Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Dynamite Doc or Christmas Dad?

Dynamite Doc or Christmas Dad?
Marion Lennox


What does Dusty really want for Christmas?Extract from the Diary of Dusty McPherson, aged 10 I’ve never had a proper family Christmas. It’s always just been me and my mum Jess. But now I’ve met my cool Uncle Ben. He’s a doctor – just like my mum. I didn’t know him until recently, but now I’m starting to know what it’s like to have a dad around.Uncle Ben makes Mum smile, and I even caught them kissing. But when I told her she blushed! As soon as Christmas is over we’re going home. But if I’m a really good boy maybe Uncle Ben might want to come too?









Praise for

Marion Lennox:


‘Best of 2010: A very rewarding read.

The characters are believable, the setting is real,

and the writing is terrific.’

—www.dearauthor.com on

DATING THE MILLIONAIRE DOCTOR



‘I can’t imagine a hot Christmas, but you make this

one sound like such fun. It’s got a hero and heroine

I’m happy to cheer on and in whom I believe.’

—www.dearauthor.com on

CHRISTMAS WITH HER BOSS


Ben had Dusty on his shoulders. He was chest-deep in the surf, holding Dusty’s hands, and Dusty was falling forward in a practice dive. His first ever diving lesson.

He was going right under—something he’d always been afraid of. Spluttering and laughing. Being swept up and put on Ben’s shoulders to try again.

Like father and son.

Not quite.

Nephew and uncle.

It was more than she’d expected. More than she’d hoped for.

It was … just a little bit scary.

That was why she was here—lying on the sand, watching. The temptation to join them was almost irresistible, but she’d been chuckling with the two of them, being splashed, splashing in turn, when suddenly she’d stopped enjoying herself. She’d felt fear.

Had Ben guessed? She’d told them she was getting cold, but in truth it had been no such thing. Ben’s gaze had met hers, and there had been a flash of something between them.




About the Author


MARION LENNOX is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a ‘very special doctor’, Marion writes Medical


Romances, as well as Mills & Boon


Cherish. (She used a different name for each category for a while—if you’re looking for her past Mills & Boon Romances, search for author Trisha David as well.) She’s now had 90 romance novels accepted for publication.

In her non-writing life Marion cares for kids, cats, dogs, chooks and goldfish. She travels, she fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost). Having spun in circles for the first part of her life, she’s now stepped back from her ‘other’ career, which was teaching statistics at her local university. Finally she’s reprioritised her life, figured out what’s important, and discovered the joys of deep baths, romance and chocolate. Preferably all at the same time!



Recent titles by the same author:

THE DOCTOR AND THE RUNAWAY HEIRESS


DATING THE MILLIONAIRE DOCTOR


CITY SURGEON, SMALL TOWN MIRACLE


A BRIDE AND CHILD WORTH WAITING FOR


ABBY AND THE BACHELOR COP*** (#ulink_5f6253fd-480d-5893-a3b3-17552b5fc47d)




Mills & Boon


Medical


Romance **Crocodile Creek*** (#ulink_e489856f-f6f1-5fa4-9cd8-5fa7f01c2f89) Mills & Boon


Cherish

These books are also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk


Dynamite Doc

or

Christmas Dad?



Marion Lennox






















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


Dedication:

With thanks to the fabulous Meredith Webber,

whose passion for slithering things reaffirmed my commitment

to this story, and to Trish Morey, whose laughter is magic.


Dear Reader

Why do my Christmases always end in chaos? Every year I plan a beautiful Christmas, my detailed lists outlining tasteful table settings, inventive menus, glorious weather and great gifts. But every year … chaos. Glorious, wonderful chaos, with my family chuckling at my lists as they mix sausage rolls with salmon roulade, as they double the amount of brandy in the brandy sauce, as they rock with laughter when my mum gives me an ‘abdomeniser’—don’t ask, but apparently it’s because she knows I can use it …

My Christmas always turns to muddle, and in exactly the same way my hero and heroine, Jess and Ben, are stunned as Christmas brings love and life-affirming magic. They’re a man and woman whose Christmas chaos gives them what they need most of all—each other.

If you’re reading this before Christmas, then good luck with those lists. If you’re reading afterwards … Hooray—that was another muddle, and wasn’t it fabulous? Meanwhile, happy reading. Christmas and romance—my very favourite mix.

Marion




CHAPTER ONE


‘ALL I want for Christmas is a males-only island. One bearded Santa with all-male reindeer, dropping gifts of boys’ own adventure books without a girl in sight. Nothing else. While I waited for the Blythe baby I read of a monastery where they don’t even allow hens. Research it for me, Ellen. I’ll spend Christmas there.’

Ben Oaklander’s secretary was sorting the last of her boss’s documents into his briefcase. She didn’t blink. After working for Ben for five years, very little made Ellen blink. ‘You don’t need a monastery,’ she retorted. ‘Cassowary Island has cassowaries. There won’t be a lot else.’

‘Except a conference load of obstetricians. I’ll bet at least one’s female.’

‘If you don’t like women, why be an obstetrician?’

‘I like my mothers. I like my colleagues.’ Ben eyed his secretary and finally decided compromise was a good idea. ‘Thus I like you. I also like babies, whatever the sex. But that’s the end of my attachment.’

‘Yet you choose to date,’ she said, unruffled. She searched the desk for his USB stick and placed it in his briefcase. Back-up. Not that it’d be needed. Ben Oaklander was nothing if not meticulous. His keynote speech would be backed up four different ways, and he wouldn’t refer to notes once.

‘That’s it. Dating. Nothing more.’ Ben raked his long fingers through his dark, wavy hair, leaving it rumpled. Rumpled was Ben’s constant state. Sleepless nights delivering babies, plus a hectic research and teaching load meant crazy schedules, a constant five-o’clock shadow, shirts crushed from catnaps during long deliveries …

But his rumpled state made not one whit of difference to his innate sexiness, Ellen thought. It was no wonder he had woman trouble. Her boss was thirty-five years old, tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous. As an obstetrician known for non-interference, Ben spent a lot of time waiting. While he waited in the small hours he used the hospital gym and it showed. His body … well, a sixty-year-old secretary shouldn’t think what Ellen was thinking about his body.

And then there was his intellect …

Ben Oaklander was fast gaining a reputation as one of Australia’s foremost obstetricians. The invitation to be keynote speaker at the international obstetrics symposium—held in Australia this year for the first time—was a signal to the world that he was on top of his game.

But not ‘on top’ of women.

He’d dated seven women in the years Ellen had worked for him. Each time there’d been a hint of serious he’d walked away.

‘So what’s happened with Louise?’ she asked.

He sighed. And shrugged. ‘Louise organised herself a flight to Cassowary Island as a surprise Christmas gift to me. Then somehow last night a casual walk ended up in front of a jewellery shop. She pointed out the rings she liked. She pointed out that it was two weeks until Christmas. I thought … no use not being honest.’

‘Uh-oh,’ Ellen said. ‘Let me guess. She didn’t appreciate honesty?’

‘She hit me.’

‘Ouch.’ Ellen peered closer, saw the faint red mark across her boss’s strongly boned jaw. Winced. ‘That must have hurt.’

‘It did,’ he said, rueful. But also seemingly bewildered. ‘But it was totally undeserved. I spelled it out at the beginning. No strings.’

‘It’s a bit hard to stop strings forming,’ Ellen told him, returning to packing. ‘It’s nature. They just sneak up on you.’

Louise, the lady in question, was a thirty-four-year-old pathologist. She worked in the same hospital; she popped into the office often. Ellen had seen the normally single-mindedly professional pathologist glancing at Ben’s patients, at the mums-in-waiting, at the babies. She’d seen where Louise’s dreams were drifting, strings or no strings.

‘She’d make a lovely mum,’ Ellen said, a trifle wistfully. Her own children weren’t showing any signs of making her a grandma. She wouldn’t mind if her boss …

‘With someone else as dad,’ Ben said grimly, and snapped his briefcase closed. ‘Not me.’

