

### A SEASON TO REMEMBER

### Contents

A Note From The Authors

Three Ships by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

Sands of Time by Noelle Clark

All That Glitters by Eva Scott

A Touch of Christmas by Susanne Bellamy

Meet The Authors

### A Note From The Authors

Thank you for downloading this short story anthology.

It has been a delight and pleasure to bring it to you.

Its origins took place over a lunch in Brisbane by four south-east Queensland authors in April this year (2014). Until that day the four of us had not met in person but we had become fast friends via Facebook where the romance writing community is very active.

At that lunch we decided it would be a wonderful idea to collaborate on a short story anthology and thus A Season to Remember was born.

Our guidelines were this: a sweet romance with a reference to Christmas and a reference to the sea.

You will find four very different takes on the theme, but we're sure that you will enjoy them all.

And we are thrilled to be able to offer this gift to you at no charge.

If you like our stories (and we're confident you will), there are pages in the back of this ebook where you can find out more about us and our other works.

In the meantime, sit down, relax and enjoy A Season To Remember.

### Susanne Bellamy

### Elizabeth Ellen Carter

### Noelle Clark

### Eva Scott

(c) 2014

Copyright for the stories in this anthology belong to the respective authors.

These stories are works of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the authors' imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, locales and events are entirely coincidental.

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Formatting and cover design by Duncan Carling-Rodgers

### Three Ships

### by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

### CHAPTER ONE

I saw three ships come sailing in

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;

I saw three ships come sailing in

On Christmas Day in the morning.

"Goin' to be a bad storm, Miss Laura. I can feel it in me bones, I can."

Mr Fletcher pointed a thumb at the barometer hung on his wall. Even without reference to the brass and rosewood instrument that was the man's pride and joy, Laura knew him to be correct.

There were other signs — the shift in the on-shore breeze and the way the clouds banked on the horizon.

"Indeed it will be," she agreed, handing over a list. "Which is why I want to get more provisions, in case we're cut off from the mainland for more than a day or two."

"Not good just afore Christmas," the grocer observed, taking her list.

The middle-aged shop keeper, his starched white apron stretched over an expansive belly, scanned the piece of paper.

"Dickie!" he called in a booming voice, "Come out here and fetch these items for Miss Laura."

Richard Wells poked his head out from the back store room. Dickie to everyone at Ashton-On-Sea, and rarely seen dressed in other than his customary faded overalls, smiled at Laura and took the list from his boss.

"Be sure to pack it up nice and good, mind," Mr Fletcher admonished before turning back to his customer. "You'll be wanting Mrs Parker's home-made apricot preserves as well, I dare say?"

"Yes, please."

"Three?" the grocer asked hopefully.

Sly old fox! Laura smiled to herself.

She shook her head.

"Just one will be fine, Dickie."

From behind Mr Fletcher, Dickie offered an approving grin.

"Be ready for you in an hour Miss Laura," he answered before setting to work to fill her order.

Laura thanked the men and left the shop, the little brass bell on the door tinkling as it closed.

Laura Winter paused to look out towards her home.

The view half a mile out to St Joseph's Rock was one she never tired of — the pile of sea darkened rocks at its base, the solid mound of rock topped with grass from which the lighthouse rose, gleaming white, its mullion windows sparkling in the mid-morning sunlight. It was home and she considered it with not a little pride.

According to local legend, St Joseph's Rock was the place where Joseph of Arimathea landed in England, accompanied by Jesus as a young man.

Laura doubted the story herself, but ever since the verse by that poet William Blake was published a few years ago, visitors aplenty had come to their corner of the Devon coast during each Summer season.

Thus the legend grew and was embellished by the entrepreneurial townsfolk who supplemented their fishing income by making souvenirs.

Though bright, the late November day carried a chill and Laura turned her face up to the sun to feel its warmth on her cheeks. She balanced the wicker basket on her arm and brushed a strand of red-gold hair from her face.

The clock on the nearby church tower chimed the tenth hour but her musings were interrupted by Reverend Harman. He had been a boxer before taking holy orders and, although older now and a little softer around the middle, he still carried a fighter's physique.

The cleric fell in step with her as she walked down the main street of Ashton-On-Sea, its rows of Tudor-era buildings huddled together as if against the sometimes harsh weather, just as they had done for three hundred years.

"How's your father, Miss Laura?" he enquired. "I paid a visit with him earlier this week and he assured me his foot was well on the mend. Choir practice hasn't been the same without him."

"Stubborn as always!" she exclaimed with equal measures of affection and exasperation. "I finally managed to persuade him to let me check the light twice a day, but he still insists on climbing those stairs to wind the clockwork. Only Mother could persuade him to take care of himself."

Reverend Harman offered a sympathetic smile in memory of Laura's mother who died five years ago, when she was only fifteen.

"Well you only just have to ask if there is anything you need," he reminded her. "So don't be stubborn like your father if you want help."

The mild admonishment of his words was softened with a smile.

"Yoohoo, Reverend!"

They turned at the call.

Across the street Mrs Merriwether waved. She was a large woman with an equally substantial bosom and reminded Laura of a beautifully beribboned figure eight.

Next to her, Miss Jones, the school mistress, thin and reed-like, remained at her shoulder. Her no-nonsense expression quailed many a schoolboy into obedience yet beneath that hawk-like expression lay a character with an equally sharp sense of humour.

"Oh Reverend," called Mrs Merriwether, "we need to talk to you about some last minute preparations for the Christmas fete."

"Hello Laura!" she continued. "Thank you for the beautiful quilts, I'm sure they'll fetch a great price for this year's charity."

Laura accepted the thanks and excused herself. Living on a tidal island had its advantages and one of them was the ability to graciously take leave from drawn-out conversations by pointing to the change of tide.

Indeed, St Joseph's Rock was quite accessible via the causeway at low tide but completely cut-off during high tide and the storm surges that regularly battered the exposed coast.

And in truth out to sea, clouds as dark as bruises were gathering, edging the horizon as a sharp gust of breeze cut up the promontory. Even at this distance, Laura could see the flag by the lighthouse snap to attention.

By the time the church bells chimed one o'clock, she had returned to Fletcher's Fine Emporium to find Dickie loading the last of her order onto the small horse-drawn cart.

"Mr Fletcher asked, what with your dad laid up with a bung foot and you there on St Joseph's on your own like...well, if you need a man about, he said I should go with you."

Try as he might, Dickie could not hide the hint of a frown on his brow and Laura recognised its cause immediately.

"That's very sweet of you," she said, causing Dickie to blush, "but I know Kitty has been waiting for you to take her to the dance this Friday and she would be most disappointed if you didn't go."

The young man's face lit up.

"You're a real friend, Miss Laura. Anything you need, don't be afraid to ask now. It would be my pleasure."

It was not until she was crossing the causeway in the cart that she allowed herself a gentle laugh at Dickie's delight in not being prised away from his sweetheart. The thought caused her to reflect.

It was only in the past year she'd pondered the notion of having a beau of her own and her mind idly considered those eligible as she negotiated the path home.

Not that there were many eligible. The fight against Napoleon's armies had occupied and taken many a young man. Those who remained were more like brothers to her. Laura couldn't see herself accepting a proposal from any one of them, even if they should offer.

The muted clip-clop on the cobble-paved causeway cut through her thoughts. The tide was rising faster than it usually did and the horse sloshed hoof deep along the path said to have been laid by the last of the Saxon rulers.

No, she decided, the man for her must be dashing, but kind; intelligent, but with a sense of humour; brave and handsome.

Where on earth would she meet such a paragon in a small seaside town? One would simply have to fall into her lap.

### CHAPTER TWO

By the time the horse and cart had negotiated the tight, steep turns up the path to the top of St Joseph's Rock, small waves were breaking over the causeway. Laura looked at the sky ahead, a crisp formation of arcus cloud approached like the advancing tide, heading for the coast.

"Papa, I'm home," she called, her arms filled with the first of two small crates. There was no answer, but that didn't alarm her. His badly-sprained foot wouldn't stop him hauling himself up the one hundred and eight steps to the top of the tower to use his telescope and check his barometer, to take notes on the storm to come.

Laura set the load on the kitchen table of their cottage and called from the bottom of the stairwell that led up to the light.

"Papa?"

"You're back, dear girl!" a voice echoed down the void. "Just one more measurement and I'll be right down to give you a hand."

Laura grinned and shook her head.

By the time he had managed to get downstairs, she would have brought in all of their provisions and unharnessed Acorn. Not that she minded. Laura took an interest in her father's weather recordings — those measures of the scale and scope of the weather influenced the livelihood of everyone in the district.

And indeed she was correct. By the time her father joined her, Laura had begun the heavy weather routine her father had taught her as a child — persuade Milly the goat into her pen, chase the chickens back into their coop inside the stone-walled courtyard, then take a walk around the perimeter of the lighthouse and its cottage to close the storm shutters.

The sound of a timber door slamming against the stone wall alerted her to her father's arrival downstairs.

She hurried around the lee of the building to find him outside and struggling to manage his crutches and the heavy cloak laid across his left arm.

Peter Winter, despite ruddy and weathered features that were testament to a life dedicated to the sea, was a still handsome man in his early fifties. He shared his daughter's bright green eyes and ready smile.

"I don't know who is supposed be looking after who here," he said, offering her the garment.

Laura accepted it and was grateful for its warmth.

Walking side-by-side, they abandoned the protection of the lighthouse walls to venture closer to the southern end of St Joseph's Rock. Spray reached them even at that height as waves whipped up by the coming storm crashed and broke apart on the massive black boulders below.

Laura was about to make comment when she found her father staring straight out to sea. She folded her arm into her father's and looked out to sea also. The storm clouds edged closer and heavy rain fell like a black curtain across the grey sea about a mile away from the shore.

"There's a boat out there," she said.

"Aye," he muttered more to himself than her, "but there was two a couple of hours ago."

"Together?" she asked, but her voice was carried away unheard in the rising wind.

Laura's father turned and hobbled back towards the lighthouse, moving swiftly on his crutches. Laura glanced back at the sea. Silhouetted by a flash of lightning, a ketch battled the increased swell.

She followed swiftly towards the lighthouse, noticing the sharp splinters of afternoon sunlight still falling inland, a reminder of the changeable weather on the Devon coast.

No sooner had the door slammed behind her than her father called.

"You'll have to give me a hand, love," he called down from towards the top of the stairs which he had ascended backwards on hand and seat with his bandaged foot straight out in front.

His crutches were propped at the bottom of the stairs and the edge to his voice spurred her on. Her father rarely asked for help.

The clatter of her footsteps on the iron treads competed with a roll of thunder. Laura reached the light tower just a few steps behind her father and helped him to stand so he could half-hop, half-limp about the room.

As she lit the wicks for the lamp, she could hear the clank-clank sound of the clockwork mechanism being wound. She closed the lens and, with a clunk as her father engaged the mechanism, the large lantern started to rotate, sending shards of light through the panes of glass that could be seen miles out to sea.

"Do you think it was one of our boats?" she asked, breathless from the burst of activity.

The fishing fleet at Ashton-On-Sea was one of the main livelihoods in the town but she knew a vessel lost on the rocks of St Joseph's would mean more than economic loss.

"I don't know," her father admitted. "I thought I counted all the fleet in about an hour ago. I hope whoever it is so foolhardy to have been caught up in the storm makes it to port before the worst hits."

As the lantern lens swept around again, she could see the firm set of his jaw and tight, worried lines around his eyes.

"This is going to be a big one," he said. "I can't ever recall the barometer dropping so quickly."

The wind died down as though the storm was holding its breath for a moment. It was an eerie sort of calm. Lightning heralded what was to come.

One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, four...

Crack!

The thunder snapped and popped, the sound echoing noisily in the centre of the lighthouse tower.

Then the rains came, hard driving torrential rain that beat against the shutters, demanding entrance.

The returned wind howled and rose.

"You go below, love," said her father, "I'll be right behind you."

Downstairs, Laura lit a lamp and set it on the kitchen table before tending to the fire in the hearth in preparation for making dinner.

Thunder rumbled overhead once more and Admiral and Whisky the cats, one black and the other brown, scampered in to sit by the warmth of the fire and to eye any tidbits that might drop to the floor at mealtime.

The frequent Atlantic storms had ceased to frighten Laura many years ago. The stone walls and storm shutters protected them from the elements, though tonight the shutters rattled on their hinges by wind looking for ingress.

Nonetheless, Laura had a little ritual that gave her confidence in the face of the most ferocious tempests. It was silly really, but she felt better for doing it. As she began to chop the vegetables for the evening meal, she looked around the kitchen.

On one of the two blue-painted Welsh dressers were bottles of neatly labelled antiseptics, and crisp new bandages wound and stacked in tidy rows along with other medical miscellany. They stood like little soldiers at attention, waiting to be called to duty.

She surveyed them at a glance then looked over to the rear door. By it, a key hung on a brass loop. It opened the storage shed at the far end of the courtyard, where ropes, pulleys and nets were kept in good order to help rescue the crew of foundering vessels. Stores of powder were held there too — blue light for flares, black powder for the signal cannon — and all were assiduously checked every month.

Laura heard the clatter of her father taking up his crutches in the stairwell at last just as lightning once more flashed overhead. The accompanying crack of thunder was near deafening.

Despite his name, Admiral wasn't very brave; neither was his sister. Both cats beat a hasty retreat under one of the dressers.

Laura and her father were as prepared as they possibly could be. Hopefully it would be enough should the boat they had seen be driven on the rocks.

***

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, the storm abated.

Despite being hampered by his injury, Laura's father was already up and outside in the still gusting winds, opening the storm shutters. Little by little, a pale rosy light filled the parlour and the kitchen.

_Red sky in the morning, sailor's warning_.

He had hung the kettle over the kitchen fire too and it was beginning to boil when Laura entered the room. She quickly prepared a steaming hot mug of tea and took it out her father. He exchanged one of his crutches for it and gamely held the mug in one hand as he limped over to check the storage shed.

Laura released the chickens which spilled pell-mell from their coop to peck at the wind-whipped grass, little bothered by the two cats that playfully stalked them, and went to milk Milly. Afterwards, the goat gambolled out on to the grass, bleating her appreciation.

Laura took the milk inside and emerged again with a small telescope.

"I'm going to check the cliff edges," she called to her father, waving the spyglass. He was now at the stable door and raised a hand in acknowledgement.

She started with her favourite view, one which looked back to Ashton-On-Sea, but this morning the view was not good.

Several vessels had broken their moorings and were bobbing unmanned in the roiling sea inside Ashton Quay. Some dinghies were now little more than matchwood, first washed ashore then pushed further onto The Strand by waves that breached the sea wall by several feet even as she watched.

Not surprisingly, the causeway was completely submerged and would likely be so for several days. Spumes of white flecks shot many feet up in the air, filling the atmosphere with salty brine.

St Joseph's Rock was now an isolated island, only a quarter of a mile in area. A small grove of stunted trees, tenaciously gripping the Rock, formed a natural wind break on the western side. Laura edged around them to peer thirty feet down to where, in fine weather, a small sandy beach would be.

Something caught her eye. As a wave receded, the shape resolved itself.

It was not piece of flotsam but the body of a man, face down on a large boulder.

### CHAPTER THREE

Laura's father watched her shoulder the long coil of rope.

"I'm not happy, dear girl. I should be the one going down there, not you."

She gave a pointed look at his injured foot. The way down to the beach was not sheer but it was no gentle slope either and the footing would be treacherous. "Well, needs must," she replied firmly. "I'll be back quickly."

His response was a grimace. He secured the trailing end of the coiled rope to Acorn's saddle.

"Watch your step, Laura," he admonished.

Trailing the rope out as she went, Laura picked her way down the side of the hill with care where the low-growing grass was slick. She grew up here and knew the cliffs well enough to treat them with respect. The saltiness from exploding waves filled her nostrils. She could even taste it on the back of her throat.

The beach filled and emptied as the waves churned in.

She scrambled over one rock, then around another to reach the man. The hem of her skirt darkened in the splashing water.

Still a few feet away, she called out.

"Sailor! Sailor, ahoy!"

The man remained still.

Laura looked back up the thirty feet to where her father peered back, concerned. He called to her but his words were ripped away by the wind.

Her only choice was to approach the man.

The sailor's shirt was torn and shredded, the sodden fabric dark and clinging to the contours of his back. His black hair whipped in the wind like the damp grass around the chickens.

She touched his cheek. His skin was cold.

It might already be too late!

Laura drew a deep breath and grasped his shoulders.

"Come on sailor, time to wake up," she said hopefully, shaking him.

The man obliged her with a groan; Laura matched it with a sigh of relief.

"Help is here," she said.

The man raised himself to his elbows and looked blearily at her. It was hard to determine his age. He seemed much younger than her father but older than Dickie Wells.

"Where are you hurt? Your back? Your legs?"

The man sat up gingerly, shaking his head at each question.

"We're going to haul you out," she said.

The man looked her up and down and flashed her a quick smile, his pale blue eyes twinkling with sudden merriment.

"My guardian angel..." he rasped, interrupted by a hacking cough. "Where is the rest of your heavenly choir?"

"It's just me and my father," she said, pointing up the cliff. Laura shucked off the remaining coils of rope and looped the end under his arms, tying it around his chest to create a harness.

Despite his ordeal, the man seemed well enough, and fit too — his shoulders broad and muscles firm around his arms.

He tried to rise to his feet but stumbled. Laura caught his wrist to support him and he hissed in pain.

She glanced down and saw his wrist had been rubbed red raw. The man shook off her hand, ignoring her scrutiny and whistled sharply towards her father on the cliff.

The mysterious stranger limped across the rocks to a grassy area as Laura's father drove Acorn to take up the slack and then, with a jolt, the rope tautened and he began to climb the steep hill, supported by the rope.

_Guardian angel_... Laura shook her head. With the speed he was making his way up the cliff, the sailor was the one who seemed to have wings. However, it also appeared he had sense enough to realise how weakened he was. He had not refused the assistance of the rope — which, Laura reflected, might as easily have being used now to haul his lifeless body up the slope — and he stumbled repeatedly, the rope all that prevented him from tumbling back down.

By the time she regained the top, the sailor was on his haunches, recovering his breath as her father untied the rope around his chest.

The man stood, wincing in pain. He was tall, a good inch taller than Laura's father who remained watchful and wary of the man.

***

An hour or so later, they had learned his name but not much more.

Michael Renten sat hunched on a chair before the kitchen fire, his hands around a mug of tea. His borrowed clothes did not fit well but at least they were clean and dry.

"I couldn't get down to the base of the rock but from what I saw up top there doesn't seem to be any more survivors," Laura's father said after a long period of silence.

"And you're not likely to either, sir."

"I thought that might be the case, Mr Renten."

Laura's father folded his arms and rested against the frame of the door that led to the lighthouse tower. Even on crutches, he was still an imposing figure.

"So would you mind telling us the full story?"

Laura frowned. "We've rescued people from the rocks before, father, and we've never demanded an explanation from them."

Admiral jumped up on the arm of the chair and nudged Laura's shoulder with his head. She stroked him absently.

Her father nodded at their guest.

"This man's wrists were bound together. He could be an escaped convict."

The young man spat out a bitter laugh, looking at his bandaged wrists.

"An elegant deduction from the evidence but completely the wrong conclusion."

"Then explain yourself."

"I am a lieutenant in His Majesty's Waterguard. I was instructed to work in league with a group of blockade runners from Cornwall to identify their ringleader. They made a rendezvous with another vessel yesterday."

With a sigh, the man put down his cup and rubbed his wrists.

"One of the men from the other boat recognised me; a blackguard with whom I once served in His Majesty's Navy," he continued. "The men might have gutted me through then and there, but their leader decided to bind my hands and toss me overboard just as the storm was bearing down."

Laura looked to her father and said nothing. The story seemed plausible.

Renten sighed. "I don't expect you to believe me, but if you sent someone to contact the Customs House at Plymouth..."

"We're completely cut off until the swell has died down," she said before her father silenced her with a cautioning glance.

The young man turned to Laura as if noticing her for the first time. "Indeed, miss?" he responded.

He was a handsome man to be sure. His hair had dried to a rich dark brown and, not bound with a ribbon, it fell to his shoulder.

He gave her a quick smile before turning back to her father.

"Do you have signal flags?" he asked.

***

The signal of fourteen flags was too long for the flag pole so Laura's father suspended a line from an upper window in the light house to the pole. It read _Authenticate Agent MR_.

As Lieutenant Renten caught up on sleep in a store room hastily turned into quarters, Laura set an extra place at the table for their guest.

"Do you believe his story?" she asked her father. He took his time in answering. "I suppose we'll find out in a few days," he answered in a noncommittal tone.

"I wonder what happened to the other ship."

"Probably long gone, miss. If they were wise, they would have headed out to sea."

Laura jumped at the unexpected voice.

Rested, washed and shaved, the lieutenant looked more handsome than ever. She couldn't help but picture him in his dress uniform, sharply pressed navy blue jacket with white collars and cuffs and bright brass buttons...

_Stop it!_ She rebuked herself and quickly looked away, pretending to find the corned beef cooking in the pot to be particularly fascinating — yet not before she caught a glimpse of amusement in his expression.

The fine late autumn day was drawing to a close and Laura's father hoisted himself up on to his crutches ready to wind the clockwork.

"Can I assist you with the light, sir?" asked Renten.

The lighthouse keeper hesitated.

"A small service to help repay your hospitality," the lieutenant pressed.

The older man accepted and the two ascended the stairs to the light.

***

The mantle clock in the parlour chimed seven and there was no sign of her father or the lieutenant.

"Where could they have gone?" she asked the cats. Whisky merely blinked at her but Admiral looked sharply toward the door and made an odd little growl.

"Stop it," she said, reprovingly, but she too wondered whether she had heard anything amiss. Admiral gave her a disinterested glance back.

A stiff evening breeze picked up. That would explain it. Admiral stared intently at the door.

"No, you are not going outside."

Laura cast her eye about and saw the scrag ends of the meat that she had set aside.

"Here." She held a piece up for him to see and it met with his approval.

Now that the cats are fed, what about the men?

Laura opened the connecting door to the tower and laughter met her ears as the two men descended.

"I thought I was going to have to send a search party for you two!" she said as they entered the kitchen, but her exasperation was quelled by the pleasure her father was clearly having in the lieutenant's company.

"My fault entirely, dear lady."

Renten bowed formally so she curtsied in response.

"Well, my dear lieutenant, you can make amends by helping me bring the plates to the table."

As they sat down to eat at the kitchen table, Laura heard Milly bleat once outside then stop.

No, it was nothing, she thought. Just the wind.

### CHAPTER FOUR

The evening went splendidly. The lieutenant was convivial company and demonstrated through his actions as well as his words that his claim of rank was not unfounded.

Indeed, he had impressed Laura's father to the extent that he brought out a bottle of port after dinner. The two men stood by the fire with a glass each and Laura sat opposite with some needlework — anything to stop her restless fidgeting.

She watched Lieutenant Renten beneath her lashes.

It would have been lovely to have met him under other circumstances, Laura thought. A tea dance perhaps, where he would be in his dress uniform and she would be in a pink — no, a green, sprigged dress.

He would approach her, bow and say—

"Are you feeling all right, love?"

Laura started.

"I'm sorry, father. I was wool-gathering."

A blush crept up her cheeks and she pointedly kept her face away from their visitor. There was a silence which threatened to be awkward before Renten spoke.

"May I ask what happened to your foot, Mr Winter?"

"Too much Whisky."

"Oh..." said the lieutenant, unsure how otherwise to respond.

Laura held a smile in check at his expression.

Then, as if on cue, a furry, orange-brown streak sped across the room, narrowly missing the man.

"Meet Whisky," said Laura. "Around her, no one is steady on their feet."

And they all joined in the laughter.

***

As the evening wore on, Laura's father excused himself to check on the light once more before retiring, politely refusing the lieutenant's offer to do it for him. To Laura's surprise, Renten then offered to assist with cleaning the kitchen.

They chatted over the chores and she found out the lieutenant was from Dorset where his family still lived. He had a sister who was to have her coming-out next summer and a widowed mother who he was supporting.

Laura listened and waited for mention of a wife. The fact there was none made her unaccountably glad.

She told him about the offer to train under Miss Jones to become a school mistress in town and start as a teacher the following September, and of her interest in keeping meteorological records like her father.

Suddenly, as quick as a flash, Whisky raced across the kitchen again, under a chair, around a table leg, through Renten's legs and skidded on the slate floor to come to a halt right by the back door.

A strange note came from her throat, a chattering sound, not quite the same as her hunting sound.

"Whisky! What are you doing, you daft cat?" Laura called. "Shoo! Get away from the door, go sleep in front of the fire like your brother."

Over the wind outside, Laura could hear shuffling noises but dismissed them as nothing more than Milly and Acorn in their stalls.

The cat, its gaze fixed on the door, reversed a few paces, back arched and a ridge of fur rising up at the tail.

Laura reached for a broom propped in the corner when Renten grabbed it. Their hands barely touched but the warmth of his lingered as she allowed him to take it.

"I'm going outside to check."

Laura shook her head. "Really, there's no need, there's always odd sounds when the wind pushes on shore like this..."

He put a finger to his lips to silence her and unlatched the door, slipping around it and closing it behind him with nary a sound.

Laura continued tidying up and kicked herself.

He was being polite and you had to embarrass him and yourself.

Humph! 'Going outside to check'! How many times had her father used a similar excuse of 'going for a short stroll' to conveniently answer the call of nature?

Countless, countless times.

Laura Ann Rose Winter, you are a goose of the first order!

Yet that didn't explain why he took the broom...

Oh well. Least said, soonest mended, she thought.

The best thing would be to put Lieutenant Renten out of her mind. After all, the crossing to Ashton-On-Sea would soon be passable and him gone, chasing ne'er-do-wells, pirates and smugglers on behalf of the Crown.

Still, when she had thought of a man falling into her lap, she never considered he might be washed up on shore!

The thought made her giggle out loud and Admiral raised a sleepy head from his place at the fire to look at her.

Laura placed her hand over her mouth at the sound of boots at the kitchen door. It wouldn't do for him to see her like that.

The sound of the boots grew louder.

What on earth was he doing? Dancing a jig?

A figure burst through the door. She noticed a sharp blade glinting in the lamp light before realising the man was not Renten.

He grinned evilly and held the knife forward. Laura screamed.

Admiral leapt to his feet, fur standing on end making him near double in size. He ran straight in front of the advancing man, tripping and bringing him to his knees. His weapon clattered loose onto the floor

He swung a fist at Admiral and the cat yowled at the blow, then doubled back and with a one-two strike of his claws, drew blood from the back of the intruder's hand.

Laura picked up a small skillet and brought it down with a dull clang on the man's head. He gasped and slipped unconscious to the floor.

Another man burst through the doorway. Laura brandished her skillet and screamed again.

"It's me!" said Renten, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I don't have time to explain. Lock all the doors and windows now. I'll deal with this one."

Startled by his sudden appearance, with thick dark hair wildly dishevelled by the wind and the alertness and command with which he carried himself, Laura hurried to comply.

"What's going on?" Laura's father yelled from the stairwell door, his face flushed with the exertion of rapidly descending the light house.

"The brigands are on the island," Renten called while he bound the still-unconscious invader hand and foot with strips of wash cloth.

From another part of the house there was the sound of breaking glass.

"Papa!" Laura called.

Renten arrived to her aid.

