‘That was the idea. I don’t want to travel like I did.’ He tightens his arms. ‘Not without you.’
‘Oh.’
‘That’s all you have to say?’
‘I don’t have much money.’
He kisses my lips with a brief hard kiss. ‘I have money. We’ll go to Grasmere in the New Year. I presume you have a break in December?’
‘Yes.’
‘We could go to Norway, to spend Christmas with Per and Harriet.’
‘I don’t have a passport.’
He smiles. ‘I’ll get you one.’
‘The present you got me for my birthday, will you wrap it up in Christmas paper?’
He frowns. ‘I’ll buy a ring to match it.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you love me?’
I breathe against the skin at the base of his throat. ‘It’s hard to say it now.’
‘Why?’
‘You might think it’s because of the ring, or because of Grasmere. I have to convince you I love you for yourself.’
‘So you love me?’
‘I guess.’
He growls. Then moves down the bed until he’s lying down and I’m sprawled on top of him. Being careful not to jar my leg, he bends his knees and positions me between them. I want to sit up, rip off his clothes and straddle him. My hair falls in damp strands over his chest and he pushes it back and puts it over my shoulder. He kisses me—a protective, bossy, possessive kiss. When he lets me go, my lips are warm and tender.
‘I’ll be a terrible diplomat’s wife. You know that, don’t you? I’m not good at parties.’
‘I love you, Golden.’ He frowns into my eyes. ‘You’ve ridden today. You’ll be sore.’
I trail my finger from his widow’s peak to his nose. I circle the outline of his firm determined mouth. ‘You won’t hurt me.’
He groans as he rolls over, laying me on my back. He leans on an elbow and sweeps his hand down my side from my breast to my ribs, waist and hip. He runs his fingertips over my thigh, the crisscrossed scars on my knee, the skin grafts on my calf. We both watch as I stretch out my leg and move my ankle around.
‘Ugly,’ I say.
‘It’s part of you.’
I stroke his forearm. The hairs are soft and dark. ‘Grandpa said the scars were like the lines on a scribbly bark tree.’ My breath hitches, a sob escapes. Then fast flowing tears stream down my face and onto the pillow. I try to blink them back but it’s impossible.
I sniff and shudder. ‘I’m sorry.’
He slowly shakes his head. ‘You have dirty-green eyes, golden hair and a beautiful body. I love all of you.’ When he holds my face in his hands and kisses me, the tears dry up as suddenly as they started. He rips off his clothes and throws them on the floor and then he’s back with me again, with his athlete’s body and ironbark eyes.
He positions his knees either side of me. His eyes darken as he caresses my breasts. He’s hot and trembling. But I see the restraint on his face. I grasp his shoulders and bring his mouth closer.
‘Please, Tor.’
‘I’m going too fast.’
I smile against his lips. ‘I like to go fast.’
The window is open and the scent of eucalyptus blows in on the southerly breeze. We’re fierce, frantic and fearless. We race for the finish together. But afterwards, our kisses are soft and sweet. When he finally sleeps, my limbs are safe and secure under the weight of his body. His face rests against my neck. When I smooth his hair from his forehead his skin is cool. I wrap my arms around him. Sometimes he’ll travel the world, but he’ll always come home to me.
‘Tor? Are you awake?’ He makes a sleepy groaning sound and then he stirs, rolling onto his side so we’re facing each other. His stubble is rough against my fingers. ‘We’ll plant ironbark trees at Grasmere.’
He trails kisses down my face and neck. He brushes back my hair, slides the strands through his fingers. He looks into my eyes.
‘And scribbly bark, ghost gum and wattle,’ he says.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Portraying the relationship between the sisters in this novel was particularly important to me, because I wanted to capture something of the bond I share with my sister Julie, and other women who have played an important part in my life. My childhood friend Rina is a sister I chose for myself, as is Margaret, who doubles as my sister-in-law. I’ve also been blessed with friends I’ve known since our children were babies. Like sisters, we look out for each other—Maureen, Ruth, Lou, Anne and Kathryn, I can’t wait to spend the next few decades with you all—talking incessantly, laughing and crying, drinking wine and coffee. I’d also like to acknowledge the fabulous sisters in my writing community—library louts Liz, Kim and Fiona, and the many supportive, inspiring and warrior women I’ve met through Romance Writers of Australia.