‘What do you have against families?’

‘I have nothing for them and nothing against them. I just don’t have anything to do with them. Or women who want them. Which is why I’m staying on at Cassowary Island after the conference. The rest of the world can celebrate Christmas, and I’ll lie on the beach and wait for Santa to drop by with my Boys’ Own Adventure. That’s not to say I don’t wish you a wonderful Christmas,’ he said, hauling an exquisitely wrapped box from under the desk. ‘Merry Christmas, Ellen. Have a wonderful time.’

‘With my family,’ she said sadly. ‘You know I’d love you—’

‘No,’ he said. ‘And it’s time you stopped asking. I love you, Ellen, but even for you … even for anyone, I don’t do families.’

‘All I want for Christmas is my dad.’

‘That’s not exactly a practical wish.’ Jess was perched on the end of her small son’s bed, listening to his Christmas list with dismay. Until now Dusty’s Christmas list had been easy. Fire engine. Spider-Man outfits. Computer games.

She’d thought she had a couple of years until the troublesome teens, but lately they’d been showing signs of emerging. For Dusty wasn’t smiling with Christmas excitement. He was glowering, his ten-year-old face trying hard to look mature and solemn, not sulky and childlike. He wasn’t quite managing to pull it off.

‘You know your dad died when you were three,’ Jess said, as gently as she could. ‘Not even Santa can fix that.’

‘I know that,’ he said, intelligent kid speaking to slightly thick adult. ‘But all we have is three photos, and even they’re blurry. That’s what I want. A whole bunch of pictures. And other stuff. Pictures of my … my ancestors. And things. Real things. Like a cricket bat he used, so when Mike talks about his dad I can show him … something.’

So that’s what this was about, Jess thought. Mike Scott was Dusty’s new best friend. Mike’s dad had died of cancer last year and Mike’s mum, an anaesthetist, had moved to London to be closer to her mother. The two boys had become friends in the hospital’s after-school child-care programme, two ten-year-olds, smart as paint, both with dead fathers.

Difference? Mike had a lifetime of memorabilia. Dusty had three grainy photos.

Which was hardly surprising. Mike’s parents had been happily married. Jess was a single mum. She’d met Nate in her first year in medical school. She’d been desperately lonely and desperately unlucky, in her choice of boyfriend, in her choice of contraception, in … life.

She was much better at it now. Life. Somehow she’d scraped through medical school. Somehow she’d managed to raise a normally cheerful, healthy ten-year-old who hardly ever asked anything of her.

Who was looking at her now with the expression she knew well.

He seldom asked for anything, but when he did …

‘There’s nothing I can do about this,’ she said, knowing only an adult answer would do. ‘You know your father wasn’t ready to be a proper father when you were born, and you know he was killed when you were a toddler.’

‘When I was three,’ Dusty said belligerently. ‘There must be photos.’

‘There aren’t.’ She’d never been able to tell him the whole truth, that his father had never come near, had never seen his son, had even disputed fatherhood. ‘Dusty, we weren’t photo-taking people.’

‘Then someone else must have been,’ Dusty said, clinging grimly to his need. ‘When he was a kid.’

‘Your grandpa was a grouch,’ Jess said. Here at least she could be honest. Or a little bit honest. ‘I asked if he could let us see something of your dad’s childhood and he told me he wasn’t interested in sharing.’

And that summed up an appalling interview. Memories flooded back, Jess at twenty-one, using all her courage and failing. She’d hoped Nate had told his father about Dusty, or if he hadn’t … she’d hoped he’d be pleased he had a grandson. She’d hoped wrong.

She remembered standing in the marble hall of a house that had taken her breath away. Nate had been dead for three months. His child-support payments, tiny and grudgingly given but still desperately important if she was to keep studying, had stopped completely.

She’d known Nate’s family was almost obscenely wealthy. She’d known those payments would mean nothing to them, but they’d meant everything to her.

So she’d faced the old man-and watched him turn choleric with rage and disdain.

‘How dare you come near me with your lies and your schemes? My son would never have a child with the likes of you. Get out of my house; you’ll not get a penny out of me. Nothing.’

It had taken her two years to calm down, to find the courage to write. This time she’d enclosed a picture of Dusty, who looked just like his father, saying that even if he didn’t wish to help support Dusty, she’d like some kind of recognition that Dusty had had a dad.

She’d received a lawyer’s letter in response, threatening her with a defamation suit.

She could prove it in a minute, she thought. Nate had known it; that’s why he’d grudgingly paid child support. DNA testing would be conclusive, either from the old man or from Nate’s brother.

But what was the point? Prove paternity she already knew? Pay a fortune she didn’t have in lawyer’s fees?

Dusty needed to forget it, as she almost had. ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ she told Dusty now. ‘I know this is hard, but you need to accept that your dad’s dead. So’s your grandpa. There’s nothing left to show you of your dad’s family.’

‘You said Dad had a brother.’

‘He hardly talked of him. I don’t think they liked each other.’ She didn’t think the whole family liked each other.

‘So let’s find him.’

‘Dusty, he won’t want to see us. He’s probably grouchy like your grandpa.’

‘No, but we could see him,’ Dusty said. ‘It’d be like an adventure. Just … looking. I might be able to take a picture with my zoom lens. Then when Mike asks I can say he’s a secret and we had to sneak a look …’

And it’d be something to talk about, Jess thought. A game …

‘I’ll look him up on the internet,’ she promised. ‘I’ll see.’

‘It’s all I want for Christmas,’ Dusty said, belligerent. ‘To see my dad’s brother.’

‘What about a skateboard?’

‘Not even a new gaming console,’ Dusty said grandly. ‘And looking at an uncle would be cheap.’

Sneaking a photograph of this uncle wasn’t going to be cheap. It was free.

With Dusty in bed, she searched the internet and up he came. Ben Oaklander.

Nate’s brother was in Australia, and information about him was everywhere.

Apparently he was a doctor, an obstetrician, just as she was, only this guy was seriously good. He was five years older than she was, but about twenty years older in terms of career.

She remembered the first time she’d met Nate. He’d been studying law, and she’d been in first year medical school. Her friend introducing her as ‘my friend, Jess, who’s just started medicine.’

‘What, a save the world do-gooder like my sainted brother?’ Nate had snapped, but then he’d looked at her, focused, apologised for his bad manners and set himself out to be charming. Which had been very charming indeed.

His brother had hardly been mentioned again.

And here he was. Nate’s brother.

A do-gooder?

Not so much.

She was at a site advertising a conference being held in December, at somewhere called Cassowary Island off Australia’s Queensland coast. Keynote speaker, Benjamin Oaklander.

A biography.

One of Australia’s most eminent obstetricians. Youngest professor … Contributor to three texts, author of thirty journal articles. Top of his field. Highly regarded researcher.

A picture. He was dark where Nate had been blond. He was about the same height, though, standing tall among a group of colleagues at an award ceremony, and he had the same lovely eyes, a deep, azure blue. He was smiling straight at the camera, and that smile …

She remembered that smile. Dangerous.

But this would do, she thought. There was no need for sneaky zoom lenses when she could show Dusty this.

She closed the computer with a snap.

But then she thought—it wouldn’t do. She knew Dusty. He didn’t see the internet as real. He wanted real contact.

Maybe when he was older she’d try and contact this man.

She opened her laptop again.

That smile …



She was so over that smile. Just looking at it … the arrogance, the lies, the deceit. ‘I’ll take care of you for ever …’

Well, she’d looked after herself, she told that smile. There was no way any insidious smile could breach her defences. Once was enough.

‘Mum …’

Ouch. She flicked the backward arrow on the internet. It wouldn’t do to show Dusty a blank screen. He came up behind her, rubbing sleepy eyes. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Don’t ask questions,’ she managed, trying to sound Santa-Claus mysterious.

But he was already behind her, looking. ‘Oh, yum,’ he breathed. ‘Is that an island?’

She looked then—really looked. Cassowary Island, close to Australia’s Great Barrier Reef. A small research centre dedicated to cassowaries, with a privately run, wildlife rehabilitation sanctuary attached.

