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The Reunion Of A Lifetime
Fiona Lowe


They once had a summer of passion…But is it too late to walk down the aisle?Lauren Fuller hasn’t seen Charlie Ainsworth since he unexpectedly left Horseshoe Bay twelve years ago and burst their bubble of love. Now he’s back, and working together at her GP practice is torment – their chemistry reminds Lauren how good they were together. And when she learns the tragic truth that drove him away, can it finally reunite them forever?







They once had a summer of passion...

But is it too late to walk down the aisle?

Lauren Fuller hasn’t seen Charlie Ainsworth since he unexpectedly left Horseshoe Bay twelve years ago and burst their bubble of love. Now he’s back, and working together at her GP practice is torment—their chemistry reminds Lauren how good they were together. And when she learns the tragic truth that drove him away, can it finally reunite them forever?


FIONA LOWE is a RITA® and RUBY award-winning author who started writing romance when she was on holiday and ran out of books. Now, writing single title contemporary romance for Carina Press and Medical Romances for Mills & Boon, she lives in a seaside town in southern Australia, where she juggles writing, reading, working and raising two gorgeous sons with the support of her own real-life hero! Readers can visit Fiona at her website: fionalowe.com (http://www.fionalowe.com).


Also by Fiona Lowe

Her Brooding Italian SurgeonSingle Dad’s Triple TroubleCareer Girl in the CountrySydney Harbour Hospital: Tom’s RedemptionLetting Go with Dr RodriguezNewborn Baby For ChristmasGold Coast Angels: Bundle of TroubleUnlocking Her Surgeon’s HeartA Daddy for Baby Zoe?Forbidden to the Playboy Surgeon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


The Reunion of a Lifetime

Fiona Lowe






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07507-7

THE REUNION OF A LIFETIME

© 2018 Fiona Lowe

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Tamara for sharing her heartbreaking journey with Finn.

With special thanks to Madeleine and Cate for the mud story.


Contents

Cover (#u0ca46a74-3ee1-591f-bc2c-67e2fcbf35b4)

Back Cover Text (#ud6bd75fa-cc1b-58a2-a487-c30e9b58277f)

About the Author (#ue6261935-c3da-5a48-a306-29ab41915672)

Booklist (#u82895afd-13af-5538-9312-5b6ca80135b8)

Title Page (#u44955c3d-e2ec-55f9-aef9-9afe58cef9d2)

Copyright (#u3423b0b1-801e-5a37-919d-4d3b161ad115)

Dedication (#ue001db4a-bc87-5d83-82d7-b72633269473)

CHAPTER ONE (#uf6110685-e0a2-5e35-9709-f57b158b38ff)

CHAPTER TWO (#uc6174f95-49c4-5937-bd7a-97e7fb9c3550)

CHAPTER THREE (#uf400dad9-52e5-5ffd-8aac-ff539dfb3c84)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#u4816e45c-c225-541b-88ab-bed514c6f87d)

‘IT’S RED DAY.’

‘Red day?’ Dr Lauren Fuller’s hand paused in mid-twist on the yellow lid of a jar of Vegemite. She was minding Shaylee—her parents’ current foster-daughter—while Sue and Ian were up in Melbourne, celebrating their thirty-third wedding anniversary.

‘For reading,’ Shaylee explained. ‘We wrote a real letter with a stamp and everything. Today we’re walking to a big red letterbox. Mrs Kikos says it’s really old.’

Lauren knew the postbox. It dated back to 1890, when Horseshoe Bay had been a popular holiday destination and people sent postcards to tease the folks at home. Now everyone just texted. ‘That sounds like fun.’

She grabbed the toast as it popped up and swung back towards the table, dodging Cadbury, her parents’ aging chocolate Labrador, who had decided he needed to lie right at her feet. After dropping the toast on a plate, she pulled the scrambled eggs off the heat seconds before they boiled. Breakfast at her own house was a much less hectic affair, consisting of fruit and yoghurt, and, if the planets aligned, a quiet online read of the paper.

The eight-year-old girl’s gaze suddenly dropped past her new green and white checked school dress—her pride and joy—before resting on her bare feet. Shaylee mumbled something else about red.

Lauren scooped the eggs out of the pan and dumped them over the toast she’d spread with Vegemite. Her mother had been insistent that Shaylee eat a high-protein breakfast before school to help her with her concentration. Lauren knew that wasn’t the sole purpose; it was as much about warmth, love and a full stomach as it was about concentration. Shaylee had spent far too many years going hungry when her drug-affected mother’s suppressed appetite and muddled brain hadn’t considered food a necessity. ‘Sit up and eat your brekkie and tell me what you just said.’

Shaylee eyed Lauren carefully as she climbed up onto the breakfast stool. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course it matters,’ Lauren said with a smile. She’d grown up with a parade of foster-children coming and going in the house and, as hard as that was at times to cope with, if she’d learned one thing, it was that the muttered asides usually contained the most important information.

Shaylee shovelled eggs into her mouth and Lauren waited. The moment the girl swallowed, Lauren said, ‘Hit me with it.’

‘We have to wear red,’ Shaylee said quietly, her head down. ‘But it’s okay. I love my uniform.’

Lauren’s heart rolled over. This little girl had endured so many disappointments in her short life that she automatically prepared for them now. It was odd that Lauren’s mother hadn’t made a costume for her before she’d left for Melbourne—Sue was huge on things like this. Surely the school had sent home a note about it? But that was something to sort out later. Right now, she had...she glanced at the clock and tried not to groan...half an hour to create a red costume before dropping Shaylee off at school and getting to the clinic on time. ‘You eat your eggs and I’ll go and see what I can find that’s red.’

Her first stop was the bathroom. At the back of the cupboard she found four cans of coloured hair spray, all of dubious age. She picked up the red one and shook it. It sounded hopeful, although she hoped it was fire-engine-red or it wouldn’t show up on Shaylee’s glossy black hair. Her second stop was the floor-to-ceiling cupboards in the playroom-cum-teenage retreat. Dragging an old hospital linen bag along the polished floorboards, she walked back into the kitchen just as Shaylee finished her last mouthful.

‘What’s that?’ the little girl asked, clearly intrigued.

‘Sue’s special bag of tricks.’ Lauren pulled open the drawstring and started pitching out items—a pink feather boa, a black ushanka fur hat with a red badge, a green fez, an old handbag, a royal-blue waistcoat... As she added more items to the pile, Lauren found herself silently chanting ‘Come on, red,’ like a roulette player.

Meanwhile, Shaylee was twirling around the kitchen, wearing the Russian hat and a stethoscope. ‘Look, I’m a doctor just like you.’

Lauren glanced at the bright red instrument in surprise. It must have been tangled up in some clothing, because she hadn’t seen it come out of the bag. If anyone had asked her about that piece of medical equipment, she would have said she’d binned it at the end of her first year of uni after replacing it with a utilitarian black stethoscope. Apparently not. It appeared she had abandoned it here and her mother, ever a magpie when it came to the bag of tricks, must have kept it for dress-ups. Lauren had deliberately not thought about the red stethoscope in years.

Twelve years.

Shut up! How do you even know that?

It was too long ago and far too much had happened in her life for her subconscious to instantly calculate the number. Especially as the day she’d bought the replacement black stethoscope had been the day she’d moved on from Charlie Ainsworth. At least that was what she always told herself on the infrequent occasions something made her think back to that heady summer a lifetime ago.

‘Stethoscopes are like wands,’ Charlie had said, slinging a red one around her neck and pulling her towards him before kissing her.

She’d gazed up at him, loving his kind and handsome face. ‘They’re magic?’