Words cannot express how grateful I am to Vani Gupta, friend, writer and speech pathologist, for her enthusiasm and insightful commentary. Thanks also to my daughter Tamsin—I am so lucky to be able to share my writer angst with you. Thank you to my dear friend Michelle for answering so many questions. To Renée, thank you for the last minute racing tips, and John, for the botanical advice. All slip-ups are mine—and creative license.
Many thanks to my editor Diane Blacklock, and the talented team at Harlequin. Laurie Ormond, thank you for your invaluable assistance. Jo Mackay, I’m eternally grateful to you for your support and derring-do.
To my husband Peter, and children Pip, Tamsin, Ben, Michaela, Gabriella and Max, thank you for tolerating, with patience and good humour, the host of imaginary characters I invite into our home—you will be relieved to know that Golden and Tor have now moved on. And thank you to my wonderful parents, Ann and Philip, who not only introduced me to literature, but bought me a pony.
Last but by no means least, thank you to each and every one of my readers. Writing gives me immense joy. I’m honoured that you select my books, and read the stories I have written.
CHAPTER
1
He vanishes in the sea spray of the stormy Southern Ocean, and then he reappears.
He’s hanging from the cargo net on the port side of The Watch. I’m on the bridge ten metres above him. When he lifts his hood our gazes lock. I’m stiff with fear and sick with nausea and I don’t want to leave my ship. But there’s something in the intensity of his stare that tells me he’ll come up and get me if I don’t go down. He gestures over his shoulder and I see an inflatable boat, battling to stay upright in the waves and gale-force winds.
I climb through the railing and feel for the net. It swings back and forth as I climb, airborne one minute, whacking against the ship’s side the next. I’m exhausted and trembling, numb with cold, but finally I reach the second last rung. I link my boot through it and steady myself. The man is hanging next to me. His dry suit outlines the shape of his body; he’s tall and lean, athletically built. His hood is back in place so I can’t see his face but I’m sure that he can see mine. The whiteness of my lips, the terror in my eyes.
He unclips a harness attached to a belt on his hip, and reaches for me.
‘No!’ I push his hand away. ‘If we fall, I’ll take you down with me.’
He extends his hand again.
I shove it away. ‘No! I can’t swim.’
There’s a moment’s hesitation. ‘Jesus,’ he says.
He moves behind me and presses his body hard up against mine, so his front is against my back. One of his arms wraps around my chest in an immovable grip, and the other one grasps my waist. I’m pinned to the net between him and the ship. Out of the corner of my eye I see the inflatable, closer to the ship than it was before. There’s someone on board, operating the console in the middle of the boat.
The Watch shudders on the crest of another wave, and then she heels to one side. I scream when the net suspends us over the ocean but the sound is lost on the wind. A chunk of ice, white and luminous, drifts below us on the swell. Then the inflatable reappear
s, impossibly small in the angry grey sea.
The man releases his hold on my body. ‘Let go!’ he yells. ‘Now!’
He throws me into the storm. Silence. I think I black out. And then I crash, legs and arms flailing, into the inflatable. The cacophony of sound returns—the thunderous winds and waves, the creaks and groans of the ship, my gasps as I suck in mouthfuls of air. Someone grabs my jacket and wrenches me onto my side. It’s a woman. She pulls back the hood of her jacket and leans over me. She’s young. Her voice is low pitched.
‘Harriet? You okay?’
I’m retching but nothing’s coming up. Migraine lights flash in front of my eyes. My lips move but no words come out.
‘Harry,’ she says. ‘You with me, or not?’
My head jerks, and I nod.
‘Right, then. Better go back for the commander.’