Nothing else, apart from an international-standard conference centre with eco-resort accommodation. Miles of glorious beaches, turquoise waters, rainbow coral, multicoloured fish, turtles, dolphins … Resort mantra: ‘Take only Photographs, Leave only Footprints.’ Oh …

‘Oh, Mum,’ Dusty breathed. ‘Are you thinking about holidays?’

‘Just dreaming,’ she said.

And suddenly she was. How long since she’d had a proper holiday?

She’d gone over her head into debt to finish her medical training. Then her mother’s health, always precarious, had failed even further. She’d died two months ago. This would be their first Christmas without her.

Christmas without her mother didn’t bear thinking of.

‘We might go somewhere,’ she said, glancing wistfully at turtles.

‘Why not there?’

‘It’s the other side of the world.’



‘It’d be warm.’

‘I guess.’ She could even afford it now, she thought. She’d been earning for a while now and with the sale of her mother’s small house … Maybe she could.

‘It says there’s an obstetric conference happening.’ Dusty’s face was alight with excitement. ‘Is that why you’re looking? The nineteeth to the twenty second of December. Mum, that’s cool. School finishes on the fifteenth.’

‘You don’t want to go to a conference with me.’

‘I bet we can’t afford to go unless it’s for work,’ Dusty said wisely. ‘You never do anything not for work. Or for Gran. Or for me.’

‘Maybe I can make an exception. We could find lots of places that are warm. Maybe you could ask for that for Christmas instead of finding out about your dad.’

And her son’s face closed. ‘I want to find out.’

‘Dusty, we can’t.’

‘You said we’d have two weeks’ holiday for Christmas. I bet we could find something out in two weeks.’

‘I’d rather go somewhere warm.’

‘Then let’s do sleuthing and then go somewhere warm,’ Dusty said, sliding his hand into hers. ‘We can sleuth really fast.’

‘Dusty …’

‘You have to help,’ Dusty said, smiling his gorgeous ten-year-old smile; the smile she’d disconcertingly just seen on the screen before her. ‘I bet you’d like photos, too. It can’t be nice not having any pictures of Dad. I’m sure you want some.’

She didn’t.

But then … she knew where Dusty was coming from. Her own father had died when she was twelve. The albums filled with pictures of her father holding her, playing with her, had assumed almost supernatural importance.

She tucked her son back into bed. Threatened him with no Santa if he didn’t stay. Went back downstairs and stared at a stranger’s smile; a smile that she knew like it was part of her.

Kill two birds with one stone? It looked a great conference.



She could ‘just happen’ upon Ben there, tell Dusty who he was, then they could have a week on the island when everyone left.

She glanced through the window into the night. Sleet was slashing the frozen streets.

Tropics. Turtles. Sun.

A wildlife sanctuary … She read a little about it. Apparently it was independently run by three women, fiercely passionate about their cause. The care and rehabilitation of injured wildlife.

Her father had been a park ranger. She’d been brought up with animals; with passion for their care.

Cassowary Island had been decimated by a cyclone fifteen years ago. Efforts were being made to re-establish the cassowary population; to restore the native flora and fauna.

Echoes of her childhood. Echoes of her father’s passion.

She’d love to go to this island.

And Dusty? He’d been silent and clinging since his grandmother had died. The need to find out about this uncle might be part of his grief, she thought. Insecurity. A need for a wider sense of family than just she could give him.

There was little chance that any Oaklander would give him any sense of family, she thought, but still … It might help if she showed him she was doing her best to help. The holiday itself would be wonderful for them both, and if they went to this conference he could see his uncle without it being a big deal.

Good idea, or an unmitigated disaster?

Or an unmitigated disaster?

How could it be a disaster? Ben Oaklander had no hold on her. He was nothing to do with her. She didn’t need him as she’d needed his brother.

So go take a look, show Dusty where he got his smile and then walk away. Even if Ben reacted coldly—which she’d expect—they’d have an awesome holiday afterwards to make up for it.

They might even have fun. Heaven knew, they deserved it.

It was only …



She glanced back to the computer, to the conference blurb. To Ben Oaklander’s image.

The Oaklander smile.

It was no longer dangerous—surely?

It couldn’t be.




CHAPTER TWO


SATURDAY morning a month later, they were halfway between the north coast of Australia and Cassowary Island.

Ben Oaklander was sitting not ten yards away from her.

She was feeling … weird. Confrontation wasn’t supposed to happen this fast.

The conference wasn’t due to start until Monday. A hover craft had been organized to bring delegates to the island on Sunday night, so the daily ferry was almost empty. It held a skipper, a deckhand, two elderly women who looked to be wildlife carers—the ‘Cassowary Island Habitat’ emblem on their jackets gave them away—and one solitary male who sat in the bow and read.

Who happened to be Ben Oaklander.

She’d known who he was the minute she and Dusty had climbed aboard. Dusty hadn’t noticed. He was blown away by the ferry, the sea, the prospect of what was before them, and the guy on the foredeck in casual clothes was a long way from the formal, suited headshot she’d shown him on the net.

But Ben’s profile was unmistakable. Jeans, T-shirt, faded trainers. A body to die for.

A true Oaklander.

Gorgeous.

Also aloof and arrogant.

He’d thanked the crewman who’d helped lift his impressive computer gear aboard, he’d assisted one of the elderly ladies who seemed to be limping, but he’d shrugged off her thanks, cut off her attempts to chat, settled in the bow and read.

His body language said, Leave me alone, I’m not interested.

Well, she wasn’t. He was Nate’s brother and apart from a tiny amount of idle curiosity, she’d pass him in the street and move on.

Except that he was stunning. Silhouetted against the morning sun his profile was one of pure strength. He was a darker, stronger, harsher version of his brother. Don’t mess with me, his profile said, and she remembered his appalling father and she thought she wouldn’t.

She should tell Dusty—and she would; this conference was all about letting Dusty see this guy—but not yet. Not in the close confines of the boat. She’d told Dusty his uncle would be there as one of the conference attendees but how to introduce them took some thinking about.

She didn’t feel exactly ready. She wasn’t actually sure that she would be ready.

Dusty had enough to think about right now, she told herself. He was practically bursting with excitement as they approached the island.

They’d timed their arrival early, to settle, to find things for Dusty to do while she attended the conference; to simply enjoy themselves.

It seemed Ben Oaklander had the same idea.

But by the look of the textbook in his hands … Enjoyment? Heavy didn’t begin to describe it.

Jess thought of the medical journals on her bedside table, gathering dust. She hadn’t brought a single one.

This was why this guy was a leader in his field, while she was simply a doctor who delivered babies the best way she knew how.

She glanced again at the forbidding profile. Then she glanced at Dusty, who was watching dolphins. The similarity was almost frightening.

Keep it simple. Would the best plan be to introduce herself right now, explain what Dusty needed and go from there?

She didn’t quite have the courage. The sight of this guy … She hadn’t expected to feel like this.

An Oaklander …

Dusty had been photographing the dolphins. Now he turned and started photographing the ferry. Everything in the ferry.

‘Not the guy in the bow,’ she told him. ‘He looks like he wants to be left alone.’

‘I’m not being a pest,’ Dusty said virtuously. ‘I’m only taking pictures. Of everything.’

Everything. She couldn’t argue with that.

Maybe he was being paranoid but he didn’t think so. He was being watched and the sensation was unnerving.

A woman was glancing at him covertly—a woman who almost took his breath away. Maybe it was the morning, the sunlight glinting off the sea, but the sight of her glossy, chestnut-coloured curls, rippling a little in the soft sea breeze, her laughter at something the child said, the simplicity of her clothes, the maturity on her face that belied the fact that she looked little more than thirty—the total effect was breathtaking.

And beside her … a small boy who looked like Nate.

He was imagining things. Yes, the little boy was blond and blue eyed, just as Nate had been. He had the same wavy hair, the same cheeky grin. But he wasn’t Nate. He was ten or eleven years old and he belonged very firmly to the woman beside him.