‘I wish,’ he’d said in a resigned tone, ‘but no. They do, however, reflect personality and you, Lauren Fuller, are the antithesis of boring old black. This one is bright and vivacious, just like you. This is the one.’

Lauren felt herself grimace at the now tarnished memory and immediately noticed Shaylee’s smile fade. Damn. She banished the mothballed memory back where it belonged and forced a smile as she kept rummaging in the bag. ‘The stethoscope looks great on you and, ta-dah!’ With relief, she shook out a red sequined cape. ‘You can be Super Shaylee.’

‘Yay!’ Shaylee clapped her hands as a look of wonder crossed her face. ‘I’m gonna be dressed in red like the other kids.’

Lauren blinked back tears. Why was it always the simple things that undid her? ‘You’ll be totally red, especially when I’ve sprayed your hair.’

* * *

After dropping a very excited Shaylee off at school, Lauren drove to the café nestled under the Norfolk pines on the sweet curve of Horseshoe Bay. Her usual morning routine was a run along the beach and on Tuesdays and Thursdays she added in a yoga class, but the one constant was coffee. This morning it was just coffee.

‘You missed a spectacular sunrise.’ Ben, the barista and café manager, greeted her with his trademark grin.

And I missed you. Sun-bleached hair and with a surfer’s tan, Ben had moved to the Bay three months ago to run the café. Most mornings as she finished her run, he was walking up the beach with his board tucked under his arm and they always fell into easy conversation. Everything about Ben was easy. This was a new experience for Lauren, because the two men she’d thought she’d loved had turned out to be anything but easy. But that was all in the past and not worth revisiting.

As far as Lauren was concerned, she’d wiped clean her slate of disastrous relationships when she’d returned to Horseshoe Bay two years ago. Determined to learn from her twenties, she was older, wiser and ready to live life on her own terms. The last year had been frantic, most of it spent breathing new life into a busy medical practice that had let the twenty-first century pass it by. Now, with her newly minted decree absolutedeclaring her officially divorced from Jeremy and with her heart encased in a protective layer of reinforced Perspex—visible but crack-proof—Lauren was finally ready for an easy, straightforward and uncomplicated man.

Truth be told, she was ready for sex. Just recently, she’d been waking up at three a.m. hot, sweaty and aroused, and although she was adept at bringing herself to orgasm, she was ready for someone else to do it. She just didn’t want a relationship with its inevitable breakdown and crippling scar tissue as part of the deal. Ben, with his ‘live for the moment’ and ‘no regrets’ attitude, might just be the solution she was looking for.

The stumbling block was that at thirty she’d only ever had sex as part of a committed relationship. Correction; she’d been committed—Charlie and Jeremy not so much—and she was clueless about how to bring up the topic of a no-strings-attached gig. Of course, she could just use a dating app but the two recent cases on the news where women had lost their lives from swiping right warned her she was safer with someone she knew. But in a town the size of Horseshoe Bay, her options were limited.

‘I was on mothering duty this morning,’ she said, pulling out her purse to pay for her latte.

Ben did a double take. ‘I didn’t know you had a kid.’

‘I don’t,’ she said, checking the Perspex around her heart and not letting her mind travel to a memory that always brought a troubling combination of sadness and disappointment seasoned with an unsettling soupçon of relief. ‘I’m looking after Shaylee while my parents are whooping it up in Melbourne celebrating thirty-three years of wedded bliss.’

‘Crikey.’ Ben’s expression was a priceless combination of respect and horror. ‘I can’t imagine what that would be like. My brain refuses to go there.’

‘I know, right? They got married at twenty-three and are still going strong. It’s terrifyingly impressive.’ So much about her parents and their achievements was impressive that she was often left feeling daunted by her own choices. How did one even start to live up to their high-set bar?

He placed the metal jug under the steam jet, frothing the milk for her brewing coffee. ‘I think I’d find marriage claustrophobic.’

Was this her opening? Come on, be brave. Be a millennial woman like the ones you read about and take what you want. ‘Sexually or otherwise?’

He shot her a quizzical look as if he was testing the lie of the land. ‘A bit of both, really. What about you?’

‘Post-divorce, I’ve had a total rethink.’ She swallowed and forced herself to look him straight in his sea-green eyes. ‘What’s your opinion of friends with benefits?’

‘I’m an enthusiastic supporter.’ He capped her coffee with a plastic sippy top and gave her a grin. ‘And we’ve been friends for a while now.’

‘We have.’ For some reason her heart was just beating away normally: lub-dub, lub-dub. Shouldn’t it be bounding wildly out of her chest at the fact that the gorgeous Ben was on board with the idea of the two of them tumbling into bed?

He handed her the coffee and swept the coins she laid on the wooden counter into the till. ‘Call me whenever, Lauren. I’m looking forward to it.’

‘Great!’ She heard herself saying, sounding far more enthusiastic than she felt. For some—probably antiquated—reason, she’d assumed Ben would be the one to contact her. Yet this way he was letting her call the shots and after two disastrous relationships, wasn’t that what she wanted? Demanded even?

Gah! Perhaps she wasn’t as twenty-first-century evolved or as ready for casual, no-strings-attached sex as she’d thought.

* * *

Charles Ainsworth—‘Boss Doc’ to the islanders, Charlie to his friends and on very infrequent occasions to his family—swore as the lights in the operating theatre flickered. ‘Bert filled the generator, right?’ he asked as he slipped a ligature around a bleeding vessel.

‘No worries, boss.’ A dark eyed man with a bush of frizzy hair gave him the thumbs-up from the door. ‘I fill ’em up. No be in the dark this time.’

‘Excellent.’ Charlie might be in what travel magazines called ‘paradise’—a string of tropical, palm-dotted coral islands floating in an aquamarine sea—but from a medical perspective, he was in a developing country and a disaster zone. During the recent cyclone, he’d had to perform emergency surgery on a boy who had been pierced by a stake that had been hurled into his chest by the terrifying and mighty force of the wind. Mid-surgery, they had predictably lost power, but he hadn’t foreseen the generator running dry or him finishing the surgery with Bert and Shirley holding LED torches aloft.

Just another tough day in paradise but at least the kid had survived and only half of the hospital had flooded. If the Red Cross managed to deliver desperately needed medical supplies today, he might be able to breathe more easily. As it was, air was skimming in and out of the tops of his lungs without going deeper and his body was coiled tight, ready to react to the next disaster. He’d been in a constant state of high alert for two weeks.

It’s been longer than that.

He shook away the thought. Emergency aid work was, by definition, disaster management, and he had the dubious honour of being an expert. Once the powers that be recognised someone with the skills they needed, they locked onto them and never let them go. Not that he wanted to be let go—he lived for being busy. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

He stepped back from the antiquated operating table that even on its highest extension was too low for his height, stripped off his gloves and rubbed his aching back. ‘Wake him up,’ he said to his current anaesthetic nurse, a local islander who had blessedly trained in Melbourne. ‘And keep a close eye on the drainage bottle.’

‘Sure thing, Charlie,’ Shirley said, her teeth a flash of white in her dark and smiling face. ‘You get some sleep now, yeah?’

He laughed; the sound as far removed from jolly as possible. ‘I’m going down to the wharf.’

‘I see your eyes close. You need sleep.’ She gave an islander shrug—the one that implied it will be what it will be. ‘You can’t will the boat to come.’

‘I can try.’ He wasn’t about to explain to Shirley that there was no point in trying to sleep, because sleep no longer came. If insomnia had been a visitor in the last few months, it had taken up residence since the cyclone had hit. For the last two weeks he’d only cat-napped. An hour here, a half-hour there, all squeezed in between medical emergencies, general hospital work and helping the islanders clean up the havoc Cyclone Samuel had wrought on them. Although some aid had arrived, it was going to take months for the replacement of vital infrastructure. Not that he’d be around to see it. By then he would have been moved on, dispatched to another place of need and leading another team.