I drag myself on my hands and knees to the row of seats on one side of the boat. Then I pull myself into one, grasping rubber handholds to keep myself upright. My shoulder hurts, so does my knee. I can’t look at the ocean or I’ll retch again. My head feels like it’s going to explode. But I can’t lose consciousness now. So I swallow down my panic and focus on the woman. She’s back at the console. The insignia of the Royal Australian Navy is embossed on the front of her jacket. She raises a hand as if to warn me, and then she spins the boat around. I follow the line of her finger when she points.
We’re about twenty metres away from The Watch. She’s creaking as she lolls, awkwardly and drunkenly, in the water. The cargo net is still hanging from her side but there’s no sign of the man. I was wrong when I thought my anxiety had peaked. I’m shaking with guilt and fear and dread.
The woman manoeuvres the inflatable between two waves. We’re so close to The Watch that the ship blocks out the sky. There’s a lull in the wind. The woman’s words are clear.
‘Lost his grip when he chucked you,’ she says. ‘Guess we’d better go fish.’
She gives a long shrill whistle when she sees him. I turn in my seat and follow her gaze. The man is a sleek black shadow in the ocean, and then he disappears in the churning waves and whitewash. When we see him again he’s on the top of a wave. The inflatable is rising on the swell.
He dives out of the ocean and twists in the air. Then he lands on his feet on the floor of the inflatable. He gets his balance, turns to the woman and nods. She salutes him and laughs. As we plunge down the face of another wave she grasps the wheel with both hands. He pivots and crashes onto the seat next to me.
His arm and leg are pressed up against mine so I’m pinned between him and the bow. He’s wearing a balaclava under his hood. It covers his hair and the bottom half of his face. I think he’s older than me, but not by much. Thirty? Early thirties? All I can see clearly are his eyes. They’re angry eyes, narrowed and gunmetal grey. They share the colours of the ocean, black troughs and white caps that seethe around the boat.
He’s shouting, but I can barely hear his words over the roar of the wind and sea.
‘What did you mean when you said you couldn’t swim?’ he says.
‘I can’t swim.’
‘Jesus.’
He shoves me sideways so I’m wedged even tighter into my seat, and when I try to push him away he swings one long leg over both of mine, trapping them. Then he pulls a life jacket from under his seat and thrusts it at me. My shoulder won’t move like it should but I manage to put the jacket on, struggling to secure the straps because my hands are numb and stiff. He watches me fumble, and then he shoves my hands out of the way and reaches for the straps himself, tugging them even tighter than they are already.
I’m doing my best to hold in my panic but the ocean is too close and the spray is too real. The light show in my head gets brighter and brighter and I want to be sick again. If he’s aware of how frightened I am he doesn’t seem to care. He shoves his gloved hand under my jacket and feels the inner layers of my clothes. They’re almost as sodden as the outer ones.
‘What are you wearing?’
I don’t answer.
‘You really can’t swim?’
‘No.’
We’re moving further and further away from The Watch. She’s sitting even lower in the water now. Waves crash over her decks as she rolls slowly onto her side. The bridge and stern are inundated. Water cascades into the hold and cabins. Her bow tilts towards the clouds and all I can do is stare, transfixed, until tears obscure my vision. There’s a single explosion, and then a series of explosions. It’ll be the watertight compartments, and the bulkhead, collapsing under the pressure. I wipe an arm across my face and turn to him.
‘Are the rest of the crew all right?’
‘You know they are. You were the last one off.’
The sleet whips my face with icy shards. The salt of the sea spray stings my eyes. The woman whistles again and points. HMAS Torrens, the navy patrol ship, is in the distance and we’re slowly heading towards her. The storm is abating but there’s ice to contend with. And there are bergs. No one speaks until we’re close to the navy boat.
‘You shouldn’t have done it,’ I say.
When the man takes my shoulders in his hands I flinch.
‘Shouldn’t have done what?’ he says, drawing me closer.
‘Come for me.’
He puts his mouth to my ear. I feel the warmth of his breath on my neck.
‘Harriet Hillary Amelia Scott,’ he says. ‘I’ll make you wish I never did.’
I wrench myself out of his grip but I’m still anchored to the seat by his leg. He turns side on and barks instructions to the woman. There are people lining the bridge of the Torrens. The woman talks into her headgear about hoisting the boat up onto the deck.
