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all? He just wanted to buy a painting? You didn’t talk about anything else?’ Damn it, Natasha, you don’t care, so why ask?

      Her father glanced up, his eyes bemused. ‘If you had any questions for him, Nat, you had your chance to ask him face to face. It’s not my business to ask him.’

      ‘No, of course not.’ Her chin lifted. ‘And don’t be silly, of course I don’t have any questions I’d want to ask Tom Scanlon! I couldn’t get rid of him quick enough—as you saw.’ She realised she was shaking, not just her hands, but her whole body. Just as well she wasn’t still trying to paint!

      ‘Nat—’ Charlie began, and seemed to hesitate. ‘The very fact that he came back to see you shows that he must still care about you…that he’s been thinking about you,’ he amended, as pained eyes flew to his. ‘He’s had his freedom…eighteen months of it. He most likely has it out of his system by now. If you still care about him yourself—’

      ‘I don’t!’ she cried, and bit her lip. ‘Dad, you don’t understand.’ She was calling him Dad again, a sign of growing distress. She folded her arms to hide her trembling hands. ‘He hurt me. I’m not going to let him hurt me again. I’m over him now and I don’t ever want to see him again.’

      Her father gave her a long searching look. ‘Maybe I know you, Nat, better than you know yourself.’

      ‘Oh, yes?’ She glared at him indignantly But she could feel her lip wobbling.

      ‘I think you do care, deep down. And I think he still cares too. Time’s a great healer, Nat.’

      ‘Dad…’ She heaved a shuddering sigh. ‘Forget it. There’s not going to be a happy ending, so don’t start dreaming of one. It’s not going to happen. What we had once is dead and buried. He killed it. He—’ She flicked her tongue over her lips. She would have to tell him. It was the only way he’d understand. ‘He dumped me for someone else!’

      It was out. Finally.

      Her father’s head shot up. She flinched at the rush of sympathy in his eyes. But the anger she expected to see wasn’t there…the anger he should have been directing at Tom.

      ‘Nat…I know it must have hurt you. But some men get cold feet at the thought of marriage, and panic. Maybe Tom just wanted an excuse to get away for a while…to be on his own. Or maybe he just needed some breathing space, and took up with someone else on the rebound—and later came to regret it and realise he’d made a terrible mistake. And now he’s come back to find out if there’s any hope of a second chance.’

      ‘A second chance? Forget it!’ She shot her father a quick, probing frown. ‘Who says he regrets it?’ she cracked out. ‘Did he say anything about his—his girlfriend to you?’

      ‘No,’ Charlie admitted. ‘But why would he come all the way here to see you, Nat, and want to buy one of your paintings, if he’s still involved with someone else?’

      ‘Oh, Dad, you’re so naive. Because he feels guilty. Because his conscience is bothering him. He just wanted to check that I hadn’t fallen into a black hole, so that he could get on with his life without feeling guilty any more. Well, I showed him.’ She tossed her head. ‘I showed him I’m well and truly over him.’ A tremor shook through her. ‘But there was no way I was going to be all chummy and forgiving. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.’

      ‘No…rightly so,’ Charlie murmured, examining the frame in his hand. ‘I’d better get on with this, Nat…I have to finish it before we leave tomorrow.’

      She pursed her lips. He was taking Tom Scanlon’s treachery very lightly. Obviously, her father was prepared to forgive and forget…without even knowing if Tom was still tied up with the woman he’d run away with. It defied belief!

      ‘I’ve got things to finish this afternoon, too, and I’ve still got to pack,’ she growled. ‘I could have done without this interruption.’ She scowled, still hovering, despite herself. ‘Let’s forget he ever came. All right?’

      ‘Anything you say, love.’

      She shot him a suspicious look. But Charlie’s face was bland. Disturbingly bland.

      Well, he could hardly be planning to invite Tom back for a return visit. Tomorrow Charlie was taking her up north on a painting trip. Her first ever trip to Kakadu National Park. She’d agreed to hold an exhibition of her paintings in Sydney in the spring, with Kakadu as her subject.

      Kakadu was way up north, near Darwin, at the Top End of Australia. She’d be safe up there. Safe from Tom Scanlon.

      Perfectly safe.

      CHAPTER TWO

      WHEN she came into the kitchen the next morning to grab some coffee before the early morning flight to Darwin, Natasha found Aunt Edith, her father’s widowed sister, already there. Edith was going to stay in their flat and look after the gallery and framing business while they were away up north. Since her husband’s death last year, Edith had been helping out in the gallery part-time, and she often popped in to help with the cleaning and cooking, or to join them for a meal.

      ‘Hi, Aunt Edith.’

      ‘Good morning, dear.’

      There was something about Edith’s usually cheery greeting that alerted Natasha. ‘Is something wrong, Auntie?’ She frowned and glanced round. ‘Where’s Charlie?’ Her father was usually up at the crack of dawn.

      ‘Oh dear, your father’s come down with the flu, dear. And to make matters even worse, he has gout in his big toe.’

      ‘Oh, no!’ On the very day they were planning to fly to Darwin! ‘How bad is he? Have you called the doctor?’ Sympathy for her father vied with dismay at what it meant. She’d planned this Kakadu trip so carefully, deliberately choosing this time of year—early May, the start of the dry season, when the grass would still be green and the flowers still blooming. To postpone it, even for a couple of weeks, would upset her carefully-made plans and put her entire working schedule out in the coming months.

      Edith grimaced. ‘He wouldn’t let me. He said the doctor would only tell him to stay in bed, and he’s already in bed. Luckily he has tablets for his gout.’ She seemed to hesitate. ‘He demanded his mobile phone so that he could make some phone calls—the last thing he should be doing, the state he’s in.’ She sniffed her disapproval.

      ‘I’ll go and see him.’ Chewing on her lip, Natasha darted off.

      She expected her father to be sitting up in bed, propped up on pillows, or in an armchair with the mobile phone clamped to his ear, but he was lying in bed huddled under the blankets, with only the silvery top of his head showing and a big cage-like mound at the foot of the bed protecting his gouty foot. Her heart sank.

      ‘Dad…’

      He peeked up at her. ‘Sorry, love, I’m sick. Really sick.’ His voice was thin and wavery, his normally lively blue eyes half closed, as if it were an effort to keep them open. ‘But you’re not to worry, I’ve arranged everything. You’re still to catch the plane at nine.’

      ‘Oh, Dad, how can I go without you? I can’t go camping for two weeks in Kakadu Park on my own! And at this late stage there’s no one else I—’

      ‘Love, I’ve fixed it, I said,’ Charlie insisted weakly. ‘I’ve contacted a safari tour company—’

      ‘Dad, I’m not going on one of those organised tours—even if it’s in a four-wheel-drive with only a handful of people. I want to be able to go where I like, when I like, and take as long as I need to get the shots and the sketches I want, and do the painting I want.’

      ‘You’ll still be able to do all that, love. The tour boss himself is going to take you—personally. I’ve checked him out and he’s thoroughly reliable and highly regarded throughout

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