It floored him.
He stood with Christie in his arms and he felt stranger than he’d ever felt in his life before. She was dripping wet, she was laughing up at him, her curls were soaking and her bedraggled clothing was clinging like another skin.
She was absolutely bewitching, he thought.
And suddenly—suddenly, he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted anything else on earth.
Most women—the women he knew in his other life—would have wound their arms around him and clung and held up their lips to be kissed.
But that was money talking—and fame. Christie didn’t have a clue who he was, he told himself. There was no reason for her to want to be kissed, and apparently she didn’t. She was still laughing and, instead of holding him tight, of responding to his need and using body language to ask to be kissed, she was turning within his hold to search the water.
‘I’ve lost my net.’ It was as if she were lying on a platform—not in his arms. ‘Darn, I had at least six really big prawns in there. Oh, Hugo, there it is. Let me go…’ And before he could stop her she’d launched herself out of his arms and was swimming strongly away from him across the estuary to catch up with her net, which was floating seawards with the tide. She was abandoning his arms as if his hold meant nothing.
The sensations were amazing. He could only watch her, open-mouthed, while she caught it, found her feet and held her net up in triumph.
‘There’s three prawns left in it,’ she called in triumph. ‘And they’re really fat ones.’
‘Great,’ he said faintly. He dragged his eyes—somehow—from this amazing woman and checked the bucket in the boat. ‘There’s more than enough for a feed here. You want to call it quits?’
He must have sounded strange.
‘Did you hurt your leg?’ she asked with swift concern. She swam back to him in the shallow water, holding her net high before her. As she reached him she rolled over, put her nose under the water and checked his knee by the light of the underwater lantern. Then her nose surfaced and she grinned. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Tallent,’ she said in the tone of a doctor making a grave prognosis, ‘but I’m afraid your dressing’s all wet.’
‘I imagine it must be,’ he said dryly, his sense of unreality deepening with every minute, ‘since it’s under water.’
‘No matter.’ She was like a rubber ball, he thought, bouncing every which way. ‘I had the forethought to bring us both a change of clothes. Wasn’t that clever?’
‘Very clever.’ Hugo didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Worse, he didn’t have a clue what was happening to him. He felt like he’d been dragged into a movie set and left to wallow—while the cameras rolled on around him.
‘I figured we could eat on the beach,’ she told him. ‘The caviar’s all packed.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ Christie emptied her net into the bucket and eyed her wobbly old boat with concern, worrying about how Hugo would get back in. ‘Can you hoist yourself into the boat with your sore knee, or do you want me to get in and pull you up?’
She would, too, he thought. There was nothing this woman wouldn’t attempt—if she had to. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, appalled by the thought of being lifted by a woman.
‘You’re not, you know,’ she said seriously. ‘Of all the stupid things…Rescuing me from a man-eating octopus wasn’t the most sensible knee-repairing act to do. I shouldn’t have brought you here.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ he said, and he meant every word.
And then some, he thought as he looked down at her. And then some…
Dinner was served on the beach, sheltered still from the wind by the lee of the cliff. The water here was lapping gently onto the estuary shoreline. There was a distant murmur of waves from the harbour mouth, where the cliff face ended and the storm could vent its fury on the sea, but in the shelter of the cliffs the winds might as well not have existed.
Christie obviously knew the place well. They rowed to the shoreline and then tugged their boat up onto the sand. Christie hauled a pile of gear from plastic bags and set to work with brisk efficiency.
‘Dry clothes,’ she told him, tossing him a pile. ‘Courtesy of Mary-anne, though I gather Dave’s wife has retrieved yours from the yacht and is in the process of washing them. We’ll leave the lantern off while we change. You look that-away and I’ll look this. Thus, modesty will be preserved.’
It was. Bemused, Hugo did as he was told—what else was a man to do?
His bemusement deepened by the minute, if bemusement was the right word. In fact, he didn’t know how on earth to describe himself. He was so far off balance he was glad of Stan’s walking stick, and it had nothing to do with his injured leg.
And when she flicked on the lantern Hugo saw that Christie was back in her wonderful crimson sweater and was wearing a clean pair of jeans. She turned her attention to the fire—and he caught his breath at the sight of her. In that sweater…
It was the way he’d first seen her.
But she wasn’t noticing the effect she was having on him. She couldn’t tell the way his gut kicked at the sight of her neatly denimed backside leaning over her fire.
She was so sure of herself, he thought. So self-contained. A dozen sticks, a pile of newspaper and a match, and she had the fire blazing. Then she set up a stand over the flames and scooped a billy of sea water, while all the time he watched, like a schoolboy with his first crush.
‘The sea water’s for the prawns,’ she told him as she hung the billy on its stand. She appeared not to notice the fact that he hadn’t moved. Maybe she was putting it down to his bad leg, though he was past feeling pain! ‘Meanwhile, toast and caviar,’ she continued. ‘Yum.’
It was, too. They toasted bread on an ancient blackened toasting fork—two forks, in fact, so they could lie side by side on the sand and hold their toast to the flames. Spread liberally with his caviar, Hugo had never tasted anything so delicious. It was a night of firsts.