She stood to one side of her bedroom window armed with a fire poker, jabbing at the arm of the man trying to feel his way to the latch that would open the sash.

That wasn't working so she struck a forceful downward blow and the arm withdrew accompanied by a yowl of pain, along with a trail of blood.

Immediately another face appeared in the window. A bearded face, angry and scowling, that looked briefly into the room directly at the lieutenant then ducked away.

"Renten! Come out here, you scurvy dog! I thought your death was too good to be true. You've got more lives than a cat."

Laura turned to see Renten draw himself taller. It was clear he knew the man.

"I'm surprised the storm didn't put you in Davy Jones' locker," the lieutenant retorted.

"Not before I see you in hell with me!"

"Manners, Blackwell! There's a lady present!"

There was a momentary pause before the bearded face again loomed in the window, this time glancing left and right. Laura brandished her poker once more as the man's eyes fell upon her.

"Beggin' your pardon miss," the scoundrel known as Blackwell said rather formally. "Now if you wouldn't mind persuading your houseguest to leave with us, then we will be all on our way peaceable like.

"You see, I have a dozen good strong men here who are capable of taking apart your cottage stone-by-stone."

Laura turned to look at Renten.

Then she saw her father appear at his shoulder and raise his musket.

### CHAPTER FIVE

"I'll decide who is a guest in my home and who is not."

Laura's father cocked the weapon to add emphasis. The click was crisp, unmistakable over the sound of the wind.

The face in the window disappeared into the blackness outside.

"Well, it wouldn't do to be too hasty now, would it?" ventured Blackwell in a conciliating voice, a little distance away. "I'll tell you what I'll do. My men will keep guard while you all get a very nice night's sleep."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," Laura's father continued. "One of your men has already made himself at home here, so we'll keep him as our guest overnight."

"Which one, Renten?"

"Smithy," the lieutenant answered.

There was a grunt, then the sound of murmured voices as though a consensus was being sought.

"All right, keep the zounderkite for the night," agreed Blackwell. "We'll parley in the morning. First light."

Over the sound of the wind, the sound of tramping feet could be heard leaving the courtyard.

Renten swiftly opened the windows and pulled the storm shutters closed over the now broken windows. He turned back to his hosts and folded his arms. His expression was grim.

"Mr Winter, Miss Winter — you have my apologies," he said. "Should you wish to toss me out, I wouldn't blame you."

"Don't be daft, young man," Laura's father scoffed. "So what are we going to do to sort these blighters out?"

Laura watched Renten consider her and her father for several long seconds and she realised she was still gripping the poker. Her father held the musket across his chest.

Then a broad smile spread over his face. Laura felt her spirits lighten immediately.

"Well," said the lieutenant, "with Smithy safely tucked away, there are twelve of them and three of us. I think the odds are in our favour."

He turned to Laura. "Miss Winter... Laura," he continued, "I suggest you get some sleep. It's going to be a long night."

Laura was prepared to argue when her father stepped in.

"The clockwork will need to be wound twice more before morning, dear girl, and I'll need to show the lieutenant the caves."

Renten looked intrigued. "Caves? Are they easy to find?"

Laura's father shook his head slowly and grinned. "They're not and no one knows the Rock better than me."

"It looks like I'm outnumbered, but you—" she said to Renten, poking his chest with a finger, "you make sure my father doesn't lead you into trouble."

He gifted her with a wink.

"I'm good at following orders... more or less."

***

As the beam of light swept around, Laura could see a schooner at anchor off the island. A small bonfire burned on the headland, highlighting four small tents. Earlier, she saw figures walking about but Blackwell was apparently being as good as his word.

As the night wore on and Laura wound the clockwork mechanism for the last time before dawn, the fire on the headland had burned down to glowing red coals.

She must have slept after that, with Whisky and Admiral curled up beside her, because she wasn't awakened by the pre dawn light but by an insistent knock on the door below.

"Miss Laura!" She recognised the lieutenant's voice. "Quick as you can. Join us downstairs."

Had she missed something? She straightened herself quickly and swiftly descended the spiral staircase. Her father was in the kitchen; the smell of cured ham and eggs along with the earthy pungent aroma of freshly fried mushrooms filled the room.

He handed his daughter a full plate — a man-sized serving. She was about to protest when he pivoted across on his good leg to grasp the back of a chair at the table where Renten sat tucking into his food.

He sat down, taking several mouthfuls of food before he noticed his daughter standing there looking at him askance.

"Eat up, dear girl, we have a lot of work to do."

Laura slowly sank into her chair and put a forkful of food into her mouth. Her father looked ten years younger. She hadn't seen that spark in his eyes since her mother passed away.

"What do you two have planned?" she asked, suspicion dripping from each word.

Renten put a finger up to ask for silence as he shovelled the last of his breakfast into his mouth and washed it down with a swig of tea.

"Your father showed me through the caves."

Ah, thought Laura, that explains the mushrooms for breakfast.

"All I need is some blue powder, black powder and a little time."

Renten and her father's enthusiasm was infectious and Laura found herself catching it too.

"What do you need me to do?"

***

A fourth had joined them after breakfast, albeit reluctantly. Smithy was seated miserably at the table, his bound hands and feet covered by a large cloak, his dirty pale hair plastered with a mixture of coal dust and fat to darken it.

At a distance he would pass for the lieutenant. A musket aimed at his head by Laura's father ensured his ongoing compliance.

Laura waited at the back door until she heard the cellar door close. Renten was on his way through the narrow and dark labyrinth of caves and fissures that would open out to the sea.

Her father remained out of sight and nodded.

She emerged into the morning sun and the courtyard seemed deserted, although she was certain someone would be watching, hence the ruse with Smithy.

Adjusting the empty basket on her arm, Laura turned to see a man emerge from the shadows.

He had an overnight growth of whiskers only, so he was not Blackwell.

"'Owdie miss," he greeted with a laconic drawl as he made his way towards her.

"Good morning," she said crisply.

"'Ow's our friend inside then?"

"Look for yourself."

The man did and saw a black-haired figure sitting with his back to the window.

"Excuse me," said Laura, sweeping past him. "I have eggs to collect."

Laura opened the door to the coop and the chickens rushed out, following their long-practised routine of milling in the courtyard before rushing out the gate and onto the grass.

Inside the coop, Laura reached into the laying box to collect the eggs, mindful of the man watching her. Then she felt her bottom being pinched.

Laura stood, banged her head on a roost and let out a yelp of surprise.

There followed immediately another high-pitched scream but it didn't come from her. Wild flapping filled the air and Laura stood back as the man tried frantically to protect his face from the wild pecking and scratching of the coop's very angry rooster, King.

He stumbled backwards out into the courtyard and ran blindly in a small circle with the rooster attached to his head. "Help! Help!" he cried, but when he dislodged the fowl after several frenzied seconds, it was too late to stop from crashing headlong into the courtyard wall.

The man slumped to the ground and King shook himself down and strutted outside to join the hens.

Laura slipped out of the coop and bolted the door behind her, regarding the unconscious man with satisfaction. One down, eleven to go. She calmly released Milly from her pen and Acorn from his stall before returning to the house.

"Father?" she called, bolting the door.

"In here, my girl."

She found him in the parlour where it appeared Smithy was now being made 'comfortable' in front of the bay window. Then the figure slumped forward.

"What happened to him?"

Laura's father hauled the figure back up but it was not Smithy. The cloak was now wrapped about her father's bolster pillow with collar turned up and a broad-brimmed hat covering the 'head'. It seemed that her father had fashioned a mannequin.

"I couldn't leave Smithy to help you so I tossed him back in the cupboard," he said by way of explanation. "Then I saw you and King had sorted the other one out so I threw this together."

Laura nodded at the mannequin. "That's not going to fool Blackwell for long."

"It doesn't have to — just for long enough."

"Well, you're going to get your chance," said Laura, pointing out of the window. "Here comes Blackwell now."

They watched the menacing figure approach the front door with purpose.

Then a series of crackles and pops disturbed the morning air as a bright white flare burst in the sky past the window, and sea birds screeched and flew away from the noise.

Laura and her father rushed outside.

Beneath the flare burst, at a distance, Renten stood with his back to the cliff on the shoreside of the Rock. At his feet sat a small iron cauldron and a candle stub in a glass lantern.

"There he is, grab him!" yelled Blackwell to two of his men. The pair sprinted across the grass with Blackwell following.

Laura's father put a restraining hand on her arm, bringing her to a stop just outside the door.

"There's nothing we can do from here."

"But—"

"Just wait."

The two men had now pulled out their swords and yelled damnable threats as they closed in.

"What doesn't the lieutenant do something?" Laura whispered tautly.

"Just wait," her father insisted.

Blackwell too had stopped running as he watched his two men close the gap. They were now only ten yards away when Renten picked up the lantern, pulled out the candle and dropped it in the cauldron.

The blackguards closed in — five yards, two yards — then the powder in the cauldron ignited. Renten disappeared in a flash of light and billowing smoke.

The two men ran into the miasma and, a moment later, their cries of distress were heard as they ran right off the edge of the cliff.

Laura gripped her father's hand at the sound and the sight. When the white-blue smoke cleared and the cliff edge was deserted, save for the cauldron.

### CHAPTER SIX

Laura cried out but her father held her firm. She looked at him but he kept his head down in case Blackwell, standing aghast only a hundred feet away, turned and saw him grinning.

"Calm yourself, dear girl," her father reassured her as Blackwell now ran over to the cliff edge, "not everything is as it appears. Trust me — the lieutenant is perfectly safe."

More of Blackwell's men joined him on the cliff edge and he ordered them to descend in search of their companions.

Laura cocked her head. "What have you and he been up to?"

"No time to talk now. Get up the tower, my girl, and hoist a new message. We need help from the shore."

Laura nodded, already mentally counting out the signal flags she would need.

"What are you going to be doing?" she asked.

"I'll secure the cottage then join you in the lighthouse. Shortly, our friend Mister Blackwell will not be happy."

Satisfied with the arrangements, Laura retrieved the flag box and climbed halfway up the stairs to the small tower window. She pulled the previous signal in like so much laundry, and set the new message.

She completed the climb to the top and looked out. Even without a spyglass, Laura could see stirring on the shore already. She chanced a look over in the other direction. A flushed and angry Blackwell stood halfway between the cliff-edge and the lighthouse, looking up at the signal flags and her. Laura offered a cheeky wave.

His face turned a furious puce shade before he turned and erupted into a tremendous bellow to his men on the edge of the cliff now hauling their injured compatriots up off the rocks below.

Milly the goat wandered into view, her ears erect at Blackwell's roar. Laura watched the animal's head drop as it ran as fast as her four little legs could take her — right at Blackwell's rear.

The man was cannoned onto his face and Milly bleated her satisfaction before trotting off.

Laura doubled over in laughter but then stopped abruptly as a door slammed downstairs and there came the sound of drawers being opened and closed violently. Her heart pounded. The villains were inside and ransacking her home!

Then came her father's voice: "Laura! Where's my telescope?"

Her heart resumed its normal rhythm.

"I have it up here with me," she called down.

She heard him close and bolt the connecting door to the tower and start making his way, seat first, up the stairs.

"Head up to the light and tell me what you see," he called ahead.

From her advantage point, she could see Blackwell had regathered what remained of his dignity and his men. The leader gesticulated wildly with his brandished cutlass. She then trained the telescope across to Ashton-On-Sea.

The townsfolk, attracted by the flare, were now reacting to the flags. She saw Mr Fletcher and Dickie, the Reverend Harman and a few other townsmen casting off in the roiling and choppy waves that still separated St Joseph's Rock from the shore.

Laura relayed the information to her father.

"And what of Renten?" his disembodied voice demanded. "Check the schooner!"

"The schooner? How on earth did he get there?"

She edged around the lantern to look south though the telescope. Renten was just bringing a dinghy alongside the boat.

Her father spoke from the doorway as he struggled to his feet.

"Where the lieutenant dropped off the edge of the cliff is a small ledge and fissure. You know the Rock is full of them. That one leads across to the ocean side but is narrow and hazardous. The lieutenant's mission was to draw Blackwell's men shore side then slip through to their vessel."

Laura put the glass back to her eye and could see the lieutenant's dark hair ruffle in the breeze and his shirt stretched taut across his back as he hefted a small barrel on to his shoulder.

"What in heaven's name is he doing?"

Renten nimbly climbed up a rope ladder and tossed the barrel on the deck before scrambling up over the deck rail himself.

"He has a surprise planned for our visitors," said her father, limping to her side.

Laura passed the telescope to him. To her surprise, he didn't spare a moment looking at Renten, but instead set the focus on the brigands on the ground.

They too had noticed the two small boats from Ashton-On-Sea making their way to Saint Joseph's Rock. Blackwell's men had gathered around him.

Without the advantage of the telescope, Laura could only guess at what they were saying. They did not look at all pleased.

"We need more time," he father muttered, handing her the telescope once again.

"More time for what?" she asked to an empty room. Her father was already making his way downstairs.

She followed after him.

"Father!"

He was hobbling precariously down the stairs for speed, putting the least weight possible on his injured foot.

"We need a further distraction. The signal cannon should do it," he called back to her.

Laura followed him into the kitchen where he opened the pantry door. From behind a sack of potatoes, he pulled out a small barrel similar to the one she had seen the lieutenant carrying.

"Gunpowder! Mother would be cross with you bringing a whole barrel into the house!"

He ignored her scolding, instead telling her to fetch along a couple of the small cannon balls he had hidden among the onions.

Outside, on the eastern side of the lighthouse, the small cannon stood pointing out to sea.

Her father prepared the cannon, priming it with gunpowder and lighting the fuse as Laura nervously waited for them to be discovered by one of Blackwell's men.

As good fortune would have it, they remained out of sight behind the cottage, arguing volublywith their leader.

"Right-o Laura, get back inside—"

Bang!

The little cannon fired, the report disproportionately loud to its small size, and it immediately attracted attention.

In fact, before they could go more than a few paces, ten men with cutlasses drawn stood between them and the safety of the cottage.

Blackwell stepped forward.

"You," he thundered, his arm shaking with fury as he pointed to them. "You two have become too meddlesome."

"Big Arms! No Nose! Take them inside and tie them up." The two men who stepped forward clearly deserved their nicknames. The two men pinned their arms behind their backs and began marching them towards the cottage, Laura's father moaning in pain at being forced to put weight on his injured ankle.

Behind them, Blackwell roared at his men.

"The rest of you find that fool Smithy and look for Tinder while you're at it. He's not been seen since first light. He can't have gone far on this flyspeck."

Close to the cottage, the lighthouse keeper stumbled.

"Father!" Laura cried out in alarm. "You big brute, let go of me. My father is hurt!"

After a few strong tugs, No Nose decided to let her go. She rushed to her father and wrapped her arms around him.

"Just a few moments more," he muttered. "A few moments more..."

"Hey! What you be mutterin' 'bout?" Big Arms asked.

Laura helped her father back to his feet and he took a hesitant step towards the cottage. Then a smile split his face as a flash of light, brighter than the sun, reflected in the cottage windows.

Laura turned rapidly to see the strange phenomenon and a fraction later the sound caught up.

BOOM!

### CHAPTER SEVEN

One of the schooner's large spars shot a hundred feet straight up in the air, and Laura watched agog as the large lump of timber began falling.

"Thunderation!" exclaimed Big Arms. He and No Nose took off in the direction of the blast though it was clear they could do little about it.

Laura's father tugged her towards shelter as debris began raining down on the Rock.

Acorn galloped as fast as Laura had ever seen him, quickly followed by Milly and the chickens which all huddled in the courtyard vocalising their distress, the sound echoing around the stone enclosure.

Admiral and Whisky peered out from behind a curtain, their tawny eyes wide and round.

Blackwell and his men stood at the southerly point where their schooner was now nothing more than flotsam.

"Quick as you can, love, back inside," Laura's father urged. "If Blackwell was angry before, he's going to be furious now."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to meet our friends from Ashton."

Laura shook off her father's hand and ran back to where No Nose and Big Arms had dropped their weapons as they fled. She picked up both blades and returned with them.

" _We're_ going to meet our friends from Ashton," she corrected him. "No one is going to drive me out of my home."

She thought her father may be angry at her disobedience. Instead he grinned and urged her to run ahead of him.

"That's my girl," he muttered with pride.

By the time they had reached the path that rose from the submerged causeway, Reverend Harman, Fletcher and Dickie had been joined by a group of twenty other men — fishermen and farmhands, smithies and merchants — all of them angry.

"Where are the scurvy-dog scoundrels!" demanded one.

"We'll drive them back into the sea!" added another.

Reverend Harman called for calm and Laura's father told the story of the past three nights.

The crowd grumbled.

"Eh Dickie, you bring enough rope to secure these blackguards?" asked Fletcher of his assistant.

The young man pushed his way forward with a coil of rope across his shoulder.

"I did, sir!" he said, bustling to the fore.

The grocer leaned in."Now that would be the old stock, not the new that came in the other day?" he muttered.

"Oh, yes, Mr Fletcher, the old stuff just like you said."

"Good lad," replied the older man, then, noticing the reproachful looks from the others, he straightened his back and rubbed his belly. "It's still good rope, well proven..."

"Then round them up, men," Reverend Harman instructed, rolling up his sleeves, apparently ready to put his boxing skills to the test if need be. "These villains can cool their heels in one of the empty warehouses until the Waterguard arrives in the morning."

With the exception of the Reverend, Laura noted, everyone was armed — cutlasses, pistols, hoes and clubs — and they marched with purpose towards the southern point where Blackwell and his men remained, disconsolate at their loss.

At the sound of the approaching posse, Blackwell turned. A menacing grin spread slowly across his face. He may have lost his ship but it seemed he still enjoyed a fight.

He drew his cutlass and stepped forward.

"We're not going to surrender meekly to a group of lily-livered townsfolks, are we men?" he called.

"Yes we are!" they replied.

Blackwell turned back glacially.

"Men?"

They looked at one another. Big Arms, who appeared to have been appointed spokesman of those who remained fit for battle, stepped forward, rubbing the back of his head ruefully.

"Actually, Mr Blackwell, the men 'ave all agreed we're going to give up smuggling."

Murmured agreement rippled through the gang.

"I mean, it's one thing to bring in contraband from the Frenchies, but tying up that customs man and throwing him overboard in a storm was criminal."

"You are criminals!" Blackwell insisted.

"Aye, but we're not murderers."

One by one the men dropped their weapons and raised their arms above their heads — all except Blackwell who was quickly disarmed and restrained by two of the blacksmith's men.

"Sir, miss," said Big Arms, addressing Laura and her father. "I'm very sorry to have 'arrassed you. You won't have any trouble from us again, I'll promise ye that."

Laura's father nodded his acknowledgement but she had lost interest in the proceedings.

She wandered to the edge of the cliff. The sea was beginning to calm, already returning to the rhythm of the days and the seasons which were long familiar to her.

It tugged at her, filling her with a strange longing.

The sun had moved past its zenith and golden tipped waves shimmered on the horizon. Amid the debris from the schooner, the small boat from the vessel was bobbing near the rocks, unattended.

The lieutenant!

She hadn't seen him since the explosion. Was he safe? Had he fallen overboard? Had he made it off the boat at all?

His absence jolted her into action.

At the northern end of the Rock, the prisoners were already being ferried across to the mainland in groups.

Now there was only a handful of men waiting for transport. Her father was speaking to the Reverend.

"Father, have you seen Lieutenant Renten?" she interrupted.

"There he is," he said, pointing to one of the boats making its way back to Ashton-On-Sea with the prisoners. Laura's heart skipped a beat as she identified him from his dark hair.

As though he was aware of being observed, he turned and appeared to be looking straight at her.

No, surely that couldn't be; he was four hundred yards away and yet he raised his hand and gave a salute. She raised her hand in return and his salute turned into a wave.

Despite the chill in the air, warmth bloomed through her.

***

What remained of the month of December raced through like the squalls that sweep in from the Atlantic.

The excitement caused by the arrival of the brigands ebbed after as Blackwell and his men were taken away. Life returned to normal.

The fleet went out to catch fish between the winter storms and this year's Ashton-On-Sea Christmas fete was judged to be the best yet.

With his foot fully healed, Laura's father had taken his place in the choir, much to the delight of Miss Jones who also invited Laura to teach the youngest children at her school after New Year instead of waiting until the next school year.

Yet despite the festivities and parties, Laura felt something amiss.

Lieutenant Michael Renten.

How odd that someone she had only known for a short time and under the most extraordinary circumstances should occupy so much of her thoughts.

She had been among the townsfolk gathered on the quay to farewell the dashing young officer but in the press of the crowd it would be a mistake to believe that, as he stood looking back on the gangplank, he was looking for her.

And surely it was a silly romantic notion, born of reading too many novels, that it seemed to her their eyes met for that briefest moment before he was urged on to the clipper by the bosun.

Laura never spoke these thoughts aloud.

Only a private diary knew her secrets — a record of one moment in time when she had a brush with adventure and romance — a precious memory to treasure.

Perhaps that would be enough.

### CHAPTER EIGHT

Christmas Day

St Joseph's Church on Ashton-on-Sea was beautifully lit that morning. A myriad of candles burned in every candelabra, casting a merry yellow light on the colourful hand sewn silk pennants that hung from the walls.

Laura wore her warmest wool dress in a deep red. It was a festive colour which matched her mood. On her coat was a lovely gold-enamelled brooch, a gift from her father.

Reverend Harman delivered the sermon from the Book of Isaiah:

For unto us a Child is born,

Unto us a Son is given;

And the government will be upon His shoulder.

And His name will be called

Wonderful, Counsellor, Mighty God

The choir took up the theme with excerpts from Handel's Messiah which they had been rehearsing since September.

Laura listened proudly to her father's rich tenor. He looked wonderful in his choir robes of scarlet red and white.

As the recital continued, Laura felt a small rush of cold air brush across her shoulder as latecomers joined them.

Not very surprising, she thought, not glancing back but enraptured by the candle-lit choir. Summer might bring the sun worshippers looking to take a rest cure by the sea, but Christmas brought the pilgrims looking to capture a moment of spiritual connection, no matter how tenuously arrived.

The choir did not disappoint with its recital, nor Reverend Harman when he stepped forward and read Blake's poem, the one adopted for St Joseph's Rock.

And did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon England's mountains green?

And was the holy Lamb of God

On England's pleasant pastures seen?

As the congregation stood together to sing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, Laura could not help but think of Blackwell's brigands during the opening verse and she wished them reconciled too.

Outside after the service, she looked across to the lighthouse, its tall whitewashed tower gleaming in the winter sun. The tides favoured them today. It would be hours before they needed to consider a homeward journey.

Laura spotted a familiar face and rushed towards him.

"Dickie! Congratulations, I'm so glad you proposed." Laura hugged Dickie, then Kitty, a pretty little blonde girl, the daughter of the local tailor who was receiving well wishes from everyone in the parish.

Even Mr Fletcher who was normally so gruff with his assistant stood beaming with avuncular pride.

"Tell me, Laura," said Kitty, "who is your father talking to?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. The man must have been among their latecomers but he had his back to her.

He was dressed in the uniform of a naval Commander — crisp white breeches topped by a rich navy blue coat trimmed with gold braiding and buttons on the sleeves. A single gold epaulette sat on the left shoulder.

Then, for the first time, she noticed the other smartly dressed naval officers among the congregation. She looked for a lieutenant's uniform and found it. Its wearer was talking to the reverend's wife.

Laura turned away.

It wasn't him.

"Laura!"

Disappointment dampened her cheer but she forced a smile and turned to her father's call.

"There is someone who is very keen to renew acquaintances."

The commander turned and she found herself face to face with the man who filled her dreams and the pages of her diary.

"Miss Winter, a great pleasure to see you again."

His warm and ready smile faltered for a moment before Laura realised she hadn't returned his greeting but was simply staring at him open-mouthed.

She recovered herself.

"The pleasure is mine, _Commander_."

To her surprise, he blushed and his smile turned shy.

"My commission is only a week old. I'm still not used to hearing it," he admitted.

"With your father's permission, would you care to take a walk, Miss Winter?"

To Laura's mind, her father gave his permission with too much enthusiasm, even excusing himself before she could accept the offer herself.

Renten offered his arm and she took it and they strolled toward the Strand.

The quayside no longer bore evidence of the storm but was now home to three new ships she didn't recognise — a fine single-masted cutter, an elegant sloop and a smaller boat better suited for navigating the shallow inlets along the coast.

"We arrived just as the service was beginning. I came straight to the church," he said.

He told her that after Blackwell's capture, due in no short measure to her and her father, he was promoted.

"I asked to take a brand new posting, right here," he said.

"How long has my father known?"

"A week, possibly two. I wrote to ask permission to court you when I learned of my promotion. Why?"

He paused and grinned as the answer came to him.

"He never told you did he?"

"He did not! The sneak."

"Disappointed?"

"Never," she said sincerely.

Laura stepped closer.

She could feel his warmth and she placed both hands in his and squeezed them gently.

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

"In fact," she said, "It is a Christmas wish come true."

Then let us all rejoice again,

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;

Then let us all rejoice again,

On Christmas Day in the morning

### Sands of Time

### by Noelle Clark

Kitty sat in the stern of the old clinker dinghy, the stiff wind blowing strands of grey hair across her face, making it hard to see. She closed her eyes and listened to the familiar creak of the oars in the rowlocks as they rotated through the motion of dipping into the water, then up and around, then back down. Splash, splash, splash. The bobbing of the boat soothed her, lulling her into memories that calmed and comforted her.

It was Christmas morning, and already the newly risen sun packed a punch. There was not a cloud in the sky and the white caps on the waves, whipped up by the south-easterly, warned of very choppy seas later in the day.

She let her gaze drift to the finger of land jutting out from the base of rust-red cliffs. The park on the tip of Dugong Point already showed signs of a busy Christmas Day, the small parking lot near the picnic area now packed with cars. From where she sat in the dinghy, a good half mile or so out from the shore, she could just make out people setting up for their day at the beach, congregating under the massive wide-leafed fig trees in the picnic reserve.

The narrow, russet-tinged beach appeared speckled with tiny moving dots, like ants, running all over the sandy crescent of beach and into the water. She smiled as she recalled how her daughter, when she was little, used to run into the warm, calm waters of that exact spot, gleefully screeching and splashing in the shallows. She remembered the warmth of the sun caressing her skin as she'd lain nearby on a beach towel, watching Bonnie play.

Christmas Day at the beach. A tradition borne of the weather here in the southern hemisphere. High summer — perfect, hot, sunny days, and the refreshing waters of the bay to swim in. She remembered Christmases spent at Dugong Point as a child, her Dad packing their old Holden with boxes of food, a little stove to boil up a cup of tea, and all the Christmas presents.

She recalled the noisy chatter and laughter as the family set out on the exciting hour-or-so drive to the beachside. While Mum and Dad unpacked the car and got the lunch ready, she and her younger brothers climbed the red cliffs, pretending they were pirates, and having a whale of a time. And then, after a sumptuous lunch of sausages and onions cooked on the barbecue — or maybe a cold chicken, salad, and bread rolls — nobody felt like swimming, so instead they played. Suspended precariously close to the grown-ups who lay on blankets in the shade and dozed, they swung off thick ropes tied to the huge, drooping limbs of the fig trees. After the worst of their over-sized lunch had worked its way down, the children explored the mangroves, looked for shells, and chased legions of bright blue soldier crabs.