The child had the woman’s build, slim, fine featured, almost elfin. She was wearing jeans, a plain white T-shirt and plain white sandals. The only note of colour was a simple, sea-green scarf knotted casually around her throat. It was the same colour as her eyes.

Alone she’d have had him riveted.

But still his attention went back to the child.

Memories of Nate … Unwanted memories.

Once upon a time he and Nate had been friends, two years apart, ganging up against their bully of a father and their icy, aloof mother. But then Nate had figured what would please his father, following in his footsteps, and Ben had left.

Yeah, well, that had been a long time ago. There were lots of blond-headed kids in the world. He turned back to his text.

He could sense the little boy’s camera raising, aiming.

He looked up as the camera clicked. The child let the camera drop to his knee. Gazes locked.

The child gave a tentative smile.

Nate!

The woman …

She intercepted his look, flushed, took the child’s camera. ‘Sorry,’ she said smoothly, liltingly, and she smiled, a smile which wasn’t the least like the child’s. ‘We bought Dusty a new camera for the holiday and he’s practising. He doesn’t have the legal ramifications of point and shoot covered. We’ll delete that shot if you like.’

Her smile might not be like her son’s but it was a good one. Her smile said smile back.

He couldn’t make himself smile. The child’s face.

Nate.

Suddenly he was eleven years old again. His mother’s words: ‘Forget your brother. Your father doesn’t want you—he and your father are one family, we’re another.’

Only he and his mother weren’t a family. He’d been used as a possession to be claimed in a messy divorce. Nothing more.

‘I’m Dusty,’ the child said, happy to chat. ‘Who are you?’

The child wasn’t Nate. He needed to pull himself together.

‘I need to read,’ he said, almost reluctantly. Even without the unsettling resemblance to his brother, there was something about the pair of them that made him want to know more.

No! This woman looks like a single mother, his antenna was saying. What about his resolution? No women for Christmas.

But his antenna was still working overtime.

Nate …



There were a million children in the world who’d look like his brother, he told himself. Get over it.

‘Sorry we bothered you,’ the woman said, and smiled again, and her smile was almost magnetic.

That smile …

Back off. Now.

He was being dumb. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, gruffly. Why not tell the child his name? ‘And I’m …’

‘Leave the gentleman alone,’ the woman said. ‘He wants to read.’

His thoughts exactly. Only they weren’t … exactly.

Uh-oh. Jess was feeling disconcerted, to say the least. She’d had no idea the presence of this man could have such an effect on her.

He was an Oaklander. What was it with this family?

Danger.

But then, thankfully, one of the elderly ladies, the one with the limp, produced a baby wombat from inside her jacket, and started to feed it.

This event was so extraordinary Dusty’s interest switched in an instant. Yes! The last thing Jess wanted was introductions all round.

Had Nate told his brother about Dusty’s existence? She suspected not, but his father might have relayed his dealings with her. Her name might mean something.

As did the fact that Dusty looked like Nate.

But the brothers hadn’t been close. In fact, Nate had shown nothing but disdain for his big brother.

She should relax. It was unfortunate that they were on the same boat, but the trip would soon be over. She could figure out how to introduce them when she had herself more together. And meanwhile …

A baby wombat …

Fascinated herself, she moved closer.

The woman had been wearing a sleeveless fleece jacket, which had seemed a bit unnecessary on such a fabulous day. Now she realised why. The wombat had been tucked into a pouch, taking warmth from the woman’s body. It was still snuggled in the jacket which was now being used as a blanket.

The creature was tiny, the size of a man’s fist. It was pink-bald, with fur just starting to develop across its back. It lay cradled in the fleece, while its carer patiently encouraged it to attach to the teat of what looked like a miniature baby bottle.

‘It’s a wombat,’ Dusty breathed, edging closer to the woman, fascinated. ‘A baby. Where’s his mum?’

‘His mother was hit by a car,’ the younger of the women told them. ‘Horrid things, cars.’

‘You’re taking him to Cassowary Island to look after him?’

‘It’s a wildlife shelter,’ the woman said, talking to Dusty as if he were an adult. ‘There are no predators for wombats over there. He’ll be safe.’

‘What are predators?’

‘Things that want to kill wombats.’

Dusty inched closer still, and so did Jess. The other woman also had a bulge under her jacket. As she tried not to look, it … moved.

‘You both have passengers,’ she breathed.

‘Don’t tell the skipper or we’ll have to pay,’ the wombat lady said, chuckling. The name tags on their uniform said they were Marge and Sally. Marge, the wombat lady, looked to be in her late seventies. She looked drawn, Jess thought suddenly, the professional side of her kicking in. In pain? But all the woman’s attention was on the wombat she was feeding. ‘We smuggle our babies all the time,’ she told Dusty.

‘The skipper knows,’ the lady called Sally retorted. ‘We’re not doing anything illegal. But they do need to be carried under our jackets.’

‘Why?’ Dusty was riveted.

‘Body warmth,’ Marge said. ‘Pop your hand under your T-shirt and tell me that’s not a warm, soft place to keep a baby.’ She cast him a shrewd look. ‘If you like, after he’s fed, I’ll let you wear the pouch until we reach the island. If you promise to be careful.’

‘Oh, yes …’

‘How old is he?’ Jess asked.

‘About two months,’ Marge told her. ‘He was born about the size of a jelly bean. He had no hair, and his skin was thinner than paper. But like all baby wombats, after he was born he’ll have managed to wriggle into his mum’s pouch. Normally he’d stay in his nice, safe pouch for about eight months but this little guy has a horror story. His mum was hit by a car and killed. It was only because a passerby knew to check her pouch that he came to us.’

‘You’re using a special formula?’ Jess was crouched on the deck, watching the tiny creature feed, as riveted as her son.

‘In an emergency we can give normal powdered milk, half-strength,’ Marge said. ‘But now he’s with us, we give him special wombat formula. Sally has a half-grown echidna under her vest. They’re both mammals. They drink milk but they need their own milk. Cow’s milk is for baby cows.’

‘And for us,’ Dusty said.

‘Not when you were tiny,’ Marge retorted. ‘I bet you had your mum’s milk.’

‘Did I?’ Dusty demanded.

‘I … Yes,’ Jess said—and for some dumb reason she blushed. Which was stupid. As natural a thing as breastfeeding. What was there to blush over in that?

But … an Oaklander was listening.

He’d abandoned his reading and strolled along the deck to see.

Ben Oaklander …

‘Every species has its own particular milk,’ he growled, but his voice was softer now, no longer repelling. ‘Designed exactly for that baby.’

‘So my mum’s milk was designed for me?’ Dusty demanded of him, and Jess saw Ben start a little, as if he hadn’t expected to be drawn into a conversation with a child.

She watched him turn professional as a way to deal with it. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to talk but the sight of the little creature had drawn him in. He squatted and touched the tiny wombat, stroking him lightly with one long finger, all his attention on the baby. ‘Yes,’ he said, softly, looking at the little wombat and not at Dusty. ‘When you were born, your mother had immunity from the germs she meets every day. By drinking her milk as a baby, you’ll have been safe from those germs, too.’

‘Are you one of those obstetricians?’ Sally asked him. ‘One that’s coming to the conference?’

‘I am.’ He stood, retreated a little, starting to look as if he was regretting coming over, but the women weren’t letting him off the hook.

‘We might need you,’ Sally said, casting a questioning glance at Marge. ‘We’re so pleased you’re all coming. We were sort of hoping to meet one of you.’

‘I doubt I’m much good at delivering wombats,’ he said, and the thought had him relaxing a little. The sunlight glinted on his dark hair. His eyes were narrowed against the sun, and he looked suddenly at ease.

Why had he been defensive at first? What had he thought, Jessie wondered—that she and Dusty were somehow intending on intruding on his private space? Or … She glanced at Dusty and then at Ben. The similarities were really marked. Maybe he’d seen.

‘We have a dog,’ Marge said, a bit shamefaced. ‘A pug. She’s sort of … pregnant.’