But…‘You wait till you taste my prawns,’ Christie told him. As they’d been lying side by side by the fire, he’d been increasingly, incredibly aware of the warmth and nearness of her body, and when she jumped to her feet to fetch the prawns he was aware of a stab of loss so sharp it was as much as he could do not to protest.
Somehow he didn’t make the sound. She was so unaware, he thought, so oblivious to the sexual chemistry he believed was building all the time, that it surely must only be on his side!
So he forced himself to lie still while she emptied her prawns into the boiling water, waited a whole two minutes—‘any more and they’ll be tough as old boots’—then drained them and settled again beside him.
What followed was a very messy half-hour—peeling each prawn, tipping the shells into the fire, dressing each with a touch of lemon juice and eating them from their fingers.
He’d never known food could taste this good, but how much was the food, how much was the setting and how much was the girl beside him he couldn’t tell. The prawns were fabulous, the night was warm, the sand was still sun-warmed from the day—and the firelight played over Christie’s face as she concentrated on peeling her prawns and popping each one into her mouth…
Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.
It wasn’t the night Hugo was thinking of. It was the girl!
Finally she noticed his preoccupation.
‘What?’ She ate her twentieth prawn—give or take five or six—rolled over onto her back and sat up, twinkling down at him but demanding an answer.
‘What do you mean—what?’ he asked, startled.
‘You’ve been staring at me.’
‘I have not!’
‘You have, too. And I don’t know why you should—unless it’s to gain some tips. I’ll have you know I’m a very elegant eater of prawns, while you, Hugo Tallent…’
‘What’s wrong with the way I eat prawns?’
‘You slurp.’
‘I do not!’
>
‘You do.’ She lifted a prawn, peeled it—her eyes on him all the time—then popped the soft flesh into her mouth.
And bit. Then she held up one prawn tail. ‘See this?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘It’s empty. I shell the whole thing,’ she said serenely. ‘But you—you just shell most of the body and then you get the tail and suck. And it makes a noise. See…’ And she proceeded to demonstrate.
‘Christie—’
‘It’s the difference between surgeons and anaesthetists,’ she told him kindly. ‘You’d suck at skin grafts.’
‘Gee, thanks.’ He hesitated. ‘Did you do surgery?’
‘First part,’ she told him. ‘I was thinking of it as a career—and then Grandma died.’
‘So you came here.’
‘Why would I not?’ She lay back on the sand, linked her hands behind her head and gazed up at the stars. ‘It’s the best place in the world and the people here need me. What more could a girl ask?’
‘What, indeed?’
And what more could he ask than this?
It was too much. The look on her face. The warmth. Her very presence. There was no way he could resist this girl. Unbidden, he turned and looked down at her. His hands rested on her shoulders and she looked gravely up at him, her face a question in the firelight.
‘Christie…’
‘Mmm.’ Her eyes were thoughtful, he decided, like she was watchful for what would happen. Not frightened. Just…watchful.
‘I’d like to kiss you,’ he said gently, and her eyes glowed in the dark. There was a look in them now he didn’t understand at all.
‘I bet I’d taste of prawns,’ she said simply. That was all. No protest. Nothing.
‘I bet I do, too.’
She twinkled up at him. ‘Want to find out?’
Want to? Did he ever! And suddenly he didn’t need to want any further. She was reaching forward, holding him to her and he was rolling back with her onto the warm sand.
He didn’t need to find out a thing. Their lips were meeting in a kiss that felt like it could last for ever.
A life shouldn’t have the capacity to be changed in one moment. It shouldn’t. But once Hugo held her in his arms…once his mouth claimed hers…One kiss in the firelight and he knew that it had. Irrevocably.
She was like no other woman he’d ever kissed, he thought, dazed. For a start she tasted of prawns and campfire smoke and sea water, and maybe that was a difference in itself. But the feel of her mouth…It was like a natural linking of his body—an extension of who he was.
Or maybe he’d had a vacuum within himself which had been there for ever but he hadn’t known. And suddenly that vacuum was filled and it felt right.
It felt wonderful.
His arms were tight around her, holding her oversized sweater but feeling the delicious curves of her body against him. She was every inch a woman, every inch desirable, and he wanted her so much!
His body was hers, he thought blindly if only she’d take it. She was a witch, with a capacity to put him under a spell that was as real as it was unbreakable. This night. This place…
This woman.
And she was responding. He searched her mouth and felt her lips gently part, welcoming him into her. Her own hands were holding, clinging, pulling her body tighter to him as if her need was as great as his.
Which it must be. It must.
Christie…
She was drowning in pleasure.
All through this evening she’d known that if he wanted to make love to her she’d welcome him. She’d never met a man who’d made her feel like Hugo did—and in three days he’d be gone.
She was twenty-eight. She was Briman Island’s spinster doctor, now and for ever, and men like Hugo…
There were no men like Hugo for Christie. He was one of a kind—her kind—but she knew that there was no future for them together. Her life was here, with her people, and it was a life alone.
For tonight, though…For whatever glorious reason, Hugo was lying with her on this beach, his arms were holding her close and his mouth was on hers.