The challenge was to try and catch them as they swarmed across the sand before miraculously disappearing into almost invisible holes. As the tide receded, they inspected the small tidal pools for sea anemones and other creatures. Later, once the tide was on its way out, her Mum and Dad joined them for a walk along the sandy stretch that, at low tide, joined Kingfisher Island to the mainland. A ritual for many families, the stroll across the soft, white sand was the perfect end to a great day at the beach. As the sun began to dip to the west and the cooling afternoon breeze blew delightful zephyrs against the shore, they'd all have a last dip in the warm waters, followed by the Christmas tradition of stuffing themselves with plum pudding and custard, before packing up the Holden and heading home.

The sudden spray from a rogue wave brought her back to the present. Did she imagine it, or could she really smell mouth-watering sausages grilling on a barbecue? The aroma wafted over her, coming to her more strongly with each gust of wind from the direction of Dugong Point. She leaned back against the varnished timber of the boat and sighed. Out here on the water she could hear nothing of the hilarity of children playing on the shore. Out here it was quiet and peaceful. Not a sound came from the hundreds of picnickers on the point.

Every now and then, if a car with a noisy exhaust chugged up the steep incline of the bluff, she could hear it for a split second. Other than that, the only sounds were the cries of gulls overhead, and the splash of the oars as they bit into the water.

She took a deep breath, and the ache of loss clenched around her heart. Christmas morning — such a well-worn tradition, such treasured memories. The sight of families staking their claim to the best spot under the massive, low-hanging boughs of the figs, was so familiar. So predictable. But not this year. Her daughter, Bonnie, and son-in-law, Jeff, had wanted her to stay with them this Christmas. They had a fancy house on a canal at the Gold Coast, plus a pool. She would be very comfortable, they'd said. And they had a dishwasher!

No washing up for you this Christmas, they'd said. You can put your feet up and relax for a change, they'd insisted. She sighed. They meant well, truly they did, but she couldn't have Christmas anywhere else. It had been hard saying no. But deep down they knew she had to be here with Billy.

Every Christmas morning, for as long as she could remember, she'd sat here on the hard bench seat in the old plank-wood dinghy, watching Billy as his strong arms pulled the solid little boat through the water, firstly to the mangroves near the mouth of Hobbs Creek, where the previous afternoon they'd set four pots to catch the big, fat mud crabs that resided there. Then he'd row them all the way back, around the point, to Kingfisher Island. They always timed it so they'd arrive at the small sandy isle just as the tide began coming in. Billy hated it when it was swarming with people. He loved the whole island to himself where he could light a little fire and cook up a fish, or boil a mud crab in the old aluminium pot he kept in the pointy bow of the dingy. He always timed it perfectly, knowing the waters surrounding Dugong Point better than the back of his own hand. Once the tide started to come in and the day trippers trekked back along the sand bar that connected the island to the mainland, he'd head the prow towards the island and together they'd pull the boat up onto the little beach.

"Nan?"

The sound of Joe's voice caused her eyes to flick open.

"You okay?"

She gazed at her grandson's warm brown eyes. He'd grown to be a fine man. In many ways, he reminded her of Billy. That same, wiry build, the sun-bleached blonde hair. A surge of love for Joe seeped through her. He was kind and gentle, and they shared a special bond. He'd understood when she said she must spend her first Christmas without Billy here, if only for a short while. She knew Joe didn't want to be doing this on Christmas morning. He'd rather be at home, skylarking in the pool with his young nieces and nephews, who loved nothing more than dive-bombing their Uncle Joe. If he was home, he'd be having a beer or two with his Mum and Dad by now, wearing silly paper hats, snapping open Christmas crackers and searching for the fragment of paper with the stupid joke on it. He'd join his family in eating far too much food, and then sleeping it off afterwards in the hammock strung between two palm trees.

"I'm fine. How about you? Want a rest?"

His arms must be aching by now. But he showed no signs of fatigue, his biceps bulging as he reefed back on the oars, propelling them across the mild chop at a good rate.

"Could use a drink of water."

She noticed he was just slightly breathless from the effort of rowing such a long distance against the stiff breeze. It'd be easier going back. She reached into the insulated bag at her feet, grabbed a half-frozen bottle of water, unscrewed the lid and handed it to him. He let go of one oar and took it, wiping the cold bottle across his forehead and down each cheek.

"Bloody hot, eh?" He took a long swig of the water, handed it back to her, and resumed rowing.

The clinker was a heavy boat. Billy's grandfather had crafted it by hand way back in the 1930s out of cedar from his property not far from Dugong Point. Joe had offered to take her to the island today in his aluminium dinghy. It had a motor, and they would have been there in minutes. But she'd insisted it had to be in Billy's old boat. It wouldn't be the same otherwise.

She tore her eyes away from the visions playing out across her mind and focused on where they were headed. "You need to turn a bit now."

They were nearing Kingfisher Island. Not a grain of the tract that joined the small sandy cay to the mainland was visible. A couple of small boats were moored along the deep channel on the southern side of the causeway, with people fishing from them. The boats bobbed up and down on the whitecaps, sometimes disappearing from view, then emerging again.

"Just over there, please, Joe. Near that clump of mangroves."

Joe pulled on one oar, turning the bow of the boat towards where she pointed. Within a minute, she heard the sand scraping against the keel under the boat. Clamping her hand on the gunwale for support, she stood carefully and jumped over the side, landing in knee-deep water. Joe shipped the oars and joined her, the water not even reaching halfway to his knees. He grabbed the pointy prow and pulled the boat up onto the beach.

She gazed around her, the familiar sight of the few remaining stumpy mangrove trees, and the covering of pigface on the small dunes bringing a lump to her throat. The mauve star-shaped blossoms of the coastal succulent groundcover looked exactly as they had done for all these years. Nature's legacy, constant and predictable, unlike humans, whose term on this planet was fleeting. For a moment she recalled the faint, salty perfume of the little dune succulents whose strong roots helped the sandy hillocks from washing away with each tide. When crushed, they emitted a soft waft of delicate scent. Not for the first time, she wondered why they'd been given the hideous name of pigface.

Joe's outstretched hand appeared before her eyes, inviting her to take it. She refocused her vision, reached out, grasped it, and took a few steps through the water and up towards the sandy beach. Joe tugged gently on her hand, helping her to stand upright in the choppy waters which made the little boat bob roughly. A cascade of spray caught them both in the face as it slapped against the side of the wooden boat with a thud. They laughed in unison, blinking at each other through salt-filled eyes.

"Gotcha, Nan." Joe's smile, always so generous, beamed at her. She smiled back, raised her arm, and wiped her face with the sleeve of her blouse.

He held on to her hand until she reached the dry beach, then he stretched into the prow of the dinghy and pulled out an anchor attached to a sturdy rope, walked further up the beach, and buried it firmly into the sand. When it was secured, Joe turned and retrieved the picnic basket and the rest of the things they needed for their visit to the island, and deposited them where the low dunes met the beach. She walked to the picnic basket, leaned over and opened it, took out an old blue blanket, and spread it down on the sparse tufts of grass. Ignoring her sand-encrusted feet, she stepped onto the blanket, sank back on her elbows and gazed dreamily up at the cobalt sky.

A spray of sand blew over her as Joe sat next to her on the blanket. "Sorry, didn't mean to do that. The wind is really getting up."

She brushed aside his apology.

He opened the picnic basket and peered in. "What've you brought, Nan? Any of your cheese muffins?"

She reached in and brought out a round plastic container, opened the lid, and held it out to him.

"Course I did."

Joe took one and bit it in half, chomping away, obviously enjoying it. She took out another container, a rectangular one, lifted the lid and placed it on the blanket.

"Corned beef and pickles. Your grandad's favourite."

"Mmm." Joe grabbed two of the sandwiches in one hand, examining them while he finished chewing on the muffin.

The aroma of the freshly cooked corned beef reached her nostrils. For a moment, she wondered whether it was such a good idea to come back here — especially on Christmas Day. She hated being morose, and didn't want to spoil the day for Joe and the rest of the family. She took a deep breath. Maybe I'll just get it over and done with, then we'll go, she thought. Bonny said she'll be serving Christmas lunch at one o'clock.

"Nan?" She turned her head, noticing a look of concern on Joe's face. "Tell me when you're... you know... ready." He cleared his throat.

So soon? No, she couldn't say goodbye so quickly. She reached out and placed the palm of her hand gently on his cheek. "Soon, Joe. Not just yet. I'd like to...just sit here for a little longer." She reached down, picked up the container of sandwiches, and held it out to him. "Another?"

He stretched out with his brown, sun-tanned hand and grabbed another double sandwich.

"This is the last time, Joe."

He turned and looked at her, his mouth full.

"Next Christmas I'll be at Bonnie's all day. I won't ever be coming back here to Kingfisher Island."

Joe swallowed hard, trying to digest the sandwiches so he could reply. "You know I don't mind bringing you here. The little kids opened their presents last night so I could be there to watch."

"I know. You're a kind man." She breathed deeply. There would be no tears today. "You remind me of your grandad in many ways."

"Mum says I look like him."

She focused her gaze on her grandson's handsome face, his sandy blonde hair and his warm brown eyes, searching for her Billy.

"A bit. But it's more to do with the way you speak. Your sense of fun and ability to make me laugh." She beamed at him. "And the fact you are one of the few people who actually 'get' me."

She turned and looked out to sea where the white caps were rising much more sharply than even just an hour ago. "You do have his strength — of character and bodily strength — but even when he was only seventeen he looked like a grown man. You've still got that youthful blush of a twenty-year-old."

"Is that how old he was when you met? Seventeen?"

She lay back on the blanket, and placed her clasped hands behind her head for a pillow. The bright blue sky above was now daubed with streaks of white cirrus clouds, scurrying across in a north-westerly direction. The stiff wind picked up a handful of sand, showering it over them as they lay on the blanket, and she caught a whiff of mauve pigface on the breeze.

***

Billy's handsome face danced in front of her eyes, smiling at her. She recalled the very first time she set eyes on Billy. Even now, that moment sent a shiver through her. It was love at first sight. Destiny. He wore his hair long, looking very much like a fairer version of Paul from the Beatles. It was Christmas Day, and she was wearing her first bikini, feeling very self-conscious in her bony, small-breasted, fifteen-year-old body. Although he was wearing only a brief swimsuit, it wasn't his muscular, tanned body she noticed first. It was his warm brown eyes, and the easy smile showing white teeth in his bronzed face.

She smiled, remembering that it wasn't until years later, when she heard a song playing on the radio, that she realised that the heart stopping moment which, at the time felt like jumping off a high cliff, was indeed the exact moment she'd fallen head over heels in love with Billy.

That Christmas Day, so long ago now, she'd been looking for a quiet, secluded patch of grass far away from the crowds, and definitely far away from her younger brothers. Tucked under her arm was the latest Anne Emery book — her Christmas present — and a new beach towel. All she wanted to do today was keep right away from her little brothers, lay somewhere cool, read her book, and try and look glamorous in her brand new bikini. No way was she going to swim in them. The red dye in the waters of Dugong Point would surely turn them orange. With her mind far away, she began climbing the narrow bush path that led to the cove around the headland. She didn't see Billy come hurtling down the cliff track, and they collided in spectacular fashion. It knocked the wind from her sails, and for several moments she couldn't speak. Billy was most apologetic, helped her up, and kept hold of her shoulders until she regained her breath.

"I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" His face was close to hers, his sincere brown eyes peering at her from beneath drawn brows.

She remembered studying his gorgeous face, noticing that he not only had the latest Beatle hair do, but he also sported some fairly impressive sideburns.

"Look, come and sit down until you get your breath." He led her over to a grassy knoll, took her towel from her, and spread it on the turf. "Can I get you anything? Would you like a Coke?"

Without waiting for a reply, he took off at a run towards the kiosk. Minutes later, he returned with two bottles of Coca-Cola, one with a striped paper straw, and handed it to her. He knelt down opposite her on the grass and sat back on his haunches, still looking concerned.

"Thanks." She squirmed a little under his scrutiny.

A look of relief washed over his face, and a smile lit up his eyes.

She took a long sip at the straw. Truth was, she knew she'd have a couple of bruises on her tomorrow, a legacy of their collision earlier, but she didn't want him to know that.

"I'm Billy. I live just up there." He indicated the bright blue beach house on top of the cliff above them.

She knew that house. Ever since she could remember, she'd been envious of whoever lived there, perched above the little beach, a panoramic view of the bay, and in the late afternoons, having front row seats to stunning sunsets over Brisbane.

"I'm Kit... Kathryn." She cleared her throat, annoyed with herself for tripping up and sounding so gauche. "Well, everyone calls me Kitty."

He smiled again, his even white teeth glowing in his tanned face. "Well, what would you prefer me to call you? I think you look a bit like Katharine Hepburn, so maybe I'll call you Kathryn."

She put a self-conscious hand up to her luxuriant mane of strawberry blonde hair pulled back and tied into a severe pony tail. She hated her hair, hated being a red-head, and blushed at his reference to it.

He seemed not to notice, instead taking a long draught of his Coke, and turning to look out to sea.

"Kathryn, the tide's just turning. I was on my way to Kingfisher Island when I knocked you flying. I, er, don't suppose you'd like to come for a walk with me, would you?"

For some inexplicable reason, her heart began beating faster. A part of her wanted to coolly say, yes, that would be lovely. But she knew that if she just wandered off with some total stranger, her parents would kill her.

"I, um, just need to take my things back to the car first." She desperately hoped her parents would let her go with him. She picked up her book and stood up, then grabbed her towel and shook it.

"Great. I'll meet you on the sand spit." He jumped to his feet and strode down towards the beach. She couldn't take her eyes off him, his back rippling with muscles as he walked. Again, her heart beat wildly. She took off at a run, heading for the picnic shelter where she knew her parents would be sitting in their squatter's chairs, dozing after a sumptuous Christmas lunch. She cast a glance down at the beach where her younger siblings were happily playing with a bunch of children they'd made friends with, building sand castles, and digging massive holes.

Her mother smiled as she approached. "How's the new book?"

She skidded to a stop in front of her mother. "Oh, um. I haven't started it yet. Listen, Mum, is it okay if I go for a walk out to Kingfisher Island? The tide is just turning now."

"Not on your own, Kitty. You might get stranded there if you don't keep your eye on the tide."

"I promise I'll keep checking it." Sometimes her mother's overly cautious nature really aggravated her. Heavens above, she was fifteen! She'd just finished her Junior year at school and, in three weeks' time, would start at her first job as a typist in a finance company. Heck, she would be earning her own living soon, and nearly old enough to leave home! "I won't be alone. I've... er, chummed up with... someone."

Her mother looked pleased she'd made a friend. Mum was always banging on about how unhealthy it was to be a loner, and that she needed to be more outgoing with people instead of burying her nose in books.

It did the trick. "Righto. But be careful and don't talk to strangers."

She threw her new beach towel and unopened new book onto the picnic rug at her mother's feet, and then bolted before Mum could change her mind. She raced across the parking area and jumped over the low stone wall, landing gracefully on the sandy beach.

He stood about fifty yards away, at the start of the snaking tract of sand that, at low tide, linked Kingfisher Island with Dugong Point. He lifted his arm and waved when he saw her. Her heart began banging so loudly in her chest that she worried that he might be able to hear it even from this distance. She waved back, and suddenly wished she'd grabbed a T-shirt to throw over her skimpy bikini. She wasn't used to baring so much skin, and her mid-riff was white, a stark contrast to the rest of her body which was covered with so many freckles that from a distance, it looked like a good tan. She mustered all the sophistication she could, and tried to make the grand change from gawky kid to young lady with each step she took towards this young man who was even more handsome than Elvis Presley.

"Ready?" He seemed so calm, so unruffled, so totally unaware of how affected she was by this unbelievably special moment in her life. Some of her class mates at school had talked non-stop about boys. Some had even kissed them, or so they'd boasted. She'd always felt so out of the 'in' crowd. Most of the girls had been big breasted for years, whereas she was as flat as a board. Her nickname at school was 'string bean'. For a moment, she wondered how those girls would react if they knew she was about to walk out to Kingfisher Island with the most handsome boy in all of Australia. She wondered if they'd be jealous. Probably not, she thought. They'd never believe her anyway. They always told her that boys hated girls with orange hair, freckles, and no boobs, and that she'd be a spinster all her life.

"Yep, all set."

He smiled, then turned around, his long, tanned legs striding out across the still-wet sand, the indentations of his footprints mesmerising her, leading the way across the sand spit to the island.

She soon fell behind, her legs not long enough to keep up with his lengthy strides. Suddenly he stopped and she nearly collided with his back.

"Whoa! Sorry, I'll take smaller steps." He fell in beside her, and they set off again at a much more leisurely rate. "Do you like the Beatles?"

"Do I ever!" That was an understatement. "Do you?"

And so, that Christmas Day in 1963, she had fallen hopelessly in love with Billy.

***

She sighed and turned her head to look at Joe, lying back on the blanket next to her. He appeared to be asleep, his eyes closed and his lips just slightly open. She sat up and reached into the bag, took out a Thermos flask, and poured a cup of tea. The tide was nearly fully in now, their dinghy floating on its anchor quite close to her. A flock of seagulls squawked and dived into the shallows, emerging with small, silver fish, while a lone sea eagle hovered overhead, floating on the air currents, sometimes being buffeted sideways by a strong gust of wind.

She brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them.

***

The next year after she met Billy had gone past in a magical whirl of exquisite happiness. It seemed that, overnight, she changed from being a gawky schoolgirl, derided by her peers, to being a very popular employee in her new job. She was quiet by nature, but soon made friends who praised the quality of her work, her gleaming strawberry blonde hair, and her poise. Many of the girls in the office were envious of her having a boyfriend, especially one as good looking as Billy. Sometimes, when she finished work for the day, she would emerge from her building to find him waiting for her, leaning casually against a light pole on the busy inner-city street. He always kissed her passionately, causing her to blush bright red, knowing her work friends were watching. No matter how many times she told him not to do it in front of them, he would laugh, and the next time would make the kiss even more passionate. Then he'd hold her hand as they walked down the city streets to have a meal or see a movie.

In June of 1964, she and Billy had gone to Festival Hall to see the Beatles on their Australian tour. It was a very exciting time, and they were crushed in the crowds of teenagers screaming out to their idols. Billy knew all the words to every Beatles song. He'd often sing them to her at full volume, no matter where they were. His wasn't the most tuneful voice in the world, but what he lacked in singing finesse, he made up for in enthusiasm, bursting into song with gusto.

Billy was vibrant and alive. He was funny, energetic, and the most romantic boy in the whole world, always proud to show off his girlfriend. He never failed to tell her how beautiful she was, and often turned up for a date with a bunch of flowers for her.

On the first anniversary of their meeting, Christmas Day 1964, they revisited Kingfisher Island. They'd both been out in Billy's boat many times. He loved to take her out crabbing, and on those occasions, they'd often pull up on the sandy beach of the island and light a small fire. He carried an old aluminium pot in the dinghy, and soon he'd boil the freshly caught crabs until they were bright orange and ready to eat. He always timed their visit when the tide was full, cutting the island off from the mainland. They had the island to themselves for a short while, at least.

On this special day, Billy had tied some silver tinsel and a swatch of plastic mistletoe to the prow of the boat. She laughed when she saw it.

"Hmm, does this mean we get to kiss?" She indicated the sprig of mistletoe.

She couldn't believe she and Billy had been together for a year. The time had flown, and each minute of the past year had been blissful. She cherished the time they'd been together and her love for him grew.

"Merry Christmas." He reached into a small canvas tote and pulled out a small, square box wrapped in Christmas paper and tied with red and green ribbon.

She took his face in her hands and kissed him tenderly.

He pulled away, his face as eager as a child's. "Here, open it."

She ripped off the ribbon and tore at the paper. Inside was a dark red velvet box. She flipped open the lid, revealing two gold earrings set with dark blue sapphires. Love swelled inside her, almost making her swoon. Unshed tears stung the backs of her eyes.

"They're beautiful!" Her words were barely audible. She kissed him again, deeply, lovingly. When they broke their embrace, Billy rose and walked over to his wooden dinghy, untied the plastic mistletoe, and returned, attaching it to a stumpy mangrove bush next to where they were lying on their towels.

He lay down next to her again. She still remembered how his eyes looked that day — deep, dark pools exuding love. He bent his head and kissed her. "I love you so much, Kathryn. I adore you."

Their embrace, fuelled by their love, fanned the flames of passion. There, on the sandy crescent of beach on Kingfisher Island, with no witnesses save some gulls and a few waterbirds, they consummated their love for the first time, pledging their devotion — and their lives — to each other.

***

Over the next year, their romance blossomed, despite the initial disapproval of her parents at being so involved with a boy at such a young age. She remembered the arguments that often ended in her running to her room, sobbing, and wishing she could run away with Billy and be with him forever. Most girls got married at about eighteen or nineteen. She was now seventeen, had a good job, and she knew absolutely that Billy was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

On Saturday nights, Billy came over for dinner. He got on well with her father, and she knew her mother liked him. What was there not to like about her Billy? He was so personable, so charming, and so very likeable. He always praised her Mum's meals, and after they'd eaten, he washed the dishes while she dried them.

But as much as her parents liked Billy, they worried that she was getting too serious too young. One day, her mother demanded to know if they'd had sex. Back in those days, everyone knew that it was important to hold onto your virginity as long as possible — or at least, that was what her mother said. Billy was so romantic, so affectionate, that there were many times their kissing became quite fervent, and her love for him was so strong, that they couldn't resist the intimacy of making love.

She never told a soul. But with her mother asking her straight out, she'd felt her face flame up with guilty embarrassment. Her mother was livid, and told her Dad. He started yelling and threatening to get a shotgun. Even her younger brothers — those disgustingly boorish young teenagers — were getting in on the act, calling her the 'town bike', and asking if she had a bun in the oven yet. They never did that in front of their parents of course. It was always somewhere highly populated with friends and neighbours, to get the best bang for their buck. It was as if the magic, pure, unsullied bubble of the happiness she and Billy shared, had exploded, showering fragments of their precious love for all the world to see. Thankfully, no one said anything to Billy. He would be as hurt as she was. And so, she endured alone their invasion into her life.

After one particularly hurtful and serious argument, just before her eighteenth birthday, her mother said she should go to the doctor and get some sort of contraceptive. An argument ensued, during which her father had called her a slut, and saying that if she didn't get the clap she'd end up being up the duff. He threatened to stop her seeing Billy, causing her to retaliate, an escalation of the argument ending up in words being said on both sides that stung painfully. It was after that argument that she told Billy what was happening at home. Up until then, she'd coped on her own, not wanting him to wade in, making things worse.

She cried when she told him. He'd insisted on her telling him what was upsetting her so much. His face crumpled before her eyes as she gave him the details of her family's ongoing tirade of accusations.

That was the first time she'd seen Billy shed tears. He covered his face with his hands and wept. He said that they had dirtied the beautiful affection they shared, disgraced the whole notion of pure love, and insulted their characters. Anger eventually overtook his sadness. He wanted to confront her father, to tell him that he was an honourable man who treated her like the treasure that she was.

In an effort to placate her mother, she agreed to go to the doctor for a contraceptive. When they entered the doctor's office, her mother told the doctor that she wanted her to go on the pill. She remembered the sting of indignation welling up inside her. Without any consultation, her mother had decided that she would take this course of action to prevent an unwanted pregnancy. She recalled the cloud of shame that covered her like a cloak. The pill was the hottest topic, not just around town, but around the world. People from both sides of 'the Pill' debate marched the streets carrying placards and clashed, sometimes violently, with the Catholic opponents. Criticism, bigotry, misinformation, and anger poured through society, filling the newspapers, the television news, and the halls of parliament. Church leaders decried the unchristian values of those who sought to avoid pregnancy, thereby severely undermining the values of society by making girls more promiscuous. According to the anti-contraception faction, the world was going to hell in a hand basket, with promiscuity, drugs, and long-haired louts making loud music, the root cause.

The worst part, for her, was the fear of gossip. The word on the street was that any girl who was on the Pill, was loose, fair game, and a trollop. How could her mother even think of forcing her to do this? She would never forget the look on her mother's face when she stood up, faced the doctor, and told him that she was quite capable of making her own decisions. The doctor asked her how old she was, and when she said she was about to turn eighteen, he turned to her mother and asked her to leave the room. He said it in a tone that brooked no argument. Her mother's lips compressed into a hard, tight, line and her knuckles whitened as they gripped her handbag. Her mother stood, cast her an acidic glare, and stalked from the room.

"Now then. What can I do for you Kitty?" The doctor listened while she told him that she was going steady with a boy whom she loved deeply, and that they wanted to get married. The doctor had raised one eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead, he reached down and opened one of his desk drawers, took out a small packet of condoms, and told her to keep them in her handbag — just in case.

***

She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Joe sitting up, looking at her with worried eyes.

"Hey, Nan. That tea will be cold by now."

She looked at the cup locked between both her hands and took a sip. It was stone cold. She poured it out onto the sand, and it disappeared instantly into the fine, white grains.

"I'll pour you another one." Joe already had the Thermos flask in his hand, ready to pour. "You're very quiet. Are you okay?" He filled her cup with hot tea.

She nodded her thanks. "Sure, I'm fine. I seem to have a running commentary in my head. So many memories..."

Joe reached behind him, grabbed a zippered bag, and placed it on the sand in front of them. "Are you ready for this yet, Nan?"

She gazed at the bag for a long time. "Soon, Joe, soon."

"Okay, just take your time. But I told Mum and Dad we'd be there at one o'clock for Christmas lunch."

She reached out and placed her hand on his, giving it a squeeze. "Just a little while longer."

She settled back against the beach towel. She knew time was running out. But there were so many memories flooding through her mind, so many reminders of Billy that she found hard to let go of.

***

Relations with her parents and siblings eventually improved, mainly because they finally saw that she was a young woman now, supporting herself financially, and a very reliable and caring person. Billy had stopped attending the Saturday night dinners when her parents had turned into control freaks. He said he didn't want to aggravate the delicate balance within her family. But after a few months, her parents had stopped interfering in her personal life, and things went back to being normal. It was her mother's idea to invite Billy over for Christmas lunch. He hadn't been to visit them for ages, she said. When she told Billy, at first he wasn't keen, but eventually he said he would.

Christmas Day 1965 arrived with unusually cool weather and a heavily overcast sky. As they had done since they first met, Kitty sat on the rear seat of the heavy wooden dinghy while Billy rowed around Dugong Point to where he had placed his crab pots the night before, near the mouth of the creek. After they'd emptied the pots, retrieved the crabs, and rebaited the pots, Billy rowed them all the way back around Dugong Point and across to Kingfisher Island. She always felt so special, sitting there in the wide stern of the dinghy with her Billy pulling hard on the oars, and every now and then he'd catch her eye and wink at her, making her laugh.

He was twenty now, and so manly. His chest was sprinkled with light brown hair, his sideburns were lush, and his upper torso muscles were fully developed. Just the sight of him without a shirt made her swoon.

"Might rain today," he said.

She glanced up at the cloudy sky. "Not yet. Maybe this afternoon."

They sat side by side as Billy tended the small fire, the water in the battered and blackened old aluminium pot coming to the boil. As soon as the bubbles started, he threw in the two big fat mud crabs, their dark green shell glistening.

"Kathryn." His tone seemed different all of a sudden. "I've been called up. You know... conscripted."

At first she didn't know what he was talking about. Then it hit, and the cold hand of fear clenched her heart.

