‘You got called on as a doctor?’
‘A bit. I was asleep at first.’
‘Off duty,’ she said blankly, and he winced. There was no criticism in her voice. It was a simple statement of fact, but she knew how to hurt. When he’d woken to discover the chaos he’d felt dreadful. He’d helped, but other doctors had been more proactive than him.
‘Look, I—’
‘Is this your bag? It must be. Everyone else has theirs.’
‘It’s mine,’ he said, and she strode forward and lugged it off the conveyor belt before he could stop her. She set it up on its wheels and tugged out the handle, then set it before him. Making him feel even more wimpish.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘My wheels are in the car park.’
‘Your car?’
‘My wheels.’ She was striding through the terminal, talking to him over her shoulder. He was struggling to keep up.
He was feeling about six years old.
‘Hey, Georg.’ People were acknowledging her, waving to her, but she wasn’t stopping. She was wearing really high stilettos but still walking at a pace that made him hurry. She looked like something out of a biker magazine. A biker’s moll?
Not quite, for her hair was closely cropped and cute—almost classy. The gold hoop earrings actually looked great. She was just … different.
‘Doc Turner.’ An overweight girl—much more your vision of a biker’s moll than Georgie—was yelling to get her attention. ‘Georgie!’
Georgie stopped, spinning on her stilettos to see who was calling.
The girl was about eighteen, bottle-blonde, wearing jeans that were a couple of sizes too small for her very chubby figure and a top that didn’t cover a stomach that wobbled. She was pushing a pram. A chubby, big-eyed toddler clung to a fistful of her crop top, and a youth came behind, lugging two overstuffed bags. The youth looked about eighteen, too, as skinny as his partner was chubby.
They were obviously friends of Georgie. ‘Lola,’ Georgie said with evident pleasure. ‘Eric. How goes it?’
‘Eric’s mum’s paid for us to go to Hobart,’ Lola said with evident pride. ‘She’s gonna look after us for a coupla weeks till all me bits get back together.’
‘Lola had a lovely little girl last week,’ Georgie told Alistair, looking into the pram with expected admiration. ‘It was a pretty dramatic birth.’
‘Had her on the laundry floor,’ Lola said proudly. ‘Eric had gone to ring the ambos and there she was. Pretty near wet himself when he came back.’
‘Lola, Eric, this is Dr Carmichael,’ Georgie said. The rest of the passengers from the plane were passing them on the way out to the car park. Nice ordinary people with nice ordinary people meeting them. Not a tattoo in sight.
Lola had six tattoos that he could see. Eric … Eric was just one huge tattoo.
‘Doc Carmichael is Gina’s surrogate father, here to give her away at the wedding,’ Georgie said.
‘He’s Gina’s surrogate father?’ Lola checked him out. ‘What’s surrogate?’ Then she shrugged, clearly not interested in extending her education. ‘Well, he’s older than my old man so I guess he’ll do.’ She surveyed him critically. ‘That silver in your hair. Natural?’
‘Um … yes,’ Alistair said, discomfited.
‘Looks great. Love a bit of silver. Looks real distinguished. Eric, you oughta get some put in. Next time I get me tips done you come, too.’ She moved forward a bit to get a closer look and smoothed Alistair’s lapel in admiration. ‘Cool suit. Real classy. Anyone ever told you we don’t do suits in this town?’
‘You taking him into town?’ Eric asked.
‘Yeah,’ Georgie said.
‘You got a spare helmet?’ Lola demanded. ‘He’s gonna look real dorky in that suit on the back of your bike. And what about his bag?’
‘I’ve got a spare helmet and I hooked up the trailer.’
‘Sheesh,’ Eric said. ‘Rather you than me, mate. She rides like the clappers.’
‘I’m not going on a motorbike,’ Alistair said, feeling it was time he put his foot down. ‘Georgia, I’ll get a cab.’
‘Ooh, listen to him,’ Lola said, admiring. ‘Georgia. Is that your real name?’
‘Georgiana Marilyn Kimberly Turner,’ Georgie said, grinning.
