LITMIR.BIZ

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think...’ She was struggling for breath as waves surged around them but she managed to gasp the words. ‘You’d think a guy with the whole of Bass Strait to swim in could avoid my head.’

      He had hold of her shoulders—not clutching, just linking himself with her so the wash of the waves couldn’t push them apart. They were both in deadly peril, and weirdly his first urge was to laugh. She’d reached him and she was joking?

      Um... Get safe first. Laugh second.

      ‘Revenir à la plage. Je suivrai,’ he gasped, and then realised he’d spoken in French, Marétal’s official language. Which would be no use at all in Tasmania’s icy waters. Get back to the beach. I’ll follow, he’d wanted to say, and he tried to force his thick tongue to make the words. But it seemed she’d already understood.

      ‘How can you follow? You’re drowning.’ She’d replied in French, with only a slight haltingness to show French wasn’t her first language.

      ‘I’m not.’ He had his English together now. And his tongue almost working.

      ‘There’s blood on your head,’ she managed.

      ‘I’m okay. You’ve shown me the way. Put your head down and swim. I’m following.’

      ‘Is there anyone...?’ The indignation and her attempt at humour had gone from her voice and fear had replaced it. She was gasping between waves. ‘Is there anyone else in the boat?’

      Anyone else to save? She’d dived into the water to save him and was now proposing to head out further and save others?

      This was pure grit. His army instructors would be proud of her.

      She didn’t have a lifejacket on and he did.

      ‘No one,’ he growled. ‘Get back to the beach.’

      ‘You’re sure?’

      ‘I’m sure. Go.’ He should make her wear the life jacket, but the effort of taking the thing off was beyond him.

      ‘Don’t you dare drown. I’ve taken too much trouble.’

      ‘I won’t drown,’ he managed, and then a wave caught her and flung her sideways.

      She hit the closest rock and disappeared. He tried to grab her but she was under water—gone.

      Hell...

      He dived, adrenalin surging, giving him energy when he’d thought he had none. And then he grabbed and caught something...

      A wisp of lace. He tugged and she was free of the rocks, back in his arms, dazed into limpness.

      He fought back from the rocks and tried to steady while she fought to recover.

      ‘W...wow,’ she gasped at last. ‘Sorry. I...you can let go now.’

      ‘I’m not letting go.’ But he shifted his grip. He’d realised what he’d been holding were her knickers. He now had hold of her by her bra!

      ‘We surf in together,’ he gasped. ‘I have a lifejacket. I’m not letting go.’

      ‘You...can’t...’

      He heard pain in her voice.

      ‘You’re hurt.’

      ‘There’s no way I can put a sticking plaster on out here,’ she gasped. ‘Go.’

      ‘We go together.’

      ‘You’ll stretch my bra,’ she gasped, and once again he was caught by the sheer guts of the woman. She was hurt, she was in deadly peril, and she was trying to make him smile.

      ‘Yeah,’ he told her. ‘And if it stretches too far I’ll get an eyeful—but not until we’re safe on the beach. Just turn and kick.’

      ‘I’ll try,’ she managed, and then there was no room for more words. There was only room to try and live.

      * * *

      She couldn’t actually swim.

      There was something wrong with her arm. Or her shoulder? Or her chest? She wasn’t sure where the pain was radiating from, but it was surely radiating. It was the arm furthest from him—if he’d been holding her bra on that side she might have screamed. If she could scream without swallowing a bucket of seawater. Unlikely, she thought, and then wondered if she was making sense. She decided she wasn’t but she didn’t care.

      She had to kick. There was no way she’d go under. She’d risked her life to save this guy and now it seemed he didn’t need saving. Her drowning would be a complete waste.

      Some people would be pleased.

      And there was a thought to make her put her head down, hold her injured arm to her side as much as she could and try to kick her way through the surf.

      She had help. The guy still had his hand through her bra, holding fast. His kick was more powerful than hers could ever be. But he still didn’t know this beach.

      ‘Keep close to the rocks,’ she gasped during a break in the waves. ‘If you don’t stay close you’ll be caught in the rip.’

      ‘Got it,’ he told her. ‘Now, shut up and kick.’

      And then another wave caught them and she had the sense to put her head down and kick, even if the pain in her shoulder was pretty close to knocking her out. And he kicked too, and they surged in, and suddenly she was on sand. The wave was ripping back out again but the guy was on his feet, tugging her up through the shallows.

      ‘We’re here,’ he gasped. ‘Come on, lady, six feet to go. You can do it.’

      And she’d done it. Rocky was tearing down the beach to meet them, barking hysterically at the stranger.

      Enough. She subsided onto the sand, grabbed Rocky with her good arm, held him tight and burst into tears.

      * * *

      For a good while neither of them moved.

      She lay on the wet sand and hugged her dog and thought vaguely that she had to make an effort. She had to get into dry clothes. She was freezing. And shouldn’t she try to see if something was wrong with the guy beside her? He’d slumped down on the sand, too. She could see his chest rise and fall. He was alive, but his eyes were closed. The weak sunshine was on his unshaven face and he seemed to be drinking it up.

      Who was he?

      He was wearing army issue camouflage gear. It was the standard work wear of a soldier, though maybe slightly different from the Australian uniform.

      He was missing his boots.

      Why notice that?

      She was noticing his face, too. Well, why not? Even the pain in her shoulder didn’t stop her noticing his face.

      There was a trickle of blood mixing with the seawater dripping from his head.

      He was beautiful.

      It was the strongest face she’d ever seen. His features were lean, aquiline...aristocratic? He had dark hair—deep black. It was cropped into an army cut, but no style apart from a complete shave could disguise its tendency to curl. His grey eyes were deep-set and shadowed and he was wearing a couple of days’ stubble. He looked beyond exhausted.

      She guessed he was in his mid-thirties, and she thought he looked mean.

      Mean?

      Mean in the trained sense, she corrected herself. Mean as in a lean, mean fighting machine.

      She thought, weirdly, of a kid she’d gone to school with. Andy had been a friend with the same ambitions she’d had: to get away from Kunamungle and be someone.

      ‘I’ll join the army and be a lean, mean fighting machine,’ he’d told her.

      Last she’d heard, Andy was married with three kids, running

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