***

The next three months went by in a whirlwind of uncertainty. Billy had attended many medical examinations, and received so many inoculation jabs that he said he felt like a pin cushion. He kept telling her not to worry, that he was colour-blind, and there was no way they'd take him in the Army.

She kept on hoping, but the letter arrived in late February. They opened it together. She remembered how Billy's hand shook as he ripped the envelope open with his finger, and how he pulled out the single sheet of typing and handed it to her to read first.

He left Brisbane three weeks later, heading for National Service training in the Army. He wrote to her every day, telling her how much he missed her, loved her. He even sent photos of himself in Army greens that were taken during training. One showed him tanned, wiry, and athletic as he tossed a grenade, looking a lot like cricketer Richie Benaud delivering a deadly leg spinner. Another was of him lying against a bunker of sandbags, looking through the sights of an SLR, the photo obviously taken at the rifle training range. He looked like a grown man, his head shaven and his face showing maturity she hadn't noticed before.

Eventually she read the words she'd been dreading.

"Heading off to Viet Nam soon. Can't tell you any more than that. Not allowed."

His letters stopped a few days later, so she assumed he was on his way to the war in Asia. A month went by. The TV news was full of the battles in the jungle, of Aussies and US soldiers being ambushed, killed. It was a horrific war in a hot, steamy jungle, in a small country that she hadn't even heard of until her Billy went there to fight in the Army.

Her mother and father were obsessed by the TV news, especially the stories about the war in Viet Nam. They always seemed to eat dinner just as the news started at six o'clock — no conversation allowed — and the TV blaring so that her father could eat his dinner and stare at the abominations splashed over the screen at the same time. She could hardly eat the meal her mother prepared. All she wanted to do was run from the room and blot out the news about Australian and US troops being slaughtered.

She remembered the night she calmly stood and went to the TV and hit the off button. She thought her father would explode, his face went beet-red and he rose menacingly. At first she thought he was going to strike her.

"Sit down Dad. I want to tell you something."

Her mother placed a hand on her husband's arm. He shook it off and opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off.

"I'm pregnant."

***

She was sitting at her typewriter in the office on that fateful Saturday morning in August 1966. They only worked a half day on Saturdays, but it was always busy. It was nearly knock-off time, and she was madly trying to finish the letter she was typing. She was big — six months along — and her arms ached from having to reach so far to type. Her mother, and her employer, had wanted her to resign, saying it wasn't right for pregnant women, especially unmarried ones, to be working. As much as it hurt her when they said these things, she bit her lip and calmly told them that she needed to earn enough to pay for their wedding once Billy got back from Viet Nam, and to find a place for them to live. She winced when the baby turned over in her stomach, and placed her hands on her bulging stomach, caressing the morsel of humanity that was the fruit of her love with Billy, and wondering if he would ever get to meet his child.

"Kit, phone call for you."

Her manager couldn't meet her eyes. He merely held the handpiece of the phone out for her. For a moment she was horrified, as they weren't allowed to take personal calls at work. She pushed her chair back, waddled over to his desk, and took the phone from him.

"Hello, Kitty speaking."

As soon as she heard her mother's deep sob, she knew. An ache, like she'd been pierced with a star picket through the chest, formed inside her, and her vision went blurry.

She heard her mother clear her throat. "Love. It's Billy."

Apparently she fainted — she didn't actually remember. All she remembered was coming from what seemed like a deep sleep, and seeing several faces looking down at her, one of them her manager who looked ashen. Someone held a glass of water to her lips and helped her to sit up.

"Give her room, now." Her manager's words sounded so different to his normally clipped tone. "Here, Kitty. Can you sit on this chair?"

His kindness, so unusual, caused tears to well in her eyes. She felt them tumble over her lids, and slide down her cheeks. In a haze of disbelief and pain, she allowed herself to be half-lifted from her inglorious sprawl on the floor, and helped onto a chair.

A girl's voice called across the office. "It's on the wireless now."

Someone turned the volume up on the wireless on the manager's desk.

"... _two days ago, on the 18th August, near the village of Long Tan, Australian troops from D Company 6RAR engaged in battle. It has been confirmed that eighteen Australian soldiers have been killed, with a further twenty-four injured..."_

***

It was nearly a week before she found out the details of what had happened. Billy's dad, his only living relative, apparently collapsed and was hospitalised when he heard the news. He was a war veteran himself, having served in Papua New Guinea in World War II. Kitty had gone to the blue beach hut on the top of the cliffs at Dugong Point three or four times, banging on the doors and windows, begging for Billy's dad to open the door and talk to her.

It was one of the neighbours who told her what had happened. She said Billy's dad had crumpled and they'd called the ambulance.

She finally found him, through a complex process of phone calls, visits to hospitals, and sheer determination. She'd met him a few times before, and he'd always been aloof, never making eye contact with her, and only grunting in response to her conversation. When she walked into the public ward, she searched the faces in each bed. They all looked the same — old, grey-haired, and sick.

"Kathryn."

A gravelly voice saying her name made her spin around. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his legs dangling over the side. She moved over and stood in front of him, for the first time engaging his faded hazel eyes rimmed with saggy eye sockets.

"Mr. Pryor?"

For a moment or two they just stared at each other, then, with a gasp she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his bony shoulders and held him close. When she felt him shuddering, her own tears spilled free. Until that moment, they had been virtually strangers, their only link was the love they both shared for Billy. Suddenly, they were united, able to share their sadness and support each other. They clung to each other until their sobs abated, then she extricated herself from his still strong arms and slumped in the chair next to the bed.

Mr. Pryor reached into his dressing gown pocket, pulled out a huge handkerchief, and blew his nose noisily. Then he wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and looked at her.

"The army feller came to see me an hour ago. He said they made a mistake. Billy's alive."

The room swam and she gripped the arms of the chair to stop herself from falling. When Mr. Pryor spoke again, his voice sounded like it was coming from inside a very long tunnel.

"But... he's badly injured." Another deep, painful sob rent through his body. "He's..." he sucked in a loud breath, and it caught in his throat making a gagging noise, "he's lost both his legs."

***

Bonnie, their daughter, was born in November, 1966. She was indeed a bonny babe, with a fuzz of strawberry blonde hair and alert eyes. The day after Bonnie was born, she was sitting on the side of the bed staring at her beautiful daughter when her Dad entered the ward, pushing Billy in a wheelchair. As soon as Billy laid eyes on the baby, tears streamed down his face. She scooped Bonnie up from the crib next to the bed and took her over to Billy, laying her gently in his arms.

"Well, what do you think?"

Billy slowly dragged his gaze from his daughter and stared deeply into her eyes. He was crying, the emotion of his first meeting with his little girl too much for his fragile mental state.

"She's... beautiful. Just like you."

They'd stayed there in that magical moment for a long time without speaking. Her father had disappeared at some stage, and the new little family was all alone.

"I've booked the church. Everything's organised now."

"Kathryn, are you sure you... still want me? I'm not the same man since..."

She leaned forward and gently brushed her lips against his. "I love you, Billy." She reached up and placed a palm on his cheek. "Bonnie and I don't want to be with anyone else. Ever."

***

They were married on Christmas Eve, 1966. Billy's dad decided to go and live with his sister in Toowoomba, and insisted that the little family set up home in the blue beach shack high on the cliffs overlooking Dugong Point. Despite the difficulties of Billy's disability, they were blissfully happy. Billy's mental trauma eventually eased. He found work with the local fish Co-op, mending nets and crab pots. He was well liked by the others who worked there, and was often taken out on the bigger fishing trawlers.

There was not a day that went past without Kitty thanking the heavens for sparing her Billy. He could so easily have died, like those other poor wretches, in the jungles of a foreign land. Instead, she'd been blessed with the love of her life, and a wonderful father for Bonnie.

Billy's strength returned, his arms and upper torso doing all the work that his legs used to do. With the help of some of his friends, he devised a way for him to get into his beloved dinghy, using a ramp and a set of ropes and pulleys.

He loved nothing better than to grin at his two girls as they sat in the stern of the clinker dingy, while he rowed them over to Kingfisher Island for a swim and a picnic.

Over the next forty-five years, they watched Bonnie grow into a woman, get married, and have her own children — Kate and Joe. When Kate's two little ones came along, Billy was the consummate grand-father, doting on his little brood, teaching them how to fish off the jetty at Dugong Point and, of course, taking them out in the dinghy to Kingfisher Island.

When Billy had the massive heart attack that took him from her, she couldn't believe that someone so vibrant, alive, so sunny and happy, could be snuffed from this earth in a matter of seconds.

***

Joe sat up and shook the sand from his arms and legs. The stiff south-easterly wind had picked up and waves slapped against the side of the dinghy.

He glanced at his wrist watch, and then draped his long arm across her shoulders.

"Ready, Nan?"

She turned to look at him, a rush of love for her grandson filling her heart. She nodded, and he gave her shoulders a little hug before stretching over and picking up the bag at her feet. He unzipped it and peered inside, then reached in, took out a brass container, and handed it to her.

"Here ya go, Nan."

She placed her hands over Joe's and looked earnestly into his eyes.

"Joe. When it's my turn to go, will you please bring me here too?"

His eyes welled with unshed tears and he blinked to try to dispel them. "Aw, it'll be ages..."

"Maybe so. But will you?"

Joe's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Sure, Nan. I promise."

She let go of Joe's hands and took the brass container from him. "Billy always used to say that when it was his time to go, because there was only half of him to burn, we should get a discount on the funeral costs."

A tear spilled from Joe's bottom eyelid, and slowly rolled down his cheek. "And did you? Get a discount, I mean."

Their gaze locked and they smiled.

Joe helped Kitty to her feet and together they walked over to the thick clump of pigface, the little mauve flowers shining happily up at them. She turned so that the wind would blow Billy's ashes onto the sand, and not coat them with the precious grey dust. That would be awful. She slowly unscrewed the lid and tossed the contents into the air. A small zephyr picked up just at that moment, and carried his ashes up and across the beach in a swirl, then circled back towards them. She and Joe watched as the little cloud of dust floated slowly back towards the sandy dune, then the breeze dropped, depositing Billy's ashes on the bed of pigface, in the exact spot where they used to make love.

Only then did she allow her eyes to fill with tears.

"Goodbye, my love. Until we meet again."

She heard Joe sniff loudly. Then she felt his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to him.

"Come on. The tide's turning."

She cast a final look at the little patch of beach that would, in her mind anyway, remain always theirs. Then she walked into the water and Joe helped her climb the high sides of the dinghy. He pushed it off, straining against the current, and soon he jumped aboard.

She sat, for the last time, in the stern of Billy's dinghy. Joe faced her, grabbed the oars, and started pulling.

After a while, they landed on the beach just down from her home, high on the red cliffs above Dugong Point.

"Thanks, Joe."

He looked at her, his expression sad. "Anytime you want to come back..."

"No. I won't be coming back."

He helped her out of the boat and she stood watching him as he pulled it up above the high tide mark, and secured it to a huge iron ring concreted into the wall below her home. Then he turned to her.

"Ready for Christmas lunch?"

She nodded. "Yes. I'm ready. Merry Christmas, Joe."

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Merry Christmas, Nan."

### All That Glitters

### by Eva Scott

"Good Lord! What on earth happened to your hair?" The Chief Surgeon for Orthopedics, Dr Andrew McGovern, stopped dead in his tracks gaping at Molly. He looked her up and down. "Since when did you become an Oompaloompa?"

She endured the hot flood of embarrassment turning her cheeks bright pink. Hesitating for a heartbeat, she continued washing her hands. She should ignore him, really she should, in the spirit of Christmas. But she'd suffered one indignity too many.

"With all due respect, Doctor, I am aware my hair resembles Medusa more than Rapunzel. And yes, I am also aware my skin colour is closer to the shade of a navel orange than a Brazilian model." She took a deep breath. "My little sister is getting married and the normal common-or-garden variety _me_ doesn't cut the cloth so I've had a makeover. For which I am expected to be grateful. And for which I am not. This is the Gold Coast 'me'. Think Malibu Barbie without the accent." She turned and slipped out to the corridor leaving a stunned doctor to absorb everything she'd said.

She hadn't time to consider the consequences of the way she'd spoken to a surgeon. She didn't have time for anything other than getting to the airport in record time. By her calculation the flight landed in ten minutes. If she stuck to the speed limit it would take at least twenty minutes to get there. The Christmas holiday traffic wouldn't help her cause.

"Oh well," she sighed. "Might as well be hung for sheep, as a lamb." Molly quickly changed out of her scrubs. She grabbed the borrowed high heels and her handbag from the locker and she raced to her car.

Sliding on to the driver's seat of her Mini Cooper, she regretted the high heels. Not accustomed to wearing anything much above three inches, the six-inch instruments of torture killed her! The whole makeover-for-the-wedding had gone too far. She started the engine and drove out of the parking lot.

***

Connor Rathmore took another look up the airport concourse. No one matched the description of the person supposed to pick him up. _Nope_. He moved his head from side to side like one of those carnival sideshow clowns, mouth open and gaze vacant. He'd been stood up. The delightful Ms Aimee Morgan kindly arranged for her sister to pick him up and drive him from Brisbane Airport to the Gold Coast. Having to be here for his grandfather's wedding was bad enough, being stranded rubbed salt into the wound.

Picking up his bag, he measured the weight of it in one hand before swinging it up on his shoulder. He'd be damned if he was going to stand around and wait one more minute for the bimbo sister of the gold digger marrying his grandfather in less than a week. He groaned at the thought. This whole situation was going from bad to worse. Beginning with the amount of time he had to take away from the family business. But what choice did he have? His grandfather, no longer on speaking terms with anyone else in the family, asked Connor to be his best man. Caught completely by surprise, he said yes. Once he'd agreed, he couldn't take it back or ask for time to think.

The family remained unimpressed he was Grandpa's best man. He didn't want to hurt his grandfather but the situation left him deeply worried. He didn't want to choose between his grandfather and his family. Things got crazier by the minute.

He strode through the front entrance to the airport, thankful his height made it easy to spot the signs for the taxi rank. If only his grandfather hadn't had an end-of-life crisis and fallen in love with a gold digging twenty-one-year-old "model".

_Was someone calling his name?_ He stopped and turned around.

***

Molly was fifteen minutes late as she teetered through the entrance to Brisbane Airport. The blast of air conditioning caused her to shiver even as it provided a welcome relief from the searing summer heat outside. Hardly a soul remained at the baggage carousel. Certainly nobody matching the description she had. Only a couple of weary backpackers and one angry businessman whose luggage had gone AWOL. She turned right in time to see a man resembling her quarry sauntering through another exit. With luck she'd catch him before he grabbed a taxi.

Without thinking, she slipped off her high heels and gave chase. Reaching the door she saw her target swallowed by the crowd. Darting nimbly between people and suitcases, she struggled to catch up.

_What was his name again? Chris? Colin? Connor? That was it. Connor Rathmore._ How could she forget? The Rathmores were one of Australia's wealthiest mining families. What he'd make of her family didn't bear thinking! Maria, her stepmother, convinced herself his sole purpose was to sabotage the wedding. By the determined look on his face Molly thought she could be right.

"Connor!" she called. "Connor!"

He stopped and regarded her with raised eyebrows.

"My name is Molly Morgan and I'm assigned to pick you up."

His eyes slowly travelled the length of her, from her bare feet to her head, lingering on her legs a little too long. "You've been assigned? To me?"

"Just to pick you up and deposit you somewhere else. You choose where. You are Connor Rathmore, right?"

"Right," he replied, giving her a smile which hinted at a considerable charm.

"Let's go. We're late." She reached for his arm to guide him towards her car. A jolt of electricity passed between them as her fingers connected with the hard muscle beneath his tailored shirt. She pulled her hand away as if burnt. "Come on. It's this way." She stepped around him letting her hair extensions fall forward to hide her confusion.

***

"It's not my fault we're late, you know." The rush flustered him. He never felt flustered, certainly not in the presence of a bona fide gold digger. Well, okay. Maybe that wasn't fair. He'd just met Molly. The sister of a bona fide gold digger. Now that statement was all truth.

"I'm not here to apportion blame, Mr Rathmore. I'm here to make sure you arrive at the Gold Coast safe and sound." She kept up the pace. "I'm not out of the proverbial woods yet but at least I have my quarry!" she muttered.

"Quarry? Apportion blame? But there is no blame. Well at least not on my behalf. I haven't done a thing."

She stopped short in front of him. "Really?" she said.

It wasn't what she said, but the way she said it that got to him. Clearly she thought as little of him as he thought of her. He had the strange sensation she saw right through him. To what? What did she see? He knew what he saw — and the vision became more and more compelling despite his best efforts to ignore it.

She held his gaze for a second before she stepped aside. "If you wouldn't mind..." she ushered him to one of the smallest vehicles he'd ever seen in his life.

"You've got to be kidding, right?"

"What do you mean? I know it's not the limousine you're used to but it will get us to where we're going just the same. Now please get in."

"Honey, I would get in if I could but look at me. I am never going to fit in there."

She did look him up and down as if assessing him for market. Levelling her cool gaze, she took a deep breath. "You have to fit," she said. "There is no choice."

"I can take a taxi. Honestly. I'm sure it'd be far more pleasant for us all."

"You cannot take a taxi. I cannot fail in this task. I must deliver you to your hotel and report for duty."

The look on her face cancelled every argument he had lined up to throw at her. The expression in her eyes told him she meant business. He threw up his hands. "Okay. We'll try to fit me into this excuse for a car if it means so much to you." He heard the sarcasm in his own voice and he didn't like it at all.

After three failed attempts they managed to find a comfortable configuration of arms and legs for him. The Mini wasn't built with over-six-footers in mind. He managed to shut the passenger door and lock it. "There," he said, "much better than a taxi. You can't fail to deliver me — especially since I can't unfold myself without your help."

She threw the car forcibly into gear. "Failure to deliver has consequences you can't begin to imagine."

***

Connor yawned and stretched. He'd been left to his own devices last night and all of today. Most of the day had been spent trying to get in touch with his grandfather, an exercise which had proved futile. The Morgan family had circled the wagons alright. He'd hoped for the opportunity to talk some sense into the old man before the wedding — before it was too late. What on earth did a twenty-one year old girl want with a man well over seventy years old? There was one only possible reason. Tonight would be his opportunity. The big family dinner. The whole circus would be there including the luscious Miss Molly Morgan.

Thoughts of her tormented him. She'd taken him on the longest, most uncomfortable car ride he'd ever undertaken. And that was saying something given the roads he was used to in Papua New Guinea. His discomfort compounded by the ache in his knees jammed against the dashboard. Despite the fact he could've cut the atmosphere in the car with a knife, the intriguing vision of her wouldn't quit. No light-hearted banter or flirting occurred. Wasn't that the stock in trade of gold diggers everywhere?

Up close he saw how pretty she was under all the fake tan and reams of hair. He noted how light on jewellery, makeup and shoes she was for a traditional gold digger. That surprised him. Young women often cast their lures in his direction once they knew he headed up a successful mining enterprise. They all looked the same — long hair, short skirts, too much makeup and jewellery. Not to mention the flirtation — there was always flirtation. She was at odds with his expectations. He found her as fascinating as hell.

She'd informed him she'd pick him up at six sharp for drinks and dinner. He checked his watch. It was nearing the time. Reaching for a fresh shirt from his suitcase, he slipped it on and buttoned it up. He decided against a tie, too formal for the Gold Coast. This was a glitz and glam kind of place, a place where the Glitterati came to play. He selected a pair of wool blend trousers and his hand-stitched leather shoes. She hadn't been clear where they were going. He figured he'd pass muster in this outfit wherever they went. She hadn't been forthcoming with much information at all. She gave the impression of a woman under stress. This should be one interesting evening. Potentially two generations of gold diggers under one roof. Take heed of the mother — they always end up like their mothers.

He'd barely finished dressing when there was a knock at the door. Opening it revealed a new version of Molly - a knockout version. The black sequined shimmering sheath of a dress not only showed off her considerable curves, it also drew attention to the legs he'd become acquainted with.

***

"Well, are you ready?" She sounded rude but it was all she could manage to say. On the way over to pick him up she'd been too preoccupied to consider him at all. Instead she replayed the conversation she'd had with her stepmother. After receiving a reprimand for arriving late, Maria had grilled her over Connor Rathmore and found her answers less than satisfactory. Then the lecture started on her appearance. _Where were the shoes?_ She'd kicked off those horrible expensive shoes at the airport and hadn't given them another thought. An unforgivable act in her stepmother's eyes. It was impressed upon her that she must try harder and remember her sister's happiness. Of course. Molly loved her half-sister, Aimee, despite the fact the girl was spoilt rotten. Underneath all the embellishments she really did have a good heart. It wasn't Aimee's fault she'd been raised to be a life-sized doll.

She appraised the man before her. She steeled herself not to react to him. When he'd opened the hotel room door, more primal male than any man she had ever encountered, something unexpected happened to her. Bam! Right to the heart. Very inconvenient and impossible, the idea could not be entertained. Not for a millisecond. The consequences would be devastating.

"Good evening to you too." He bestowed what she assumed was his best killer smile. "Shall we go?"

He stepped through the door, so close the heat radiating off his body hit her like a furnace. Her natural reserve began to melt. The scent of him was so... masculine and her knees wobbled as she caught her breath. Moving away wasn't an option, even if she tried.

He smiled as if aware of the effect he had on her. Without looking back he strode towards the elevator and pushed the button. They stood in silence side by side while they waited. The animal magnetism between them shimmered, increasing with every passing second.

Molly's senses scrambled. She stumbled into the lift. This situation would need careful handling. The man beside her must not guess his presence caused a meltdown. Her attraction to him created a complication she did not need. Just one week. Please help me make it through this one week. If her stepmother suspected an attraction between Molly and Connor, all hell would break loose.

The doors of the elevator closed behind them. He pushed the button for the lobby.

"May I say you look lovely?"

"Thank you," she said, trying hard not to fidget. He'd offered her a compliment. And she'd been less than polite for the entire time they'd known each other. She resolved on the spot to be more charming. Not for herself, of course, but for Aimee. Anything for Aimee. He leaned closer. She held her breath and kept her gaze straight ahead not daring to turn her head.

"I like you in shoes. They suit you."

For the second time that day she flushed bright red. She instantly dismissed her earlier resolve to be nicer to Mr Connor Rathmore. He could go hang for all she cared. With luck, Maria would eat him alive. The elevator doors slid open. Fuming with unspoken anger, she stormed out of the lift and across the lobby. She did not bother to check if he followed her. Either he did or he didn't. If he suggested getting a taxi this time around she'd take him up on the offer.

"Hey, slow down. Where's the fire?" She heard the barely concealed humour in his voice, playing with her, teasing her. He'd not taken her seriously from the moment they met. She was a surgical nurse and accustomed to being taken seriously. He treated her like one big joke.

She caught sight of her reflection in a large wall mirror as she hurried across the lobby. It was like looking at a stranger — all fake — the tan, the hair and the pushed up boobs. She pulled a face. Her stepmother had spent hours doing her makeup and hair until she resembled a retro-beauty queen beamed out of 1976. It was an awful look. She hated it. No wonder he thought she didn't have a brain in her head. Certainly didn't look as if she did.

***

Teasing Molly was fast becoming his number one favourite occupation. He found getting under her skin highly satisfying. Schooling his face to appear nonchalant, he followed her. She sashayed across the room, looking as sexy as any woman had the right to look. Watching her cute behind, he forgot his worries. His joy increased proportionally when she led him to a BMW, instead of her tiny Mini Cooper.

"This is a pleasant surprise!"

Molly fumbled in her purse for the key, activating the door lock; she flung the driver's door open. "Get in." She slammed the door shut.

He grinned at her through the window. Maybe this evening would be more fun than he anticipated.

While she concentrated on the road Connor occupied himself watching the world go by. All of humanity was represented on the Gold Coast, all sorts of people gravitating to its bright lights and possibilities. He didn't consider himself a city sort of guy. Give him the open spaces away from the crazy crowds and the superficial society. The kind of society that spawned people like Molly and her sister Aimee, raised to chase money and groom their egos.

Now his grandfather had fallen for the charms of one of them. He didn't have a clue how to talk the old man out of this crazy marriage. Bayden was determined, almost bewitched. If Aimee was anything like Molly, perhaps he understood why. She exerted an inexplicable, peculiar kind of attraction. It drove him nuts.

She eased the car into a car park. "Okay. We're here." She took a deep breath as if to steel herself.

He undid his seat belt and turned to look at the woman beside him. "It can't be that bad can it?"

"What? Sorry?"

"This," he gestured towards the restaurant. "It can't be that awful or are your family mad, bad and dangerous to know?"

She shot him a quizzical look. "Let's put it this way, I can't promise you're going to have a great time tonight."

"Really? We'll see about that." He opened the door of the BMW and stepped out. "I'm with you after all."

Molly climbed out of the car and began tugging at her dress, trying to pull its hemline lower down her thighs. Her nervousness was palpable. "Come on," he said as he took her arm. "I'll lead the charge."

He took it all in as they walked through the impressive entrance — the golden hues, the over-the-top velvet curtains, the faux antique chairs. He'd heard of this place. A fairly new establishment, and already touted as a contender for best restaurant of the year for the region. He hoped the food was better than the decor. His eyes widened at the sight of an over-preserved fifty-something woman bearing down on him, her ice blonde hair straightened, arranged and sprayed in place. He reckoned a cyclone wouldn't shift a strand of it. She wore heavy false eyelashes and fluorescent pink lip colour highlighted her tan. While her efforts at preservation were questionable, she still sported a killer pair of legs.

Molly stiffened and stepped closer to him in an unconscious movement which spoke volumes. A need to protect surfaced and he wanted to step between her and the cougar heading their way. All the offhand comments made sense now. This was the woman who shredded her nerves. This must be the mother...

***

Molly braced herself. Her stepmother looked ridiculous as she teetered towards them on impossible heels. Swathed in leopard print and revealing more cleavage than wise for anyone over the age of twenty-five. She imagined the impression Connor was gathering. He stepped in front of her and held out his hand to Maria.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Connor, Bayden's grandson. You must be Mrs Morgan. I recognise you by the resemblance to your daughter. You've got the same killer legs."

He turned to wink at her.

"Oh darling! You are funnier than your grandfather." Maria laughed shrilly. "Molly isn't my daughter. I don't think there's much resemblance between us at all. Wait until you meet Aimee and you'll see for yourself. Now give me a kiss — we are practically family." Maria did not miss a beat. After putting him firmly back in his place, she grabbed him with her long red talons and dragged him towards her. Planting a kiss on each cheek, she released him and took his hand. "Come and meet the rest of the family."

He had little choice in the matter. He looked back over his shoulder at Molly. "Save me," he mouthed as he floated across the restaurant on a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

Molly shrugged and laughed. Mr Rathmore had his comeuppance. Not quite so clever now. She gestured he had big pink lip marks on each cheek and he rubbed at one with his free hand, the other trapped in her stepmother's claw. She laughed again, glad he was here after all. Everyone's attention would be on either Aimee or Connor. Maybe she could afford to take a night off and just enjoy her meal. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she made her way between the tables to where her family gathered. Her stepmother placed Connor between Aimee and herself so Molly made her way around the table to the spot opposite him. She might as well have the best seat in the house for the floorshow.

