by Nikki Logan
‘The boobies, I know. I meant what else do you do, to pass the time?’ He stepped to the edge of the dinghy. ‘One, two three … lift.’
They shuffled up the sand, carrying the empty inflatable over the many rocks littering the shore above the high-tide mark.
‘Nothing else—that’s it. It’s my job.’
He stared at her. ‘Alone?’
‘Yep.’ Until now.
He whistled. ‘Who’d you tick off?’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘No one! I choose to come here—I love it.’ And it was the closest point on the planet to—
She caught herself before even thinking about them in this jerk’s presence and dumped her side of the inflatable.
He cringed as it bounced on the rocks. ‘Hey, hey—’
Adonis or not, he’d be repairing a puncture, too, if he didn’t watch what he said. ‘Your stuff should be fine here until tomorrow. There are no storms forecast … tonight.’ She threw the dismissal over her shoulder, marched to where the second buoyancy sack waited by the water’s edge, hauled it over her shoulder and staggered up the beach with as much dignity as she could on the caving sand.
She turned back and saw him looking at the thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment sitting exposed on her shore. Then he grimaced and followed her as she turned up an almost unrecognisable track between the thick coconut palms fringing the dunes.
Honor shifted from foot to foot. She’d never intended anyone to see her little campsite and now a complete stranger stood in the midst of her ‘stuff'.
Two seasons ago she’d lined the little track leading from the beach with seashells so it formed a sweet pathway to camp. She’d splashed out on a designer fly-sheet for the tent—one with Van Gogh’s Sunflowers screen-printed on it—and although it did look rather odd in the middle of the tropical wilderness, the touch of whimsy pleased her. She’d even thought about planting some ground cover to help bind the fine white sand that found its way into everything, but decided against it. Pulu Keeling may well have been Australia’s smallest National Park, but it was still protected by the same regulations and restrictions afforded to the biggest mainland parks. Making a homely garden was a big conservation no-no.
So she just lived with the sand. Everywhere.
Rob gazed about him with a kind of fascination as he trailed her up from the shore. This island was her home-away-from-home, her sanctuary, and he’d been rudely dismissive of it, as though it wasn’t a rare piece of paradise with lush trees, crystalline waters and masses of wildlife.
Don’t you dare say one word. Not a word.
‘This looks pretty comfortable,’ he said in total defiance of her thought projection.
Suspicion stained the compliment. ‘Everything I need is here.’
It was true. Tent, field equipment, first aid, emergency flares, books, laptop, batteries, radio, fuelled-up generator, provisions and a mountain of ten-litre water tubs full of fresh water. Each in its designated place and each swum in across the lagoon at the beginning of every monitoring season. And swum back out empty at the end.
When he reached the edge of the campsite, he turned back to admire the view she’d been staring at for four years. Coconut trees bowed towards each other and formed a perfect picture frame for the sparkling ocean beyond the lagoon. The thirty-foot pisonia forest overhead offered protection from the worst of the weather and shade from the blazing equatorial sun.
He was silhouetted against the bright day outside the trees and Honor fought to ignore how solid and fit he looked with her lagoon as a backdrop, the wet T-shirt still clinging to his muscular back. His legs were long, contoured and as tanned as the rest of him. He was tall and lean with surfer’s shoulders. All of him was toned—sculpted but not muscle-bound. She imagined the kind of precise gym-work that went into keeping him in such balanced shape and assumed there were two personal trainers on standby somewhere awaiting his return to the mainland.
Female, no doubt.
He shifted his weight and stretched out a crick in that broad back and Honor wondered if she’d ever feel the same about her view again—or her island.
She frowned. Where had that come from? Not her brain, certainly. One man spending five minutes on Pulu Keeling was not going to undo the wonder and beauty of her safe haven for ever. It was the disturbance. It had thrown her normal rhythm.
She watched him soak up the view, his hands on his hips, body not quite relaxed. For a man who looked as if he was born in the surf, he didn’t seem particularly comfortable standing in front of one of the most beautiful beaches on the planet.