He walked into the basic change room that all the staff shared and stripped off his scrubs. He was shoving his left leg into his shorts when the room shifted and he shifted with it, banging hard into the old metal lockers and jarring his shoulder. What the hell! Was it an earth tremor? He righted himself and listened keenly for rumbling but all he heard was birdsong. He was no rookie at natural disasters and birds didn’t sing when there were tremors. Nothing sang then; every animal and insect went deathly silent—the anthem of impending doom.

Trying again, he lifted his right leg, aiming it at the leg hole in his shorts. This time silver spots danced in front of his eyes and then the floor shifted again. He flung out an arm to steady himself and sat down hard on the bench seat. Sucking in some deep breaths, he closed his eyes and waited for the floaters to vanish.

‘You okay, boss?’ Bert asked, suddenly appearing in front of him. ‘You don’t look so good. You need a smoke?’

‘Don’t tempt me, Bert.’ Charlie gave him a grim smile. ‘I just need to eat.’ But just the thought of food made him feel queasy, let alone trying to eat any.

Men’s shouts rent the air, sliding in through the open window, and Charlie’s empty stomach fell to his feet. He didn’t understand a lot of Bislama and his French was tourist-competent, not medical literate, but the last time he’d heard a commotion like this they’d found an islander who’d been trapped under rubble for three days. Despite the joy in finding the man alive, Charlie had been faced with the task of amputating the patient’s crushed leg in the hope of saving his life.

‘Grab my medical kit.’ Charlie lurched to his feet, taking a moment for his head to stop spinning.

‘No, boss!’ Bert grinned at him. ‘This good news. Come on.’

He followed Bert’s brightly coloured shirt through the door and down a short corridor until they were both outside and in the glare of a fearless sun. Under the wind-stripped and almost naked palm trees Charlie glimpsed heaven—a group of men and women dressed in fresh and clean Australia Aid uniforms. All of them clutched the distinctive and life-giving red and blue medical packs. At the back of the cluster he recognised the distinctive height of Richard di Stasio—his boss.

Relief carried him towards them, his long strides steady. ‘You lot are a sight for sore eyes. That is, if you’ve brought IV fluids and antibiotics.’

‘Would we dare turn up without them?’ Richard shook Charlie’s hand and his dark eyes did one of those quick head-to-toe assessments that emergency medicos specialised in. ‘You’re looking a bit rough, Charlie.’

He shrugged as they walked inside. ‘It’s been tough. You saw what’s left of the town on your trip from the wharf? Or what’s not left of it, to be more precise. Half the hospital’s out of action and we’ve got limited power. The fuel for the generator’s dangerously low, the sat phone’s dodgy and I’ve got three patients battling septic shock.’

‘You look a bit shocked yourself.’

‘Nah.’ He ran his hand through his hair and suddenly realised it was longer than it had been in years. ‘No more than usual.’

Richard shook his head. ‘You look like you’ve dropped at least five kilos. Possibly more.’

‘The joys of a fish and taro diet. Listen, Richard,’ he said, suddenly gripped by urgency. ‘I’ll happily give you a full report as soon as I’ve administered those antibiotics to my three sickies.’

‘Keith can do that. You’re handing over to him and then you’re getting on the boat to Port Vila and going home.’

No! Every part of Charlie stilled. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. There’s still mountains of work for me to do here.’

Richard sighed. ‘You know the rules, Charlie. First response teams get pulled out after two weeks when second response arrives.’

‘Hell, Richard, you know as well as I do that you’re the first response team, not me. The only reason I’m on Pipatoa is because I came for a few days of diving after teaching the emergency trauma course in Port Vila. Two days after I arrived, Samuel blew up and I got stuck here.’

‘That’s irrelevant. The bottom line is you’ve done the job of first response without the back-up of a trained team. It doesn’t take a medical person to see you’re completely exhausted. God, man, have you slept at all since the cyclone?’

‘I’m fine,’ Charlie ground out. ‘Besides, you’ve got me pencilled in for Ghana next week, right?’

‘That was before you lived through the most savage cyclone to hit the area in forty years.’

‘So?’

Richard’s brows rose at the belligerence in Charlie’s voice. ‘So, HR’s been on my case because you haven’t taken any leave in eighteen months. Now you’ve lived through the cyclone, the psych’s waded in.’

Charlie’s head ached and his gut cramped. ‘I don’t want to take leave. I want to go to Ghana.’

‘Neither of us has a choice in the matter. Even if HR weren’t getting antsy about your accumulated leave, you’re mandated to take time out of the field and attend three post-disaster counselling sessions.’

‘Hell, Richard, I’m not going to get PTSD.’

‘You know as well as I do no one’s bulletproof. The rules exist to protect Australia Aid workers. As an employee, those rules apply to you.’

‘But you’re the boss.’ Charlie hated the frantic pitch to his voice. ‘You can pull strings.’

Richard shook his head. ‘Not this time, mate. Besides, it’s not the end of the world. There are worse times than summer in Australia to go home.’

It was never a good time to go home. Not that he considered Australia home anymore, or anywhere else for that matter. ‘How long am I on enforced leave?’

‘A minimum of six weeks.’

‘What?’ His bark of disbelief bounced off the walls and came back to bite him.

‘Longer if the psych isn’t happy with your progress, but I’m sure you’ll be back in action before Easter.’ Richard gave him a fatherly clap on the shoulder. ‘Look on the bright side. Your family will be happy to see you.’

‘Oh, yeah. They’ll be thrilled,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Any chance the psych will visit me in Bali?’

Richard laughed, completely missing the point that Charlie was deadly serious. ‘Send me a postcard from that joint you summered in as a kid. I’ve always thought it sounded like a place I should take my kids.’

Charlie stared at Richard, stunned that he’d even remembered that conversation—hell, he’d forgotten all about it. He guessed it had taken place about three years ago, on the night of ‘the anniversary’. He’d found himself with a bottle of Scotch and, a little while later, Richard for company. He hadn’t told his boss the significance of the date—hell, he never told anyone that—but to prevent Richard from asking too many probing questions about why one of his best trauma surgeons was uncharacteristically nursing a bottle of top-shelf liquor, Charlie had entertained him with stories about his childhood summers on the coast.

He’d used words to paint pictures of the old rambling house on top of the cliff, the white sandy beach far below that squeaked when the sand particles rubbed together, the seventy grey weathered wooden steps that led down to the sea and the roar of the surf that filled the air with the zip and tang of salt. He’d waxed lyrical about the exhilaration of catching a wave and riding it all the way in to shore.

Horseshoe Bay. He hadn’t thought about the place in years. Despite growing up in the privileged leafy suburbs of Melbourne with every possible advantage, his happiest memories were the holidays at Bide-A-While. He’d spent every long, hot summer there and he and his brother had run wild—swimming, surfing and beachcombing—the sun bleaching their hair white and darkening their skin to honey brown.

When he’d turned sixteen, they added bonfires on the beach and parties to their repertoire. He’d shared his first kiss at Horseshoe Bay. He’d ecstatically given up his virginity in the dunes with—God, what was her name? Other than a flash of white skin illuminated by moonlight, he couldn’t form a picture of her, but then again it had been eighteen years ago. His body sagged as the elapsed years unexpectedly clawed at him.

