The Australian's Desire. Marion Lennox

His relationship with Eloise, seemingly so suitable, had suddenly seemed cloying. Dull?

      A month later he’d told Eloise he couldn’t go through with it. Not because of Georgie—or not directly because of Georgie. It was just that Georgie had showed him there was a life on the other side of control. He hadn’t wanted it, but it hadn’t been fair to Eloise to settle for her as an alternative. Eloise had hardly seemed disappointed, staying friends, accepting his decision with calmness. That had been great. That was why he admired her so much. He wanted that level of control.

      He had it—except when he saw Georgie.

      He couldn’t stay to watch Georgie sleep. It didn’t make sense.

      But he wanted to stay.

      ‘It’s no use wanting what we can’t have.’ It was his mother’s whiny voice, echoing from his childhood. When his father had disappeared in a cloud of gambling debts, taking off with a woman half his age, his mother’s voice had moved to whine and had never returned to normal.

      ‘You keep your life under control. You make sure—make sure, Alistair, any way you know how that you never put yourself in the position where you can be humiliated so much you want to take your own life. I’m so close to suicide … All I have is you. Oh, Alistair, be careful.’

      It had been a dreadful threat to hang on a child, but Alistair had known she’d meant it. If he’d threatened her nice stable existence—her pride in her son …

      Well, he hadn’t. He wouldn’t even now, when his mother was long dead. So what the hell was he doing, staring down at this sleeping woman and thinking …?

      He shook himself. He wasn’t thinking anything that’d worry anyone, including him. This was jet-lag. Exhaustion after this morning’s operation. Concern for a woman who had more than she deserved on her shoulders.

      So get a grip, he told himself, but he let himself look at her for one long moment before he stood and walked slowly to the door.

      And left her to her sleeping.

      This wind was getting frightening. As Alistair walked out into the living room a shutter slammed off its hinges, hit the wall, broke off and tumbled crosswise past the house. He heard its progress, not falling but being blown. It was a big shutter.

      One of the assembled bridesmaids screamed.

      There were so many bridesmaids, still clustered. Apparently they’d dispersed to get their make-up done and now they’d regrouped. How long did bridal preparations last? The photographer was trying to get them lined up but was having trouble.

      Gina waved to him from the back row. He hadn’t recognised her until now. Pink tulle?

      ‘It’s ridiculous,’ she said, abandoning the photo set-up and sidling out of her spot to join him. ‘Poor Em.’

      ‘Didn’t she plan this?’ he said, staring at … pink?

      ‘Mrs Poulos planned this,’ she said. ‘Sophia. Mike’s mum. This is a big Greek wedding, just as she’s always dreamed of. Em loves her too much to say no.’

      ‘I never thought I’d see you in pink tulle.’

      ‘Apricot,’ she retorted.

      ‘Right. Apricot.’

      ‘Sophia wanted the men in apricot dinner suits with apricot and white frills on their dinner shirts. But Mike put his foot down at that. They’re in black tuxes.’

      ‘Cal, too?’

      ‘Cal, too.’

      ‘And for your wedding?’ he asked in a voice of deep foreboding, and she chuckled.

      ‘If I asked you to wear apricot ruffles to my wedding, would you? Cousin?’

      ‘No,’ he said, revolted.

      ‘Not even if I said please?’

      ‘There’s no love in the world great enough to encompass apricot frills.’

      ‘Or red stilettos?’ she teased him, and he stopped smiling.

      ‘Gina …’

      ‘I know.’ Her smile widened. ‘It’s none of my business. But you and Georgie aren’t slugging any more, I hope?’

      ‘We were never slugging.’

      ‘She’s had such a hard time.’

      ‘I’m starting to realise that.’

      ‘Georgie’s my only bridesmaid so you have to be nice to her.’ She grinned. ‘And, I promise, no tulle.’

      He smiled back. He was trying to think of Georgie in tulle and failing dismally.

      ‘She’s OK?’ Gina asked.

      ‘She’d be better if she knew where Max was. I’ve been ringing through a list of her father’s friends.’

      ‘She let you do that?’ Gina’s eyes widened.

      ‘I offered.’

      ‘Yeah, but Georgie …’ She hesitated.

      ‘Gina, get back in line,’ someone yelled, and Gina sighed and shrugged and smiled.

      ‘Duty calls. Come and watch the wedding.’

      ‘I’m not invited.’

      ‘This is Croc Creek. Everyone’s invited. Come at least to the church. It should be fun.’

      And they all left, just like that. The photographer abandoned his work as hopeless and the car drivers ushered the girls out to the waiting cars. They were almost blown off their feet as they ran from house to cars.

      Then they were gone, and the silence was unnerving.

      What to do?

      He’d already offered to help out at the hospital, thinking all the doctors would be at the wedding. But apparently two young doctors had arrived only three weeks ago—two eager and skilled interns on a working holiday from Germany. Herrick and Ilse were more than capable of taking charge and calling for help when needed.

      Maybe he could go for a swim. But the wind made being outside unpleasant. The pool was protected, but even from here he could see the surface was littered with plant matter.

      He should … He should …

      Stay here. But … Georgie was sleeping off the bruise to her cheek, as well as making up, he suspected, for the sleep she hadn’t had the night before. The thought of staying alone in the same house with the sleeping Georgie was somehow unnerving.

      He’d head out onto the veranda to read. But just as he was making that decision, Mr and Mrs Grubb arrived. They swept into the kitchen to deliver a couple of casseroles—‘for the doctors’ supper if they get called away from the wedding, poor dears, and there’s that nice young German couple as well need feeding up’. They were ceremoniously attired in their Sunday best. Dora’s hat was … amazing.

      ‘Why are you still here?’ Dora demanded, and she seemed almost offended by the sight of him.

      ‘Georgie’s asleep.’

      ‘All the more reason for you not to be here,’ she snapped. ‘Is that the only reason you don’t want to come to the wedding?’

      ‘I’m not invited.’

      ‘That’s a nonsense. Everyone’s invited and it’s not proper for you to stay here with Dr Georgie. You could be anyone.’

      ‘As if I’m going to—’

      ‘You’re American, aren’t you?’ she demanded. ‘I know your reputation. Overpaid, over-sexed and over here. Go put a suit and tie on and we’ll wait for you.’

      Some things weren’t worth fighting. Deciding that defending his national dignity wasn’t