Her family didn't disappoint. A selection of suitably glamorous friends had been invited. The age difference between partners obvious despite the handiwork of the best plastic surgeons on the Coast. Snatches of conversation swirled about Molly's head like a swarm of annoying mosquitoes. She was content to nibble at her food and not make eye contact with anyone. Maria was bending Connor's ear about something while he kept his eyes on his grandfather who in turn kept his on his glass of scotch. Aimee played the role of princess to the hilt, paying no attention to her groom. Molly wondered if the old man would stay awake for the entire dinner. Aimee would not be pleased if she had to take him home before nine o'clock.

***

Connor struggled to attract his grandfather's attention. Maria had seated him away from the old man. Bayden gave him a wink and a nod before dividing his attention between his young bride to be and his drink. On one level the attraction was obvious — blonde, busty, with legs that went forever. On another level the fact his stately grandfather's behaviour was so out of character shocked him to the core. He had to stop this travesty of a wedding, or at least try.

"Don't they make an adorable couple?" Maria leaned towards him as if she'd known him for years. He resisted the urge to move his chair away.

"Well," he paused to choose his words carefully. "They certainly draw your attention." Lame response but it satisfied Maria who went on to prattle about wedding details. Replicas of Aimee and her mother sat around the table, attended by slicked back middle aged versions of a 1980s Don Johnson. Frightening and far from the world he inhabited.

His eyes came to rest upon Molly who grinned at him with unabashed delight, getting her kick out of his obvious discomfort. Maria rounded the conversational corner and started discussing decorating ideas for her daughter's new marital home. He nodded where appropriate, half listening, biding his time. He didn't have to wait long. Bayden stood and excused himself. Seizing his opportunity, Connor waited a heartbeat before following him.

He pushed open the bathroom door to find Bayden leaning with nonchalant grace against a cubicle door, arms folded. "Fancy meeting you here."

"I... seeing..." Connor fumbled for words, caught off guard.

"It's alright." Bayden waved his clumsy efforts away. "Maria is doing her best to keep us apart, that's more than obvious, but it's entirely expected we must speak sooner or later. You are my best man after all."

"About that—"

"You're not thinking of backing out are you?" Bayden cut him off.

"No, it's just, well... are you sure you're doing the right thing?" His words tumbled out all in a rush.

Bayden's bushy eyebrows shot towards his receding hairline. Thank God the old man resisted adopting a toupee. "Aimee is a lovely girl which you'll discover when you get to know her better."

"I'm sure she is but she's so..."

"Young?"

"Yes. What on earth do the two of you talk about?"

"Talk? Who talks?" Bayden laughed. "Look here, grandson, I appreciate your concern." He stepped forward and put his arm around his shoulders, steering him towards the exit. "I appreciate your father's concern but I'm a grown man and I can make my own decisions."

"But—"

Bayden held up his hand. "No, Connor. Not another word. Your grandmother, God rest her soul, would've wanted me to be happy and I am. That's enough." He pushed open the door and shepherded him through it. "Let's return to the party and act like we're both having a good time."

***

She lay in bed, mulling over the events of the evening. She was sleeping in the guest room, a temporary arrangement. More important people were scheduled to arrive and she would relocate to the laundry of all places. Maria had arranged a camp bed for her. She was not looking forward to swapping her comfy bed for the narrow confines of a fold out cot.

Sleep eluded her, annoying given she only had one night of comfort to look forward to for the entire wedding week. She ought to be spending her time snoozing instead of thinking about Connor Rathmore. He captivated her and she resented him for it. It'd been such a long time since she'd felt a man's arms around her, let alone attracted to anyone at all. She sighed in the darkness. Why him? Why not someone else? Like a nice doctor from the hospital where she worked. Far more suitable than falling for a rude mining magnate with a chip the size of the Kohinoor diamond on his shoulder.

She'd been unable to take her eyes off Connor all night. Her fingers itched to touch his tousled hair. So did his broad chest and shoulders. Nothing but hard muscle under that fine linen shirt. Nothing but planes of smooth brown skin stretched taut. Her body responded to her wicked thoughts. He smelt heavenly too. She'd noticed when they'd been standing in the lift together. Something in the uncharted depths of her being responded to his presence. These feelings placed her in an impossible situation. There was Aimee. When she married his grandfather, she'd be Connor's step-grandmother. The thought struck her as ludicrous and she laughed out loud. Slapping her hand over her mouth she rolled over to smother her laugh in her pillow. No wonder Connor was so cranky. If Molly and Connor became a couple, Aimee would become Molly's step-grandmother-in-law. She stifled another bout of laughter. The whole situation transcended ridiculous. A fifty-year age gap stretched between bride and groom, and the wedding had become a circus.

Aimee appeared to be perfectly relaxed while Maria had become the bridezilla. She'd taken over arranging every last detail of the wedding. All Aimee had to do was show up looking pretty, which was all anyone ever required of her. While beautiful and sweet natured, Aimee was also superficial. Yet whatever else her half-sister might be, she was always kind and loving. For that reason she put up with her awful makeover, which was Maria's idea. For years she'd attempted to recreate Molly in her own image, bemoaning the fact Molly had no interest in high fashion or shoes. She hardly ever wore makeup, maybe some lipstick and mascara. She cut her hair in a fashionable bob but it wasn't the luxurious mane Maria believed to be the birthright of every woman. Molly's style was all wrong.

Maria once tried to convince her to rename herself Madison. It was more modern, she said. Molly was an old woman's name. She'd refused to answer to Madison. She liked her name. It was a good Irish name. She dreamed of one day travelling to Ireland, all those rolling green hills and cute accents. Closing her eyes she imagined wandering the streets of Dublin looking for a cosy pub where they played folk tunes while a fire crackled away. In her imagination she turned a corner and ran straight into Connor! What was he doing in her fantasy? Never mind, he was here now and she might as well make the most of it. She snuggled down in her pillow. Within minutes she drifted off to sleep, images of him crowding her dreams.

***

"What do you mean when you say I've got to take care of Connor?" She sat curled up with her feet tucked under her, sipping on a cup of tea. Breakfast time at the Morgan household meant minimal food. Someone was always on a diet; even so, she'd managed to negotiate some toast and jam.

"I think it's perfectly clear what I mean. You're the chief bridesmaid and he is the best man. It's your job," said Maria Morgan. "Do sit properly at the table, Molly! Honestly, anyone would think you were raised in a tent. You will remain single if you gobble carbohydrates and sit on your chair like a yogi."

She sighed and sat up straight, all the time resenting the gobbling remark. Nibbling was more like it, but in a household where no one ever ate, it might be an easy mistake to make.

Her poor deportment aside, there was still the matter of babysitting Connor.

"Isn't it the job of the Maid-of-Honour to take care of the Best Man?"

"We no longer have a Maid-of-Honour," said Maria. "We have you."

"What happened to Sarah?"

"She got pregnant," said Aimee, pushing some grapefruit pieces around her plate in a desultory manner.

"She can't be due for ages! Surely she can still be your Maid-of-Honour. You two were best friends all through high school."

"We cannot have a fat Maid-of-Honour," said Maria. "It will ruin the photos."

"Being pregnant is absolutely not the same as being overweight."

"Looks the same in the photos," said Aimee. "It's my one big day. I don't want it spoiled because someone was too selfish to wait until after my wedding to get herself pregnant."

"I don't believe you two!" Molly put her tea cup down on the table with more force than she intended. Tea slopped over the side and splashed on the pristine table cloth.

"That's enough! Look at the mess you've made. You will support your sister and step into the breach," said Maria. She had a no-nonsense tone designed to put an end to any argument. "You might like to sit here and criticise your sister but I think you should take a closer look at yourself."

"For goodness sake." She muttered under her breath as she got up from the table and went to the kitchen to fetch a dishcloth. She had not made much of a mess at all, nor did she gobble and she was not particularly critical of Aimee. Any sane person would hold the same opinion of how they treated poor Sarah. And for the record she was definitely no yogi. Marching back to the table she dabbed at the tea stain. "What do you expect me to do?"

"You must keep him as far away from Bayden as possible," said Maria. "Entertain him. Seduce him. I don't care. But do not let him talk Bayden out of this marriage." Maria punctuated her sentences with her index finger, emphasizing each point in case Molly didn't understand. She understood perfectly. As much as she loved Aimee, she didn't agree with her sister's gold digger _modus operandi_. She found herself torn between loyalty to her family and her own personal integrity. Supporting this marriage went against everything she believed in.

"I'm not entertaining him and I'm definitely not seducing him," she said.

"I wasn't serious about you seducing him. I can't imagine he'd find you attractive. You're not exactly his type. Entertaining Connor can't be that hard. Men tend to like the same things. What better place to find them than the Gold Coast?" Maria laughed at her own cleverness.

She wanted to tip the last of her tea over her stepmother's immaculately groomed hair. The woman looked like she'd been lacquered from head to toe before breakfast. Maria's style was less than subtle. Layers of gold chains laced her neck against her teak coloured skin, her face strangely pale by comparison. She possessed the personality of a bull dozer and would stop at nothing to have her own way. Molly's memories of her own mother blurred and faded with the years but one thing she knew for sure, she'd been nothing like Maria. Why her father married her was beyond her understanding. She was the step-mother from hell. Perhaps Molly should've changed her name to Cinderella Morgan. Far more fitting.

Aimee reached across the table and clutched at Molly's wrist. "You don't understand! Connor will try to talk Bayden out of marrying me. I know his family have tried and Bayden won't talk to any of them anymore. But Connor is different. He'll listen to him. I'm frightened Molls, really frightened." Aimee's eyes filled with tears and her grip tightened on her arm until it hurt. Aimee's tears always sucked her in. All through their childhood her sister only ever had to cry and Molly would be there in an instant to make things right again. It didn't matter they were grown women now. Aimee's tears still had the same heart-tugging effect.

"Hey, kiddo, don't cry!" She leaned over and hugged Aimee. "It will be okay. I promise."

"So you'll do it." It was a statement more than a question. "You'll keep Connor entertained and as far away from Bayden as possible until the day of the wedding? Once the ring is on Aimee's finger there is nothing the Rathmore family can do." Maria stood up from the table and stacked the plates of unfinished food. It was clear she considered the conversation over.

"Hang on a minute," she said, "what am I supposed to do with him? And what if he insists on seeing his grandfather? I can't stop him. He has every right to speak to Bayden and I have no right to stop him."

Maria stood still, her face twisted into an ugly mask, her eyes burned with laser-like intensity. "You will do exactly as you are told and you will make sure this marriage goes ahead, if you want to remain a member of this family. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Molly swallowed hard. Here was the ultimatum she had feared all her life. She'd always known Maria didn't like her, wanted her gone from her life. She represented a never-ending reminder of the woman before her. Another woman her husband loved and cherished. For that, Maria would never forgive her. However dysfunctional this family was, it was the only family she had. There was no one else. "Fine, I'll do it but I don't have money to burn so you'll have to fund this evil plan."

"It's the least I can do," said Maria sweetly. Now she'd won, the woman reverted to the charming doyenne. "I see it as an investment in your sister's future."

After the tense exchange with her stepmother, she showered and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Piling her hair extensions on top of her head to get them out of her way, she decided to go with a scrubbed face for the day. No make-up as an act of defiance. _What a heroine!_ It was still early and she remained hungry. She was a girl who liked to eat. With a pocket full of cash to entertain Connor and an empty tummy, she had one thing on her mind.

***

She arrived at his hotel and parked her car. It was no good pretending she didn't feel nervous. A whole butterfly farm fluttered around in her stomach and her sweaty palms gave her away. The thought of standing face to face with him was enough to send her into a spin. The idea of spending a whole day with him at close quarters, making conversation, showing him around made her feel faint.

The sheer magnetism of the man made him more compelling than any man Molly had ever met. She took a steadying breath and pushed the button for the elevator. The plan to keep Connor away from his grandfather until the day of the wedding was morally flawed. Who was she kidding? The whole wedding was morally flawed. What was she going to do?

If she didn't do what Maria demanded, she'd lose her family. If she did do what Maria asked, she would lose her integrity and self-respect. She considered herself a smart woman. She could come up with a solution to this dilemma if she put her mind to it. Until then there was no harm in showing him the sights. It would buy her some time.

The doors to the elevator slid open to reveal a sensual and handsome Connor Rathmore. He started in surprise at the sight of her. "I wasn't expecting you!"

"I hope you don't mind but I've come to take you to breakfast. Breakfast in hotels is so impersonal, don't you think?"

***

Connor stepped out of the elevator and studied Molly for a minute. She appeared different this morning. She looked fresh faced and athletic yet a nervous energy radiated from her. Right at that moment there was nowhere else he'd rather be than at breakfast with this intriguing woman. "What did you have in mind?" he said.

Twenty minutes later they were sitting at the Northcliffe Surf Life Saving Club. "This is not where I imagined we'd end up for breakfast." He took in the sweeping view of the ocean. Bustling activity filled the beach. Nippers, the junior life savers, were in full swing. Children in their distinctive surf lifesaving caps dashed across the beach. Parents and life savers herded them into groups. A family atmosphere reigned in the club nestled in amongst the towering forest of holiday high rise complexes of the Gold Coast.

"I suppose you thought I'd take you somewhere upmarket and flashy?" She sprinkled salt on her scrambled eggs.

Connor observed her over the rim of his coffee cup. She was right. He'd expected her to take him somewhere upmarket. Instead they'd come to a place full of friendly energy and local charm. He hadn't known such a place existed, always assuming the Gold Coast to be a place of empty glamour and shallow intentions.

"I like this place." He put his cup in its saucer and looked around. Old photos lined the walls, showing the history of the club. Large boards inscribed with gold paint listed the presidents, past and current. Children ducked between the tables and lively, happy chatter filled the air.

"I think of this as the real Gold Coast," she reached for a piece of toast. "This is how I grew up, on the beach and in the surf. Wouldn't have had it any other way."

A woman with two children in tow approached, greeting Molly affectionately with a kiss on the cheek. They spoke for a moment, exchanging news. He took the opportunity to study her. She looked animated and happy. She had no idea how beautiful she was, especially in her freshly-scrubbed state. He began to see the bare-foot girl who approached him at the airport was, in truth, a realistic version of Molly Morgan. He also started to wonder if his initial assessment of gold-digger had perhaps been wrong. He came out of his reverie in time to hear her comment about her hair.

"I hate it! I really do. But you know Maria."

The other woman rolled her eyes and shifted the young child she was carrying higher on her hip. "That woman is a nightmare. I don't know how you cope with her."

"I guess we all have our crosses to bear." Molly shrugged. "Sharon, this is Connor. He is Bayden's grandson. He's here for the wedding."

He held out his hand, aware of Sharon's appraising gaze. "Pleasure to meet you," he said.

"You're lucky Aimee didn't meet you first!" Sharon laughed. "I've got to go. My husband will be wondering where we are. Lovely to meet you," Sharon bobbed her head towards Connor. "Give me a call when you can and we'll catch up." Giving Molly a knowing wink, Sharon shepherded her children away.

"She seems nice."

"One of my best friends from high school."

"She doesn't think very highly of your step-mother," Connor fished for information. A guarded look crept across her face, shutting down any trace of happiness.

Appearing disloyal to her family was the last thing she wanted to do, though she had no love for her stepmother. Maria was her father's wife and therefore family. Like it or not. Family was the most important thing in life. She considered her words carefully.

"Maria can be demanding and little difficult sometimes. She is what you'd call high maintenance," she said. "But who can't be like that now and again, right?" She took a sip of her coffee.

He looked at the ocean. She took the opportunity to study his profile. His strong jaw spoke of determination and strength, not a man to be trifled with. He'd eat someone like Aimee for breakfast.

"You and Aimee are very different," he said turning his attention back to her.

"You can say that again!" The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"Don't get me wrong," she said hastily. "Aimee has a heart of gold. She's been raised like a hot house flower and I'm more like...."

"A daisy," said Connor. "A sunny, beautiful daisy."

Molly blushed, a heat rising from the base of her spine, tingling upwards. His words ambushed her, releasing feelings she'd managed to keep tightly bound. "I guess that's as good a description as any. I see things differently that's all."

"You're not in favour of this marriage, I take it?" He leaned forward, intent on her answer.

She shifted in her seat; not only did his proximity send her heart rate soaring, he encroached on shaky ground. Her resolve to keep her opinions on her family to herself, and to keep her promise to Maria, hung precariously in the balance. The damn man had a way of getting under her skin and through her defences! If she wasn't more vigilant, she ran the risk of falling under his spell and trouble was sure to follow.

"It's none of my business. If they say they're in love, then they're in love. It's not for me to judge." She drained the last of her coffee in one gulp. She needed to divert him from this dangerous subject.

"Why do I feel you're deflecting my question?" He raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his seat.

"Probably because I am." Her own honesty shocked her. Why couldn't she play the word game like her sister and her step mother? They would've answered in a flirtatious manner designed to cover their tracks. Molly blundered, brandishing the truth like a cudgel.

"I appreciate your honesty. Unexpected and refreshing," he said. "I'm sure you can guess how I feel about the marriage."

She nodded, unwilling to say a word for fear of compromising herself.

"The only thing I can imagine a man of my grandfather's age and a twenty-one year old girl would have in common is his money."

"That's a little harsh!"

"You know it's true," insisted Connor. "Tell me you don't agree with me and I'll drop the subject."

He held her eyes with his penetrating gaze. She looked into those twin pools of blue and began to drown. She was helpless against the newly hatched feelings she had for Connor Rathmore. In that moment she was a goner.

"I can't lie to you," she said, her voice husky with her new awareness. "I don't agree with their marriage. Aimee is family. I must support her no matter what."

"Even if what she's doing is immoral? She's a gold digger, Molly. Anyone can see that. Egged on by your stepmother, no doubt. The two of them are out to fleece my grandfather, and, by definition, my family."

"What do you expect me to do?" She scrunched her napkin up and threw it on her empty plate. "This is going to happen whether you like it or not."

"Help me stop it." He leaned across the table and grabbed her wrist. "Help me to get Bayden to see sense. Convince Aimee she's wrong. Help me stop this wedding from going ahead."

"I can't do that!" Molly cried, snatching her arm back. "You can't ask me to betray Aimee, to betray my family!"

"And you can't expect me to betray mine!" said Connor angrily.

"What do you want from me? Do you want me to sabotage my own sister's wedding? Break up my family? Make myself an outcast?" She trembled, perched on the edge of her seat, ready for flight.

"You're being dramatic. I just want to stop this ridiculous wedding, stop your sister fleecing my grandfather. We both know she doesn't love him. She can't love him. There's fifty years between them for Pete's sake."

She pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. "I know my family are far from perfect. Hell! I know they aren't very nice people, but they are the only family I have. There is no one else. I cannot and will not put strangers first," she hissed. Clutching her bag, she fled the restaurant.

She walked for hours along the beach. Even though the sun shone and the beach rang with the sound of children playing, her world had become cold and grey. She wrapped her arms around her body. Not since her mother died had she felt this alone. Connor was right — Aimee's marriage to Bayden was a sham. Why Bayden chose to propose to Aimee she did not know or understand. Why Aimee was marring Bayden was clear. Money. Money and security. She was also sure Maria had engineered the entire thing. If she confronted her with the truth, Maria would justify it all by saying she was securing her daughter's future. She wouldn't see anything immoral in her actions. To Maria's way of thinking, a woman needed to find a good provider. Careers were for women incapable of attracting a wealthy man. Archaic nineteenth century thinking at its best.

She checked her watch. She had missed her manicure appointment. Maria would be furious. Not to mention Connor was off his leash. She couldn't bear to face any of them. Her phone showed twelve missed phone calls. She knew who from without bothering to look at the caller list. Mostly from Maria, with a few from Aimee thrown in for good measure. Maria wasn't above using Molly's affection for her little sister against her. Usually it worked. But not this time. This time things were different. There had to be a way out of this mess. If she only had enough time to think, she'd find a solution.

When she returned to the surf club, he had left. He was smart enough to find his way back to the hotel located a couple of blocks away. She ordered a cup of coffee and watched the ocean for a while, a plan hatching in her mind.

***

Connor lay on the hotel bed going over the unpleasant scene with Molly. He had no idea why he pushed her so hard. She was right; they were an awful bunch of people. She was also right when she said they were all she had and he had no right to ask her to throw that away. What made him think she would choose his family over her own? He stared at the ceiling. Nothing of interest there. Nothing to focus his attention. He was at a loss. Not only had he alienated the one ally he had in this whole mess; he'd upset a woman he found attractive. He liked her. He liked her spirit. Lord knows, he liked the way she looked. She drew him to her like a moth to a flame, and just like the proverbial moth, if he wasn't careful he'd end up burnt to a crisp.

The phone rang, jangling in a self-important way. Rolling off the bed, he reached for it. Before he could utter a word a voice spoke: "Is Molly with you?" He registered the voice. Maria.

"No. She's not here."

"She's needed — it's an emergency. She knows better than to go off gallivanting. If she's not with you, where is she?"

"I have no idea. I expect she has her own life to tend to."

Maria snorted in an unladylike manner down the line. "Molly doesn't have a life. She isn't capable of one. We are her life. If you hear from her, make sure she calls me immediately." The line went dead.

He sat with the phone in his hand for a long while. He closed his eyes and shook his head to get rid of Maria's grating voice. What a nightmare woman! No wonder Molly was wound up around her. A clear picture of what life with Maria Morgan would be like began to form — and by definition, life with Aimee. He wondered if his grandfather had any idea what he was getting himself into. Good on Molly for running away, if only for an afternoon. He'd bet Maria would make her pay for it in the long run. Placing the phone back in its cradle, he stretched and went in search of his running shoes.

***

"Where have you been?" Maria stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, long red talons glinting in the half light. "I've been calling you non-stop."

Molly looked up from her cot bed where she'd indulged in an afternoon nap. "I've been here and there." She yawned and stretched. "What did you want?" She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"What did I want?" Maria's voice rose. "I wanted your help, that's what. And you selfishly swan off letting me down and leaving Connor alone."

She longed to put her fingers in her ears. "Well, I'm here now so how can I help?"

"The venue cancelled."

"How can they do that?" She stood up and pushed her feet into her flip-flops. "They've taken the deposit, haven't they?"

"It's Christmas, in case you haven't noticed. They double booked. Last on, first off." Maria's tone indicated she held Molly responsible for the debacle.

"How can I help you?" She sighed and stretched the kinks out of her neck. A headache set up its dull throb deep at the base of her skull.

"Find us another venue of course!" Maria threw up her hands with frustration.

"Of course," murmured Molly. She reached for her handbag next to the bed. "I'll just duck out and book something, shall I?"

"I do not like your tone, young lady. This is your sister's big day. She'd be running around trying to help you if your roles were reversed."

Molly doubted that. "Look, I'll do what I can but I can't promise anything. Like you said, it's Christmas. Venues have been booked for months." She shouldered her bag and stepped towards the door hoping Maria would take the hint.

"You know what we need, something ritzy but not too expensive. Something fitting for a man of Bayden's social standing." Maria stepped back, mollified for the moment. "Keep in touch. I need to know what's going on at all times."

"Of course." She gave her a saccharine smile and she stepped past her. She didn't look back. Her AWOL afternoon was well and truly over.

The front door slammed hard behind her causing the windows to rattle in their frames. The sound satisfied her need to shout and scream. Wrenching open her car door she threw her bag onto the front seat then slid in behind it. Where on earth was she going to find a venue snazzy enough for Maria? One not booked out for some office Christmas party. She started the engine and backed out of the drive.

First to find Connor. Maria hadn't managed to get around to yelling at her for leaving him all alone. The shock of the venue cancelling trumped her crime of abandonment. Thank God! She didn't think she could take one more lecture.

Reaching downtown Surfers Paradise, she pulled into the first available car park. His hotel was a couple of blocks away and she didn't mind the walk. It gave her time to mull over her plan. This wedding was nothing but a disaster and Aimee couldn't possibly want to marry Bayden as much as Maria wanted her to. Up until recently Aimee only had eyes for her personal trainer-slash-boyfriend, Kyle. Two show ponies who adored each other. Match made in heaven.

She trudged through the hotel lobby, punched the button for the lift. If Connor wasn't there she'd wait for him at the bar and continue planning her sabotage. Although, if she couldn't find a venue maybe there'd be no wedding. A hopeful thought. The lift doors opened and she stepped in. Ten seconds later she arrived on Connor's floor.

Maria would never let a lack of venue deter her. No, she'd find some way to push ahead. And if they postponed the wedding it was a temporary reprieve at best. Molly shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans. The situation required a more permanent disruption.

Stopping in front of his room she knocked three times. Nothing happened. Why would he sit in his hotel room waiting for her? She counted to ten and knocked again. Still nothing. Back to the lobby. Before she could turn away the door opened to reveal a half-naked Connor, nothing more than a towel covering his modesty.

"Oh!" A blush stole across her face as her eyes roamed the contours of his stomach. Her imagination leaped to conclusions of what lay beneath that towel.

"Hello," he said as if answering the door nearly naked was a daily occurrence. "Come in. Did Maria find you?" He turned back to the room leaving the door wide open for her to follow.

"Um, yes." She clutched her handbag across her chest like a shield.

"She's a piece of work," he called from the bathroom. She heard him opening and closing drawers, the sound of a hairdryer switching on and off, the tap running. "She said it was an emergency. Is everyone alright?" He popped his head around the corner and smiled before disappearing again. She almost dropped her handbag as her knees gave out. Thank goodness the bed was close by. She perched on the edge while her heart beat slowed down. He was far too good looking with his tousled half-dried hair and smooth expanse of muscular chest.

"Everyone is fine," she found her voice. "The venue cancelled. Something about a double booking."

He reappeared wearing jeans, slung low on his hips, the sight of which made her swallow hard. "Does that mean they're cancelling the wedding?"

She registered the hope in his voice and shook her head. "No, on the contrary. I have the heroic task of finding a new venue."

"You're kidding? At Christmas time?" He pulled on a navy T-shirt. "Surely there's nothing much available except the odd church hall."

"Which would never do."

"Of course not. Where do we begin?"

"We?" Was he offering to help her?

"I owe you an apology. I was out of line this morning. I have no right to ask you to derail this marriage, however much we both might disagree with it. They are grownups..."

"Not so sure about Aimee," she interjected.

"Well, Bayden qualifies. Even though my family think he's slipping into senility with this wedding." He shrugged. "Chances are it won't last so let's make the best of the situation. Truce?" He held out his hand.

She hesitated. Not because she didn't want the truce. Oh no! She stalled, her fingertips itched to touch him, to know what his skin felt like beneath her fingertips. Tentatively she put her hand in his. His palm was rough, calloused by hard work but warm. She didn't want to let go. He held on for a heartbeat before releasing her. A business handshake. Nothing more. A tide of disappointment rushed through her.

"Where do we start?" He smiled at her, a co-conspirator.

She sighed and stood up. "I'd say the bar but I doubt a stiff drink would find me a venue."

"I don't know. It's an idea with merit. Have you eaten?"

Molly shook her head. Her stomach told her it had been a long time since breakfast.

"Why don't we take a drive to Hope Island, have something to eat and discuss our options?"

She had no resistance to that smile of his. And the thought of spending an afternoon with him became the one thing in the world she wanted to do. "Okay, you've got yourself a deal."

He opened the door for her. "You haven't got that appalling excuse for a car?"

"What's wrong with my car? It's the only one I own."

"I hope you've still got that BMW. If I have to drive around in yours any longer I'm going to need a chiropractor." He laughed and rested his hand lightly on the small of her back as he guided her towards the lift. Her spine tingled as she battled to appear cool, calm and collected. All she wanted to do was suggest they stay and order room service instead.