What’s he waiting for—a bellhop?
Her lips tightened. ‘Well, come on in.’
He swung around and moved out of the deep shade into the dappled light of her campsite, sliding his sunglasses up onto his damp dark hair. Honor’s heart tripped over itself, and she glanced away lest she be caught staring.
His eyes were the same vivid blue as her view.
She scurried towards her tent, willing the heart that had lurched into a frantic flutter to settle. Had everything shrunk the moment he stepped into camp? She grabbed a long-sleeved cotton shirt and hastily slipped it on over her swimsuit.
‘Eight months …’ she heard him mutter.
Her chin lifted. ‘How long do you think it will take you to make repairs?’ The question was ruder than she’d intended. It practically screamed, Get off my island!
He didn’t miss the tone; his lips thinned and those amazing eyes darkened. ‘No idea. I’ll have to assess the damage.’
‘What can I do to help?’ She’d meant it to be conciliatory.
‘In a hurry to have me gone, Honor?’
Shame bit as those all-knowing eyes saw exactly which way her mind was going. ‘No. It’s just … I’m not set up for visitors.’ It was true, yet not entirely the truth.
‘I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.’ His nostrils flared briefly.
Robert Dalton had a decent poker face, an admirable life skill. The aggravated pulse high in his jaw was the only other sign that she’d ticked him off. Her own face was an open book.
‘It’s okay.’ She reached for her trusty logbook. ‘I have work to do, anyway. Make yourself at home.’
It half killed her to say it.
His smile couldn’t have been less genuine. Was it so unthinkable that a person could feel at home in her little base? Even a person whose sunglasses probably cost more than her whole camp set-up? Not waiting for his answer, she snatched up her binoculars and marched towards the trees.
Rob watched her go and then looked around again. Making himself at home felt plain wrong. This camp, with its sweet little homely touches, was so private and feminine. He felt every bit the intruder. He sighed and headed back to the beach, peeling his adhesive T-shirt from his body as he went and looking around for a sun-bleached bush to drape it on. He turned back out to the horizon and waded into the water, heading for the boat that he’d bought with the first money he’d ever earned himself.
Minutes later, under the full glare of the equatorial sun, he yanked his dive mask down harder than necessary and snapped it into place, then readied himself on the edge of The Player.
What’s her problem, anyway? His just being here obviously irritated the heck out of her. Everything he did she took exception to and he’d been here all of one hour. That had to be some kind of record. Not that she’d been entirely rude. She’d been a sport about hauling all his gear onshore, and she’d tried to make nice towards the end.
Although it obviously didn’t come as second nature to her.
Rob smiled. Honor Brier certainly was different to the women he knew. They liked having him around, they even sought him out. Actively. He wasn’t used to feeling plain unwelcome or to a woman being so … transparent and open. Honor had no interest in playing up to him or in putting on an act. She wanted him gone and was being perfectly upfront about it. It made a refreshing change from the gratuitous fawning he endured ba
ck home. Not to say it didn’t sting a bit, this feeling of not being quite good enough. But it was undeniably honest.
And unexpectedly welcome.
Robert Dalton Senior would have bawled him out for an hour for valuing character over charisma. His father’s idea of the perfect relationship was one in which everyone revolved around him like planets orbiting a star. And God knew he’d tried to raise his son in his image.
With a well-practised manoeuvre, Rob dropped over the boat’s side, diving once again into the cold waters of the Cocos Trench. Seven and a half thousand metres at its deepest point and here was he, nothing more than an amoeba splashing around right at its highest. Where the ocean bottom broke the surface and became land. This century, anyway. The shoreline on remote islands was as changeable as their sovereignty. Two hundred years belonging to Ceylon. One hundred as Britain’s. Fifty as Australia’s. Next century maybe Indonesia would get its turn. If there was anything left to claim sovereignty over. Cocos and everything on it would be underwater with his shipwrecks the way the sea levels were heading. Nothing was for ever.
Isn’t that the truth.