A memory of luminous almond-coloured eyes ringed by jet lashes bloomed in his mind and he smiled. Lauren. He may not remember the other girl he’d had his first fumbling sexual encounter with, but it was impossible to forget Lauren. She’d been his saving grace in the worst summer of his life. Old regret ached but he was an expert at ignoring it. It was pointless questioning why life threw curve balls and disrupted the good things. Turning away from the melancholy memories of Lauren, his mind darted to find something to soothe his intense disquiet about returning to Melbourne.

Bide-a-While! While he worked out his appointments and organised a real holiday somewhere far, far away from that southern city—one that fitted in between the obligatory counselling sessions—he’d ensconce himself with Gran down at Horseshoe Bay. With its clear views to the horizon, and a solid two-hour drive from Melbourne, it might just be the wide safety buffer he needed between him and his parents.


CHAPTER TWO (#u4816e45c-c225-541b-88ab-bed514c6f87d)

LAUREN TOUCHED THE hands-free green button on the car’s console and answered her mobile. ‘Hi, Mum. How was The Langham?’

‘Just gorgeous! But, darling, I’m so sorry about the red costume.’ Sue Fuller’s voice boomed around the car. ‘Apparently, school notes are going out of fashion and I need to download an app. Anyway, Shaylee refuses to take off her costume and Dad and I want to cook you dinner as a thank-you. Can you make it?’

If anyone ever offered to cook for Lauren, she accepted in a heartbeat, because at the end of long and busy days, rustling up the energy to cook often failed her. ‘Dinner sounds fabulous. But fair warning, I missed lunch so I’m starving.’ She flicked on her indicator, slowed, turned left and immediately changed down into first gear as the car took on the extremely steep gravel road. ‘All things being equal, I should be there by six-thirty. I’ve only got one house call left.’

‘Have you seen Anna Ainsworth?’ Sue asked, suddenly sounding more like the district nurse she was than her mother. ‘I didn’t like the look of her leg on Tuesday.’

‘I’m driving to Bide-a-While now.’

‘You’re doing a home visit? Is she okay? She’s one of my naughtier diabetics and in typical Ainsworth style she won’t be told anything.’ Her mother warmed to one of Horseshoe Bay’s favourite themes—the locals’ opinions of the well heeled Melbourne-ites who owned holiday mansions in the town. ‘You’d think that as the mother of an eminent surgeon, she’d be better behaved. Then again, we all know how Randall Ainsworth likes to throw his weight around and how the rules don’t always apply...’

‘Mmm,’ Lauren hummed noncommittally as her mind drifted back to a summer a long time ago. Don’t go there, her subconscious commanded. Do. Not. Go. There.

When Lauren had taken over the Horseshoe Bay practice, she’d been stunned to learn that Charlie’s grandmother had not only left her Toorak home and retired to the house on the cliff but she was now a clinic patient. Not that she’d met Charlie’s grandmother twelve years ago, or anyone else in his family for that matter, just like Charlie had never met her parents—some things were best kept secret.

Horseshoe Bay had two populations—the small, permanent one, and the transient tourist population that swelled the seaside village by thirty-five to one each summer. The relationship between the locals and the tourists was a symbiotic one, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t without its tensions. Stories, some dating as far back as the First World War, cautioned local women about getting involved with tourists. For every positive outcome, there were more than fifty negative ones and most of those revolved around the pocket of big houses high on the hill—the enclave of real wealth.

Growing up, Lauren had absorbed the lesson—have fun with the holidaymakers in the camping ground but don’t get involved with anyone on Shore Road unless you want to be used and then abandoned.

As a teenager, she’d mostly avoided the bonfires at the far end of the beach where the rich kids played, although she had been to a couple, reluctantly dragged along by girlfriends who had dreamed wide and big and had inevitably got hurt deep and long.

She hadn’t met Charlie at a bonfire or even at the Milk Bottle Café where she’d worked that summer—another favourite haunt of the rich kids. They’d met on a grey and humid afternoon when only the keen or stupid surfers braved the elements, pinning their hope on a fabled storm wave and the ride of their lives.

As the two of them had lain on their boards with their eyes glued to the water, they’d chatted. He’d made her laugh and she’d had the same effect on him, and when the edge of the storm front had hit, it had gifted them five amazing waves. They’d ridden them competitively, trying to outdo each other, yet at the same time urging each other on to do their best. Then the rain hit, the wind driving each drop as sharp as the slice of a razor, and caution had kicked in. Once on the shore, Charlie had grabbed her hand and they’d run, taking shelter in a cave.

Sitting at the entrance, they’d watched nature’s picture show of lightning jagging its yellow glow across the horizon, complete with the soundtrack of cracking thunder. After two hours together spent laughing and talking about all sorts of things except themselves, he’d leaned in and kissed her.

She’d been kissed before but never like that. His warm and eager mouth had captured hers, making her body melt like chocolate and sizzle with so much heat she’d expected to combust in a shower of sparks. It had been a defining moment. Then and there, she’d chosen to ignore the little details she’d picked up on during the afternoon, like the fact his surfboard and wetsuit had come from the top end of the range. That his accent had been devoid of diphthongs and that his mention of visiting overseas countries had hinted that travel was such an ordinary part of his life that he didn’t even question it.

Instead, she’d told herself he was just ‘Charlie’ and for the rest of that summer they had spent as much time together as her part-time job had allowed. She’d refused to examine the fact she was keeping him hidden from her family and friends and that he was doing the same to her. Nothing had mattered except the exclusive and private bubble-for-two that they’d inhabited, filled with joy and delight.

And then the bubble had burst.

Twelve years ago. You let it all go, remember? Focus on the here and now.

Unfortunately, the here and now involved treating Anna Ainsworth—a woman she’d never in a million years expected to have as a patient. The families of Shore Road only used the local medical practice if it was an outright emergency and even then the Ibrahims and the Foxworths owned their own helicopters and could fly someone to Melbourne and their own doctor in twenty minutes. But Charlie’s grandmother now lived permanently at Bide-a-Whileand, given her age, required regular medical attention.

Anna Ainsworth wasn’t the sort of woman who whipped out photos of her family during a consultation and Lauren had never deviated from the professional doctor-patient relationship and asked about Charlie. Up until seeing the red stethoscope the other day, she hadn’t thought about Charlie in a long time and, besides, asking about him would likely only generate questions from Anna about how she knew her grandson. Lauren had kept their relationship a secret this long and there was no reason to admit to it now.

Lauren had never visited Anna at home before but when Lauren matched up the fact the woman hadn’t rung to cancel today’s appointment with Sue’s concerns about her leg, she’d decided a home visit was required. The car crested the hill and there in front of her were the intricate iron gates at the entrance to the Bide-a-While acre. The gates were open and, going by the growth of weeds at the base of the pillars, it would appear this was their normal state these days. ‘I have to go, Mum. Talk soon.’

Lauren navigated the car along the agapanthus-lined gravel driveway, the large and heavy white and purple flowers waving in the breeze, and she gave a delighted gasp when the beautiful and immaculately white-painted Victorian house came into view. She parked adjacent to the glorious wraparound veranda that cast long shadows of welcome shade across the treated red gum boards, and the late afternoon sun turned the corrugated-iron roof into a dazzling silver light show.

She automatically imagined women from a hundred years ago wearing white muslin dresses and men in starched collared shirts sitting in the cane chairs, sipping G&Ts after playing tennis on the grass court. Today the veranda was empty except for an aging beagle, who waddled off his bed and ambled to the top of the five steps. He gave her a half-hearted bark as she hoisted her medical bag out of the boot.

‘It’s too hot for that sort of nonsense, buddy,’ she said, leaning down to rub his ears before she pressed the brass door bell. While she waited for the sound of footsteps, she admired the beautiful red and blue painted glass panels around the door.