A gentle breeze skipped across the marina bringing the sound of seagulls squabbling. She settled back in her seat. He'd brought her to an up-scale café in the Hope Island Marina precinct. She intended to enjoy every minute of the luxurious surroundings. Yachts worth millions of dollars bobbed on their moorings, blindingly white in the midday sun.

He ordered wine for them both, handing the wine list to the perky young waitress before turning his attention back to her. "How can I help you with your plan?"

"My plan?" She blinked against the glare.

"Yes, the one to find the perfect venue at the last minute during the busiest time of the year."

"Oh, that plan."

"You have another?"

She did. A cunning, clever plan to derail her step-sister's marriage and save them all from making a terrible mistake. "No," she shook her head. "And I hate to break it to you but I have no plan except ring around every venue in town until I can find one. Maria will have to take what she can get."

The waitress reappeared with two chilled glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and took their food order.

Connor took a sip of his wine as he surveyed the yachts. "Magnificent, aren't they?"

"Sure are. Dream machines. I'd love to cruise the islands in one of those with a staff to wait on me hand and foot." Molly sighed. "Afraid I can't manage it on a nurse's salary."

"Do you like nursing?" He leaned forward, arms on the table, as if her answer was the most important thing in the world.

"I do. I'm a theatre nurse. I assist with interesting procedures all day and, best of all it's pretty much a nine-to-five job." She raised her glass in mock salute.

"So you're up to your elbows in other people's innards?"

"Something like that. And what about you? What do you do, Mr Rathmore?" She leaned forward mirroring his move, their faces mere inches apart.

"My family head up a mining consortium currently working in Papua New Guinea. I'm based there most of the time overseeing various projects." He smiled and held his ground. A frisson of desire spiraled through her. If she leaned a little further and... "Papua New Guinea needs good nurses like you. Lots of work in the villages. The people don't have much access to good medical care. The country is too remote."

The thought of working side-by-side with Connor in a foreign land sent fantasies dancing through her mind. Doing good deeds through the day and sharing the hot, sticky nights skin-to-skin with this man. Her heart rate tripled, partly with rampant sexual need and partly with the awful suspicion he read her mind. Especially if that sexy half-smile on his face was anything to go by. She flopped back in her chair, the spell broken.

The waitress, with impeccable timing, arrived with their meals. Grateful for the lull in conversation, she allowed the silence to draw out, earthing the dangerous electricity sparking between them.

"Isn't malaria a big problem?" She turned the subject away from those intimate images dancing in her head. She forked some of her quinoa salad into her mouth before she said something she might regret.

He shrugged. "You can take precautions although most expats treat it like the flu'. When they get it they visit the doctor, take the medication, spend a few days in bed and then back to their day jobs. They say there's plenty of quinine in the gin and tonic." He winked and took a bite of his lunch.

"There's not enough gin and tonic in this world to inoculate me against the wrath of Maria. What am I going to do?" It was all well and good sitting around flirting with Connor. If she didn't come up with an emergency venue soon she may as well not bother going home.

He took his time replying as he savoured his meal. "You know, I might have a solution," he said, an enormous smile lighting up his handsome features.

"You do?" Hope soared in her chest.

"Finish up. I've got a few phone calls to make but, if I'm not mistaken, I reckon we can give Maria the venue of her dreams."

"We can?" She took a gulp of wine with pure relief. Life was much easier with Connor Rathmore on her side.

***

The morning of the wedding dawned bringing the sparkling weather for which the Gold Coast was famous. The household buzzed as the makeup artists and hairdressers arrived. Too many women and too much champagne too early. She sat patiently while her hair was piled high and her makeup trowelled on. What else could she do? Aimee and her bridesmaids looked like a platoon of Malibu Barbies on crack with their over-sprayed hair, over-tanned skin and incredibly short dresses in rainbow colours. She tugged at the hem of her lavender dress wishing for an extra inch or two of hemline.

"You know what to do, don't you?" Maria stood before her, tapping a list with one long crimson nail.

She sighed. "Yes. I'll go to the Marina and put up the signs which will lead the guests to the yacht. Then I will oversee the caterers and make sure there is champagne for each guest upon arrival."

"Good. I want you to make sure the owners of the yacht receive a gift basket after the event by way of thank you. I'm sure Connor can give you their address." Maria grimaced in what Molly assumed was a smile.

"Yes, of course." She'd agree to anything to get rid of her stepmother. Her plan relied upon her getting away from the wedding party for thirty minutes. That's all the time she'd need to put a stop to the circus.

Maria eyed her up and down as if she suspected something was amiss before nodding once and spinning on her stilettos. "Aimee! Do not put that cracker in your mouth. You don't want bloating on your big day."

Molly blew out a breath. "Am I all done?" she asked the makeup artist.

"Done as you're ever going to be, honey."

"Thank you. Excuse me." She slipped off the stool she'd been perching on. Checking first no one was watching, she ducked out of the room, kicked off her stilettos and raced barefoot to her camp in the laundry. She shucked off the offending dress, pulled out her hair extensions and washed her face at the tap. She threw on her favourite sundress, a pretty confection of poppies on a white background. Her hair was a disaster so she wrapped it up in a ballerina bun. Slipping her feet into a pair of pink ballet shoes, she whipped up her handbag and headed for the door.

***

He checked the rubber flooring was correctly laid. The last thing he wanted was to explain to Kurt why his million dollar yacht was all scratched up from stiletto heels. His old school friend would immediately jump to the wrong conclusion. Making an assumption he'd filled the boat with strippers and party girls. As the first guests arrived he wondered if he wasn't doing exactly that.

He craned his neck looking for Molly. He checked his watch, she should be here by now. A glass of amber liquid appeared in front of him.

"You look like you need a splash of Dutch courage." Bayden nodded to the crowd making its noisy way along the pier towards them.

Connor took the glass. "How are you holding up?"

"Fine, just fine." Bayden took a swig. "Not every day a man marries a girl half his age."

"Try a third of your age!" he snorted.

Bayden shrugged. "A quarter and she'd be underage." He laughed at his own joke.

He turned to face his grandfather. "I don't get it. Why marry this girl? Why not just live with her? I can't make this fit with you and Grandma. It doesn't make sense."

Bayden smiled sadly. "Nothing makes sense without your grandmother." He downed the last of his glass and moved inside. He watched him go, unable to offer any response worth giving. Where in God's name was Molly when he needed her most?

"The bride has arrived." The celebrant appeared beside him, dressed in a purple suit two sizes too small. She reminded him of a Sunday roast tied up with string. A white stretch limousine parked close to the pontoon. Maria fussed over Aimee's dress as she stepped from the car. This was going to be a long day.

"I'll get my grandfather and we'll be right down," he said to the celebrant.

While they waited on the deck Connor scanned the marina for any sign of Molly. Maria must know where she was. Maria always knew. The sun beat down with ferocity, throwing a shocking glare making him wish for his sunglasses. Bayden stood beside him, calm and mildly drunk. At least someone was enjoying this wedding.

The cacophony coming from the rear of the yacht told him Aimee and her entourage were boarding. Maria's shrill voice carried across the marina although her words were lost on the breeze. Thank God. Once this day was over he had no intention of ever seeing that awful woman again. Molly was a different story.

Two tiny girls scuttled ahead, cute in matching white dresses festooned with tiny rosebuds. The photographer stepped forward and started snapping away. Aimee's dress made an entrance before her. She popped out behind it, volumes of tulle swirling like a snow storm and filling up all the spare room on deck. The guests stepped back to accommodate her and Connor stifled a smile.

Her bridesmaids tumbled out and took up their places, crowding along the edges of the deck, there being no aisle to walk down.

"Get out of my way." Maria pushed through, determined to reach Aimee and straighten her train. A pointless exercise given the lack of space. Finally satisfied, Maria gestured to the DJ, perched in the corner, to start the music.

Aimee walked towards them, her eyes downcast. Was she playing the demure bride? He had to hand it to her, she looked stunning. While he hoped she'd make Bayden happy, those hopes were in danger of being trampled by jack-booted doubts.

A commotion sounded behind her. Maria was arguing with someone. "Get out of here right this minute," she screamed. "I will not have you spoil this wedding."

He moved forward to intervene when he spotted her. She stood out for the simplicity of her dress. The awful hair extensions were gone. She looked normal, and gorgeous, and angry. Behind her lurked a muscular young man sporting chiselled good looks and too much hair product. Maria was directing her comments at him while his attention locked on Aimee.

Aimee's expression was one of shock and... hunger. The penny dropped. Before, and no doubt during Bayden, there was a boyfriend. Molly proved herself a genius!

"Kyle!" Aimee started forward. "What are you doing here?"

"I can't let you marry that old... I can't let you marry him." Kyle pushed past Molly and her stepmother.

Aimee looked back at Bayden. "I have to."

"No, you don't." Kyle held out his hand while the guests all held their breath, except for Maria.

"Don't you dare!" She slapped down Kyle's hand and put herself between the love birds.

"I love her." Kyle drew himself up to his not-inconsiderable height.

"Love is not enough," hissed Maria. "How are you going to take care of her on a personal trainer's wage? It's not a proper job."

"Mum! Kyle is brilliant at what he does." Outrage laced Aimee's voice as she leaped to defend her man. "He won Mr Natural Olympia last year."

"He's not good enough for you." Maria stood her ground.

Aimee's emotions chased across her pretty face like changing seasons. "Kyle is plenty good enough for me." She threw down her expensive bouquet and the crowd gasped. "I love him and he loves me. No offence, Bayden," she whispered over her shoulder.

"None taken," replied Bayden who appeared to be enjoying the drama. He reached over and plucked two champagne flutes from a waiter and passed one to Connor.

"If you leave with him, do not come back." Maria issued the ultimatum with a voice of steel.

"Oh don't you worry. I'm never coming back. I've had enough of you running my life." Aimee shoved her mother aside and threw herself into Kyle's arms. The guests erupted in cheers and Maria burst into tears. Molly's father, a man of the shadows, tried to comfort his wife with ineffectual pats.

"Are you alright?" He turned to Bayden to find him chuckling.

"Of course I am. Haven't been this entertained in years."

"You don't mind? I mean, you were about to marry the girl and you're fine with being jilted at the altar?" He took a swig of champagne to ground himself.

"It's not like it was true love." Bayden winked and slapped him on the shoulder. "Put it down to an aberration on the part of a sad, lonely old man. But I tell you what, this little shindig has lifted me out of the doldrums. Waiter! More champagne. I'm paying for it so I may as well drink it."

Connor grabbed a second glass and went in search of Molly. He didn't have to look far. She stood staring over the rail at the departing guests. The reception over before it began.

"This is for you," he handed her the glass.

"Thank you." She offered him a smile. "Sorry about your grandfather."

"I'm not. He's not. It's all good. Genius idea of yours to bring the boyfriend along." He lifted his glass in toast. "What happened to the..."

"Hair, makeup, dress? I decided enough was enough. Maria has herded us all for too long. Aimee was as unhappy as I was. Someone had to end it."

"Like I said, genius. You should have let me in on it."

She shook her head. "I couldn't be sure he'd come and I didn't want to let you down."

He considered her for a moment before replying. Without all her fake trappings her vulnerability shone through. He wanted to take care of her, protect her, and give her the safe haven her family wouldn't. "I don't think you'd ever let me down."

***

She raised her eyes to his. The intensity on his face stripped her bare and she made no effort to hide her feelings from him. What was the point? He would return to his life and she to hers. If he knew how she'd come to rely on him, to need him, to want him then it was her gift to him.

He took her hand gently in his sending a tingling vibration through every cell in her body. "I do believe that's mistletoe."

She blinked in confusion. "What?"

"Up there." He nodded to a sad piece of mistletoe someone had tied on to the boat.

"It's plastic."

"Still mistletoe." He drew her closer until the heat radiating from his body enveloped her. He tipped her face up to meet his and his lips descended. Her world spun once then melted as she opened up to his kiss. Gone was Maria, the wedding, her sister, everything. The only thing in her world was Connor and this kiss.

"What happens next?" he said, drawing back.

She took a moment to adjust, bereft of his warmth. "I guess I go back to my house and finish my holiday. I can't imagine I'm welcome at the family home." How great a loss she'd sustained was yet to be determined. Aimee would still be talking to her but her father and stepmother? "How about you?" She forced her mind away from her broken family.

"Me? I'm on holidays too, I guess." He turned her hand over and ran his thumb across her palm. She melted with delicious need. "Since we're both at loose ends and we have this boat for a couple of days why don't we make use of it?"

"You mean?" She shook her head to make sure she was hearing properly.

"Yep. I mean you and me, the crew and the wild blue yonder. What do you say?"

Her heart beat faster.

"And beyond." He smiled and she knew. She just knew.

"And beyond," she said and closed her hand around his.

### A Touch of Christmas

### by Susanne Bellamy

### CHAPTER ONE

Starship Bluefire — Log entry #1878 Orbit established around Planet Earth

Local time: 0715 — 22 December 2525 AD

"Reverse thruster off. Docking complete, Captain."

Captain Andra Veluthian ordered her viewing screen to retract, rolled her shoulders then rested her head against the padded headrest of her Conforma-chair and looked at the view. Framed by a huge window on the bridge, planet Earth appeared close and surprisingly whiter than on her last stopover two years earlier. Through breaks in the dense cloud cover she could even discern the long coastline of what Earth dwellers used to call South America and, just appearing on the western edge across an expanse of ocean, was the island continent they called Australia. Home of the wombat, wallaroo and one handsome colonel.

Colonel Nicholas Madigan, political leader and guiding hand in Earth's struggle against extinction.

On the _Bluefire's_ last visit to Earth, the fair-haired colonel had set more than a few hearts pounding among her crew. Including hers.

_Nick_. She whispered his preferred name, rolling it around her mouth and her mind in the quiet moments before her screen showed him disembarking his shuttle and heading up to the command deck. Nick of the dark blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes with a smile that set off solar flares in her belly. Odd sensations for which there existed no Gravlarian name. On her previous visit a year ago, she'd spent time with the Earthman as she had every year for the past five years while she earned her Captain's insignia. A shared moment of awareness when his gaze, blue as the skies over her home planet, had caught hers sealed her attraction and set off regular dreams in which Nick played a starring role. But would he remember her?

As second-in-charge aboard _Bluefire_ , she'd been very much in the background of discussions between Ambassador Astaria, former governor of Gravlar, and Colonel Madigan. Acting as Ambassador Astaria's _aide-de-camp_ during the visit, she'd followed the two leaders everywhere, attention firmly fixed on the fair-haired Terran when not otherwise occupied with her duties.

Exactly what attracted her to Nick she couldn't pinpoint. Although her logical brain pored over every detail of his face and body for many hours, he defied her attempts to categorise him. Intensive study of his face with its angles and dark stubble, patrician nose and a sinfully wicked mouth that seemed perpetually ready to curve into a smile left her no closer to an answer. Perhaps he was _the whole package_.

Her study of Terran literature had given her many useful terms but that was one of her favourites. He appealed to every one of her senses, which her dreams magnified tenfold. Colonel Madigan's unique scent, masculine and fresh as the clear, open waters of her home, flowed through every dream.

Behind her, the doors onto the bridge slid open, the swish barely discernible, unlike the scent of ocean her keen sense of smell detected amongst the Terrans.

_Nick_. She turned to greet the delegation.

"Colonel Madigan, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to _Bluefire_." She loved the formality of the old Earth terms. And their custom of shaking hands, an old-fashioned Terran protocol that was still observed. She extended hers.

"Captain Veluthian. A pleasure to meet you again." Nick clasped her hand, his Earth blood and skin warmer than hers. She sucked in her breath at a touch her people considered intimate. Something she longed to explore further with Nick Madigan. Did everyone experience this tingling sensation when they touched hands?

His blue eyes drew her attention and their surroundings vanished. By Gravlar, she could drown in his intense gaze. He focussed on her as though she was the most important person, the _only_ person on the bridge. A female could grow used to that sort of attention.

"Captain?" Behind her, Bodar, her second-in-charge, cleared his throat and waited.

Andra snatched back her hand, the hand she hadn't realised still clasped Colonel Madigan's long after correct protocol had been observed, and tamped down her unprofessional thoughts.

"Colonel, may we offer you refreshments before we begin?" Head high, shoulders back, Andra led the way off the bridge to the meeting room three decks below. Maintaining professional focus and the dignity of her position must be her priority. Personal desires could not be allowed to intrude on official business. Not when the fate of Earth hung in the balance. Earth's fate and that of Nick Madigan were inextricably bound together.

***

Nick struggled to contain the grin that tugged at his mouth as he followed Andra's aqua space-suited figure into the trans-hall. Newly appointed Captain Veluthian was as enticing as he remembered. Maybe more so. Unlike most Gravlarians, she wasn't reluctant to touch skin to skin with Terrans. _At least, not with me_. He hadn't imagined the spark of attraction between them on his last visit. A single touch, palm to palm and he knew he'd made the right decision.

Anticipation blossomed within him. What would she think of the gifts he had brought on board? He had no doubt about the outcome of their discussions regarding Earth's progress. By rights, he could have delegated the task of delivering his report to his replacement but there was symmetry in rounding off his term on Earth by delivering the news himself.

And memories of the petite, white-haired star captain inspired him to lead the committee again. Tawny eyes and skin the colour of mocha had tempted him to see if she was as lovely as he recalled. Unusual in her tolerance of old Earth customs, would she allow more than hand-to-hand contact? Were her full lips as soft as her hand?

He stepped into the front corner of the vertical transporter pod for the drop to the meeting room. His team filed in and Andra stepped into the crowded pod last, tucking herself into the space in front of him. The top of her head barely reached his chin. Bare centimetres remained between them and he lowered his head a little. A subtle perfume teased his senses, the scent unfamiliar but reminiscent of an exotic rainforest orchid growing in the hothouses on Earth.

Andra swayed, an infinitesimal movement. Her hair grazed his chin, and caught in his light stubble. His breath puffed out, stirring more fine strands, which formed a tangible link between them.

The pod shuddered to a halt at their destination and Andra fell against him. Of their own volition, his hands lifted and settled on her shoulders, steadying her against his chest. For an all too brief moment she seemed to melt into him, her back in full contact with his chest. Suppressing the need to wrap her more tightly in his arms, he locked his elbows but his thumbs gently stroked towards her bare neck.

Within the crowded confines of the pod, Bodar managed a stiff bow. "My apologies for the rough descent. I will get maintenance onto this problem immediately, Captain."

Andra stiffened and drew away from Nick's touch. She pressed the blue pad and the pod's doors slid open onto the business centre of the star ship. "See to it, Bodar. Thank you. This way please, Colonel."

Beyond a set of double doors, a large, round, backlit table occupied the centre of the conference room. Patterned with galaxies and distant star systems, it was a thing of beauty in an otherwise utilitarian space. As a symbol, it was priceless. Gravlarian attitudes were rather like the Arthurian legends he'd read about. As in the fabled court of Camelot, their round table accorded all attendees the same right to speak as equals.

Light refreshments were served as a preliminary to the serious business ahead of them and his delegation intermingled with the Gravlarians. Diplomacy demanded he chatted with members of her staff but when they assembled at the round meeting table, Nick made sure he was beside Andra. She stopped beside two vacant seats. Was the starship captain's inclination the same as his?

At the touch of his hands, a seat automatically unclamped from the table. He held it, knowing the gesture would not be lost on her. Her tawny eyes widened and their colour deepened, rivalling a desert sunset. Basking in the glow, he almost forgot the reason for their meeting today, the report cached in his wrist-corder.

Clearing his throat, he keyed in his guest access code on the reader embedded in the table, followed by his palm print. "I'm ready."

Andra raised both arms, palms turned towards her face, and invoked the deities of her home planet to assist in the making of wise decisions, untainted by personal desires and based purely on the Greater Good.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the committee investigating the viability of the planet known as Earth in Solar Quadrant 651 is now convened. Decisions will be binding on all parties. There will be no appeal. Colonel Madigan, please begin."

### CHAPTER TWO

Halo-spotlights narrowed on Nick, burnishing his hair with golden highlights and focussing the committee's attention on him. While she could happily watch him all day, this was business. Nick's leadership and promotional opportunities were tied in to Earth's future, soon to be decided by the committee she led. They would determine whether the planet could comply with the necessary _self-sufficient_ status required for continued membership of the Gravlarian sector. If it didn't, no future investment of resources or support would be forthcoming and Nick would be transferred to a new posting, probably in a different sector. Then when would she ever see him again? It wasn't as if she could follow him through space. Why would the Wise Ones change her assignment?

She sat back in the shadow and tried to concentrate on Nick's report. His words commanded attention, as did the human himself, but his deep voice with inflections quite different from Gravlarian speech distracted her. What would his tone be like if only the two of them conversed? Would it soften as it had that first time he'd taken her hand?

_Delighted to meet you, Under-Captain Veluthian_. He'd held her hand a little longer than protocol required, the pressure and warmth both unfamiliar yet oddly right. How could that be? Gravlarians rarely chose to make physical contact with their own kind yet she actively yearned for more with a male of a different race.

Hours of researching during the intervening months led her to wonder. She found another ancient Terran term, _bewitched_ , and learned of love spells and potions.

_Love?_ Were such beliefs still held on Earth? Unfamiliar to her race, the concept of emotional attachment and dependence on another being for her happiness tantalised her. It seemed that when _in love_ , one's every thought was of the beloved. Nick preoccupied her thoughts and took over her dreams. Was it possible he had bewitched her? She frowned as she grappled with the idea.

"Is there a problem with the numbers, Captain?"

Engaged in studying his stubbled chin as she debated whether she was, indeed, _bewitched_ , she blinked. Her lack of focus would be an appalling breach of etiquette and of her responsibilities if anyone realised she was not hanging on every word of the Colonel's report. Struggling to maintain her outward composure, she leaned forward and tapped the table screen to review the last set of numbers.

_Thank Gravlar_. "They look promising, Colonel Madigan." In fact, they were more than promising. If the rest of the report was as good as they suggested, she would be making the trip to the surface of planet Earth for a visual inspection. It had been over four hundred years since a Gravlarian had set foot on the polluted Terran surface. Would she be the first of her generation? Excitement thrummed through her veins and she glanced up at Nick.

His expression remained neutral but she was certain the gleam in his eyes brightened as they made eye contact. Warmth spread through her like the sensation of swimming in the hot springs near her home. Maintaining her outward calm, she sat back. "Please continue, Colonel."

"We are proud of our efforts to clean up Earth's atmosphere, Captain. If you look at the carbon reports at location 783 you will see—"

He continued presenting facts and figures. Three-dimensional holographs of progress on his home world slowly revolved in the centre of the table but she was already certain of the outcome. Nick had won the battle for planet Earth and Gravlar would inject more resources. Other world visits would take her away but he would be here each time she returned. The thought was bittersweet. There would be more goodbyes but also the anticipation of her next visit. His victory ensured his political success.

***

Andra pushed her seat back and stood to address the committee. "All those in favour of accepting the planet Earth onto Gravlarian sector's permanent board?" Every segment of the round table lit up emerald green.

"A unanimous vote. Congratulations, Colonel. On behalf of the Gravlarian administration, I thank you for your efforts in reclaiming this planet from the brink of extinction. Under your leadership, Earth has reduced pollution to a level that will allow self-sufficiency and permanent membership of the Gravlarian sector."

The result was as he had expected. Bodar joined his Captain, bowed to Nick and led a round of acclamation for the Terrans.

"Captain Veluthian, Under-Captain Bodar, in anticipation of this very outcome, we have brought Terran gifts with us. I would like to invite you and your crew to join us in your reception room. If you will allow us a few minutes to prepare?"

Andra inclined her head in official acceptance of his request. "Pending my visit to Earth's surface and final confirmation from Gravlar's senate, the case will be concluded. However, a victory such as your report indicates should not go unacknowledged. I believe we may indulge in an early celebration of the success of your mission."

Her tawny gaze locked with his and a secretive little smile played around her lips.

"Captain, would you like me to assist our guests?" Bodar's sharp question broke their connection.

Andra looked away and straightened her shoulders. "Bodar will direct you to the reception area and assist in any way he can."

"Thank you, Captain." He inclined his head and watched as she led the committee away. Diminutive in size, those following quickly hid her from view.

Bodar stepped up beside him. "Your people were directed to the reception rooms to stow the grav-packs before the meeting began. Everything should be _in situ_ now. If you please, Colonel, this way." Under-Captain Bodar cast a furtive glance in the direction Andra had taken then clamped his jaw as he turned the other way without offering further conversation. Nick and his team followed Andra's second-in-charge along a hallway softly lit by recessed lights. Ram-rod straight, Bodar was the epitome of efficiency but Nick sensed an underlying and unexpected emotion simmering below the surface.

Most Gravlarians were well disposed to interact with Terrans. Surprisingly similar, both races had found their partnership easy and peaceful. So whatever Bodar's problem, it must be personal. He replayed their encounter from the moment Bodar had greeted him — pleasantly — at the shuttle dock. Neutral tones on the bridge had morphed into a clipped response in the transpod when Andra had fallen against him. Now, although he maintained an outwardly professional manner, ice positively dripped from Bodar's voice. Each drop in warmth connected to one of Nick's _moments_ with Andra. Was it possible Under-Captain Bodar had hopes of securing a life pairing with his Captain?

At the image of Andra hand-fasted to Bodar, a surge of testosterone raced through Nick's body. While a common greeting on Earth, the touching of hands to Gravlarians signified much more. More like the old Terran wedding. Perhaps his prolonged holding of her hand had tipped off Bodar that he had competition. Even if she wasn't consciously aware of their attraction, Andra's body language gave him all the encouragement he needed and he fully intended spending more time getting to know his petite starship Captain.

Hands fisted by his side, he drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly before entering the recreation space allocated for the Terran celebration. Bodar was not likely to descend to the Terran surface with them. His duty would require his presence on _Bluefire_ while his Captain was planet-side where Nick planned some quiet time with her. Time in which they could explore this connection forged at first contact.

Andra had captivated him when they first met, not solely with her exotic beauty. Her intelligent observations when invited to contribute by Ambassador Astaria revealed a sharp intellect and true leadership qualities. With his success in reclaiming Earth, Parliament planned to promote him. With that promotion, he intended to pursue his attraction to Andra and discover if she reciprocated his feelings. One could never be a hundred percent certain with women, and that was without factoring in their cultural differences.

But he rather hoped he had correctly interpreted her signals.

### CHAPTER THREE

Andra pushed open the double doors of the reception room and stepped into a wonderland of tiny coloured lights pulsing in time with unfamiliar but catchy music. A sharp, clean scent insinuated itself into her awareness before her attention was caught by a bright red light chasing other colours along the walls. She followed its path to the centre of the room where it disappeared into a small, dark-green conifer strung with unfamiliar cone-shaped plants threaded on thin red ribbons. A small, silver star ornament sat on the topmost branch and emitted a soft glow. While the symbolism of it was unknown in spite of her detailed studies of much Terran history, she appreciated what Nick's staff had achieved in such a short time. Two utilitarian, multi-recreational spaces had been opened up and transformed into a festive and fun-filled party. Crew from both groups mingled and chatted in companionable and animated fashion. But where was the man responsible for this festivity?

She looked around to see him strolling over, two beakers in his hands. He offered one to her. "This is an old Terran party drink called punch. Cheers." He touched his beaker to hers.

