The Surgeon's Love-Child

CHAPTER ONE

HE WAS holding up a sign with her name on it, but he wasn’t Terry Davis.

Definitely not.

Terry wouldn’t have needed a sign. He and Candace had known each other, on and off, for years. She would have recognised his weatherbeaten face at once, and he would have seen her coming towards him through the milling crowd of arrivals at Sydney’s international airport. He would have smiled.

This man wasn’t smiling. He hadn’t seen her yet. He hadn’t realised that Candace had spotted her name, scrawled quickly by hand in black felt-tip pen on a makeshift rectangle of cardboard, and that she was zeroing in on it.

This man looked much younger than Terry. Early thirties, tall and fit and medium dark, with a body that somehow managed to be both solid and lean at the same time. He was wearing jeans and a navy T-shirt that hugged his form closely. In contrast, Terry was well past fifty, and had always looked his age. He never wore jeans.

Candace herself—DR CANDACE FLETCHER, as the sign correctly stated—was thirty-eight years old and intensely conscious of the fact. She had been for months and was, suddenly, particularly conscious of it now. It had been twenty-four hours since she had left Boston. She must look like a dog’s breakfast, despite a recent freshening in the unappealing cubicle of the aircraft toilet.

She reached the stranger and his sign, and was tempted to wave a hand in front of his face. Hell-o-o-o! I’m here! He was still scanning the crowd with a frown etched across his high, squarish forehead. Apparently, she didn’t look like her name.

‘Are you waiting for me?’

The frown cleared at once. ‘With insufficient vigilance, obviously, Dr Fletcher. You sneaked up on me.’

‘I did think about waving.’

‘Probably not what you expected. I should have been Terry.’

‘Mmm.’

She almost blurted out that not much in her life had gone according to expectations over the past year and more, but managed to keep the words back. Dear God, it would be so easy to get emotional!

‘I’ll explain as we head to the car,’ he said.

‘Sounds good.’

Unobtrusively, he took control of the luggage cart and began to wheel it towards the exit. She walked beside him, matching his pace.

‘I’m Steve, by the way. Steve Colton. You’ll be seeing me in Theatre fairly regularly. I’m often rostered to handle the anaesthesia. Terry’s wife is…not well. That’s why he couldn’t make it.’

‘Oh, no!’ Candace said. ‘That’s too bad! It isn’t serious, I hope.’

‘So do I,’ he answered soberly. ‘But I’m actually her GP, so I can’t really talk about it. Is this all of your luggage?’

‘This is it,’ she confirmed. Three suitcases and a box, for a one-year stay. ‘My mother helped me pack, and she’s very strict.’

‘Travels light?’

‘Arrives light. Leaves heavy. She’s convinced that Australia will have glorious shopping possibilities, thanks to the state of your dollar.’

‘She’s right, if you can find anything you want to buy. Terry told you Narralee’s not a big place, I hope. Not exactly a shopper’s heaven.’

‘Yes, but my mother has a bloodhound’s nose for good places to spend money. And Terry also told me Sydney makes a great weekend getaway, only a three-and-a-half-hour drive. Oh! Which means you’re making a seven-hour round trip to pick me up,’ she realised aloud, ‘and I haven’t thanked you yet.’

‘Plenty of time for that.’

‘Three and a half hours, in fact.’

They both laughed.

He seemed nice, Candace decided. The kind of well-mannered yet easygoing Australian male she’d heard good things about and seen—in somewhat exaggerated form—in various movies over the years. Three and a half hours, plus a stop for a snack, maybe. This shouldn’t be any kind of a penance…

And it wasn’t. Far from it.

They talked for a while, about the obvious things. Her journey. The city of Sydney. She commented on its red-tiled roofs, bright in the March morning sunlight, and all the aqua blue ovals and rectangles of the swimming pools she’d seen from above in the sprawl of suburban back yards as the plane had come in to land.

Then they left human habitation behind and crossed the wild, wind-scoured terrain of a national park. Steve Colton stopped asking questions and giving out helpful tourist information. Candace pretended to sleep.

She had been doing a lot of that lately—lying in bed with her brain buzzing and the shrill whistle of tinnitus in her ears, totally exhausted, miles from sleep and not fooling herself for a second.

Todd was sleeping with Brittany for six months and I never knew.

He said our marriage was empty long before that. Was he right? If there hadn’t been that electrical problem at the hospital that day, and they hadn’t cancelled elective surgery…If I hadn’t actually walked in on them, naked together in our marital bed…How long before I’d have found out? How long before he would have drummed up the courage to leave? Coming home to find them in bed was bad enough, but having them announce Brittany’s pregnancy before our divorce was even finalised was even worse.