Rob shook his head. The earth had a way of giving back to itself. Ore ripped deep from its guts became metal. Metal became a ship. A ship became a shipwreck. A wreck became reef and a reef eventually compounded and silted up to become earth again. Oceans rose and retreated, froze over and defrosted and finally retreated enough to push the island-that-once-was-reef-that-once-was-a-shipwreck up above the surface where who knew what life would evolve on it.
His life—with all its dramas—took place in ultra fast-forward by comparison and had no bearing whatsoever on what the rest of the planet did. That thought had a way of keeping a guy humble. Keeping a guy from being too much like his father.
Despite that father’s best efforts.
The water kissed his bare skin as he sank below to assess the damage. The sun had shifted to the other side of the boat slightly, changing the light and making the fracture easier to see. He ran his hand over the hairline crack in the hull, got a feel for the injury. Angry bubbles raced him to the surface. He’d need an oxy-welder and he knew without looking that there wasn’t one amongst the mountain of equipment he’d brought on this short voyage. And he was pretty sure it wasn’t something a pretty female hermit generally kept handy.
He surfaced and climbed back into the boat, his heart heavy. The Player hadn’t taken on water yet—as far as he could see—but, given time and the relentless pounding of the ocean, that could change. It was too risky to take her back out to sea without repairs, even heading for Cocos’ Home Island. He’d have to wait for equipment or a ship to shepherd him back to dry port. Ideally, both.
Looks like this field trip just got extended.
Honor had to have a radio in camp. He hoped he could use it to contact the maritime authority to communicate his predicament.
Anger at his own stupidity made him careless as he swam back to shore, and he rushed his first attempt at boosting onto the reef. Sharp coral shards lacerated his exposed belly in several places. He fell back into the deep water of the drop-off, waited for the swell and used nature’s hoist to push himself onto the reef. The mix of saltwater and fresh air stung like crazy in the welts already forming on his stomach but he’d endured worse.
Not as bad as Honor, his mind reminded him as he dived into the calmer lagoon and stroked carefully across, tugging on the fresh wounds with each muscle flex. Her scars. He was no expert, but the damage didn’t look like burn marks. The skin wasn’t puckered enough. It was more like … patchwork. As if someone had done some kind of Frankenstein number on her.
He frowned. That wasn’t a kind comparison. There was nothing monster-like about Honor. Something very nasty had happened to his little mermaid and not too long ago. The scars still bore the red-edged look of a new injury. How much of her brittleness was caused by her damaged flesh? Maybe they still caused her pain.
His chest tightened. How much pain?
She may be hard work but she was still a human being. And though their lives took place in fast-forward by continental drift standards, they still had to live them. And living with pain was not something he’d wish on anyone.
No matter how ornery they were.
Back in camp, with his T-shirt back on, he spotted the radio immediately. Honor had been in such a flurry to get out of his presence she hadn’t taken it with her. Lucky for him. He grabbed it up and checked the frequency. It was preset to the emergency channel. Not that bumping into a tropical island full of supplies qualified as an emergency, but it was a notifiable event.
‘AMSA Base Broome, this is primary vessel VKB290. Over.’
He waited, then repeated his call to the maritime safety authority in Australia’s far north-west. Indonesia’s capital city, Jakarta, was technically closer but it was Australia who had the last word on who went where in these particular waters.
If they said go, he’d go. If they said stay.
Rob’s eyes trailed around the tiny camp. If they said stay, he’d argue with them.
A lot.
Broome answered and they both switched to a free channel, leaving the emergency frequency uncluttered. With the practice of years and in as few words as possible, Rob communicated his location, damage and condition.
Base were straight back. ‘Are you aware that’s a restricted area, VKB? Over.’
Thanks to Honor. ‘I didn’t have much alternative.’
There was a pause and Rob waited for instructions. ‘Our log shows there’s a researcher from Parks Australia based at Pulu Keeling currently with full supplies, VKB. Recommend you make contact over.’