"Cheers? What is this word?"

Nick smiled as she raised her beaker and sniffed the brew. "A word that means _let's celebrate_ , a toast to an achievement."

"By all means, Colonel. Cheers! You have much to give thanks for." She sipped the drink and pulled back in surprise. "It tickles my nose." Eyes wide with unexpected pleasure, she looked for explanation of the oddity.

"Ah, that would be the soda. It's a sweet, aerated drink often added to stronger forms of beverage. None of which, I hasten to add, has been added to this mixture. We are aware that Gravlarians cannot tolerate alcohol in the form Terrans know it." He grinned and drank from his beaker.

Tentatively, she lowered her nose over the punch and giggled at the ticklish sensation. "It is very pleasant, Colonel. And your staff has made this space most — happy. Thank you for including us in your celebration."

"It's nearly Christmas Eve on Earth, a time of hope and of giving. I — we wanted to share the season of joy with you so we brought a few Terran items aboard to create the atmosphere. I'm glad you like it."

I — _we_ , what did that mean? Was her Colonel intimating something more personal in his motivation? That whole bewitched idea roared back and she tilted her head, though why she thought that would give her a new perspective she couldn't say. An interest in her perhaps? Intrigued by the possibility, she imitated his slip. "I — we are delighted to share in your celebration."

He smiled, a slow caress focussed entirely on her. It set off more solar flares in her womb and other intimate places in her body, places she wouldn't usually think about. Places that a female only contemplated when hand-fasted to a male. And yet it seemed to her they were already connected without the binding ceremony. How could that be? And what were these — _feelings_ — she experienced when Nick came near? Without touching her, he made her breathless, made her hunger to be close to him. To _touch_ him.

She drew a deeper breath against her suddenly tight suit and felt herself leaning close to him.

Off to her left, Bodar cleared his throat. She straightened and half turned. Bodar's jaw jutted belligerently. Was he offended by Nick's personal reference? It was a small slip at worst and nothing in the huge world of diplomacy. She refrained from making comment and focussed instead on Nick and the relaxed atmosphere of the party. "I think there is much on Earth that is happy and I look forward to seeing more during my inspection."

"Speaking of which, we should prepare for descent if we wish to make landfall in daylight. I am ready whenever it suits you to leave, Captain."

"I will change into protective clothing and hand over command to Under-Captain Bodar. Shall we meet at the docking bay in thirty of your Terran time segments?"

Nick relieved her of her beaker and nodded. "Thirty minutes, Captain. I'll organise my crew."

Anticipation fluttered in her stomach as she closed the door to her quarters. To be the first Gravlarian in centuries to make this descent was an honour she had not looked for. Alone of all her crew, she would land on the Terran surface for the all-important visual verification. If Ambassador Astaria had been on board, she would have been preparing to descend with Nick in the shuttle.

For the first time since setting out on her debut tour of duty as Captain, she paused to wonder at the Ambassador's absence. So excited had she been about her promotion and seeing Nick again that she'd overlooked the now-obvious delegation of power to her. On this historic occasion, shouldn't the Ambassador have been the one announcing Earth's permanent status in the Gravlarian alliance to the galaxy?

Her gaze fell on the vac-seal message pod she had been instructed to hand Nick before her departure. Was it possible he had already been reassigned? She swallowed disappointment at the thought she might not see him again and consoled herself that she might receive orders to transport him to his new post. At least they would share a little more time together if that were the case.

Her monitor pinged as Bodar messaged to say the Terran shuttle was ready for departure. She hurried to change into the white safety suit that would protect her skin from the unfamiliar atmosphere of Earth and flicked a quick look in the mirror. Her Captain's insignia shone above her left breast while her eyes gleamed with excitement.

It was really happening. She was going to Earth.

***

Andra stepped from the transpod and moved with sinuous grace towards the shuttle and Nick. Every male head, Terran and Gravlarian, tracked her progress across the metal decking of the docking bay. Her white suit accentuated her curves and proclaimed her intense femininity in stark contrast to the dark metal and sharp angles around her.

Nick's mouth dried and his body tightened in age-old male appreciation. His discomfort was no less for realising most of the male crew suffered the same malaise. Why couldn't she have worn a cape, preferably full-length with voluminous folds? One that he could remove once she was safely out of sight inside the shuttle. The more he dwelled on it, the greater his frustration grew; he had no right to feel proprietorial, no right to expect her to see him as different from the other males.

But he wanted her to.

"Captain, a word if you please." Bodar intercepted Andra's beeline for the shuttle and placed a hand on her arm to detain her. She spun to face her second-in-charge and glared at Bodar's overly familiar restraint. He released his hold as though it burned his skin but stood his ground.

Nick's annoyance increased another degree. Andra was too efficient to have left anything undone and Bodar's action bordered on the offensive. What did he consider important enough to delay their departure?

He watched her expression change to a frown and she chopped the air between her and her Under-Captain with both hands. Terse tones but not the words carried to him. Bodar stiffened, stepped back and saluted.

Nick almost felt sorry for the man. If it had been possible for a Gravlarian to blush, he was sure Bodar would have been red all over.

Andra spun on her heel and strode the last few yards to join him. As she approached Nick stepped forward to meet her. Her gaze connected with his and there it was again. Like a jolt of electricity, the connection zapped between them.

She stopped and drew a deep breath then exhaled. "Shall we board, Colonel?"

She smiled. At him, and he felt as if he could conquer new galaxies for her.

"After you, Captain Veluthian." He gestured for her to precede him through the hatch and followed her along the narrow aisle to twin seats reserved for them at the front. Silently, they strapped themselves in and adjusted their harnesses before he ventured a comment.

"I hope this descent to Earth will not be an inconvenience, Captain."

Andra turned her head as far as the moulded headrest would allow. Tawny eyes widened and she smiled at last. "I am honoured and excited to have this opportunity. I would not call it an inconvenience."

"However, four centuries is a long time since a Gravlarian last visited Earth-side. Perhaps there are those who consider it dangerous?" _Like Bodar?_ Nick would not ask outright but he suspected Bodar's concern was about his Captain spending time with a Terran male whose interest in her had been made clear. Jealousy could make a person behave in inappropriate ways. Was that why Bodar had touched his captain? Was he pleading his case or warning her to be wary of the Terran male? The idea would not leave him and he clamped his lips together to hold back a caveman growl.

"You would not allow me to meet danger, Colonel. I trust you."

He'd been thinking of himself as the danger. Now, his stomach lurched at the thought of the creatures that had survived Earth's dark period and continued to roam free. A fierce urge to protect Andra welled within him. What if Bodar had been warning her of the non-human species indigent to his world? What if something happened to her through ignorance of what not to touch? He would not allow it, even if he had to convince her to remain in the mini-transporter and assess Earth through the windows. "You have my assurance you will encounter no danger while on the Terran surface."

"Since I was a child I have hungered to see new worlds, to step foot on new planets."

"About that stepping on the planet's surface. You have no need to exit the mini-trans. The windows are large and the viewing screens will ensure you have three hundred and sixty degree imaging. You won't need to dirty your boots."

Andra's body stilled and her eyes slow-blinked before she fixed him with her piercing gaze, the look of a woman very much in command. This time, there was no misunderstanding her body language.

"Correct me if I misunderstood, Colonel, but are you saying you have no intention of allowing me out of the vehicle?"

"It is unnecessary to walk on the actual surface to carry out your visual verification. I wish to make this visit as comfortable for you as it can be." _And keep you safe_.

"So you are not forbidding a terrestrial excursion?"

"I wouldn't do that. However, there are certain creatures, which, if you are unfamiliar with their habits, can present danger. Besides, you have little time on Earth. The mini-trans is fast and efficient. You will see all that you need to from within."

"But I wish to walk outside and experience your planet with each of my senses, not just my eyes. I have seen and read much about your oceans, the taste of salt on the wind, the warmth of the water on a sunny day. I desire to feel that salty warmth on my skin."

He groaned. When she talked of feeling the salt wind and ocean on her skin his imagination took flight. In dreams he had imagined her on his favourite secluded beach, his mouth trailing down the column of her neck, nibbling on the shell-like ear he could see when she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The intervening year of planning since her last visit had added an old-fashioned picnic and a swim to his perfect day. A gift to themselves, one day out of their duties. Official business would always take precedence but his imagination had allowed them a day of leisure before the return to the spaceship. He hadn't believed real life could deliver yet here was Andra describing his dream as though she had seen it.

"Is there not time for a swim? I thought the personal experience would be better for my report than simply flying over the coast." Soft-voiced, he sensed the longing to achieve her childhood dream beneath her formal request.

The new shark sonic deterrent trials had been completed only days earlier. The technology was solid and safe for humans and marine creatures. No more drowning in nets for the fish, nor being menaced by the huge White Pointers whose numbers had increased in the past five decades. Why would he deny Andra this one opportunity to share his world? The notion of wrapping Captain Veluthian in cotton wool to protect her was not one of his better ideas.

"No, of course we will make time. It will be my pleasure to take you to the beach."

She nodded and sat back as the shuttle slipped away from _Bluefire_. Thrusters ignited and moved them into position for the trajectory required to land on Australia's east coast.

_How long do we have before duty calls again?_ It was the perfect opening to tell her his feelings for her. But not the perfect place. He knew exactly where he wanted to be when he spoke as he wished to.

_My beach_.

### CHAPTER FOUR

"So this is where it all began?" She stopped on the path beside Nick and looked around as the hothouse doors glided closed behind them. Humid air sucked energy from her. He had warned her it would be difficult, given her slightly lower Gravlarian core temperature. He looked at home within the green forest of plants while she wilted with each passing second. How could such a small degree of difference in their body temperatures make this environment feel so much hotter? She slipped an arm under her shoulder-length hair and lifted it off her neck. Lips parted, she tilted her head back, seeking relief from the pressing heat.

I didn't want to miss anything but am I going to regret this choice?

They strolled down the central aisle as he continued briefing her on the science involved in the project, old Terran practices that had proven to be the salvation of Earth's flora during the Dark Years. Five hundred years poised on the edge of extinction and now Earth's future had been assured by men and women like Nick. And projects such as she was now seeing first hand. Admiration grew for his tenacity and for the work of countless others before him.

Huge leaves big enough to shelter beneath arched across their path, greening the light as they stopped beneath the canopy. She missed his explanation as he gently pulled one lower for her to examine.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

He grinned. "Scientific names aren't particularly memorable, are they? These used to be known as elephant's ears because of their size. I've seen twentieth century images of people using them as umbrellas."

"Umbrellas?" She tasted the word, repeated it. It hummed around her mouth and vibrated in her throat. A lack of the appropriate weather phenomenon on Gravlar was responsible for this gap in her knowledge. "I like this word, Colonel. How does one use an umbrella?" Perspiration beaded her upper lip. A drop slid down her neck, channelled by her female shape into the valley between her breasts. She sensed the glide and slide of it and prayed it would cool her skin.

Nick's expression froze except for his eyes. Sea-blue became stormy blue-grey as he tracked the path of the droplet from her neck to her chest. The trail of sweat should have been cool but his gaze turned up the heat until she couldn't breathe.

"Colonel?"

He swallowed and wrenched his focus away from her. With a muffled groan, he turned his back, moved ahead to a clearing and raked his hand through his hair.

She trailed behind. Taut shoulders formed a barrier she had no hope of getting around. What had she said? Done? What was wrong? She reached out a hand before the gesture registered. Pausing, she swallowed, her hand no more than the length of her nail from his shoulder. Was she about to touch him? What would happen if she did? She moistened her lips.

Compelled by an impulse over which she had no control, her fingers fluttered before completing the connection with his shoulder. Light as a butterfly's wing, she skimmed across warm muscle that twitched beneath her hand.

He dragged in an audible breath and she pulled away. Slowly, he turned to face her. Intense, disturbing, his gaze bored into her.

"I'm sorry." She stepped back, stumbled. One arm whacked against a bamboo cane.

He grabbed her other arm and pulled her upright. Close to him. So close she could see each individual hair of stubble on his chin. His scent filled her nostrils to the exclusion of all others. She closed her eyes and breathed him in, imprinting his scent in her memory.

"Don't be. I'm not."

Had she heard right? "I thought..." She ran her tongue over her top lip again. Salt teased her taste buds. "I thought something was not right for you."

"Everything is right for me."

"You are not upset, even though I — I touched you?"

"Everything is right, especially that you touched me."

"Oh? Oh!"

He held her elbow and gently drew her towards him, his large and very male body blocking all else from view. Centimetres separated them and the look in his eyes scorched her. Nerves tingled at his proximity, at the heat radiating from his hand on her arm and at the very clear desire in his gaze. For her.

For the first time in her life, heat crept into her face and an unfamiliar sensation flowed through her, filling every vein. It threatened to burst through her skin, consume her from the inside out — _what could it be?_ Memory flashed back of her reading. Was this a feeling such as Terrans experienced?

It terrified her.

It thrilled her.

She lowered her gaze and watched a pulse throbbing strongly at the base of his throat. Right above the opening of his shirt, which revealed a sliver of tanned skin and dark blonde chest hair. An insane desire to press her lips to his skin and taste him filled her. Would he taste like the ocean — fresh and slightly salty? Her eyes flicked over his face until their gazes reconnected. Sea-blue depths devoured her and she knew she never wanted to return to shore if it meant leaving Nick.

Overhead, stuttering sprinklers whirred into life. Droplets of moisture became a shower spraying cool water over the path, the plants and them. Andra tipped her face up, sure the water would sizzle as it touched her heated cheeks. "Oh."

Nick burst into laughter and dragged her back to the elephant ear plant. He grabbed a large leaf and pulled it lower. Water showered around them but beneath the green canopy, they were protected.

"Your own natural protection. What do you think of it?"

She blinked and touched drops clinging to her eyelashes. "This is rain?"

"As good as."

"And this is my umbrella?"

He nodded and waited.

"A very clever plant, this elephant ear. I like your umbrella plant."

His lips twitched before he gave in and grinned. "I should apologise for letting you get wet."

"But I enjoyed your demonstration. And I think outside I will dry off."

"Summer sunshine will dry you off within a few minutes. After you, Captain." He gestured towards the closest exit.

With a little shiver and a deep breath, she ran through the silvery showers into a glorious, bright Terran afternoon.

***

He had his proof. Maintaining a calm exterior, his mind fist-pumped his joy as they flew over hinterland towards his private beach. As far as he knew, Gravlarians did not kiss and touch was reserved for those who were hand-fasted. Procreation was seen as a duty only undertaken after lengthy and formal negotiations and couples rarely produced more than a single offspring.

Yet Andra's touch on his shoulder, tentative and light as a summer breeze meant much more than concern for his well being. Her society, her whole way of thinking had taught her that touch was an intimate and rare connection.

And she had gifted him with hers.

His chest swelled with pleasure and gratitude. He wanted a chance to connect with her on more than diplomatic levels. A chance to do more than simply talk, although he loved her quick intelligence and quirky curiosity, especially for all things Terran. He wanted to connect palm-to-palm, mouth-to-mouth if she agreed. That might be asking more than she could give at this stage of their fledgling relationship, but her touch in the glasshouse was like a promise.

He guided the mini-trans, landing gently on a sandy rise overlooking the curved bay of his private cove. One of the perks of being in charge, he appreciated it for the quiet time his mind and soul craved. This was his place; nobody had ever accompanied him here.

Until now.

Sunlight gleamed through breaks in the cloud cover and rippled across the sea, reflected in tiny points of gold on the tips of wavelets. More often than not in the last few months, there were days like this. Days of hide-and-seek sun that caressed his skin and brightened the contours of land and sea into vibrant, glowing colour. Days that made the long, hard years battling to reclaim Earth worth the effort.

Did his special place meet her expectations?

She sat, eyes fixed on the scene before her. Her lips parted and she leaned forward and gripped the dashboard. Her soft exclamation of delight was all he needed to know he'd been right in bringing her to visit his sanctuary. He popped the hatch and climbed out.

Head down watching where she stepped, she climbed between the seats to the door and ducked under the low roof.

Deliberately and with a sense of old-fashioned courtesy, he offered his hand to assist her. She could easily jump the short distance from the trans to the sand but he couldn't forego the chance to hold her hand, even for a moment. In this informal setting, would she take his hand when neither diplomacy nor concern for his welfare were considerations?

He held his breath, hearing the pounding of his blood as a dull roar in his ears. Or was that the ocean? Eyes focussed on her, he waited.

Hesitating at the exit, she held the cool metal frame and straightened to her full five feet two inches. For the space of several heartbeats, she waited, her tawny irises golden as if they caught the sun's glow. Lowering her gaze to his outstretched hand, she moistened her lips.

He looked down at his tanned hand waiting for her touch, imagined her heart beating faster as she debated what to do and felt a wash of anger with himself for placing her in a difficult position. No matter how much he wished to pursue their relationship, if one could call their tenuous connection such a thing, he should never have pushed beyond the boundaries set by diplomatic relations.

Words of apology rose in his throat and he prepared to lower his hand. Soft fingers grazed his palm, light but definite in their landing. He swallowed and dared look at her again.

A slow smile touched her lips and she took hold of his fingers. "Thank you."

Teetering between fear he'd made a fatal mistake and jumping for joy that Andra held his hand, he settled for quickly clearing his throat and assisting her to alight from the trans. "On Earth, a gentleman always assists a lady from her vehicle."

"I like these Earth customs. They are—"

"Challenging? My apologies, Captain."

"Why? I find them very... pleasant. Indeed, I _like_ your Terran ways." She tilted her head and looked at her small hand engulfed in his larger one.

He relaxed his hold and left the decision to disconnect to Andra. Soft as satin and darker than his tanned skin, her hand trembled but remained in his. "Are you going to show me this beach you told me about?"

Unwilling to break the mood, he simply nodded.

"Lead on, Colonel. And...as we are just two, will you call me by name rather than position? If that is not inappropriate, of course."

_Inappropriate?_ Permission to use her given name freely was unexpected but another step in the right direction. _Andra_.

"I am honoured... Andra. May I show you a fun way to descend the dune?"

"More fun than walking?" Her eyes brightened, more golden as her irises contracted in the bright afternoon light. "Show me, please."

"Wait there." He dropped her hand and strode to the beach hut he'd fabricated long ago. Wood weathered to soft grey, the hut had withstood numerous fierce storms and sheltered him on several occasions. He palmed the lock and pushed the door open. Inside was cooler and dim but he needed no extra lighting to lay his hands on the slider. Old-fashioned though it was, he was sure Andra's adventurous spirit would enjoy the ride.

He held the back of the simple perma-metal shape and set the slider on top of the slope. "Sit there and hold onto the curved grip. I'll push you off. Bend and use your body weight to change direction if you need to and lean back if you want more speed. Ready?"

She turned and pinned him with a look that vacillated between alarm and disappointment. "Are you not riding with me?"

In the midst of his euphoria over her acceptance of his touch, he hadn't considered taking the slider ride. His offer had been spontaneous, designed purely to give her fun and a few stolen hours of pleasure by which to remember her first Terran adventure. And yet, why not? It was clear she was comfortable with the idea of sharing the slider. But as a space traveller, how well did she understand the effects of Earth's gravity?

Does she have any idea how close our bodies will be?

His long legs would bracket hers and her beautiful peach of a derriere would push into his groin. As close as lovers still clothed could be. Did she understand that? He swallowed and almost forgot to breathe.

***

Carefully, she climbed aboard the slider and considered her options. The handsome Colonel stood still as if frozen by a stun-laser. Was it the effect of Earth's heavier atmosphere or Nick's proximity that had made her blurt out the first thing that came into her head? Had she unknowingly offended him with her request?

Daring a peek over her shoulder, she realised the slider was smaller than she had first thought. If Nick climbed in behind her, they would be in full contact with one another. Thigh to thigh, his legs and arms wrapped around her and his chest pressed to her back. Like when the trans-pod had malfunctioned aboard ship. Her body tingled with remembered heat and sensations she had no name for. Would it be like that again? Although that had been accidental, he hadn't seemed to mind then.

Nick understood enough of her culture to know the importance her people attached to touch. That a couple who chose to touch were indicating their willingness to mate. Full body contact was a choice only for hand-fasted couples, paired for the purpose of procreation.

But Terran customs differed from those on her home planet. Earth people touched for many reasons, like greeting one another. She thought of his outstretched hand as she disembarked from the trans-pod. _A gentleman always assists a lady to alight from the vehicle_. She envied Terrans their freedom to physically connect. Shivers of excitement ran through her each time Nick connected with her. His touch was a promise of something more. Something her body craved with growing intensity without fully understanding why.

"Is this wrong to request your company?"

A muscle spasmed in his jaw. His hands fisted then flexed. His chest expanded — so broad and masculine — and he inhaled a long, deep breath. "Not wrong by Terran standards but the slider is small for two people. I would not like to... discomfort you with such prolonged and... intimate touch."

"I thank you for your consideration of my comfort but you promised me fun. It seems to me the ride will be more fun if we share it."

If Nick climbed in behind her, it would be a deliberate choice. Hers. And his.

His gaze drilled into hers. Had she convinced him?

Gingerly, he lowered himself onto the slider and eased his legs alongside hers. Knees bent, his booted feet hit the curved front. Muscled arms reached for the control bar. Heat enveloped her, wrapped in the shape of one very handsome Colonel. Her Colonel.

"Ready?" His husky voice close to her ear stirred goose bumps on her skin and tingles all the way to her toes. Was she ready for whatever came of this adventure?

"Ready." A sense of having made a momentous decision set her heart racing.

Nick's leg muscles tensed and, with a kick and a spurt of sand, the slider tipped over the lip of the dune.

Metal hissed over sand and a scream of joy, fierce and exultant, ripped from her throat as they raced downhill. His body wrapped around hers, the wind whipping through her hair, the sheer, unadulterated, pulsing rush of adrenaline — everything felt perfect.

The speed and angle of their descent flung her to the left. Suddenly, the world tilted on a strange angle. Nick's arms tightened around her as the beach revolved in a kaleidoscope of sand, sky and water.

### CHAPTER FIVE

"Oof!" She stopped abruptly. Breathless and blinded by hair, she was cocooned within Nick's arms. Which meant—

"Are you okay?"

Beneath her the question vibrated against her breasts. She lifted her head and spat a strand of hair from her mouth. Her nose brushed his throat and his ocean scent filled her nostrils. His hard body, which had protected her during their fall, now cushioned her from the sand. Instinct should have kicked in and created distance between them but she didn't move. Not because his arms still pinned her to his chest, nor because she was winded. She simply — couldn't. Her body refused to give up this delicious contact with him.

"Andra?" He sat up slowly and eased her off his thighs. She slipped into a kneeling position and faced him. With a light touch he brushed hair from her face. "Are you injured?"

She shook her head. "No. You protected me with your body."

"I'm sorry about that. I haven't doubled anyone on the slider since I was a kid. Our combined adult weight made stopping problematic."

"You were right. It was fun. I enjoyed it."

He grinned and turned to crane over his shoulder at the dune rising behind them. "It doesn't look so high from down here, does it?" A trickle of blood oozed from a cut above his left eyebrow and rolled down his cheek.

"You're bleeding! Why didn't you tell me you were injured?"

He swiped a hand across his forehead, smearing the blood, then looked at the streak on his fingers. Rubbing his thumb over the patch of red, he shrugged. "It's nothing."

"Let me be the judge of that." She took hold of his chin and turned his head to the side while she examined his face. Blood beaded along a superficial cut although it was all but closed already. She doubted he'd notice more than a slight bruise by tomorrow.

Tomorrow I'll be leaving him again.

She sucked in a breath. Would she see him again after today? What if he was posted somewhere not on her diplomatic route?

"What's wrong? You look pale."

Moisture welled in her eyes and she blinked in confusion. If he left Earth, she wouldn't even have the hope of seeing him occasionally. And she desperately wanted more of his touch. She sniffled and pressed a fist over her heart, aware that her behaviour was bizarre under any circumstances but especially so given she and Nick had no formal relationship.

"You were hurt, weren't you?" His fingers grasped her chin and tipped her face up. His anxious gaze roamed hers, seeking the source of her discomfort. But it was inside her in a place he would never see. That she would never be able to share. Was this tightness in her chest what Terran writers called _feelings_? Because if they were, she was glad Gravlarians didn't have them. They hurt so much she couldn't breathe.

"Andra." His concern penetrated the haze of impending loss.

"I'm not hurt."

"But you're crying." Gently, he wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

She pressed her cheek into his palm, relishing the warmth; even the callouses across the base of his fingers were precious. She covered his hand with her smaller one and held it there. Like a statue, he froze at her touch, his hand cupping her cheek. A whisper of breath puffed across her face.

"Is it possible that — are you sad?"

"That is the name for what is inside me. I do not like this feeling."

"It's a human emotion. I didn't think other races were subject to such physiological and emotional reactions. But why are you sad, Andra? The sun is peeping through the clouds and we are free from the call of duty for a few precious hours. I wanted to give you a fun afternoon, a pleasant memory of your first adventure with me."

"My first and my last. I will miss you when I leave tomorrow, Nick. Two years is a long time to wait to see you again." A lone tear edged down her nose. Impatiently, she wiped it away.

"Are you saying you will miss me?"

"Yes. I would like more time with you. I would like — I want..." Her gaze slid away from his. How did one broach the topic of intimacy with a Terran? On Gravlar, such important matters were handled by one's parents. Here on Earth, did such protocols exist? Did she dare ask for herself?

Her throat seemed to close and she dragged in a lungful of air. Unable to speak the words, could she show him what she was feeling? Tremors shivered down her spine at her audacity. She raised her hand to his face, anticipating the feel of him. All that was precious and important lay in front of her if she had the courage to close the gap.

"Show me what you want, Andra. Perhaps" — his voice broke and he swallowed before continuing — "perhaps it's the same thing I want." Hunger underlay his soft words.

Did he desire her touch as much as she did his?

Kneeling before her, he remained still, allowing her the choice to complete the connection. As he had done before. Always he had given her the choice.

And I have come to him. I choose Nick.

She stroked her fingers down his cheek to his chin. Stubble scraped in a manner most pleasant. Most delicious. She eyed his lips.

Why not?

Her index finger landed in the middle of his full bottom lip. She traced back and forth across its length then moved to shape the upper one. How was it possible that a man with such a hard muscled body had such softness too?

She touched hers. Soft as his. What would they be like together? Her lips parted and his gaze dropped to her mouth.

"On Earth we also touch mouth to mouth. Would you like me to show you?" His voice was husky and low, the sound curling through her stomach and tightening her body in places that surprised her and stole her breath.

Words deserted her. He was in her mind, reading her thoughts and desires. Sensing her feelings.

She nodded.

He tilted his head and leaned close. Their breath mingled as his lips brushed hers in a touch so light, she wondered if she had imagined it. Wonderful as it was to touch lips with him, the brief touch brought her tense body no relief. Had she done it wrong?

"Nick. Was that a kiss?"

"Hardly a kiss."

"Is that like they kiss in your old movies? I thought..." She swallowed. Nice as it was, she felt cheated. Images from her reading and old Terran movies raced through her mind. Fireworks fizzing, waves crashing on a sun-drenched shore. Nerves wound tight, she wondered if she was incapable of experiencing that feeling. Perhaps as her training had stated, her genetic make-up precluded that ability to feel.

"Oh, Andra, there is so much more. I didn't want to scare you off the first time."

