LITMIR.BIZ

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on a pair of scuffs as a concession to her sore foot—which wasn’t all that sore—Alistair had done a decent job. Then she padded through the house, her stomach leading the way.

      The place was in darkness. She flicked on the kitchen light and loaded a plate. Cold chicken. Quiche. Some sort of noodly salad. Apple slice—hoorah for Mrs Grubb. A glass of milk and she was set.

      It was hot inside. Outside there was wind—an abundance of wind by the sound of it—but the veranda was usually sheltered. Clutching her plate, she pushed the screen door wide.

      ‘Hi,’ Alistair said, and she almost dropped her plate.

      She wasn’t dressed for company. She was wearing a very skimpy nightgown. Pink scuffs. Nothing else.

      She retreated a bit but he’d pushed himself out of the ancient settee and was taking her plate from her.

      He’d taken off his stupid suit. He was wearing shorts, a khaki, open-necked shirt and nothing on his legs and feet. He looked … amazing.

      ‘I’ll pull up a table.’

      ‘There’s no need.’

      ‘There is a need,’ he said gently. ‘Hey, I’m not going to jump you, Georgie. If you want, I’ll even go away. You’ve earned the right to eat where you like tonight.’

      ‘I didn’t think you were going to jump me,’ she said a trifle breathlessly, and he smiled.

      ‘That’s good, then. Sit.’

      She sat.

      ‘Are you hurting?’

      ‘Gina gave me something. I’m fine.’

      He nodded and went back to staring over the sea. Which gave her space to eat. It didn’t hurt too much to eat. She still had space in her thoughts to watch him covertly. And think about him.

      He wasn’t a father type at all, she thought. Why Gina thought he could give her away….

      She shouldn’t be thinking like that. She tried really hard to concentrate on her food. Which was hard. It’s the painkillers, she thought. They were making her fuzzy.

      ‘Georg?’ There was a yell from inside the house.

      ‘We’re out here,’ Alistair called back.

      It was Harry. He was still in his police uniform. Still on duty.

      ‘I rang the bell and no one answered,’ he said apologetically. ‘Sorry, Georg. Your bedroom door was open so I knew you were up somewhere.’

      ‘People come and go as they please in this house,’ Georgie told Alistair, as he looked confused. ‘And Harry’s one of us.’

      ‘One of you?’

      ‘The host of young professionals who run the Croc Creek rescue base,’ she said. ‘Medics. Policemen. Pilots. We’re a huge team. Why aren’t you at the party?’

      ‘Duty,’ Harry said bitterly. ‘Plus this storm. I’ve been on the radio for the past hour, trying to persuade stupid bloody fishermen that they need to get into port right now. This cyclone’s supposed to be blowing out to sea, instead of which it’s lurking off the coast like a great black time bomb.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, how’s the face?’ He flicked the porch light on. Then he flicked it off again. ‘Ugh.’

      ‘Hey, I have to be a beautiful bridesmaid in eight days,’ Georgie protested. ‘Say something bracing like, “Naught but a scratch, lass.”’

      ‘Naught but a scratch, lass,’ Harry said, but he didn’t sound convincing. He glanced at Alistair in indecision. ‘Um … Georg, I need to talk to you.’

      ‘I’m here.’

      ‘About your old man,’ he said, and Georgie stilled.

      ‘What’s he done now?’ she whispered.

      Harry hesitated. He glanced at Alistair, and Alistair obviously got the message. ‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ he said.

      But Georgie shook her head. For some dumb reason she suddenly wanted him to stick around. Strength in numbers? Something like that.

      ‘Just tell me, Harry,’ she said wearily, and both men looked at her in concern. ‘I don’t care who else knows.’

      ‘He’s wanted for a bank job in Mt Isa.’

      She flinched.

      ‘You didn’t know?’ Harry asked, watching her closely.

      ‘No,’ she whispered.

      ‘He hasn’t been in contact with you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘But Max …’

      She felt sick. ‘Oh, God, Harry, I haven’t heard from Max for months. I’ve been going out of my mind with worry.’

      ‘Who’s Max?’ Alistair asked, and she flashed him a buttout glance.

      ‘He’s mine!’

      ‘Max is seven,’ Harry explained. ‘He usually lives here with Georgie but Ron took him away six months ago.’

      ‘Which is why I drank too much at Gina’s engagement party.’ Georgie stood up, then leaned forward and grabbed the veranda rail for support. Alistair was by her side before she reached the rail, holding her steady.

      ‘I’m fine,’ she muttered. She bit her lip and looked up at Harry, meeting his gaze head on. ‘What do you want me to do?’

      ‘Nothing,’ Harry told her. ‘I was pretty sure you hadn’t heard but the big boys are telling me to ask you. Maybe they’ll tap your phone.’

      ‘If anyone phones me, it’ll be Max. Not Ron. And they’re more than welcome to listen to any conversation I have with Max. Where the hell is he?’

      Harry shook his head. ‘That’s what I’m asking you.’

      ‘Ron knows I’ll kill him if any harm comes to Max.’

      It was a flat statement of intent. She meant it. She shivered and Alistair was suddenly holding her close, hugging her against him.

      ‘She’s had enough,’ he said, and Harry nodded.

      ‘Yeah. I know that. I didn’t want to ask. But you’ll let me know, Georg.’

      ‘If I hear, I’ll yell it to the rooftops.’

      ‘Even if it means jail for Ron?’

      ‘You think I want him outside? Messing with Max? I want sole custody but they won’t give it to me.’

      ‘So you want him in jail,’ Harry said, with a lopsided grin. ‘You’re putting them all away tonight. I’ll do my best to get him where you want him to be. Can I put out a missing person bulletin for Max?’

      ‘Ron won’t have deserted him. He wouldn’t dare.’

      ‘It can’t hurt to broadcast that he’s missing. People are more likely to respond to a plea for a missing kid rather than information wanted about Ron.’

      ‘OK,’ she said wearily. ‘If it’ll help … Please, Harry.’

      ‘Leave it with me,’ he told her, and then, with a last curious look from one to the other, he left them, striding down through the garden to the beach path below.

      There was a long silence. The wind was rising to storm level now, bending the palms between them and the beach, whistling around the old house, making their sheltered veranda seem even more isolated. Even more of a refuge.

      He should go in and leave her to her thoughts, but Alistair didn’t want to. She’d pulled away from him. Now she was leaning on the veranda rail, staring at nothing.

      He shouldn’t get involved.

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