‘She’s very pregnant,’ Sally retorted. Sally was a wiry little woman with a mop of grey curls, considerably younger than her friend. Late sixties? ‘Dogs aren’t allowed on the island, but Pokey is fat and quiet and no threat to anything. She belongs to Marge’s sister, but Hilda had to go into a nursing home last month. Having her put down would have broken her heart. And because we run the shelter …’

‘We sort of sneaked her in,’ Marge admitted. ‘There’s three of us there, Sally and Dianne and me. The rules about animals on the island are strict—and good—but in this case we thought it wouldn’t hurt to hide her. But then she started to get fat.’ She sighed. ‘Or fatter. And now …’

‘She’s definitely pregnant,’ Sally said. ‘So we’re sort of in trouble. And if she gets into trouble we have no vet.’

‘You have no vet on the island—and you’re a wildlife refuge?’ Ben said, clearly confounded.

‘We’ve done specialist wildlife training,’ Marge said, with a touch of reproof. ‘Sally and Dianne and I, we pooled our money to set this place up. We plan to stay here until we die; it’s our dream retirement. We have a vet come over once a week, and we can do most things. But we can’t afford for him to come every day. And we sort of haven’t told him about Pokey.’

‘He might say she shouldn’t stay,’ Sally added, and Jess intercepted a worried glance at her friend. There were problems, Jess thought. Undercurrents. The words We plan to stay here until we die had been said almost with defiance. But then Sally caught herself and gave a rueful smile and the moment was past. ‘Okay, he would say she shouldn’t stay,’ she conceded. ‘Marge’s daughter’s coming home from New York after Christmas and we hope she’ll take her, but meanwhile we need to care for her. We’re worried,’ she conceded. ‘Native animals don’t have trouble giving birth. Joeys, baby kangaroos, wombats, possums are born tiny. If Pokey gets into trouble we don’t know what to do.’

‘But then we found out about the obstetrician conference,’ Marge said. ‘So we thought we’d find a nice-looking doctor and confess. And you … you look kind.’

Silence. Did he look kind? Jess wondered. An Oaklander? Kind? Hardly.

‘My mum’s an obstetrician, too,’ Dusty said into the silence, and then there was even more silence.

Jess and Ben … Two obstetricians and one pregnant pug.

Two elderly ladies looked defiant but hopeful. Jess started feeling exposed.

‘You’re here for the conference, too?’ Ben asked Jess at last, and the wariness was back in his voice.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I’m not stealing your patient.’ She managed a smile. ‘Pokey is all yours.’

He didn’t laugh.

He was wary, Jess thought, and maybe not just of being pulled into an illegal dog-birth situation. She saw him glance at Dusty.

Definitely wary.

‘It’s okay,’ Jess said. ‘We’re not about to intrude on your privacy.’

Why had she said that?

It was just that … his body language was all about protecting himself. He was acting as if she and Dusty and maybe also these ladies and their weird animals were a threat.

Familiar anger started surging. Kind? Ha. He was an Oaklander.

She was reminded suddenly of the night she’d told Nate she was pregnant. He’d closed down. Backed off. Disclaimed responsibility.

The Oaklander specialty.

‘If your mother’s going to the conference, what will you do?’ Sally asked Dusty, seemingly unaware of the undercurrents running between Jess and Ben. Between Ben and everyone. The assumption was that the question of Pokey had been solved. The belief was that Ben would help.

Would he?

‘I’ll play on my computer,’ Dusty said, switching instantly to martyr mode. His specialty. ‘I have to do that when Mum has to work and I can’t go out. Mum says there’ll be a hotel person to sit with me. Whoever that is. It’s okay. I’m used to it.’

Uh-oh. All eyes—including Dusty-the-Martyr’s—gazed at her with reproach. She could feel herself flushing. Neglectful mother, abandoning child to uncaring hotel person and mindless computer games.

Guilt …

She’d checked there was a child minding service before she’d come. She and Dusty had talked about it. They’d go to the beach early and she’d skip less important conference sessions. Dusty wouldn’t suffer.

‘Try being a single mother yourself,’ she muttered under her breath, and practically glowered.

But Dusty was soaking it up. Pathetic-R-Us. ‘It’s okay,’ he said again, manfully. ‘I don’t really mind.’

‘Would you like to help us in the wildlife centre?’ Sally asked Dusty. Taking pity on The Orphan.

‘We can use some help,’ Marge agreed, smiling at The Orphan as well. ‘That is, if you like animals. Your mum could walk you over to the refuge in the mornings before the conference and pick you up afterwards. It’s not too far. If you think you’d enjoy it …’

‘We look after lots of things,’ Sally told him. ‘Possums, echidnas, kangaroos, goannas, birds, turtles; there’s always work to do. You look like the sort of boy who’d enjoy helping.’

So they’d seen his hunger.

Dusty’s fascination with animals had started early. Even as a toddler, he’d been fascinated with the photographs of his mother’s childhood. His grandma’s cat who’d died just before she did was the extent of Dusty’s hands-on animal contact, but he’d read it all, and now, even while he was playing the neglected orphan, he hadn’t taken his eyes from the baby wombat. He’d known instantly what it was. He knew his animals.

‘If it’s okay with your mother,’ Marge said, and it was still there, that faint accusation. Abandoning your child …

‘It must be hard to be a doctor and a mum as well,’ Ben said suddenly, and she glanced up at him in surprise. She’d been carefully not looking at him, expecting the same accusation. But instead what she got was almost … empathy?

‘Patients don’t understand that doctors have families,’ he said gently. ‘Emergencies don’t always happen in school hours. And if Dusty’s mother wants to keep up with the latest developments in obstetrics so she can give her mothers the best of care, then she needs to undertake professional development. Like coming to this conference. I’d imagine coming with his mum would be much more fun for Dusty than leaving him behind.’

‘Yes,’ Dusty said, finally abandoning the pathetic. ‘Mum went to a course last school holidays and I had to stay with Mum’s Aunty Rhonda for three whole days. And she made me eat roast beef and soggy vegetables for three days in a row. Coming here’s better than that.’

There was a general chuckle. The tension eased and Jessie’s anger faded. Or not so much anger. Defensiveness.

She hated leaving Dusty alone. She loved her work.

Push, pull. The minute she’d turned into a mother the guilt had kicked in. No matter what she did, she couldn’t get it right.

‘Well, Dusty, what about helping in the wildlife shelter instead of computer games?’ Marge asked, and her tone had changed. Ben’s interjection had helped.

‘I don’t know …’ Dusty looked dubiously at Jess.

‘Come over tomorrow and check us out,’ Marge said warmly. ‘You could all come.’ She beamed at Ben, including him in her invitation. ‘You’re here early for the conference. You can’t come to Cassowary Island and not see what we really do. Come at ten and we’ll give you a guided tour.’ She hesitated and Jess saw her wince. Once again, that impression of pain, and this time she conceded it. ‘My leg’s a bit sore at the moment,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe you could even give Sally and Dianne a hand with the cleaning. Would that be okay?’

‘I’ll be busy,’ Ben said.

‘Too busy to take an hour or so out to see how our shelter runs?’ Marge sounded incredulous. ‘And you’ll want to meet Pokey.’

‘I don’t need to meet Pokey.’

‘Well, we need you to meet Pokey,’ Marge said, with asperity. ‘And if we’re looking after your little boy during the conference then it’s the least you can do.’

‘He’s not my little boy,’ Ben snapped.

‘He’s not?’ The wildlife worker visibly reran the immediate conversation through her head. She looked from Ben to Dusty and back again. ‘You mean you don’t know each other?’

‘No.’

‘But he looks like you.’

There was a moment’s silence. Dusty stared at Ben. Turned to his mother. Opened his mouth.

‘We don’t know each other,’ Jess said, cutting Dusty off before he could say a word. She wasn’t ready. Panic.

Panic was stupid, but there it was. Not now. Please.

‘But you’re both obstetricians,’ Sally said, sounding thrilled. ‘How wonderful. That’s exactly what Pokey needs. So ten tomorrow? Marge will pick you up in her beach buggy. Be ready. And whatever you charge is fine by us.’