"I am not scared. I trust you. But I want to know what all the _fuss_ is about. Will you show me why so many of your writers have extolled this kissing touch?"

"Wow. That's a whole load of expectation right there. All that romance you've seen and read about and it's my job to prove to you it exists. No pressure."

"I am Gravlarian. I am told we do not experience _feelings_ such as you do. There is no pressure, but I wish to know for myself."

"It's my pleasure to assist you in your research. But tell me when you want to stop. Or when you have your answer." He shuffled to sit with his back to a grass-topped mound. He stretched his legs in front of him and bent one knee up to form a shallow perch then drew her down to lie in his arms. Sitting in his lap was odd, but rather nice.

"Put your arms around my neck. Are you comfortable?"

"Yes."

"Now..." His hand slid through her hair and cradled her head.

The world shrank until all she saw was his face. His eyes darkened and it seemed he stole her air for suddenly she was breathless. Tingles raced through her body, radiating from every point of contact until his mouth descended on hers. His tongue traced her lower lip. Startled by the soft, wet warmth, she gasped and he stroked inside her mouth. Tentatively, she touched her tongue to his. He flicked and played, inviting her participation until she joined the game of lick and retreat. Then he gently sucked. Neurons fired and she quivered as though preparing for lift off.

Heat and dampness blossomed between her thighs and her fitted suit seemed to shrink. The ability to think deserted her; her body took over. She pressed closer to his chest and tunnelled her fingers through his hair.

One of his hands slid down to her hip, shaping the roundness of her bottom. She wriggled against the bump in his lap, wanting something she had no name for, no experience of. She just knew she wanted.

An odd groaning sound vibrated within her. Was it coming from him? Or her?

Nick wrenched his mouth from hers and surged to his feet. He stood her at arm's length and blew a soft whistle. Bereft and panting, she stared at him.

Breathing heavily, he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "First lesson over, Andra."

"Why did you stop? You said I should tell you when to stop. I said nothing."

"Sheesh, if I hadn't stopped then, you'd have had your second and third lessons all in one hit."

"What do you mean, Nick? Did I do it wrong?"

A wry grin tugged up one side of his beautiful mouth. He cupped her cheek and met her gaze. "Andra, you did everything right. But for a woman who's never kissed, you sure learn fast." He shifted awkwardly and twitched at his trousers.

Her attention was drawn to the bump below his stomach. Was that what she had sat on? Why had she never noticed it before? She tilted her head and tried to recall if she had ever seen a male in that condition.

"Andra. Don't look at me like that." He all but growled at her.

Her gaze snapped up to meet his eyes. "Like what?"

"Like you want me to continue. Like you want to take those kisses to the next level."

"There is more? I wish to know. Show me."

"Not yet. God, if you knew what you are asking."

"I think I am asking for you to finish what we started. Tomorrow will be too late. When I leave" — she dragged in a deep breath as reality stormed back — "you will be here and I will not see you for another two years until _Bluefire_ returns. I cannot wait."

"I won't be here. I've been transferred. As to where I go next, my orders should come through soon."

### CHAPTER SIX

Nick glanced through the window of _Bluefire's_ meeting room. In better condition than it had been for four hundred years, his home planet filled his view. How did you giftwrap a present as big as Earth? Bittersweet elation ran through him as he watched Andra give her final report on Terra's state of health. He'd achieved what he set out to do and his home had the gift of a second chance. Fitting. After all, today was Christmas Day. But now he had to leave home and the certainty of seeing Andra again and take up a new post elsewhere in the galaxy. At least he could travel with her until they reached his new destination. Wherever that was.

"Colonel Madigan." His attention snapped back to the Gravlarian chief senator.

"Yes, sir?"

"You have succeeded far better than we could have hoped. Accept our thanks for your work on Terra."

He bowed his head. "It was a team effort over decades, sir."

"And now it is time to apply your skills elsewhere, for the good of all beings. You are aware that your promotion means leaving Terra and travelling?"

"I am aware, sir, and await further instructions."

The senator depressed a button on his console, muting his voice while he turned to speak to someone off screen.

Nick should be jubilant but success in his career might come at too high a price. One he had been reconsidering since Andra's kisses on the beach. He cast a glance sideways but she wouldn't meet his gaze. Since their return to _Bluefire_ , she had been a pale imitation of her usual vibrant self. Her back straightened, she pressed her lips together and raised her chin higher.

He turned back to the screen and waited while the senator was briefed. His future depended on the senator's next words.

"Captain Veluthian, you have in your possession a message for Colonel Madigan. Now is the time for its delivery."

"Yes, sir." Andra swivelled her chair to the desk beside her. With hands that trembled, she lifted the vac-seal message pod entrusted to her upon departure from the senate and moved to stand in front of Nick.

He pushed his chair back and stood facing her. Could he defy orders or resign his commission if the promotional transfer took him from her?

Knowing their fate was tied to the orders it contained she proffered the pod with both hands. "Colonel, I deliver to your hand this decree from the Wise Ones. May it do you ease."

Her fingers trembled as she handed it to him. Perhaps she was not unaffected by their imminent separation as he'd feared. He willed her to meet his gaze. When she did, he saw that her eyes glistened. No news could be good if it separated them for years. Was it possible he could request a different posting?

Frustration roared through him. He'd barely begun to court her — she'd love that old Terran term if he dared explain it to her — and now duty might call him away.

He fumbled with the pod and the seal dropped away. Nick paused before opening the orders. Would there ever be a time for them to be together or would duty override all else? Steeling his spine, he opened the message and read.

He swallowed. Now was not the time to show the Wise Ones what their decision meant to him. But the desire to shout his feelings, to grab Andra and hold her to him was powerful.

"Nick? Where are you headed?" Her voice was soft but before he had time to reply, to tell her, the senator spoke.

"Do you accept this commission, Colonel?"

The grin he'd been trying to hold back broke through. "I accept with pleasure and a deep sense of humility for the honour you do me."

"Congratulations and welcome to your new post." The senator turned to Andra. "Captain Veluthian, you and your ship _Bluefire_ are officially the residence of _Ambassador_ Madigan. You have the honour of transporting him wherever his work requires."

She gasped and appeared to be lost for words.

Nick turned to her. "Captain, I hope you do not mind this change to your plans. I will endeavour to be a very obliging guest aboard your ship."

She cleared her throat and held out her hand. He enclosed it within both of his as the screen blacked out. Holding her, touching her made everything make sense. And now they had a chance to find out if together, they could create a future for themselves.

"Ambassador, welcome to your travelling embassy. I — we are delighted to have you aboard."

A knock at the door heralded Bodar. "I saw that your conference call had ended, Captain. Do you wish me to arrange Colonel Madigan's return to the Terran planet now?"

"What do you want to do, Nick?"

So happy with the outcome, she forgot to follow protocol when others were present. He didn't care. Soon Bodar and everyone would know that they had chosen to marry. Let the Under-Captain deal with it sooner rather than later. "I will descend to Earth as soon as possible, thanks, Bodar. But I will be returning to _Bluefire_ as soon as everything is ready for me to hand over to my replacement."

"Congratulations on your promotion. Are we to have the honour of delivering you to your next posting?"

"You could say that, Bodar. I will be aboard _Bluefire_ for the foreseeable future."

"Sir?"

"Bodar, please prepare the chief suite for _Ambassador_ Madigan next to mine. As of five minutes ago we are officially the Gravlarian embassy." She clasped Nick's hand between both of hers.

His gaze flicking between the two of them, Bodar nodded once. He straightened his shoulders, stepped forward and saluted Nick. "Congratulations, Ambassador. On _all_ your successes. May you and Captain Veluthian be very happy." He turned smartly on his heel and shut the door behind him.

"Smart fellow. I rather think I might grow to like him after all."

***

For the past two days, _Bluefire_ and her crew had remained in Earth's orbit, waiting to attend Nick's formal handing over ceremony on the Terran surface. Now that it was concluded, preparations for departure were underway. Every chance to steal a few minutes together, each conversation circled around their future. Andra recited the phrase over and over in her mind. _Our future. Our_ future!

Nick had hinted at hand-fasting with her but she thought of the delicious images of Terran pairings — _weddings_ — and yearned for both the fun and the solemnity of that ceremony. The heady luxury of knowing they would travel space side by side had brought out a sense of mischief hitherto unsuspected in her personality. Teasing Nick was her new favourite pastime. Finally he was coming to the crux of their relationship as his questions danced around the topic of pairing. She wondered if all men were so slow to reach the point of proposing.

"I understand Gravlarians have only one child when they are hand-fasted." He stood by the window, his gaze fixed on Earth revolving slowly below them.

"There are a few who have more." As though the topic was of little interest to her, she pulled the star chart across the desk and scanned the first map while sneaking peeks at his face.

"I would not impose on your beliefs. I am content to accept this."

"Perhaps I am not. Did you consider I might not wish for one child?"

"Whatever your feelings are on this matter. If you don't want children—"

"But I do, Nick. You know why most Gravlarians have only one child?"

"I assumed it was by choice." He edged closer to her chair and leaned over her shoulder as though to peer at the star chart. She knew better of course. He used any excuse to be close to her and she had done the same.

"You could say that. Women on Gravlar are artificially inseminated and once they have produced one child, they believe their duty to society is fulfilled. There is no physical contact beyond the touch of hands to bind their agreement."

His face paled and a frown settled on his brow. "None?"

With difficulty, she refrained from stroking it away. Teasing him was too new and too much fun to stop yet. "You and I have gone far beyond what my society considers normal." Deliciously far beyond with stolen kisses and the promise of lessons two and three yet to be delivered. He had refused to enlighten her further which she considered reason enough to tease him now.

In fact" — she touched a finger to his chest and pushed him away — "I don't know what my parents will say when I take you home to meet them."

He dropped his hands to his side and appeared to consider the implications of her revelation.

At last she took pity on him. If she didn't, he would never get to his proposal. "By the way, you do know I have five siblings?"

His eyes narrowed on her face. "Five, hmm?"

"I am not the only one in my family intrigued by Terran practices. My parents enjoyed actual touching and preferred a _natural_ approach to creating their family. They taught me to keep an open mind and to... experiment for myself as they did. I have done that."

"And what conclusions have you reached about the Terran habit of touching?"

"It is my second favourite Terran practice."

"Second, hey? I wonder what takes first place?"

"Oh, Nick. Kissing you, of course."

"Hold that thought. After we're hand-fasted, I'm going to ask you that question again and see if I haven't changed your mind. All in the name of scientific research."

She stroked her fingers down his cheek. "Nick, would you mind if we didn't hand-fast? I mean—"

Frown lines marked his brow and his eyes narrowed. "I want everyone, and I mean everyone, to know we are one."

"So do I but—" She leaned against his chest and walked her fingers over his pectoral muscles. Beneath his shirt, she felt them twitch. "Would you consider...a Terran wedding? It looks so much...more."

"Ah."

He grinned and she caught her breath at his masculine beauty. It was the brightest, sunniest day when he smiled at her.

"Knowing your interest in all things Terran, I took a gamble. Sit down and close your eyes, please."

Intrigued and delighted Nick seemed happy with her suggestion, she waited. The sound of a pocket opening sounded loud within the office. What was Nick doing? He could never have known she would ask for a wedding. _Could he?_

"Open your eyes."

Nick knelt on one knee in front of her. He took her hand in his, raised it to his lips and kissed her palm. Tingles sparked in a very particular part of her body, which she just knew was going to play a large role in lesson three. Maybe lesson two if she could convince him to fast track her education in Terran mating habits.

He looked into her eyes. "I love you, Andra. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? We'll travel to far distant stars and live our lives together as one."

He opened a small, blue-velvet box. On a bed of light blue satin lay a ring set with a clear stone. As he removed it and placed it on her finger, fire flashed from its depths.

"It is a thing of beauty. Thank you, Nick. And — I love you too."

With absolute certainty that she liked these Terran feelings, she leaned forward to meet his lips. Soft as starlight, the kiss was a sweet promise.

Finally, they drew apart. He held her hands, his thumb playing with the ring on her left hand. "The stone is a blue-fire diamond, exquisite and as rare as its owner."

"Blue-fire? Like my ship!"

"Like your ship — and our home."

Tenderly, he placed his arm around her shoulders. This man who meant the Earth and stars to her drew her to the window. Vibrations from powerful thrusters preparing their departure from his planet rumbled through the soles of her feet. They were departing from the planet he had helped to a new lease of life. One day they would bring their children back to Earth and show them where beginnings were made but for now, the highway of space lay open before them, with the promise of adventures. Together.

As the docking station fell away, Earth's clouds parted and her blue oceans beckoned like a promise. A new life for Earth and their new life together.

Surely a touch of Christmas lingered in the air.

### MEET THE AUTHORS

### Elizabeth Ellen Carter

('Three Ships')

Biography

A future with words was always on the books for Elizabeth Ellen Carter who started writing her own stories when she ran out of Nancy Drew mysteries to read at the age of ten. Using her mother's Olivetti typewriter with all italic keys, she spent endless school holidays making up her own (italicised) stories and then using the Dewey Decimal System to arrange and categorise her bookshelf.

Somewhere around the age of 13, she determined to become a journalist and at 17 was awarded a newspaper cadetship. She covered news, council, education and health but had the most fun as an entertainment and features reporter covering film, TV and music.

Best of all, she met her husband at the newspaper and, together, they started a small award-winning media, marketing and advertising agency. Today, she works as marketing manager for an international organic skin care company.

In 2012, Elizabeth also returned to the keyboard to write stories (and found laptops are so much better than manual typewriters).

Her debut novel, Moonstone Obsession, was shortlisted for the 2013 Romance Writers of Australia's Emerald Awards for unpublished manuscripts.

Elizabeth is a member of the Romance Writers of Australia, the Australian Romance Readers Association and the Gold Coast Writers Association. She is currently published by Etopia Press.

Bibliography

Moonstone Obsession by Elizabeth Ellen Carter ( _Etopia Press_ )

Warrior's Surrender by Elizabeth Ellen Carter ( _Etopia Press_ )

Coming: Moonstone Conspiracy by Elizabeth Ellen Carter (2015)

Contact Elizabeth Ellen Carter

<http://eecarter.com/>

<https://www.facebook.com/ElizabethEllenCarter>

<https://twitter.com/EECarterAuthor>

<http://www.pinterest.com/eecarterauthor/>

### Warrior's Surrender

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

November 2014

Published by Etopia Press.

A shared secret from their past could destroy their future...

Northumbria, 1077. In the years following William the Conqueror's Harrying of the North, Lady Alfreya of Tyrswick returns to her family home after seven years in exile. But instead of returning victorious as her dead father had promised, she returns defeated by Baron Sebastian de la Croix, the Norman who rules her lands.

To save her gravely ill brother's life, Alfreya offers herself hostage to her enemy. As Alfreya gets to know her new husband, she finds he's not the monster she feared, and their marriage of convenience soon becomes a bond of passion. But Sebastian is a man with a secret — one that could destroy him.

As a series of brutal murders haunt the land, the man who betrayed Alfreya's father returns claiming to be her betrothed. He has learned Sebastian's secret and will use it to further his own ambition, mark Sebastian as a traitor, and plunge an unprepared England into war with the Scots.

### An Excerpt From Warrior's Surrender

By the light of the fire she could see the abandoned chair. To see the second chair Frey must peer around the door.

It too was empty.

Frey frowned. Did she doze and Sebastian slipped past her unseen? She took a further step or two into the room and looked.

The bed was...

Before Frey could complete the thought, she was grabbed roughly from behind and held firmly against a man's broad chest. A large hand covered her mouth and suppressed an involuntary scream.

The man recognised her and relaxed but did not remove his hand.

"You picked the wrong night to slit my throat while I slept, princess."

Sebastian's whispered voice filled her ear. He held her still for long moments before speaking.

"Are you recovered? You will not scream?"

Frey nodded and shook her head in answer to each question and she was released, her heart pumping furiously.

"Do you suggest I pick some other night then?" she said, wiping her mouth to rid the sensation of his hand.

Sebastian ignored her barb and poured a small measure of spiced wine into his goblet. He handed it to her and watched as she drank.

"Why do you assume the worst of me?" she asked.

"Habit," he answered, arms folded across his chest. "Now tell me what you're doing in my chambers while others sleep."

"I have to speak to you."

Sebastian's eyebrows rose in surprise. It might have been scepticism, but Frey couldn't be sure.

"And it couldn't wait until morning?"

All of a sudden Frey's courage left her and she wondered if her senses had taken leave of her too.

She was an unmarried woman, alone, late at night in the bed chamber of a man whose mere presence made her feel powerful sensations that she struggled to understand. What on earth was she doing?

She shook her head softly.

"This was a mistake."

As she turned to leave, Sebastian grabbed her wrist.

"It's a mistake to not finish what you start."

### MEET THE AUTHORS

### Noelle Clark

('Sands of Time')

Biography

Noelle Clark is an Australian author of contemporary romance and commercial historical fiction novels. Her books weave romance, intrigue, and adventure into colourful and often exotic locations around the world. Widely travelled, Noelle uses real life experience of places, culture, and people as a backdrop to her stories, giving the reader an authentic taste of the location. Her novels feature strong, mature heroines and heroes, who — often without knowing it — are ready for new beginnings.

She lives close to the sea and shares her home with two cats and two dogs. She has two grown up children, and five very small grandchildren. When Noelle's not writing and travelling, she plays guitar, tends her vegetable garden, enjoys the company of family and friends, and — of course — reading.

Noelle is a member of Queensland Writers Centre; YON Beyond Writing Group; Romance Writers of Australia; and Australian Romance Readers Association, and is currently published by Etopia Press and Secret Cravings Publishing.

Bibliography

'Let Angels Fly' by Noelle Clark ( _Etopia Press_ )

'Rosamanti' by Noelle Clark ( _Etopia Press_ )

'Robinhill Farm' Series:

'Honor's Debt' by Noelle Clark ( _Secret Cravings Publishing_ )

Coming: Books 2 and 3 of 'Robinhill Farm' (March 2015 and July 2015)

Contact Noelle Clark

http://www.noelleclark.net

<https://www.facebook.com/NoelleClark.Author>

<https://twitter.com/noelle_clark>

<https://plus.google.com/+NoelleClarkBooks/posts>

### Honor's Debt

(Book 1 of Robinhill Farm Series)

by Noelle Clark

Available November 2014

On a quest to make amends for a long-ago indiscretion, Honor unexpectedly discovers the one thing she's been missing in her life.

Honor Quirk arrives in Ireland excited — and a bit anxious — about meeting up with the estranged family of her late great-grandmother. The welcome from the residents of Robinhill Farm, Dermot and Bryan, is confusing and far from comforting. One is warm, the other aggressive. The outwardly antagonistic Bryan makes it very clear he doesn't want her there, branding her a gold digger. Dermot, on the other hand, is delighted to meet her.

### An Excerpt From Honor's Debt

"Em, Honor." He cleared his throat. "My guess is you're wonderin' why it is that I've turned up here."

Her hand, holding a spoonful of porridge, was midway from the bowl to her mouth. "Course I am. Surely it's not just a coincidence." She hadn't meant her words to come out all snarky, but they did. She'd grown accustomed to the verbal battles with Bryan, and now it was second nature for her to be ready with a barbed retort even when, on rare occasions such as this, there was no need. "Sorry... I didn't sleep well."

She felt foolish and lowered her eyes.

"Ah, I don't blame ye for hatin' me. I've been a total jerk." He reached out and placed his hand on hers. "I've come here to... apologize. I'm truly sorry for the way I've behaved."

She felt her eyes widen as she looked at him, and something about the tone in his voice made her heart melt — just a fraction — well, maybe just soften slightly. Here he was, her nemesis, her enemy, her cousin who was always so... angry. And he was apologizing? For some ludicrous reason, a surge of affection for this grizzly, difficult man, washed through her.

"Bryan, I..."

"No!" He squeezed her hand. "I've been bullish and horrible, and here you are still mourning the recent loss of your Nan. I've been a right bastard, Honor, and I'm very sorry."

That was it. Suddenly her eyes misted over, and she blinked, hoping he hadn't noticed her unbidden show of emotion. The flame of embarrassment heated up her cheeks. For a moment she thought this man before her must be an imposter. It didn't even sound like Bryan. This man's voice was warm and — dare she say — kind.

A laugh, one that sounded like a mixture of a blub and a laugh, burst out from her. Shocked, she didn't know what to say. "OK, whoever you are. What have you done with the real Bryan?"

His face transformed into that of a handsome man, and the smile that lit up his eyes adorned his mouth as he tilted his head slightly to one side. "Indeed, it is I, your ladyship, humbly begging your forgiveness."

### MEET THE AUTHORS

### Eva Scott

('All That Glitters')

Biography

Eva Scott writes contemporary romance set in her homeland of Australia and historical fiction set in the Ancient World. Her books offer passion and adventure in some of the most beautiful and intriguing places in the world. Her heroes and heroines are strong, sassy and ready to rise to their challenges, and learn a little bit about themselves along the way.

Having lived overseas for several years, Eva returned to study Anthropology before heading off to live in Papua New Guinea for a year. There she met the love of her life, author GW Gibson, who was stationed there with the Australian Defence Force. The rest is history, romantic history.

She now lives on the Redcliffe peninsula with her husband, small son and an assortment of animals. When Eva is not writing she enjoys mentoring first-time authors, cooking up a story, practising yoga and getting out on the bay on her stand-up paddle board.

Eva is a member of Romance Writers of Australia; North Lakes Writers Group; Queensland Writers Centre and Australian Romance Readers Association. She is published by Musa Publishing and Harlequin Escape.

Bibliography

'Reluctant Wedding Planner' by Eva Scott ( _Musa Publishing_ )

'T'was the Night Before Christmas' by Eva Scott ( _Musa Publishing_ )

'The Marriage Makeover' by Eva Scott ( _Musa Publishing_ )

'The Last Gladiatrix' by Eva Scott ( _Harlequin Escape_ )

'Barbarian Bride' by Eva Scott ( _Harlequin Escape_ )

Coming:'Red Dust Dreaming' (April 2015) ( _Harlequin Escape_ )

Contact Eva Scott

<http://www.evascottromance.com/>

<https://www.facebook.com/eva.scottromancewriter>

<https://twitter.com/EvaScottWriter>

### Red Dust Dreaming

by Eva Scott

Coming April 2015

Published by Escape Publishing

Elizabeth Langtree's safe, orderly life is turned upside down when her family sends her to Australia to collect her orphaned nephew. The brief seems simple enough — travel to the middle of nowhere, collect Luke and leave. Elizabeth falls under the spell of the Outback — and of Caden Carlyle, the dangerously sexy owner of Kirrkalan Station. She must choose between duty and the dictates of her heart. She stands to lose everything if she makes a mistake.

### An Excerpt From Red Dust Dreaming

"I know nothing about Luke's so-called inheritance." He spread his hands wide. "As far as I knew Angela died penniless so how could I seduce you to get what I didn't know existed?"

He had a point she reluctantly conceded. If he didn't know about the money... "Then you seduced me because you could."

Caden frowned. "I seduced you because I wanted to and I believed you weren't entirely opposed to the idea."

She looked away confused by his frankness. Some part of her didn't want to believe he could actually want her for herself. No one ever had. There was always some modus operandi most often getting close to her father or one of his cronies. The promise of wealth, power and status always seductive. Caden was king of Kirrkalan. He held all the power and seemed to have little need for wealth. Could he really want her?

Lizzie screwed up her courage and looked into Caden's face. She could see no trace of guile, no hint of manipulation or the suggestion he might be hiding something. In fact his expression was one of complete openness and trust. He trusted her. She had no idea why. She was the one with the secret and the father from hell."I wasn't," she said finally.

"I didn't think so." He smiled then and something melted a little inside her, gave way. "How about you go get dressed and I'll make us a drink. I think we need to discuss Gerald Langtree in more detail."

She nodded and turned towards the door. "I have something to tell you too. "The words tumbled from her lips.

"I know," he said crossing his arms over his chest.

"Really?" She turned back in surprise.

"I get the feeling you Langtrees like intrigue and secrets so I figured there's got to be more to the story."

"There is," she nodded. "You'd better make mine a double."

### MEET THE AUTHORS

### Susanne Bellamy

('A Touch of Christmas')

Biography

Susanne's heroes have to be pretty special to live up to the real life one she married. He saved her life then married her. They live on the edge of bush land on a mountain in beautiful sunny Queensland, Australia with two children and their dog. She writes contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels set in exciting and often exotic locations.

Paris will always be one of her top spots, she fell in love with Scotland when they visited the west coast (nothing to do with fine single malts!), and recently had her first real trip to Italy — tick off one Bucket List item! She has enjoyed New Year in Kathmandu and trekked in the Annapurnas, sailed in Ha Long Bay on a junk, and stayed on a floating hotel beside a tethered elephant in Thailand. The Peak in Hong Kong and Mt Faber cable car ride in Singapore are favourite spots. Susanne loves travelling to new places and exploring the culture and history, and meeting new people. These experiences are gradually being incorporated into her stories.

Her as yet unrealised dream is a trip into Earth's orbit.

Susanne is a member of Romance Writers of Australia and enjoys mentoring new authors. She is currently published by Escape Publishing, and will be a 2015 release author with Entangled Publishing.

Bibliography

'White Ginger' by Susanne Bellamy

'One Night in Sorrento' by Susanne Bellamy

'Engaging the Enemy' by Susanne Bellamy ( _Escape Publishing_ )

Coming: 'Emerald Quest: Winning the Heiress's Heart' by Susanne Bellamy (January 2015)

'Her Mountain Man' (2015) ( _Entangled Publishing_ )

Contact Susanne Bellamy

<https://www.facebook.com/susanne.bellamy.7>

<https://twitter.com/SusanneBellamy>

<http://www.susannebellamy.com/>

<http://www.pinterest.com/susannebellamy/>

### Engaging The Enemy

by Susanne Bellamy

August 2014

One building, two would-be owners and a family feud that spans several generations: all relationships have their problems.

Andrea de Villiers can't lie to save herself. But when developer Matt Mahoney buys the building she and a friend have established as a safe house in the Melbourne CBD, she decides that protecting The Shelter is more important than her aching heart. She will confront Mr Mahoney, and she will emerge victorious. There are no other options.

But Matt has other plans for Andie, and she soon finds herself ensnared in a web of well-meaning lies and benevolent deceit. To protect the building and the families that depend on her, Andie agrees to play the part of Matt's fiancée, and play it convincingly.

But lies soon bleed into truth, and what was once a deception starts to feel all too real. Can Andie accomplish her goals and protect The Shelter, without losing her heart to the charming Irish developer?

### An Excerpt From Engaging The Enemy

Andrea de Villiers couldn't have orchestrated the accident better if she'd planned for a year instead of just one night.

Cocktails and hors d'oeuvres were almost finished as she edged closer to the group of Melbourne's wealthy charity patrons and supporters and lined up her tray of drinks with Matt Mahoney's chest.

One second to launch.

She took a deep, steadying breath and stepped forward.

His blonde companion's arms drew a giant circle in the air, collided with the edge of her tray and Mr Mahoney, corporate developer and all-round jerk, was instantly wearing expensive champagne as an accessory to his Armani dinner jacket.

Round one to Andie.

Served him right for refusing to meet her. He brushed futilely at his shiny lapels and a thrill raced through her.

I did it.

Andie-never-puts-a-foot-wrong-de Villiers had done the unthinkable. If only she could tell him who she was, her triumph would have been complete.