‘Sheesh,’ said Lola.
‘We gotta go,’ Eric said, looking ahead at the security gates with a certain amount of trepidation. ‘Lola, you sure about the—?’
‘The baby stuff,’ Lola corrected him, far too fast, and reached over and gave her beloved a wifely cuff. ‘Yeah, it’s packed. Shut up.’
Georgie chuckled. It was a good chuckle, Alistair thought, low and throaty and real.
‘They’re in for a rough flight,’ he said, watching the little family head off toward Security. By mutual unspoken agreement they stayed watching. Lola picked the baby up out of her pram, handed her to Eric, lifted the pram and dumped the whole thing sideways on the conveyor belt. Then she grabbed all the bags they were carrying and loaded them on top. Bags, bags and more bags.
A security officer from the far end of the hall had strolled down to where they were tugging their gear off the belt. The officer had a beagle hound on a leash.
The beagle walked up to Lola, looked up at her and sat firmly at her feet.
‘Hey, great dog,’ Lola said, and fished in her nappy bag. ‘You want a peanut-butter sandwich?’
‘Don’t feed the dog, ma’am,’ the officer said curtly, and Lola swelled in indignation.
‘Why the hell not? He’s too skinny.’
‘Can we check the contents of the bag you’re carrying, please?’
‘Sure,’ Lola said, amenable. She walked back to the conveyor belt with her nappy bag, lifted it high and emptied it. She put the baby on top for good measure.
‘She’s carrying the contents of a small house,’ Alistair said, awed, and Georgie grinned.
‘That’s our Lola. She’s one of my favourite patients.’
‘I can see that,’ he said morosely, and she shrugged, starting to walk away.
‘Yeah, it’s a long way from the keep-yourself-nice brigade I’d imagine you’d prefer to treat. But we need to be flexible up here, mate. Nonjudgmental. Doctors like you wouldn’t have a chance in this place.’
He bit his lip. She was being deliberately provocative, he thought. Dammit, he wasn’t going to react. But …
‘About the bike …’
‘Yeah?’ she said over her shoulder as she headed outside.
‘I’ll get a cab.’
‘Someone’s already taken the cab. I saw it drive off.’
‘There must be more than one cab.’
‘Not today there isn’t. It’s the northern waters flyfishing meet in Croc Creek. The prize this year is a week in Fiji and every man and his dog is fishing his heart out. And everyone else from the plane left while we were talking to Lola. You’re stuck with me.’
They were outside now, trekking through to the far reaches of the car park. To an enormous Harley Davidson with an incongruous little trailer on the back.
‘I can usually park at the front,’ Georgie said. ‘But I had to bring the trailer.’ Once again that unspoken assumption that he was a wuss for bringing more than a toothbrush.
‘I’d rather not go on the bike,’ he said stiffly.
She turned and stared. ‘Why not?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Like the feel of the wind in your hair? It’s not a toupee, is it?’ She kicked off her stilettos and reached into her saddle bag for a pair of trainers that had seen better days. ‘Go on. Live dangerously. I’ll even try to stay under the speed limit.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘I brought you a helmet. Even the toupee’s protected.’
‘No.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then she shrugged. Before he knew what she was about she’d hauled his suitcase up and tossed it onto her trailer. Then she shoved her helmet over her curls, clipped i
t tight and climbed astride her bike. The motor was roaring into life before he had time to say a word.
‘Fair enough,’ she yelled over the noise. ‘It’s your toupee after all, and maybe I’d worry myself. You can’t take too much care of those little critters. I’ll drop the case off at the hospital. It’s three miles directly north and over the bridge.’
‘You can’t—’
‘See ya,’ she yelled, and flicked off the brake.
And she was gone, leaving a cloud of dust and petrol fumes behind her.
‘You dumped him.’
‘I didn’t dump him. I went to collect him and he declined my very kind offer to be my pillion passenger.’
‘Georgie, it’s hot out there. Stinking hot.’ On the end of the phone Gina was starting to sound agitated.