‘I don’t …’ Ben started.

‘Accept payment?’ Sally said blithely. ‘We thought you might say that. A donation to your favourite charity is okay with us. And we understand all care, and no responsibility. So if there are no other objections we’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘I need to read,’ Ben said, retreating.

‘Of course you do,’ Sally said. ‘Work now so you’ll have time for us tomorrow. Now …’ She looked at Jess. ‘Would your little boy like to hold a wombat?’




CHAPTER THREE


THE convention centre and associated resort was as good as the internet had promised, maybe better. Quite simply, Jess couldn’t believe her luck.

The rooms weren’t built as a standard hotel, but as a series of bungalows, each with a mini-veranda overlooking the beach. With the windows swung wide, it was as if the beach was in the room. You could run from the bungalow into the sea in a minute.

The staff were lovely, casually dressed, seemingly casually behaved, but nothing was too much trouble.

A very pregnant receptionist—Kathy—accompanied them to their bungalow and made sure they had everything they needed, chatting to them about how wonderful the island was. There was no doubting her sincerity—this wasn’t a pre-prepared spiel. She organised beach equipment and told them how to organise surfing lessons for Dusty. A cassowary strutted past within two minutes of their arrival.

Dusty was too hornswoggled to think any more about his flash of insight as to Ben’s identity, and Jess had let it slide. Thankfully. Ben Oaklander could be forgotten. For now. They headed for the sea and she blocked him out. Almost.

Not wanting to face one of the resort restaurants—and not only because Ben might be there; jet lag was taking its toll—they had room-service dinner brought to them by the lovely Kathy. They fell into bed, exhausted. When they woke, the sun was streaming into their little house, sandpipers were darting back and forth on the sand right under their window, the sea was turquoise and sparkling and Jess thought she’d died and gone to heaven.

Ben Oaklander or not, this was the right thing to do. To bring Dusty here, away from the grief of his first Christmas without his beloved gran, without London’s sleet and bitter cold …

Happiness was right now.

Dusty was waking, his hand automatically groping beside his bed for his spade. Kathy had organised Dusty a man-sized bucket and a businesslike bushman’s spade and Dusty had glowed. Last night they’d built a sandcastle to top all sandcastles. He’d washed his shovel with care, it rested on the floor beside him and sometimes during the night she’d heard him stir, remember it and reach down to touch it. As if to reassure himself this place was real.

She needed the reassurance, too.

Beach and breakfast. But then …

At ten she was getting into a beach buggy with Ben Oaklander and heading to the wildlife shelter.

Even Ben Oaklander was hardly a blip on her happiness radar. Should she talk to Dusty about him now? Maybe not. They’d talked about it back in England. She’d told him she thought his uncle would be here. The plan was that when Ben figured who they were, it’d be treated as a coincidence, so the less she said about it now the better. They certainly hadn’t come all this way to find him.

It was an aside, she told herself. A tiny part of a huge adventure. She wouldn’t worry about it.

She glanced out at the shimmering sea and felt at peace.

This holiday marked the end of a very long struggle. Years of financial hardship. Years of worrying about her son and her mother.

And they lived happily ever after …

That’s what this was, she thought. Happy ever after. No matter that their time here was short, they’d take memories of this place home in their hearts.

And when Dusty confirmed who Ben was, then Dusty would have memories of him and could tell his friends.

‘My uncle lives in Australia. He’s a doctor like my mum. He delivers babies but sometimes he delivers puppies.’

She grinned at that, thinking of Ben’s horror at the thought of being a pug-doctor.

How would he react when he found out their relationship?

If he was mean to Dusty …

She wouldn’t let it happen. She was a stronger person now. She’d quailed before Nate’s father. She had no intention of reacting the same way again.

If it came out—when it came out—she could deal with it. She could protect her son.

But now Dusty was waking, gazing out at the beach with awe. A swim before breakfast? Why not?

Who cared about Ben Oaklander? They had ten days of paradise before them, starting now.

Ben woke to the sound of Jess and Dusty playing in the shallows. He gazed down to the water and saw them. They were shouting, laughing, falling into the waves, spluttering, hugging. Mother and son.

He watched them, an outsider looking. He lay quite still, as if movement might make them aware, might mar their happiness.

For happiness there certainly was.

She was wearing a crimson bikini. Slim and graceful, she dived through the shallow waves, encouraging her son to join her. Every time she emerged, she swept her mass of curls back from her face, streaming water. She laughed and teased her son and the little boy laughed back at her.

Gloriously content.

Family.



Maybe he could have it, he thought. If he was prepared to take a chance.

He wasn’t.

Louise’s reaction during their last dinner had shocked him. She’d declared herself a consummate professional, determined not to have children.

They’d had a great relationship, as colleagues, as friends, as lovers at need, when it hadn’t interfered with either of their lives.

She’d shocked him by her turn-around.

He’d gone to see her before he’d left. Apologised. ‘I’m sorry. I know made things clear at the beginning of our relationship but I should have kept checking.’

‘And I should have talked about my change of heart,’ she’d admitted. ‘I know I said I never wanted family; babies. I can’t think why I do now, but I do.’

They’d parted friends. She was already eyeing off the new paediatric consultant, a young widower. A guy with a child already.

A ready-made family …

Once more his gaze drifted to the water. Jess and Dusty.

Dr Jessica McPherson. He’d looked her up last night. English qualifications. Based in London. Accompanied by her son, Dustin.

Obviously here to combine work and holiday.

If she didn’t have a child he could spend some time with her, he thought. She fitted his date description. Smart, attractive, funny. Returning to the other side of the world in ten days.

Smart, attractive, funny …

He watched her a while longer. Add gorgeous to that description, he decided. The way she laughed … The way she rolled in the sand with her son, totally unselfconscious. Her peal of delicious chuckles.

She had a child, he told himself harshly. He didn’t do children.

And suddenly Nate was there, front and centre.

Nate.



He was in the most beautiful place in the world, in the most comfortable bed with the best view and suddenly the tension inside him was almost to breaking point.

His family was dysfunctional to say the least, but Nate had been his one true thing. Nate, eight years old to his eleven. His adoring little brother. During childhood they’d hardly seen their parents, they’d been raised by nannies, but they’d had each other.

And then something had finally cracked in the social façade that had been his parents’ marriage. They’d woken one morning and it had been over.

‘Ben, darling, you’re coming with me. There’s a lovely school in Australia—I believe it’s even been used by royalty. And Arthur, the nice man I introduced you to last week, is based in Melbourne. We’ll be able to explore together. Your father’s decided he wishes to hold onto Nathaniel. Your bags are being packed now. Say goodbye to your brother. Your father’s gone out for the day—I don’t think he intends to say goodbye to anyone.’

After that … He hadn’t seen Nate for years, and when he had Nate had turned into his father. Blamed him. Vibrated vitriol.

To feel like that again …

No. He didn’t do family.

Outside Jess and Dusty were whooping up the beach, rolling in the soft sand, then lurching about like sand-covered monsters trying to scare each other.

How would she feel if anything happened to her son? How would her little boy feel if he lost his mother?

Don’t go there.

He always did. He always had. Families instilled an automatic dread.

So …

So there was two hours to go before he’d promised to go to the wildlife shelter. He still wasn’t sure how he’d been coerced into the visit but he’d get it over with fast. Meanwhile he could have breakfast and head to the beach. A swim would be great.

That’s what he would have done if they weren’t there.



They were there. A family.

He had work to do. A quick breakfast, a few laps of the hotel pool, then an hour or so on the computer.

He’d meant this time to be a rest. Beach time. Not if it meant getting involved. No way.

Dusty swam, splashed, dug, then reluctantly returned to their bungalow for breakfast, and when Sally and a rough-looking beach buggy arrived to collect them he was so wide-eyed he was practically speechless. For a child brought up in the heart of London, this was heaven.