‘Dr Fuller? Lauren. Goodness, this is a surprise.’ Anna Ainsworth, still regal at eighty-one, peered at her through her glasses. ‘Do come in, dear.’

‘Thank you.’ Lauren crossed the threshold and found herself standing in a wide hall with deep skirting boards. ‘I was concerned when you didn’t come to your appointment, especially when Mum...’ She smiled and corrected herself. ‘The district nurse was worried about you.’

The elderly woman’s hand fluttered to the base of her throat. ‘I’m so sorry to have worried you. It’s just with everything that’s happened today, the appointment completely slipped my mind.’

Lauren followed Anna into a spacious living room complete with an open fireplace and a mantelpiece filled with silver framed family photos. ‘Is this the best place to examine you?’

‘Why not?’ Anna’s blue eyes, pale with age, sparkled with mischief. ‘It’s a room with a view that’s far more interesting than my leg.’

Lauren laughed and flicked open her bag. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I get excited when I see healthy skin where an ulcer is healing. I’ll start by testing your blood sugar. How’s it been?’

Anna grimaced. ‘Up and down, like my blood pressure. I had the sniffles last week and at my age it seems to put everything out of whack. I find it utterly frustrating,’ she said imperiously, as if the virus was very rude indeed to be causing her problems.

The glucometer beeped. ‘Eleven point two. That’s high.’

‘Oh, that’s just because of the tiny glass of champagne I drank.’

‘Champagne?’ Lauren tried not to sigh and unwrapped the blood-pressure cuff.

Anna leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘There are special occasions in life when celebrations are more far important than a spike in blood sugar.’

‘Like what?’ Lauren asked as she pumped up the sphygmomanometer, deciding it was best to find out exactly what the circumstances were before reading the Riot Act.

‘Like my grandson arriving unexpectedly.’

In her stunned surprise, Lauren only just caught the diastolic blood pressure reading as her heart did an odd skip in her chest. She immediately told herself not be ridiculous. Anna Ainsworth probably had many grandsons and even if this one was Charlie, he probably now came with a wife and two point five kids.

‘I haven’t seen him in over two years,’ Anna continued, ‘so I’m sure you’ll agree that’s very worthy of a few sips of champagne.’

‘Lauren agrees, but Dr Fuller is a little torn,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Now, let’s look at this leg.’ She slid a bluey under Anna’s calf to protect the couch’s beautiful Australian wildflower print, before slipping on some gloves and carefully removing the dressing. The skin around the small ulcer was angry and two tiny black dots worried her. She carefully debrided them and reapplied the occlusive dressing. ‘That’s to stay in place for a week, Mrs Ainsworth, and I need you to promise me two things.’

‘Oh, dear,’ the woman said, her eyes twinkling again. ‘I’m not very good at keeping promises if they’re dull and boring.’

‘Oh, these are totally exciting, I promise,’ Lauren said. ‘The first is, when you’re sitting down, put your leg up every time. The second is, call me if your blood sugar is higher than eight.’

‘Lauren, dear, I think we have definition disparity about what constitutes exciting.’

‘Not really. If you don’t do those two things, you risk requiring a skin graft and spending a couple of weeks in hospital...’ While she’d been talking, she’d gathered up the dressing waste, rolled it up in the bluey and shoved the contents into a bag. Now she tied it with a flourish. ‘Now, that would be boring.’

‘You doctors,’ Anna grumbled good-naturedly. ‘You do like to win. And I should know, I’m surrounded by them.’

Lauren was about to give in to overwhelming temptation and ask how many Ainsworths were doctors when a tall, gaunt man with a mop of sandy hair and a slightly darker beard appeared in the doorway. Her stomach knotted half in disappointment and half in relief—this grandson wasn’t Charlie.

His entire demeanour—from the tilt of his head, past the slight sag of broad shoulders and all the way down to his wide, bare feet—emanated ingrained and longstanding fatigue. His blue eyes—so like Anna’s and yet disturbingly less vibrant—were glassy and bloodshot. Lauren couldn’t tell if he’d just woken up, was depressed, or if he’d consumed the bulk of the champagne and was, in fact, very drunk.

‘Gran, where do you keep the—? Oh, sorry. I didn’t realise you had a visitor.’

Lauren tensed as the rumbling voice with a raspy edge raised her skin in goosebumps. Stop letting your imagination run wild. You know it’s not Charlie. You’d recognise him instantly if it was. Yet she’d swear there was something about his deep voice that held the vestiges of velvet that had stroked her all those years ago.

He was staring intently at her now—probably because she was staring just as intensely at him. His gaze narrowed as if he was closing out all distractions and zeroing in on her and her alone. Suddenly, the sapphire blue of his eyes, which a moment ago had been pale and insipid, lit up like refracted sunshine on water.

It’s him. Flashes of fire and ice raced through her—hot, cold, hot, cold—until she tingled all over. She didn’t know if she was shivering or sweating, only that her body was alive in a way it hadn’t been in twelve long years. That alone scared her rigid. No, damn it. Just no. Despite not wanting to, her gaze automatically sought his left hand. No wedding ring. So what? I really don’t care.

Anna, seemingly immune to the locked and loaded glance crackling with electricity that currently ran between her GP and her grandson, said, ‘Charles, darling, this is my doctor, Lauren Fuller. Lauren, I’d like you to meet another doctor who is also my grandson, Charles Ainsworth.’

‘Lauren.’ His voice rolled over her name, the tone as warm and as addictive as hot caramel sauce. Then his deeply lined face creased in a smile—an older and wearier version of the smile she’d never been able to completely forget. With a quickness that belied his previous lethargy, he pushed off the architrave and strode across the room, his long legs eating up the distance in four fast strides.

Lauren barely had enough time to stick her hand out in greeting, but he ignored the gesture and was instead dipping his head down towards her as if he was about to kiss her. The bolt on the box she’d labelled ‘Charlie’ and buried deep all those years ago blew wide open. All the hurt and betrayal rose in a spurt of bile, scalding the back of her throat. How dare he think he could just swoop in and kiss her after all this time after what he’d done to her heart?

She instinctively—protectively—took a step back and ducked her head. All the while she kept her hand outstretched as much as a stop sign as in greeting. ‘Pleased to meet you, Dr Ainsworth,’ she said crisply and professionally, as if she was meeting him for the first time at a conference. She mentally dubbed him Charles as extra insurance.

Her brusque manner was a solid entity and it filled the space between them. He rocked back on his bare feet, his smile fading until his lips settled in a firm, flat line. A deep V was carved between his dark eyebrows—their ebony so at odds with the rest of his fair colouring—and then the light in his eyes dimmed and vanished completely. The previous stranger with the almost blank affect was back. ‘Actually, it’s Mr Ainsworth.’

Of course it was. Their time together had been on the cusp of his medical career and Charlie—Charles—had mentioned a vague plan of one day working with his father in cardiology. Unexpectedly seething with an anger she’d assumed had faded and aged into acceptance a decade ago, she jerkily zipped up her medical bag. ‘It’s probably a long time since you’ve dealt with the less exciting aspects of medicine, Mr Ainsworth.’ She hit his title with emphasis. ‘But your grandmother’s blood glucose readings are currently all over the shop. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t offer her any more champagne or cake to celebrate your return.’

‘You’re planning on killing the fatted calf, aren’t you, Gran?’ Charles deadpanned. ‘It’s totally diabetic friendly, Dr Fuller, so we’re all good.’

Unbidden laughter bubbled up inside her, just like it always had when she’d been in his company. The memories of how easily he’d made her laugh and smile—how quickly he could talk her out of a bad mood—circled her, tempting her to follow a well-worn path. It’s an overgrown path filled with briars and weeds.

