delicious weight of his legs and hips pinning her to the cushions, his expression solemn. She touched his lips with her fingers and he parted them, grazing her tips with his tongue. She stretched up, pressed her lips to his cheek, placed precise kisses along the angled planes of his face, felt his mouth move as he smiled. He shifted them so she half lay on top, and his eyes sparkled as he reached to brush her hair off her face. They both smelt of salt and sex. This sweaty, messy encounter was everything her previous experiences hadn’t been. Tyler’s lovemaking was sweet and precise in the beginning, and perfunctory and clinical in the end. But this? This with Conor made her joyful, untamed and abandoned, modesty a forgotten burden.

  She was reminded that life was too short to live in the past. This was here and now. There might not be a tomorrow, but today was a jewel to be remembered for a lifetime. A shiny turquoise lapis lazuli suspended on golden threads of sunshine.

  The rattle of a halyard on the mast made her raise her head. ‘What was that?’

  ‘The afternoon sea breeze,’ he replied, as the boat lurched against its anchor and rocked. Suddenly a glass hit the floor, smashing into a thousand shimmering shards.

  She screamed before she could stop it and her hands flew to her face as she recoiled from him.

  ‘Kristy?’ Conor reached for her, but the memory was too strong and she slapped his hand away.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, hands in the air now. ‘It’s only a glass.’

  She couldn’t explain that it wasn’t okay, it wasn’t only a glass; it was an ingrained memory. How could she forget the anniversary dinner with the Stuart crystal glasses lying like a sea of diamonds on the floor while her sophisticated husband told her she’d never been a good doctor, or a good mother? That she was a failure who couldn’t even save her own son? The tears and words were trapped in her throat, caught by a habit of never surrendering to them.

  And the corrosive guilt had taken the light and the joy from the day.

  He stood up and went below without another word, returning dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. He handed over her shirt and shorts. His eyes met hers and she saw only sorrow and regret. He bent down and sw
ept the shattered glass into a plastic dustpan without a word. She pulled her clothes on, fumbling with the fastenings, yet every move he made was slow, deliberate and steady, as if to reassure her. When he finished he rose to his feet.

  ‘I won’t pretend to understand what just happened, Kristy, and I know that trust is a hard-won thing. But please know I would never do anything to hurt you, or Abby. Ever. You have my word.’

  A tiny crack in the prison wall of her mind allowed a chink of light in, but she turned her face away, too scared, too scarred, to face what she might see if she really looked. She could only nod. She believed him, but it didn’t mean she could take that step. His footsteps thudded down the stairs again. Curled up on the seat where so recently he’d made love to her with such tenderness, she felt the crack widen another notch. But she couldn’t let her guard down – not here, not now.

  Not yet.

  They made the journey back to Cooktown without anything more than pleasantries. Conor backed off, kept a respectful distance. She didn’t dare meet his frank gaze, but when she glanced at him while he steered them into the inlet he looked resigned. Kristy leant against the side stay, wishing she could find the courage, but knowing that she might never be able to say out loud that she had lived with domestic violence. Understanding the mechanisms didn’t make them any easier to deal with. In fact, some days she wondered if being a doctor made it worse. She knew her guilt was misplaced and yet she couldn’t shake it. It was impossible not to see all men as being capable of Tyler’s behaviour, and even though Conor had shown her nothing but respect, she couldn’t let go of the past. No matter how much she wanted to.

  Conor dropped anchor and lowered the dinghy. As they reached the ramp he slowed the boat.

  ‘Kristy, for what it’s worth I enjoyed myself today. I’m sorry that it’s ended like this. I wish I could help. Maybe we can go sailing again with Abby. I know we all have things we have to deal with.’

  ‘Thanks. It was lovely and I’m sorry I ruined it.’

  ‘You’re way stronger than you think,’ he replied before she turned away. ‘Happy new year, Kristy.’

  11

  Conor’s spotlight picked up two red dots under the low-hanging mangrove. The inky water surrounding them seemed to absorb the light. He slapped at the cloud of mosquitoes buzzing around his head. A trickle of sweat dripped off his elbow and plopped into the water.

  ‘Croc’s close to the bank again,’ he muttered to Bill.

  ‘Be surprised if he wasn’t,’ his boss grunted. The chain on the net rattled and the red dots vanished for an instant as the huge reptile blinked. Like a faithful dog, Old Bitey hung around the fishing grounds, knowing he’d have easy picking from the bycatch, the rays and undersized fish caught in the prawn nets and tossed over the side of the trawler.

  Conor cast one last look at the telltale glow before swinging back to the task. It had been a long but productive night. The bins in the cold room were full of prawns and the damage to the nets was minimal. Conor pressed his fingers into the muscles in the small of his back.

  The last of the nets were pulled up high on the arms of the Lady Leonie and the hum of the generator sent a tremor through the deck. Conor flicked the spotty back in the direction of Old Bitey. Nothing. He’d either swum away or submerged. Strange. He usually outstayed them. Conor flicked the beam further along the water’s edge. Nothing. The water was like an obsidian mirror. The boat drifted at the slack of high tide.

  Just as he turned to comment he heard the throb of a powerful engine. It was approaching fast. Bats screeched at being disturbed and lifted out of the native trees on the banks, black smudges against the bright stars. The whoosh of their powerful wings seemed to echo the rapid beating of Conor’s heart. He knew there’d never be a time when his pulse didn’t race at an imminent threat.

  ‘It’s them again.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Bill swore and spat over the side of the boat. ‘Hope they get a frickin’ crab pot round their props one more time. Serve ’em right. Scum.’

