Dynamite Doc or Christmas Dad?

‘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.