‘That’s why I couldn’t understand why he didn’t accept my offer. He’s wearing a suit. A gorgeous Italian suit, Gina. With that lovely hair, his height, those gorgeous brogues … Ooh, he looks the real big city specialist. You wouldn’t think someone like that would want to walk.’
‘He won’t have realised … He’ll have thought there were taxis.’
‘I told him there weren’t.’
‘Georgie, I want you to go back and get him.’
‘No way.’
‘In a car. You could have taken a hospital car.’
‘What’s wrong with my bike?’
‘Georgie Turner, are you my very best friend and my bridesmaid or what?’
‘I might be,’ she said cautiously.
‘Then your job as my bridesmaid is to make sure that the man who’s going to give me away doesn’t turn into a grease spot while hiking into Crocodile Creek.’
‘He shouldn’t—’
‘Georgie.’
‘He thinks I’m some species below bedbug.’
‘You wore your leathers?’
‘So what?’
‘And your stilettos?’
‘I dressed up. I thought it was important to make a good impression.’
‘Georgie, go fetch him.’
‘Won’t,’ Georgie said, but she grinned. OK, she’d made her point. She supposed the toad could be fetched. ‘Oh, all right.’
‘In the car,’ Gina added.
‘If I have to.’
‘You have to. Tell him Cal and I will be back at dinnertime.’
‘Sure,’ Georgie said, and grimaced. ‘He’ll be really relieved to hear that higher civilisation is on its way.’
The kid was sitting in the middle of the bridge. He’d be blocking traffic if there was any traffic, but Crocodile Creek must hunker down for a midday siesta. Alistair hadn’t passed so much as a pushbike for the last mile.
He’d abandoned his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder and considering losing it altogether. It was so hot if he’d really been wearing a toupee he’d have left it behind a mile ago. He was thirsty. He was jet-lagged to hell and he was angry.
There was a kid in the middle of the bridge. A little boy.
‘Hi,’ he said as he approached, but the child didn’t respond. He was staring down at the river, his face devoid of expression. It was a dreadful look, Alistair thought. It wasn’t bored. It wasn’t sad. It was simply … empty.
He was about six years old. Indigenous Australian? Maybe, but mixed with something else.
‘Are you OK?’ Alistair asked, doing a fast scan of the riverbank, searching for someone who might belong to this waif.
There was no one else in sight. There was no answer.
‘Where’s Mum or Dad?’
‘Dad’s fishing,’ the child said, breaking his silence to speak in little more than a quavering whisper. Alistair’s impression of hopelessness intensified.
‘And you’re waiting for him to come home?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Maybe you could wait somewhere cooler,’ Alistair suggested. The middle of the bridge was so hot there was shimmer rising from the timbers.
‘I’m OK here.’
Alistair hesitated. This kid had dark skin. Maybe he wouldn’t burn like Alistair was starting to. If his dad was coming soon …
No. The child was square in the middle of the bridge and his face said he was expecting the wait to be a long one.
He squatted down beside the boy. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m not allowed to talk to people I don’t know.’
‘I’m a doctor,’ Alistair said. ‘I’m here to visit the doctors at the Crocodile Creek Hospital. I know them all. Dr Gina Lopez. Dr Charles Wetherby. Dr Georgie Turner.’
The kid’s eyes flew to meet his.
‘Georgie?’
‘You know Georgie?’
‘She helps my mum.’
‘She’s a friend of mine,’ Alistair said gently, knowing he had to stretch the truth to gain trust. ‘She’ll be at the hospital now and that’s where I’m going. If I take you there, maybe she could take you home on the back of her motorbike.’
The child’s eyes fixed on his, unwavering.
‘You’re a doctor?’
‘I am.’
‘You fix people?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you fix my mum?’
His heart sank. This was getting trickier. The sun was searing the back of his neck. He could feel beads of sweat trickling downward. ‘What’s wrong with your mother?’
The child’s expression had changed to one of wary hope. ‘She’s sick. She’s in bed.’
What was he getting himself into? But he had no choice. ‘Can you take me to your mum?’