  A light flickered briefly through the dense mangroves then disappeared as the sound reached the bend in the river downstream. The Lady Leonie was lit up like a Christmas tree so there was no risk of collision with the roaring powerboat.

  Conor wasn’t sure where the vessel was headed, but according to Bill the crew was doing something illegal up one of the creeks that fed the Endeavour. Whoever it was didn’t come anywhere near Cooktown during daylight hours. The local coppers had their hands full at the best of times and were still looking for Danny’s killer, so when it didn’t impact their patch they left well alone. When the boat had ripped the hell out of Bill’s nets, he hadn’t even bothered reporting it. At the time, Conor had only been aboard less than a week but he knew better than to argue.

  The bow wave glowed phosphorescent in the dark night, the boat’s black hull almost invisible. The motors surged as it approached the trawler and for a fleeting instant Conor thought they’d passed. He heard the crack of the discharge a split second before the first bullet hit.

  ‘Get down!’ he yelled as he dropped to the deck, fragments of metal pinging around him. Bill swore, and before Conor could grab him the gunfire rang out again. This time Bill staggered and Conor lunged across for him. Blood bloomed on Bill’s grey shirt as Conor dragged him down to the deck.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Bill sounded bemused. The pain hadn’t hit yet.

  ‘Arseholes are shooting at us.’ The motors roared again as another spray of bullets peppered the deck. The trawler bobbed in the wake as the smaller boat sped away upstream. Conor squinted at Bill’s arm, his heart pounding and sweat slicking his palms. ‘You’ve been hit. Hopefully just winged.’

  ‘No way!’ Bill struggled to sit up, his glasses askew on his face, but the pain finally stopped him. He swore some more.

  ‘Let me look.’ Conor leant him against a staunchion. The bullet had nicked Bill’s upper arm, tearing away a strip of fabric and scouring a deep furrow through his muscle. Lucky. ‘You’ll live,’ he reassured him. Bill had managed to get his glasses back in place and was glaring at his offending arm.

  ‘Bloody hell. We were minding our own fuckin’ business.’

  Conor swallowed against the rush of adrenaline and got to his feet. ‘I’ll get the first-aid kit. Keep your hands off it.’ The two of them were covered in brackish salt water and the grime from a night’s work. Better to let it bleed.

  As he rummaged in the wheelhouse he could hear Bill still swearing. This time they’d have to report it to the police. The idiots could kill someone.

  The buzz of the motors had gone completely by the time he was satisfied with the bandaging on Bill’s arm.

  ‘You drive until I get the anchor up,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right from there. We need to report this one.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ Bill replied. ‘They’ll kill someone with their thrill-seeking bullshit.’

  ‘A lucky shot, eh?’ Conor replied, wondering if it was a stray shot or whether something else was at play. Danny’s killer? Or had Rod Reeves and his team of Russian bullyboys been quietly marking him, biding their time, waiting for a clear shot? He turned the thought over in his mind as he worked the winch. With a loud clatter the anchor snugged into its well.

  No. His gut told him this was something different. He’d been an easy target in the middle of the deck tonight. If they’d wanted him dead he would be bleeding out right now. And since these scum had damaged the nets before Danny died, surely it couldn’t be linked to Conor being a witness either.

  It took them half an hour to get back to the dock and tie up safely. By then Bill was wheezing like an old steam train, and his bandage was more red than white. He still insisted Conor shovel more ice on the catch before they left, but his words were starting to slur. It took all of Conor’s negotiating skills to convince Bill to go to the hospital.

  Conor drove Bill’s beat-up ute with one hand, the other dangling out the window in the breeze. As he turned into Hop
e Street he wondered if this was going to be the beginning of the end for Bill. Conor didn’t have the knowledge himself to run the trawler, and Bill wasn’t going to be in good shape for a week or two at least, maybe longer.

  He pulled on the park brake and pushed his door open. ‘Just leave me here,’ Bill said, struggling with the seatbelt. ‘You need to get the catch into the freezers.’

  ‘Yeah, I will, just as soon as I see you’ve been looked after. Those prawns aren’t going anywhere.’

  ‘I’m not a friggin’ invalid,’ Bill growled.

  ‘So let’s go.’

  Conor led the way to the hospital, held the door open, the light spilling onto the pavers. As he turned to follow his boss, Dr Kristy Dark looked up from behind the counter where she was filling in paperwork, a stethoscope dangling from her neck. It had been a little over a month since the day on the boat and she’d been distantly polite on the two occasions they’d bumped into each other. She wasn’t answering his calls.

  ‘Bill McBride, you’ve finally remembered where I am.’ Kristy took Bill’s hand then leant in to plant a kiss on his leathered cheek. ‘What on earth have you being doing to yourself?’

  ‘Nothin’, Kristy, nothin’ much, anyway. He badgered me into coming in.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I snagged myself on a wire.’

  ‘Really?’ Kristy shot a glance at Conor and he felt its laser-sharp inquiry right to his core. He gave a tiny shake of his head then her face softened as she turned back to Bill. ‘We better get this bandage off and see what we’re dealing with. Bit of luck I’ll be able to clean the wound and you’ll be back on the Lady Leonie in time to sleep the day away. When did you last have a tetanus shot?’

  Bill was grumbling as she steered him towards another door.

  ‘You can stay if you like,’ she said over her shoulder to Conor, her straight black hair swirling just clear of her shoulders. ‘He’ll need a lift back to the boat, I’d guess.’