He’d almost forgotten that flash of intuition he’d had about Ben on the boat, so when Sally stopped the buggy in front of Ben’s bungalow and Ben emerged, Jess saw her son react with something akin to confusion. He had warring priorities. Beach and wildlife—or a guy who might or might not be his uncle.

Should she have said something? Admitted that she thought she’d recognised him? It was too late now. Jess could only hold her breath and hope.

‘Hi, people,’ Sally said cheerfully. ‘You’ll have to put up with me driving this morning. Marge is our usual driver. I only got my licence when my husband died and that was when I was sixty so I’m not exactly skilled. But Marge isn’t well this morning so it’s me, me or me. Don’t talk to me. I need to concentrate. Hold onto your hats.’

There wasn’t a lot else to hold onto. There were two bench seats facing each other in the back of the buggy.

Jess and Dusty sat on one. Ben on the other. Facing each other.

‘Did they give you a spade?’ Dusty demanded of Ben.

‘No.’ Ben was looking … bemused. He was wearing light chinos, a short-sleeved linen shirt, open at the throat, canvas boat shoes. His hair was already rumpled by the soft sea breeze.

He looked far too much like his brother, Jess thought grimly. And like her son.

‘They gave me one,’ Dusty was saying. ‘It’s humungous. I built the best ever sandcastle and moat. We built it just past the high-tide mark and when the tide comes in the water will reach the moat and fill it. Do you want to look when we get back?’

‘The doctor will have work to do when we get back,’ Jess said, with gentle reproof, and Ben flashed her an appreciative glance.

‘I do. I’m presenting first thing tomorrow.’

‘I don’t know how you find the courage to take on public speaking,’ she ventured, trying to think of what a real colleague would say. ‘It’d scare me witless.’

‘Having a son would scare me witless,’ he said.

‘You don’t have children?’ That’s also what a normal colleague would ask, she thought. That’s also what Dusty would like to know. If he had cousins.

‘No family,’ Ben said, and it was almost a snap.

‘What, no one at all?’

‘The wildlife lodge’s just over this hill,’ Sally yelled cheerfully from the front. ‘I think … uh-oh … Hold on!’

A hump. The buggy lurched sideways. Jess grabbed Dusty, Ben grabbed her, Sally hit the brakes and suddenly they were sliding onto the floor.

Sally pulled to a stop. Looked back at her passengers, appalled. ‘Oh, my … Marge said not to hit that crest too hard. I forgot. Are you okay?’

‘I …’ Ben was still holding Jess. She could hardly breathe. ‘I think so.’

Dusty was underneath her. Ben was holding him, too.

Dusty giggled.

There wasn’t much alternative. She should giggle.

It was just that … she was underneath an Oaklander.

Ben.

She was starting to separate him from Nate in her head, but she still remembered how Nate had made her feel.

Separate or not, he was an Oaklander. But she couldn’t pull away.

‘I think we’re better staying down,’ Ben said. ‘We can’t fall any further.’ There was a rubber mat on the floor of the tray. Ben’s advice made sense.

He tugged her sideways so she was free to breathe and she tugged Dusty close so they were spooned into each other.

Dusty giggled some more.

And suddenly Jess was chuckling as well—because there was nothing else to do. She was so disconcerted.

Ben’s arms were around her waist. An Oaklander, holding her. Ben … Different.

‘Okay, Sally, let her roll,’ Ben said, and Sally grinned and grated the gears and tried again. With her passengers on the floor. And three minutes later they were there. The buggy pulled to a stop and Jess was almost sorry. And what sort of stupid reaction was that?

Dianne was busting out of the house to meet them, down the veranda steps, exclaiming in dismay as she saw their seating arrangements—or lack. ‘Sally! Marge said to go slow.’

‘I did,’ Sally said cheerfully. ‘Or mostly I did. I need to practise.’

‘That was … fun,’ Jess managed, hauling herself upright. Ben climbed down from the buggy, swung Dusty down, then held out his hands to help her.

She looked at his hands, considered, and then thought maybe not. Climbed down herself. Staggered.

His hand caught hers and steadied her.

Strength …

An Oaklander.

‘Well,’ Dianne said, glowering at Sally. ‘Maybe walking would have been more comfortable. I’m sorry. But now you’re here … Our babies are doing fine. The wombat’s doing beautifully. I reckon it was that cuddle you gave him yesterday, Dusty. Cuddles cure everything.’ Her face clouded a little. ‘Most things. Anyway, come and see.’

Yesterday Jess had assumed the place would be a tiny affair, a shelter run by three retired do-gooders with the best of intentions but not much else.

She was wrong. On their home turf Sally and Dianne turned into professionals who knew what they were doing and cared deeply. This was a professional operation, running smoothly and efficiently. It was used in part by the mainland university as a research station. It was used as a centre for breeding and releasing of endangered species. It was used also as a care facility for tending and re-introducing injured creatures to the wild.

The ward they were shown into was amazing. ‘Our children’s ward,’ Sally said proudly, and showed them into a softly lit bungalow with rows of pouches hanging from hooks just above floor level. ‘Each pouch has its own electric blanket, set to the individual animal’s body needs,’ she said. ‘Some of our babies can’t sweat so it’s important we get it right. We have nine babies here right now.’

‘Survival rate?’ Ben asked.

‘Depends,’ Sally said, and all trace of the fluffy do-gooder Jess had thought her disappeared. She was calmly competent, a woman who knew exactly what she was facing. And she wasn’t trying to dress it up for Dusty. She was treating them as three professional adults.

‘Some of these babies are deeply traumatised,’ she said. ‘If the mother dies without the joey being injured and someone finds it straight away and cares for it properly, then it stands a good chance. But sometimes a baby’s thrown from the mother’s pouch and not found for a while.’ She grimaced. ‘Or sometimes there’s something genetically wrong with the babies that are sent to us. A weak baby may not be able to cling to the mother. It falls and is left. That’s a hard call. We never harden to it; we give it our best shot but we know we can’t save them all. Would you like to see our kitchens? We have the best scientific baby formula production area in the known world. Dusty, maybe you could help feed … And we’re always looking for help sluicing out cages.’

She grinned at the look on their collective faces. ‘Well, what did you expect?’ she said, and chuckled. ‘We’re not open to sightseers but we are open to people who genuinely want to help. We’re always short-staffed. And …’ Her face clouded again. ‘We’re even more short-staffed this morning with Marge not well. Your help would be a godsend.’

‘Is there anything we can do for Marge?’ Jess asked, seeing the worry. But …

‘No. It’s just a sore leg—she was kicked by a wallaby last week. Kicks go with the job. She had a massage yesterday—that was why two of us went to the mainland rather than just one to collect the animals—but it seems to have stirred it up rather than settled it. She’s sounds like she’s getting a cold as well. But at least she’s accepted she needs to rest.’

‘We are doctors. You wouldn’t like me…?’ Jess ventured, still seeing worry.

‘She’d be furious if I asked you to,’ Sally said. ‘She hates fuss. You know, she’s almost eighty. She shouldn’t be here, but she says, well, she says she wants to die doing the work she loves and Dianne and I respect that. It’ll be what we want for ourselves.’ She gave herself a little shake, visibly pushing fears aside. ‘But today we’ve persuaded her to rest and that’s huge in itself. She’s snuggled into bed with Pokey, but she’s feeling guilty and if we push her any more she’ll get up just to prove she can. Right. Work. Let’s go.’

Work.

They fed babies. They sluiced.

It was kind of fun.

The animals were in separate runs according to age, sex and species. Each run had a patch of natural ground, designed to be as close to the natural habitat as could be obtained, but there were sections in each run where feeding took place, or treating. These section were concrete slabs that had to be meticulously cleaned.

Jess scrubbed out the run of four short-nosed wombats. She worked alone. Dusty and Ben were in the turtle/tortoise run, cleaning the area around the pool. Scrubbing. Chatting.

Jess couldn’t hear what they were chatting about.

‘Do you want to work together or apart?’ Sally had asked.



‘Apart,’ Jess had said, fast.

But Dusty had said ‘Together’ at exactly the same time. Ben hadn’t responded.