She’d take her fill of this man. She must. Because in three days he’d walk away and the memories must last her for ever.
‘Hugo…’
‘Mmm.’
Her hands reached under his sweater and with shock he felt her fingers touch the naked skin of his chest. Her fingers were almost pleading.
‘Hugo.’
Nothing. She wanted nothing that he couldn’t give. The word had been a sigh of pleasure—nothing more—of aching, searing pleasure—and as his hands searched for her breasts, found their gentle swell and gloried in the feel of her, he knew that for the two of them this night was right.
There was only now…
Only, of course, tonight included medicine.
When had it not? The islanders had kept their needs at bay for as long as they could, but three hours was long enough.
For a long moment Hugo didn’t hear the phone, but he felt Christie stiffen in his hold, he was aware that the link was somehow broken and he gave a groan of protest.
But then he, too, heard it, and as he did Christie pulled away, dishevelled and lovely. Inches apart, she closed her eyes for one long moment. It was as if she was collecting herself—remembering where and what she was.
Turning again into Dr Flemming, island doctor.
‘It’ll be a wrong number,’ Hugo whispered, pushing her hair out of her eyes with his long, strong fingers and smiling at her with such an expression that all she wanted to do was melt into him again. But then he sighed and rose, pulling her after him. Hugo, too, understood the medical imperative.
‘Go on, my love. Answer your call. Tell them to take two aspirin and have a nice cup of tea—and then you come back to me.’
She smiled at him, her smile a trace uncertain. What had he said? My love?
No matter. It couldn’t matter now. She was back to being a doctor.
She hauled her addled thoughts together and went down to the boat to find the phone.
CHAPTER SIX
TWO aspirins and a cup of tea couldn’t help Don Parker.
‘He’s dead.’ Emily, Don’s daughter, was almost hysterical on the other end of the line. ‘Christie, my dad’s dead.’
‘Oh, Em…’
‘Dear God, it’s my fault.’ Emily was sobbing so hard that Christie could hardly make out what she was saying. ‘I always come. Every night I come. But tonight I didn’t because he told me my cooking was dreadful and I should be ashamed. He’s been in such a bad mood! And I was so upset…So I didn’t come and now…I phoned to say good-night and he didn’t answer. I thought he must be punishing me but I couldn’t relax so I came over, and he’s dead. He must have been upset when I didn’t come and—’
‘Hey, Emily, don’t do this to yourself.’ Christie’s voice was soft and calming, but Hugo, listening, said a mental farewell to his lovely evening. Her voice said, yes, this was serious. ‘Wait until I come before you figure what’s happened,’ she was saying. ‘Are you sure he’s dead?’ She’d had instances before when she’d been called to a corpse and had ended up tucking them into bed for the night.
‘I…’ Emily swallowed and caught herself. ‘I’m sure. He’s…he’s just…his eyes…He’s dead. I know he is.’
‘OK. Is anyone with you?’
‘No.’
‘Ring Mrs Whitten. Your dad has her number on the pad above his phone. She’s just next door, Emily, and I know she’s home. Have her come over and stay with you. And ring your husband. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
‘Twenty minutes…’ There was a long gulping breath at the end of the line and then a tearful sob. ‘Oh, Dr Flemming, I so hoped…but they said at the hospital that you wouldn’t be available until morning.’
‘I’m always available,’ Christie said, and there was a note of resignation in her voice that she could only hope the woman didn’t hear.
But s
he couldn’t suppress it.
‘We’ll both go.’
‘You don’t need to.’ They were rowing back across the estuary. Christie’s experience in a rowing boat matched Hugo’s strength, so they took an oar apiece, rowing silently back to the boatshed and to duty beyond. ‘Don’s place is just past the hospital. I’ll drop you at our cottage on the way.’
‘I’m coming,’ he said softly, watching her as she rowed. Her face was set and grim. It was as if she’d been expecting this all evening. Expecting an end to pleasure.
She worked so hard, he thought as he watched her. She’d so wanted to go prawning, and now this! Hell, more and more he was wanting to do something for this woman. Lighten her load a little.
While she’d been catching prawns she’d dropped years from her age, he’d thought. She was still a girl underneath this load of responsibility she’d shouldered—a lovely, laughing girl who’d felt like…
Whoa…
Slow down, he told himself. That way is deep water.
But the thought refused to go away. The ache was becoming a need.
She shouldn’t let him come. She should insist that he stay at the cottage—after all, what use could he be in examining a corpse? Don had suffered from a heart condition for years. This wasn’t unexpected. It would involve a simple examination, organisation of the island undertaker and then time with Emily.
There’d be nothing for Hugo to do.
But…
She couldn’t protest, she decided as she rowed. This man seemed willing to spend time with her, and the way she was feeling she would take any part of him that he was prepared to give. For three more days…
Don was definitely dead—there was no doubt about it. Emily, a small, mousy woman in her late forties, led them into the sitting room and choked back sobs as Christie knelt beside Don’s chair and gently saw what had to be seen.
He’d died peacefully. That was one blessing at least. He’d been sitting beside his fire, the television was still on and he’d obviously been watching. His head had simply slumped forward and he hadn’t moved.
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