LITMIR.BIZ

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mouth. ‘Sergeant Jacob Hawke will see you now.’

      As Fran made her way to the door marked with the officer’s name she suddenly realised how soaked through her clothes and hair were. Just before she raised her hand to knock on the door she glanced down at herself and realised her sodden sundress was practically see-through. She could clearly see the outline of her yellow and pink bikini, which was fine when one was on a remote beach with one’s sister, but hardly appropriate attire when one was reporting an incident of the gravity of this to a senior officer of the N.S.W. police force. She considered turning around and hot-footing it out of the building without formally lodging the complaint, but then she remembered one of the trauma cases she had assessed in A and E a few months before she had quit. A young female driver of only twenty-two had been run off the road by a speeding motorcyclist and as a result had ended up a paraplegic. Her career as a ballet dancer had ended in a matter of four or five seconds, not only destroying her dreams but taking the life of her equally young and hope-filled passenger.

      Fran had dealt with the relatives and friends of the two young victims with the training that had been drummed into her, but the human, deeply feeling part of her had lain awake many a night ever since, thinking of how unjust life was, how the ones at fault so often got off with barely a rap over the knuckles. A fine, a licence suspension or even a short prison sentence was never going to bring an innocent victim back to life, and it was never going to console the grieving relatives.

       Never

      Fran took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock on the door and then listened as strong, even strides approached the door before it opened.

      Then she felt her jaw drop. She had never really felt that before. Jaws didn’t really drop, at least not in medical terms. Mouths opened in shock and surprise, eyes flared or bulged, jaws didn’t actually drop.

      But hers did this time.

      Fran stared at him, her mouth hanging open, her eyes taking in his features in one goggle-eyed look. Without the cover of his shiny black helmet she could see he was in the category of heart-breakingly gorgeous, with olive skin, a sharply chiselled jaw that was still liberally peppered with stubble and a sensually sculpted mouth that she suspected had wreaked havoc on many a female mouth in its time, which according to her rough calculations was about thirty-two or thirty-three years.

      His blue eyes—those glacier-blue eyes—were centred on hers, making her heart skip in her chest.

      ‘You!’ she gasped, barely able to pull in a breath to give the word the force she had intended to deliver.

      ‘Dr Nin,’ he said with a movement of his lips that indicated mockery. ‘And here I was thinking we had no doctor in our midst. Welcome to Pelican Bay.’

      ‘I am not practising at the moment,’ she said with chilly emphasis. ‘I’m on leave.’

      She watched as his raised brow made a perfect arc over one of his eyes. ‘Have you been warned you are likely to be on a busman’s holiday while you are in town, Dr Nin?’ he asked.

      Fran set her mouth. ‘When I say I am on holiday, I mean it, Sergeant…er…Wolf.’

      He gave her another movement of his lips that didn’t even come within a whisker of a smile. ‘Hawke,’ he corrected her. ‘Jacob Hawke.’

      Fran was annoyed with herself for blushing. She couldn’t remember the last time she had blushed. She had dealt with naked men’s bodies ever since she had started med school but for some reason the fully clothed, black leather coated body of Sergeant Jacob Hawke made her flush inside and out. In fact, she could feel every hair on her blonde head lifting as if each one was trying to get away from the blast of warmth his presence induced. And it was a blood-heating presence without a doubt. She felt the rush of hot blood in her veins, the electric charge of tension just sharing the same air he breathed.

      ‘Would you like to come into my office?’ he asked, holding the door open for her, although she thought the invitation lacked enthusiasm.

      Fran knew she would look a fool if she turned on her one good heel and left. She also knew she could end up looking an even bigger fool by staying and saying her piece. But the scare she’d had made her fight response win over her flight one, and, taking a breath that barely inflated her lungs, she stepped past him into his office.

      ‘Take a seat,’ he said, and moved around to the other side of his desk.

      Fran sat on the hard plastic chair, her eyes scanning his desk for any clues to his personality. She decided in the end he wasn’t super-neat but neither was he untidy and disorganised—he was busy.

      There was a photo frame next to his computer but she couldn’t see the subject of the photo it contained as it faced him, not her. There was a glass paperweight pinning down some papers, containing a dandelion puff inside. She found herself staring at it, marvelling at the way it had been captured there, its fragility permanently protected by its spherical armour.

      Fran became aware of the fact he was still standing, again giving her the impression he was not intending this interview to last very long. She met his eyes and felt another wave of colour wash over her face.

      ‘So, you’re Carolyn Atkins’s sister,’ he said, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back against the filing cabinet. ‘You don’t look much like her.’

      Fran felt her back come up against the hard spine of the plastic chair. ‘Is that a crime?’ she asked. She had spent most of her life being compared to her beautiful sister and consistently falling short. The events of the last few months hadn’t helped her confidence one little bit, which made his comment all the more stinging.

      His mouth lifted at one corner but she couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a smirk, but she suspected it was something in between. ‘Constable Jeffrey informs me you would like to lodge a dangerous driving complaint,’ he said. ‘I take it that would be against me.’

      She raised her chin. ‘I realise you’re a cop but that doesn’t mean you can drive like a maniac,’ she said. ‘Besides, you weren’t in police uniform or on a police bike or official vehicle, neither, as far as I could see, were you travelling to an emergency.’

      Even though he didn’t move a muscle, his eyes turned from ice to stone. ‘Dr Nin,’ he said, deliberately pausing before he continued, ‘I accept that you were frightened by a near collision but the conditions were hazardous and it is my belief you were travelling a little too fast for them.’

      Fran could feel her anger stiffening every bone in her body. She got to her feet indignantly, wincing slightly as her leg protested. ‘So it’s my fault, is it?’ she asked, glaring at him. ‘What about you? Weren’t you driving a little too fast for them too, or don’t the same rules apply to you that apply to everyone else?’

      He continued to hold her look for several seconds before he unfolded his arms and pushed himself away from the filing cabinet. ‘For your information, Dr Nin, I was responding to an emergency,’ he said. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I need to tidy up some things here before I leave for Sydney. I have some urgent business to see to there.’

      Fran wondered if he was telling the truth or fobbing her off. After all, there had been no witnesses to their ‘near collision’, as he called it. It was his word against hers, and she knew enough about cops to know how they stuck together, covering each other’s backs if the need arose.

      She slung her handbag over her shoulder and, fixing him with an I-am-not-going-to-take-this-lying-down look, turned and left his office, closing the door behind her with a sharp click.

      Jacob dragged a hand through his hair once she had gone, his eyes going to the photo frame on his desk. His chest still felt as if someone had bludgeoned him with the blunt end of a pylon.

      He was the only one left now.

      It was weird to think of himself as an orphan.

      He picked up his helmet and keys. It wouldn’t matter if he drove like a Motor GP driver

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