‘Yes,’ the little boy said, defeat turning to determination. He climbed to his feet, grabbed Alistair’s hand and tugged. ‘It’s along the river.’
‘Right,’ Alistair said. He definitely had no choice. ‘Let’s go.’
CHAPTER TWO
SHE nearly missed him. She drove slowly back toward the airport, starting to feel really guilty. It was unseasonably hot even for here, she thought. The wind was starting to feel like they were in for a major storm, even though the sky was clear.
There was a cyclone out to sea—Cyclone Willie—but it was so far out it should never come near them. The weather guys on the radio were saying the winds they were feeling now were from the edge of the cyclone.
Just don’t rain for Mike and Em’s wedding tomorrow, she told the weather gods. Or for Gina’s the Saturday after.
Right. Back to worrying about Alistair. She’d gone two miles now and was starting to be concerned. Surely he should have walked further than this. But it was so hot. She should never have let her temper hold sway. He wouldn’t have realised how hot it was.
Maybe he’d left the road to find some shade. She slowed down and started studying the verges. Here was the bridge …
She nearly didn’t see them. A path ran by the river, meandering down to a shanty town further on. Here were huts built by itinerant fishermen, or squatters who spent a few months camping here and then moved on. Periodically the council cleared them but they came back again and again.
There was a man in the distance, just as the track disappeared into trees. Holding a child’s hand.
Even from this distance she could pick the neat business suit and jacket slung over his shoulder. Not Crocodile Creek wear. Alistair.
What the hell was he doing? She pulled onto the verge and hit the horn. Loudly. Then she climbed out and waved.
In the distance Alistair paused and turned. And waved back.
Who was he with?
She stood and waited. He’d have talked one of the local kids into taking him to shelter, she thought, expecting him to leave the child and come back to the road. He didn’t. He simply stood there, holding the child’s hand, as if he expected her to come to him.
Really! It was hot. She was wearing leather pants. OK, maybe they weren’t the most practical gear in this heat. She’d put them on to make a statement.
She’d also put her stilettos back on before bringing the car out. Her nice sensibl
e trainers were back at the hospital.
He expected her to walk?
He wasn’t moving. He simply stood by the riverbank and waited.
Didn’t he know you didn’t stand near the river? Not for long. There were crocs in this river. It was safe enough to walk on the bank as long as you walked briskly, but to stand in the one spot for a while was asking for trouble.
OK. She gave a mental snort and stalked down the path toward them. Dratted stilettos …
Davy Price.
She recognised the child before she’d reached the riverbank. Immediately her personal discomfort was forgotten. What the hell was Alistair doing, holding Davy’s hand? Davy was six years old. He was the eldest of four children, the last of whom she’d delivered four days earlier. They lived in the worst of this motley collection of shacks.
While Lizzie, Davy’s mum, had been in hospital, she’d tried to persuade her to move to council housing. But …
‘My old man wants to live by the river. He won’t move.’
Georgie fretted about the family. Lizzie’s ‘old man’ was Smiley, an indolent layabout, drunk more often than not. Lizzie tried desperately to keep the kids healthy but she was almost beaten. To let her go home to this mosquito-ridden slum had gone against every piece of logic Georgie possessed. But you can’t make people do what they don’t want—who knew that better than Georgie?
But now … She slipped on her way down the grassy verge and she kicked her stilettos off. By the time she reached them she was almost running.
‘What’s wrong, Davy?’ she asked as she reached them. She ignored Alistair for the moment. It’d take something really dire to prise this shy six-year-old from his mum. There had to be something badly amiss. How had Alistair become involved? She had him twigged as the sort of guy who didn’t get involved.
He was still holding Davy’s hand. He was obviously very involved.
‘Mum said to go and get Dad,’ Davy whispered. ‘But Dad’s gone fishing.’
‘He went out this morning?’
‘He was going to win some prize,’ Davy said, and swiped a grimy fist over an even more grimy face. ‘But Mum can’t get out of bed and the baby keeps crying and crying and there’s nothing for Dottie and Megan to eat. I don’t know what to do.’
The Australian's Desire (Mills & Boon By Request) Page 2