I guess in a way I’m glad Maddy decided not to come to Australia with me—although that hurts, too, to think she’s so positive that she’ll be fine without her mother—because at least, out there, I’ll be able to be alone. I won’t have to pretend.

And here she was, pretending already.

Much easier to pretend to a newly met male colleague than to an emotional fifteen-year-old daughter, however. By hook or by crook, Candace wasn’t going to ruin Maddy’s relationship with her father. She had no right to do that—to deprive her daughter of something very precious and necessary in Maddy’s life purely in order to enact revenge on Todd, when maybe…probably…the blame wasn’t all on his side. She had to behave rationally, not let Maddy see quite how deeply ran her sense of betrayal.

But, oh, that huge, glowing and healthily advanced pregnancy of Brittany’s hurt! She was due in just a few weeks…

The car slowed. It stopped. Then there was silence. She opened her eyes. Dr Colton was watching her. No, Steve. She couldn’t possibly call him Dr Colton! He had to be a good five or six years younger than she was, and she had been told that Australians were informal people.

‘Are we here?’ she asked vaguely. She had no idea how long her mind had been churning while her eyes had flickered behind their closed lids.

‘No,’ he said, ‘But I thought it was probably hours since they gave you breakfast on the plane. It was a toss-up between letting you sleep and getting you fed. Did I pick the right one?’

‘I wasn’t asleep,’ she admitted, finding it easier to be honest with him than she had expected. ‘Just thinking.’

‘That can give you an appetite.’

She smiled. ‘It has. Or something has.’

‘Rightio, then.’

Rightio? Weird word! Cute, actually. The difference, the newness of it in his easy accent, blew across the raw-burned surface of her soul like a gentle puff of wind, and she was still smiling as she got out of the car.

He hadn’t gone so far as to open the door for her. She might have mistrusted that degree of chivalry. But he was standing there waiting, and he reached out a hand to steady her as she stood up.

The kerb was unexpectedly high. She held onto him, closing her fingers around a forearm that was bare and warm and ropy with muscle, while his hand remained cupped beneath her elbow.

‘Oh-h! The sidewalk is going up and down,’ she said.

‘Having your own personal earthquake?’

‘No, it’s more gentle than that. A kind of quavery undulation.’

He laughed. ‘It’s that long flight, and the beginnings of jet-lag. What time is it now in Boston?’

‘Um…’

‘Let’s see…’

They both began a mental calculation.

‘Sydney is sixteen hours ahead,’ she supplied. ‘Which means…’

He got there first. ‘Yesterday evening, then. Around sevenish. You probably are hungry in that case, and an empty stomach wouldn’t be helping.’

‘No,’ she agreed, although this wobbly sidewalk was probably more the result of months of stress and inadequate sleep than a mere sixteen-hour time difference and a few hours without food.

‘Shall I let go?’ he asked cheerfully.

‘Not yet.’

It seemed like a long time since she’d had a man’s physical support, and it felt better than she could have imagined. He wasn’t in a hurry. He didn’t have an agenda. He was polite and steady, and she felt very safe.

‘OK,’ he said, tightening his grip a little.

Their eyes met and held for a moment before they both looked away. He was very good-looking. She hadn’t taken in this fact until now. It was in the shape of his face—the square forehead, the strong cheekbones and chin. It was in his easy, even smile, too, and in what that smile did to his blue eyes. They twinkled and softened, and looked a little wicked.

But this wasn’t just about looks, she realised. This was about—

Dear heaven, we’re going to have an affair!

The thought sliced into her mind without a shadow of warning, leaving her breathless. She could almost see it—the alluring progression of it—laid out before her like the squares on a life-sized Monopoly board, improbably perfect. A sizzlingly hot, totally heedless, carefree, life-affirming, fabulous affair, which would come to a painless, mutually-agreed-upon end some time before she was due to head home to that much chillier place called Real Life.

She dropped his delicious, masculine forearm like a live snake, her heart pounding.

This doesn’t happen to me. The whole idea is ridiculous. I don’t have intuitions like this. I’m scared. Would I really want something like that? No! Surely I wouldn’t! And surely I’m wrong! Of course I’m wrong!

‘I’m starving,’ she said aloud.

Wow.

Say it again.

Wow.

Don’t let it show on your face, Steve.

This woman is…No, she’s not gorgeous. Not even pretty. Something much better, and much more interesting. She’s magnetic, womanly, responsive.

He hadn’t felt it at first. He had been too busy thinking about the last time he’d been at Sydney airport, several months ago, seeing Agnetha off on her flight back home to Sweden.