Rob had a sudden flash of Honor standing on the reef, all dripping and fired up, those self-righteous fists planted firmly on her curvy hips.
He smiled. ‘Roger, Base. Contact established.’
‘Standby, VKB …’
More silence. Rob held his breath.
The radio crackled back to life. ‘VKB, we have a Priority One oil rig situation about eight hundred clicks to your north. All available services will be tied up on that for a few days. Suggest you stay put. Over.’
Rob closed his eyes and cursed, his finger hovering over the transmit button. This was where Robert Dalton Senior would play the son, do you know who I am? card. Make a scene. Have some kind of evac chopper sent out for him, especially. He wouldn’t think twice to throw his weight or his wallet around, even with guys with the security of Australia’s massive coastline on their shoulders.
Moments like this were prime opportunities for Rob to prove how not like his father he was.
But then he looked around again at the tiny camp and imagined himself and Honor trying to avoid each other for days on end. She’d made it pretty clear what she thought of him and his job. If he wanted that kind of judgement, he could have stayed home.
He swore again, pressed ‘transmit’ and played the only card he had. Academia. ‘That’s a negative, Base. I have a museum posting to be at and an important paper to deliver—’ he cringed at how much of a poser he sounded ‘—people who’ll miss me. Request alternative.
Over.’
He let the button go and shook his head. He sounded exactly like his father …
Not surprisingly, the operator’s friendly voice was decidedly chilly when it finally returned. ‘VKB, that suggestion just got upgraded to an instruction. Remain in your present location and await further instruction. We’ll make the necessary advice to your family. Repeat, do not move off that island until instructed. Over.’
And that was what you got for being a moron.
Rob’s gut tightened. These guys held his boating and salvage licences in their hands. Neither things he wanted to mess with. ‘Estimated time for assistance, Base?’
The log shows regular deliveries to your Parks Australia contact,’ the voice said. ‘Find a nice patch of beach to study, Professor. Looks like you’re on vacation. Over and out.’
CHAPTER
TWO
‘TELL me you’re kidding.’
Honor stood, notebook in hand, by the edge of the camp clearing staring in open-mouthed horror at him.
Rob struggled not to smile. ‘When’s the next supply drop?’ he asked calmly.
‘It came this morning! Can’t they come for you any sooner?’ Her voice had a slightly hysterical note to it and his smile broke loose.
‘What’s funny?’
‘You are. You’d think I was Jack the Ripper the way you’re carrying on. When’s the supply boat due back?’
‘Ten days. More than a week!’
‘But less than a month.’ Hi, I’m Rob Dalton and I’m an eternal optimist. He took a deep breath and sobered. Ten days. That meant two things. One—he was going to have to find a way to live with this woman for ten long days until the supply boat could bring him the equipment he needed to weld-repair his hull. And two—he was going to miss Tuesday’s meeting at Dalton family headquarters. Robert Senior was not going to be happy.
Honor didn’t look much happier. What she did look, he realised, was completely gorgeous. Her wheat-blonde hair had almost dried and hung in loose segments around her face, showing off fantastic bone structure he’d not seen since an unexpected detour on a European holiday had dumped him in Iceland. Escaped from its ponytail, her locks draped over her damaged shoulder in a way that almost made him forget the patchwork damage beneath it.
Almost.
Women at home would pay hundreds of dollars to achieve that just-bedded look, but she stood there in her yellow bikini, a sheer blue shirt tossed casually over it, entirely clean-skinned and with laceless tennis shoes, looking as if she’d stepped straight off the pages of a magazine.
A much classier one than he was used to looking at.
She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d seen—Lord knew he’d met some absolute stunners in his time and dated half of them— but she easily took the award for the most naturally attractive. Healthy, toned and tanned with bright, clear eyes and perfect teeth. He had to guess at that last one. It saddened him to realise he had yet to see her smile, but she must because he could see life lines etched into the corners of eyes that somehow reflected the green of the trees above them and the blue of the ocean at the same time. Right next to the lingering sadness that permanently shadowed her gaze.