The man knows all of my names. Yet I’m certain we’ve never met. My thoughts are muddled. I’m light-headed, nauseous, disoriented. It must be the migraine. Or shock. Hypothermia? I have to move around, to warm up. When I push at his leg he turns and glares, but then the woman asks him something. He removes his leg as he answers.
And then a wave crashes over the bow. It hits me square in the face. There’s water in my nose, my mouth, my eyes, my ears. I jump to my feet and twist to escape it but there’s something solid against my thigh that’s blocking my path. So I dive over it. And then I kick out, more and more frantically, against the vice around my ankle. At last I’m free. But then I’m tumbling, falling.
My head goes beneath the waves as the ocean sucks me in. Water clogs my throat. The cold is paralysing. I’m blind. But then I see Mum and Dad. The three of us are driving along a narrow road in the mountains of Brazil. The trees, and the vines that cling to them, rise up from either side of the road and form a dense green canopy over the car. It’s twelve years ago and I’ve just turned fourteen. I’m flat-chested and leggy. Mum has tied my hair into braids; the plaited ends hang over my shoulders like two flaxen ropes. We’re singing Waltzing Matilda at the tops of our voices as the car approaches a bend.
* * *
‘About bloody time.’
The woman from the inflatable boat is gazing down at me and grinning. I didn’t get a close look at her before but I remember her gravelly voice. My vision is blurred but I can see that she’s young, just like I thought. She has short-cropped bright red hair and a madly freckled face.
When I smile it hurts my lips. My voice is barely a croak. ‘Hey.’
I’m aware that I’m lying on a bed and covered by blankets. But the medical paraphernalia in the room, and my hand when I hold it in front of my face, is out of focus. I blink a couple of times. Am I drugged? Didn’t I fall into the Southern Ocean? Shouldn’t I be dead?
The woman must see the confusion on my face. She puts a hand on my arm and squeezes.
‘You’re on board the Torrens, Harry. And you’ll live. Only just though.’ She looks over her shoulder. ‘Isn’t that right, sir?’
The next time I wake up, the red-haired woman and the man with grey eyes are on either side of the bed, leaning over m
e. They’re rubbing the top half of my body. Forearms, upper arms, across my collarbones, down my sternum, over my breasts, and then my stomach and hips. They’re arguing, but I’m too sleepy to stick up for myself, and I have a horrible feeling I’m naked, so I close my eyes again.
‘No body fat to keep her warm,’ the man says. ‘Look at her. Pathetic.’
‘She’s got breasts, that’s body fat,’ the woman says. ‘And the rest of her is just … lean. Anyway, she’d been on the bridge for hours getting everyone out, so it’s no wonder she was frozen.’
‘Diving into the sea wouldn’t have helped.’
‘She didn’t know what she was doing.’
‘No life jacket until I gave her one. And the ocean terrified her. Jesus.’
‘She said she couldn’t swim.’
‘It was more than that. I’m sure of it.’
Someone is wrapping my feet up. They’re tingling.
‘Easy with the heat packs,’ the man says. ‘Leave the extremities until her core temperature is up.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Do her mouth again. Poor thing.’
He lightly touches my mouth, smoothing something over the bottom lip, and then the top one. At first it stings, but after a while all I’m aware of is the rhythmic slide of his fingertip. I open my mouth a little, and he presses gently into the creases at the sides. I feel his thumb on my chin as his finger returns to my bottom lip. It’s tingling now.
The woman is close again. ‘Her mouth’s not skinny. Look at it. Wish I had lips like that.’
‘She’s a fraud, Kat,’ the man says, as his finger leaves my lip. ‘Get over her.’
I turn my face towards him because I like the tingling feeling and I don’t want him to stop. But a moment later I feel his hands running up and down my arm again.
‘Can’t,’ says the woman. ‘She’s only a year older than me, and it’s like we grew up together. She was in all those documentaries her parents made, and she’s done some great stuff since.’
‘Assuming she actually did it. If she can’t swim, maybe she can’t ride, cycle or climb?’
‘You’re just pissed because she messed up your schedule.’
On the Right Track Page 30