‘That’s easy, then. Jess, you do the wombats, and Dusty and Ben do the tortoises,’ Sally had said, and before she knew it that’s exactly what was happening.

She could see them from where she was, fifty yards away, two heads, one small and blond, one adult and dark.

Dusty, asking questions.

Ben, seemingly at ease. Answering. Chatting back. Scrubbing as if he was accustomed to hard manual work.

Dusty manfully trying to keep up with him.

Even from here Jess was sensing the beginning of hero-worship.

‘I think this might be Dr Oaklander,’ Dusty had whispered to her during the tour, and she’d nodded, as grave as he’d been. They’d introduced themselves briefly as Dusty, Tess, Ben, and she’d seen Dusty react to the name. Ben.

‘Check him out, then,’ she’d said. ‘Maybe don’t say anything until you’re sure.’

Dusty was obviously taking her at her word, or maybe he’d simply forgotten again and was just enjoying the moment. There was too much else to think about.

He didn’t have enough males in his life, Jess thought ruefully as she watched them. No grandparents. No uncles. His teacher was a woman. Even his karate instructor was female.

What were they saying?

This was driving her crazy.

Ben’s reaction to Dusty had Ben disconcerted. He didn’t react to kids like this. In truth, he hardly reacted to kids at all. Once they’d lost newborn status he had little to do with them.

He was aware of them, of course. He’d even done a stint of paediatrics during training. But now … it was as if his decision about avoiding families had made him tune out from doing more than be nice to the siblings of his newborns.

But Dusty seemed … different.

The kid had him intrigued. He wasn’t a noisy kid. He’d sensed the need for initial quiet in the enclosure they were cleaning, not wanting to scare the tortoises. For the first few minutes he’d simply scrubbed and not said anything.

Then, as the creatures got used to them, deciding they were no threat, Dusty started talking. A little.

‘There are three different species of turtle here,’ he told Ben. ‘Look at the markings. And two species of tortoise. I really like tortoises.’

‘Have you ever had one as a pet?’

He looked appalled. ‘We live in London. These guys would hate it there.’

‘I guess.’

Dusty scrubbed on, then peeped him a smile. ‘What did the snail say when he was having a ride on the tortoise’s back?’

‘I don’t know.’ Ben sat back and enjoyed Dusty’s grin. Once more, he was hit by that blast of recognition. Surely this was …

‘Wheeeeeeee,’ Dusty told him, and Ben found himself chuckling out loud.

The creatures around them didn’t even back away.

‘Do you know any tortoise jokes?’ Dusty demanded, and Ben thought about it. He and Nate used to buy books of jokes. Jokes had been their very favourite thing and Ben was blessed with an excellent memory.

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ he said, and Dusty chuckled in anticipation.

Just like Nate.

This was excellent, Jess thought. Wonderful. Dusty was getting to know his uncle without the tensions that revealing their relationship might cause. She’d deal with those tensions when they happened, she decided. Meanwhile the wombats were watching her balefully from inside their hollow log. Waiting for their clean house.

She scrubbed.



She kind of liked scrubbing. There were massive eucalypts overhead, taking away the sting of the sun. The wombats were a benign presence, and she thought, Am I doing it to your satisfaction, guys?

This was great for her head. It was taking her away from the grief of losing her mother, from the normal stress of work, the worry she always felt about Dusty …

And that was the biggie. Dusty had been desperately miserable since his gran had died. Now …

He had an uncle.

Any minute Ben might find out.

But when it came out … if Ben reacted well …

She glanced across at their stroke-for-stroke scrubbing. If Ben decided he did want to be an uncle … If he decided to share …

There were too many ifs. And she didn’t want to share with an Oaklander.

‘I’m befuddled,’ she told the wombats, and they eyed her as if they already knew it.

Befuddled but happy?

Yeah, okay, she was happy. She was in one of the most glorious places in the world. Come what may, Dusty had met his uncle. ‘I helped my uncle look after tortoises,’ she imagined him telling his friends back home. ‘He made me laugh.’

For Ben’s rich chuckle rang out, over and over, and a couple of research workers in one of the far enclosures swivelled to see. As they would. They were female and that chuckle … Whew.

Had Nate’s chuckle been as … gorgeous?

She couldn’t remember. Nate was a fuzzy memory, an overwhelming, romantic encounter and then nothing.

Ben was here, now.

He was still an Oaklander. Nate must have had that chuckle. For her to lose her senses as she had …

‘Well, I’m not losing my senses now,’ she told the wombats, returning to scrubbing with ferocity. ‘No way. I’m cleaning your yard and then I’m moving on.’

To the wallaby run. Not to Ben Oaklander. Not even close.



And then she paused. Sally had come flying out of the back door of the house. She looked around wildly. Saw her. Gasped.

‘I … I …’

And that look …

Jess was already rising. Switching mind sets. She’d done stints in emergency rooms. She knew that expression. ‘Sally, what is it?’

‘It’s Marge.’ Sally’s voice was scarcely above a whisper but the words carried regardless. ‘It’s serious.’

One minute Jess was a tourist, happily scrubbing for wombats. The next …

‘Ben,’ she yelled, no doubt scaring the wombats, but the look on Sally’s face said scaring was the least of their problems. ‘I need you.’




CHAPTER FOUR


A SORE leg and a head cold?

Much more.

Marge was lying on crumpled bedclothes, gasping for breath. Even from the doorway Jess could see signs of cyanosis, the blue tinge from lack of oxygen.

Ben was right behind her, and he saw the signs as she had.

Marge’s nightgown was buttoned tight to her throat. He strode forward and ripped the buttons open, easing constriction in an instant. He put his hands under her arms and lifted.

Jess dived to shove pillows behind her. They were getting pressure off her chest any way they knew how.

A pug growled from the end of the bed and Sally gasped and grabbed her and hauled her away.

The little dog whined in fright.

Sally sobbed.

Dianne was crowding into the room as well, with Dusty and the research workers behind her.

Marge was still conscious. Her breath was coming in short, harsh gasps, as if every breath was agony.

As Jess pushed the pillows more solidly behind her she coughed, and a splash of crimson stained the bedclothes in front of her.

‘Her leg,’ Jess said urgently to Ben. ‘A kick from the wallaby last week. Massage yesterday to alleviate the pain.’

And with that thought they both knew what they were dealing with. This had to be a pulmonary embolism. A blood clot in the leg, breaking up, moving to the lung. All the symptoms were there—the pain on breathing, the shortness of breath, the lack of oxygen marked by the bluish tinge. A bruise on the leg, a massage yesterday stirring it up … it made horrible sense.

They needed to call for transfer to a major hospital. They needed to clear the room. They needed to move fast. But just for this moment Ben took time for reassurance. Panic would make this much worse. He took Marge’s hands in his and he forced her terrified gaze to focus on him.

‘Marge, it’s okay, we know what’s happening and we know what to do about it,’ he said, firmly and strongly, and everyone in the room seemed to pause. Marge’s harsh breathing was still dreadful, but her eyes fixed on Ben’s, a terrified, wounded thing searching desperately for help.

‘Sally said you hurt your leg last week,’ Ben said, almost conversationally. ‘A fragment of clotted blood will have broken away and made its way to your lung. That’s what I think is happening. It’s causing problems with your breathing; it’s stopping your lungs inflating fully. That’s what’s hurting, your deflated lung. What we need is to get the pain under control so it doesn’t hurt so much to breathe, and to give you oxygen so you won’t have to breathe so often or so deeply. If I can find those things we’ll do it here to make you comfortable. Meanwhile, we’ll call for a transfer and get you to the mainland hospital, because that’s where they can give you blood thinners that’ll stop any more clots forming and causing more trouble. But it’s okay. We’ll take care of you.’

The doorway was crowded. Everyone was listening. Ben’s voice was deep and calm, dispersing panic.

Marge’s breathing was still short and sharp and dreadful but some of the terror faded. If Ben could persuade her to relax …




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/marion-lennox/dynamite-doc-or-christmas-dad-39895946/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.