Lauren cut off the laughter. It morphed into a hard lump sitting uncomfortably in her chest and reminding her how easily he’d broken her heart. Her spine stiffened. She was no longer eighteen—hell, she wasn’t even twenty-four—and only a fool failed to learn twice from her mistakes. She was no fool.

‘Please ring the surgery in the morning, Mrs Ainsworth, and make an appointment to see me next Thursday.’

‘I promise,’ Anna said with a little nod to their previous conversation. ‘But don’t be too hard on Charles, dear. I was the one who suggested the champagne and he’s—’

‘I’ll see you out, Dr Fuller,’ Charles said abruptly.

Lauren had already slung her medical bag over her shoulder and moved to the door. ‘That’s not necessary.’ But his hand was on the small of her back and his heat was swirling through her, stealing both her words and her willpower. Without knowing exactly how it happened, she was standing by the front door and he was standing a foot away from her, studying her as if she were a fascinating scientific specimen.

His lips curved slightly—only this time it looked as if the effort to smile was almost too much. ‘We’ve met before, although the last time you saw me I was considerably younger and I didn’t look quite so...’

Worn out and faded? What on earth had happened to the energetic twenty-three-year-old she’d once loved? But she didn’t want to wonder and she had no intention of asking. Engaging with him would at best achieve nothing and at worst upset her. Desperate to get out of the house and away from the unwanted memories his presence was currently breathing life back into, she reached for the polished brass doorhandle.

‘I find it hard to believe you don’t remember me, Lauren.’

The mild thread of arrogance that underpinned his bemused words acted like a stiff breeze. The angry coals she had banked years ago flared into life. ‘Whereas I find it hard to believe that you do.’

‘Of course I remember you,’ he said softly.

She could almost see his memories in the words, but she couldn’t believe him—didn’t trust herself to believe him. Moving decisively, she was quickly out the door and jogging down the steps to her car, determined not to look back. Fortunately, he didn’t follow her. If she had anything to do with it, this was the first and last time she’d be in conversation with Mr Charles Ainsworth.

* * *

Charlie lacked the energy to run along the beach and was slightly aghast at the fact that Basil, his grandmother’s aged beagle, was walking faster than him. It was as if touching down on Australian soil had drained him of all his vitality. His body felt encased in mud and all movement was an effort. He wanted to blame jet-lag for the fact he woke at two each morning, unable to get back to sleep, but who was he kidding? Vanuatu time was only one hour ahead of Australian Eastern Standard Time, so that excuse didn’t cut it.

Apart from his first compulsory session with the counsellor and a quick visit to see his brother, he’d spent almost no time in Melbourne. Harry was much the same—thinner perhaps than the last time Charlie had seen him but just as quiet. Charlie had sat and told him about being on enforced leave. Harry had listened, his face impassive apart from a muscle twitch near his eye. He’d not offered an opinion, but that was par for the course. Charlie hadn’t expected one.

There was no point lingering in Melbourne so, after leaving Harry, he’d hired a car and driven straight down the coast to Bide-a-While. Now he stared out at the horizon, scanning the calm seas for fins—preferably those of dolphins—and breathed in deeply, willing the salt air to magically invigorate him. With not even the hint of a wave, the bay was empty of its usual cluster of wetsuit-clad surfers and their boards eagerly anticipating the perfect ride.

Charlie vaguely entertained the notion of stand-up paddle boarding, but he couldn’t muster the enthusiasm. It seemed like a lot of effort to climb back up the stairs to Bide-a-While,get the key, open the shed, find the board, pour himself into a wetsuit and finally get out onto the water.

Last night, Gran had suggested he walk into town early and buy coffee and the paper. He knew it was a just ploy to get him out of the house and into the fresh air, because she had a state-of-the-art Italian coffeemaker in the kitchen, plus he thought she still had the paper delivered. Still, he had to admit that being out on the beach as the sun rose beat thrashing about in bed, seeking sleep that never came.

Good old Gran. She’d welcomed his unannounced visit with open arms and thankfully with a distinct lack of questions—for now. He’d caught her studying him every now and then, worry clear in her eyes, and he hated that. He’d tried to reassure her—‘just following the rules, taking some leave and satisfying the shrink that I came through the cyclone with my head intact’—but even he didn’t totally believe his own spin. Cyclone or no cyclone, being back in Australia and without work to keep him busy and his mind full meant the past had a horrible way of sneaking up on him.

It hadn’t taken long for the past to insert itself. Last night, the nightmare he’d thought he’d finally banished had visited, laughing at his naiveté. It turned out it had been languishing in the wings, just waiting for him to land on bright red, Aussie soil before making a grand entrance. During its dormancy, it hadn’t change in shape or form. It was still him and Harry trapped in caves, wells, mines, barrels—any sort of container, vessel or space. They’d fight their way to the entrance, the surface, freedom, and he’d break through and turn to grab Harry’s hand to tug him over the line, only to have his brother pulled away from him at the last moment and vanish in front of his eyes.

The nightmare had released him from its clutches in its age-old way—he’d woken with a start, drenched in sweat, his lungs tight, his chest heaving, and with the sheets tangled around his legs. He hadn’t been able to save Harry in real life so why did he expect to be able to do it in a dream?

Although Gran was yet to grill him on work, it was obvious she was on a mission to fatten him up. Since he’d arrived three days ago, every meal had featured at least one of his favourite foods. As yet, none of them had piqued his appetite. It was still MIA along with sleep. So far, the only event to spark his interest had been meeting Lauren Fuller again.

Never in a million years had he expected to find her still in Horseshoe Bay, let alone working as the GP. During that amazing summer twelve years ago, she’d been high on the excitement of starting her medical degree and he remembered her discussing plans to work in indigenous communities. Horseshoe Bay was the antithesis of a desert community or even an indigenous coastal one. Still, all that talk had been a long time ago and plans could change—his certainly had.

Seeing her again had given him a few rare moments of pleasure and it had pierced the numbness and fatigue he was struggling to throw off. He’d felt more alive in those few minutes than he had in weeks. Granted, the feeling had been tempered by her obvious displeasure at seeing him. It was a reaction that still confused him. Despite closely examining his memory in the early hours of the last two mornings, no matter which way he came at it, his recollections of their time together only ever generated a collage of fun, laughter and sex.

Love.

He immediately shied away from the word. Love only brought pain and when he thought of Lauren that emotion was absent. No, he had a deep and abiding affection for her. She’d helped him get through a tough and difficult time and for that he’d never forget her. More than once over the years he’d regretted having to leave her behind. Back then, staying in Australia had been impossible—that hadn’t changed.

Despite knowing that, it hadn’t been enough to prevent him, in more disconsolate moments over the last ten years, from contemplating what his life might have been like if he’d stayed. Stayed with Lauren. But he knew those thoughts were flights of fancy. Even without the disaster that was his family and the fact they’d both been far too young and on the cusp of their adult lives to make a lifelong commitment, he was too difficult to love.

But all those details aside, the fact Lauren had intimated he’d forgotten her had thrown him. It hadn’t only been excitement at seeing her again that had propelled him across the room to her; it had also been lo—gratitude. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world for him to lean in and kiss her on the cheek. After all, that’s what old friends did, right?

Apparently not. Her unanticipated frostiness had not only shocked him, it had spiked him, denting his enthusiasm and leaving him feeling foolish. He’d immediately fallen back into old Ainsworth habits. In a moment he still regretted, he’d gone for one-upmanship. He shuddered whenever he thought about his supercilious tone. ‘Actually, it’s Mr Ainsworth.’

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, half expecting a text from his grandmother asking him to pick up something for her in town.