The memory was like a splinter in his thumb. Yes, sure, he knew it wasn’t a major wound, but that didn’t stop it from hurting. And it had preoccupied him more than he’d wanted it to, during his wait for the visiting American doctor.

Did I even consider getting serious, asking Agnetha to marry me? No!

If she’d asked me to go to Sweden with her, would I have gone? No!

So what’s my problem?

One of sheer, bloody male ego, perhaps. He was…miffed…that Agnetha had apparently viewed him the same way she’d viewed the second-hand surfboard she’d bought at the surf shop in Narralee. Something to be enjoyed during her stay, but not something to take home with her, except in a photo or two. The surfboard was still in the back shed, beside his own. Agnetha had smiled as she’d waved goodbye. Five months down the track, she hadn’t even sent a postcard.

Now, here was another visitor from the northern hemisphere, equipped with what was known as special needs registration so that she could work here in a rural hospital in her surgical specialty. She was about fifteen years older than Agnetha. She had a long, thick, satisfying rope of honey-gold hair, bound back in a braid, instead of a fine thatch of short, Scandinavian blonde.

She had skin that would probably freckle like bits of melted milk chocolate under the Australian sun, while Agnetha’s skin had remained a perfect pale gold. Candace had almond-shaped eyes like brown pebbles, polished by the sea, while Agnetha’s were blue and clear and round. She had a ripe, luscious figure, with exquisitely full breasts and rounded hips, instead of a lean, almost boyish slimness.

And she had a lot more living evident in her face.

Terry had told him that Dr Fletcher had been divorced last year, and that she had a fifteen-year-old daughter. Well, it showed. Some of the sadness and complexity showed, around her tawny eyes and her generous mouth. For some reason, it actually added to the quiet richness of her unconventional beauty.

There was one thing that Candace Fletcher and Agnetha Thorhus had in common, however. With both of them, Steve had recognised within an hour or two of meeting them that there was a definite, undeniable and very bewitching spark. In this case, he wasn’t yet sure what he intended to do about it.

He took Candace to the café that was housed in the little town’s former bank. The place had a lot of charm, and excellent Devonshire teas.

‘My stomach is suddenly saying dinner, very loudly, at eleven-thirty in the morning,’ Candace confessed, so she began with a bowl of pumpkin soup, some salad and a hot, buttered roll. Then she moved on to scones with strawberry jam and whipped cream.

Not particularly hungry himself, Steve drank black coffee while he sat back and watched her eat. She was good at it. Just the right combination of fastidiousness and relish. Her response to the whipped cream was particularly appealing, and when she had finished there was a tiny beauty spot of white froth left just beyond the corner of her mouth.

Knowing that it wasn’t just a casual gesture, he leaned forward and used the tip of one finger to wipe it off. She didn’t object. Didn’t even look startled.

She knows, he thought, and felt an odd little flutter inside his chest which he didn’t have a name for.

She knows, too, just the way I do. She knows that something could happen between us. Whether it will or not, neither of us has decided yet…

It was a very pretty drive, Candace decided.

Dairy country, according to Steve. To the right, cliff-like escarpments rose above thick forests of eucalypts, but as the steepness of the terrain shelved away, the forest gave way to fenced farmland that was lush and green. To the left, in the distance, Candace glimpsed the sea. It twinkled in the sun like Steve Colton’s eyes.

And I’ll be looking at this sight every single day for the next year…

Looking at the sea, not the eyes.

Terry had arranged the rental of a furnished beach cottage for her, sending details, including photographs, of three or four for her to choose from. Narralee wasn’t quite on the coast but a mile or two inland, built on the banks of a river’s coastal estuary.

She hadn’t wanted the tameness and tranquillity of a river, no matter how pretty it was. She’d wanted the sea, fresh and wild and as solitary as possible, and the place she’d selected was in a little seaside community called Taylor’s Beach, about ten minutes’ drive away.

Steve had the address, and the keys. As soon as he pulled into the short driveway, she knew that the house and its setting were going to go way beyond her expectations. The house was built high, with the utilitarian parts beneath—carport, laundry, storage. On top, with magnificent views of the sea, were the living areas. There were other houses close by but, with tangles of bushland garden surrounding them, they didn’t impinge.

Steve helped Candace carry her luggage inside, then watched with a grin on his face as she simply wandered from room to room, uttering incoherent exclamations of pleasure.

‘You like it, then?’ he asked finally, when she returned to stand, woolly-witted, in front of the French windows that opened onto a shaded deck.

‘It’s perfect!’

‘I told Terry you’d pick this one if you were any good at reading photographs.’

‘They didn’t do it justice.’

‘How about my descriptions?’

‘Oh,