Nice of you to let us know you’re back in the country. I didn’t appreciate being made to look a fool when Alison Petty said she’d seen you after visiting your brother and I told her she must be mistaken. Your mother would appreciate a visit.

His father, he noted wryly, didn’t waste text characters on greetings or sign-offs. Then again, it was no real surprise as he didn’t use them in telephone calls, emails or face-to-face conversations either. Randall Ainsworth, MBBS, FRCS, PhD had little time for pleasantries—after all, he was a very busy man. As for Charlie’s mother appreciating a visit? The jury was still out on that and had been for a long time.

He slid the phone back into his pocket, trying to ignore the unwanted and sticky tug of the complicated web that was his family ties. Visiting either of his parents and pretending that the accusations and angry words had faded into the past was pointless. They still hung in the air as fresh and raw as the day they’d been spoken in the ICU ward by Harry’s bed. He was intelligent enough to know that time would not have improved the odds of a visit going well.

Basil barked, the sound thankfully breaking into his unhappy thoughts and diverting him. Charlie watched in surprise as the dog broke into a run. To be accurate, it was more of a brisk waddle but it was faster than the beagle’s usual snail pace. He glanced along the beach and noticed a woman running towards them. Dressed in bright fluoro, she was impossible to miss.

Charlie set off after Basil, knowing that not everyone loved dogs, even harmless arthritic ones. He didn’t have the energy to deal with an angry resident quoting beach by-laws at him. As he got closer, he noticed the runner’s figure—trim but soft and curvy in all the places that made him appreciate a woman’s body. He felt something shift inside and for the first time in months his libido sat up and took notice. Basil chose that moment to bark again and Charlie laughed, appreciating the dog’s good taste. The noise seemed to penetrate the woman’s concentration and, without breaking her stride, she turned her head towards the sound.

Lauren. Even with her face shadowed by the peak of her running cap, he’d recognise those rich brown eyes anywhere. He raised his hand in a wave and caught her momentary prevarication—she didn’t want to stop. Well, blow that. He wanted to talk to her and find out why she was being so prickly. ‘Morning, Lauren.’

If she wanted to ignore him, she was now stymied by Basil, who was waddling around her feet. She either stopped running or risked tripping over the rotund dog. Charlie decided right there and then that his unexpected wingman was getting a big, fat, juicy steak for dinner tonight. Lauren did an elegant sidestep and then stopped, bent and tousled Basil’s velvet ears. She didn’t look up.

‘Mr. Ainsworth.’

‘You used to call me Charlie.’

‘We’ve grown up, Charles.’

She rose gracefully, her full height bringing the top of her head level with his chin. A memory flashed of her curves resting neatly into his dips—the two of them interlocking like puzzle pieces—and how he’d always rested his chin gently on her hair, breathing in her scent. Apples.She’d always smelt of apples and he idly wondered if she still did.

A sensation akin to peace rolled through him at the memory. Those six precious weeks with Lauren had been a haven from nine months of hell. A temporary but welcome escape from his family life until he’d made the break permanent with a move overseas. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, despite the fact he thought her calling him Charles was unfair. ‘But don’t be surprised if I fail to respond when you call me that. My parents are the only people who use my full name and I rarely respond to them.’

‘Your grandmother introduced you as Charles the other night.’

‘Ingrained social etiquette. Generally, she calls me Charlie or Stupid, depending on what I’ve done.’

Lauren’s lips wriggled as if she was fighting a smile. ‘So, you get called stupid a lot, do you?’

‘Just enough to keep me grounded.’ He shot her a self-deprecating grin, hoping to be rewarded with a full smile. It didn’t happen and it struck him that his disappointment was out of proportion to the situation. Then again, all his reactions seemed to be out of kilter at the moment—they were either way too strong or not strong enough. For weeks he’d been unable to anticipate any of them and not working was making it worse. ‘I’m heading for coffee.’ He nodded towards the café. ‘Any good?’

‘As good as you get in Melbourne,’ she said, stretching out an arm before standing on her right leg and bending her left up behind her.

The action pulled her top tightly across her breasts and he couldn’t help but notice they were slightly fuller than he remembered, not that he was complaining. ‘I’m clueless on Melbourne’s coffee standards. I don’t think I’ve had a cup there in eighteen months.’

Surprise danced across her high cheekbones and her left foot hit the sand. ‘Really? I thought you lived there?’

He saw the curiosity bright in her in her eyes and he seized on it, hoping it was an opening. ‘Let me buy you coffee. We can fill each other in on the last twelve years.’

‘I don’t have all day.’

It was said without an accompanying smile and her resistance crashed into him, wave after wave. If he’d thought he might have imagined hostility when they’d met at Bide-a-While,he was under no illusions now. What confused him was why it existed at all. Although he remembered a lot of arguments that summer, all of them had been with his father and none of them with Lauren. ‘What about coffee and the potted version, then?’

She stood still for a second and then her gaze fell to the sports watch on her wrist. He crossed his fingers behind his back. ‘Ten minutes,’ she said, ‘but let’s go to another café.’

‘I thought you said this one was good, and look...’ he pointed to a bloke with sun-bleached hair who was setting up a sandwich board ‘...it’s open.’

‘The other one’s closer to work.’ In an abrupt action that mirrored her words, she broke into a jog.

‘Come on, Basil,’ Charlie said. ‘We’re going to have to run to catch up.’

* * *

Lauren sipped her latte at the small outside table and blamed running-induced hypoxia for agreeing to chat with Charlie. Charles, Charles, Charles. Who was she kidding? He’d always been Charlie and using the formal version of his name wasn’t enough to keep old memories—good and bad—at bay. Right now, she was banking on the fact that by agreeing to this ten-minute catch-up of the last twelve years she’d be off the hook. Afterwards, she could cheerfully decline any future invitations without appearing rude. To be honest, she was flummoxed as to why he even wanted to do this when he’d been the one to walk away without looking back.

‘So...married? Children?’ she asked, determined to control the conversation. It didn’t prevent her from steeling herself for the inevitable phone photos of blonde-haired, blue-eyed children in private school uniforms. Or a family shot taken at a resort in an exotic location somewhere. When she’d been younger and daydreaming the vision of her life, she’d never anticipated that she’d be the single, childless woman forced to make polite comments about other people’s children. Yet that was exactly what she’d become.

‘Let’s face it, Lauren. You fail at most things so why are you surprised you can’t get pregnant?’ Jeremy’s words wormed their way back despite her attempt to block them out.

‘No to marriage and children,’ Charles said in a tone that gave no hint as to how he felt about the situation. ‘I was engaged once for a bit, but...’ He shrugged. ‘It didn’t work out.’

Why? She was still processing the fact that he was one of a rare species—a single, good-looking, heterosexual male in his mid-thirties—when he added, ‘What about you? Married? Kids? Committed relationship?’

She swallowed as the shame she thought she’d banished came back to bite her. ‘Divorced,’ she said softly.

‘Ah. Sorry.’

‘Yeah.’ She sipped her coffee, not certain if she wanted his sympathy or not. ‘It’s not something I ever thought would happen to me but—’ Shut up. He’s not your friend. He doesn’t need to know.

‘Stuff happens that we can’t always control.’

Her head snapped up at his sombre tone. ‘That sounds like the voice of experience.’

His eyes suddenly widened into inky black discs. He shot to his feet, tossed the light café table sideways and grabbed her roughly, hauling her out of the chair. She slammed hard into his chest and her breath flew out of her lungs. Fear invaded her, stiffening her body and making her blood thunder through her veins. A scream rose to her throat but before it broke out she was slammed onto the ground and Charlie’s body was rolling hers over and over.


CHAPTER THREE (#u4816e45c-c225-541b-88ab-bed514c6f87d)

THE TERRIFYING SCREECH of brakes penetrated Lauren’s terror, followed by the high-pitched sound of shattering glass. Shards rained down on her. A car horn blared. The acrid smell of rubber burned her nostrils. Her body protectively stilled, every sense on alert, trying to decode the situation—ascertain safety. She opened her eyes and found herself looking straight up into Charlie’s cornflower-blue eyes, still dominated by high-alert black. His gaze reflected everything she was feeling—shock, relief and an overwhelming sense of urgency.

‘Okay?’ he asked, his voice trembling.

‘I... Yes. I think so.’

‘Thank God.’ He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed her hand. She found her footing amongst the glass and vaguely noticed a rip in her pants.

People ran towards them. A man she didn’t recognise—his face white with shock—gasped, ‘I thought you two were dead for sure.’

‘We’re fine,’ Charlie said, his voice suddenly loud and commanding. ‘We’re doctors. You call the police and ambulance. We’ll check on the others.’

‘Go to the doctors’ clinic,’ Lauren called out, her voice not quite as steady as Charlie’s. She pointed down the street in the direction of the surgery. ‘Tell Lexie I need the AED and the emergency kits. All of them.’

‘Emergency kits. Got it.’ The man turned and ran.

Lauren quickly assessed the devastation in front of her. The rear of a small four-door sedan was protruding from the café and the jagged remains of the huge glass frontage hung over it like stalactites. Her thoughts took the obvious path—were the car’s occupants alive? Horrifying reality cramped her gut. What about the people inside the café? Had the car hit any of the staff or customers?

Charlie, who was already at the driver’s door, looked up as if reading her thoughts. ‘Triage inside.’

She nodded and ran. Fortunately, the door to the café hadn’t buckled and it opened. Steve, the young barista, and another man stood stunned and rooted to the spot, their horrified gazes fixed on the front of the car. Lauren saw a pair of female legs splayed at a rakish angle and protruding from under the car. As she dropped to her knees, she said firmly, ‘Steve. Find me a torch. You...’ she pointed to the second man ‘...do a head count. Tell me who else is hurt.’

Both snapped to attention. ‘On it.’

A phone with the torch app activated was thrust into Lauren’s hand and she crawled under the car. ‘It’s Lauren,’ she said to the woman, having no idea if she was a local or a tourist. Dead or alive. Conscious or unconscious. ‘I’m a doctor.’

The woman didn’t move or make a sound. Lauren’s hand reached for the patient’s neck, her fingers seeking a carotid pulse. It took her a moment but she finally detected a faint and thready beat. Moving forward on her belly, she gained a few centimetres and somehow managed to check the woman’s pupils. Sluggish response to light.

‘Lauren!’ Charlie’s voice called out to her. ‘What have you got?’

‘Head injury and probable internal bleeding. Her breathing’s shallow but I can’t move or see enough to examine her.’

‘We need to pull her out.’

‘What about spinal injuries? Can’t you move the car back?’

‘Too risky. The front of the building might collapse. Here.’ His hand shoved a neck brace at her and she gave thanks for Lexie’s fast arrival with the emergency packs. ‘Put this on her.’

‘I need light.’

‘Got it.’ Charlie’s face appeared and he directed two phones towards her.

Lying on her side, Lauren’s fingers felt thick and clumsy, and while she fitted the brace she agonised over the compromises that always came with triage—save a life but risk exacerbating an injury in the process. ‘Brace on.’

‘Her name’s Celine. Can you support her head while I pull her legs?’

‘I’ll have to come out and go back in at a different angle.’

‘Do it.’ Charlie said. ‘Fast.’

Feeling like a trainee soldier, she wriggled out on her belly before re-entering so her head and Celine’s were next to each other. ‘Okay, but slowly.’

‘Got it. On my count,’ Charlie commanded. ‘One, two, three.’ The distance Celine needed to be moved wasn’t huge but it felt like miles. Lauren concentrated on keeping the patient’s spine in alignment. ‘And we’re clear,’ Charlie yelled. ‘She’s not breathing.’

Lauren rolled out from under the car as sirens blared. Charlie was already doing CPR and she grabbed the automatic emergency defibrillator. Ripping open the woman’s blouse, she quickly applied the electrode pads. ‘Clear,’ she said loudly. Charlie’s hands moved off Celine’s sternum and he held them up as if a gun were being levelled at him. She pressed the shock button. Celine’s body shuddered. Charlie recommenced CPR, counting to thirty before giving the patient two breaths.

‘Stop CPR. Analysing,’ the electronic voice of the AED instructed.

Charlie lifted his hands ‘Look at her trachea. Grab a cannula.’

‘Tension pneumothorax?’ Lauren handed him a fourteen-gauge needle and swabbed Celine’s upper chest. The pressure would be preventing her heart filling with venous blood. With nothing to pump, the heart was a fibrillating mess.

‘I’m hoping.’ Charlie plunged the needle into the skin between the second rib space in the mid-clavicular line and a faint whoosh of air followed. ‘Now we might be able to get her back.’

‘Clear!’ Lauren said loudly again, before depressing the shock button. Her eyes were glued to the liquid display. Thank, God. ‘Sinus rhythm,’ she said, catching the relief on Charlie’s face. ‘Good call.’

He shrugged. ‘We’re not out of the woods yet. You got this? I’ll check on the others.’

‘Sure.’ She inserted an IV and did another set of observations. Although Celine was breathing and her heart was beating, she was still unconscious. Given the trauma she’d experienced, being out of it could be a good thing but the doctor in Lauren knew her sluggish pupil response was a serious concern.

‘Do you need the helicopter, Lauren?’

She looked up at the familiar voice and smiled at her father, who was standing above her in his blue paramedic’s uniform. ‘Yes. Probable head injury and post cardiac arrest. She needs to go direct to The Edward.’

Ian pulled out his phone and made the call while Lauren helped his partner load Celine into the ambulance for the short trip to the helipad. As the ambulance drove away Lauren returned inside. Charlie was splinting a young girl’s leg and Lexie was handing out blankets. Her mother was sticking bright pink sticky notes on people, describing symptoms and seating them in chairs. The young barista was making coffee.

‘Who’s first?’ Lauren asked, ignoring the dull ache all over her body that was probably soft tissue bruising from colliding with concrete.

‘Jake Lawrence. He’s got a nasty cut to his arm. Do you want to stitch it here or at the surgery?’ Sue asked.

‘Here might be better.’ Lauren saw two police officers talking to an elderly man wrapped in a blanket who she assumed was the driver of the car. ‘There’s coffee and people need to stay together and talk so they can start to process it all.’

The next ninety minutes passed in a blur. Her father and his partner returned and transported the two patients with fractures to the hospital in Surfside. The police interviewed people who felt up to telling their version of events and while Lauren stitched wounds, she listened to people’s outpourings of shock and grief.

‘It came out of nowhere. One minute I was paying for coffee and the next... Crash. I thought a bomb had gone off.’

But amidst their trauma the locals’ concerns were for the tourist who’d taken the brunt of the accident. ‘No one expects to be injured when they’re drinking coffee on holiday. Will she be okay?’

‘I don’t know the full extent of her injuries,’ Lauren answered truthfully. ‘She’s got a struggle ahead.’

When there was no one else needing medical attention, Lauren finally came up for air and for the first time fully took in her surroundings. The line of chairs was now empty as people had either been taken to hospital or collected by family and friends. Police tape surrounded the car and blocked the entrance of the café—the blue and white checks declaring it an investigation scene. Steve was sitting with Sue and Lexie, drinking a well-earned coffee.




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