The Australian's Desire. Marion Lennox

      ‘Wow,’ she said, and almost as a reflex she touched her face.

      ‘He never hit me,’ Alistair said. ‘Did yours?’

      ‘I … My stepdad did, yes.’

      ‘So does that put you further on the wrong side of the tracks than me?’

      She stared up into his eyes. Her gaze held. Suddenly her lovely lips curved at the corners and she chuckled again.

      It was a good sound. A really good sound, he thought. And he felt pleased with himself. For just a minute she was putting aside her terrors for Max and her pain from her injured face, and she was enjoying herself.

      And who could not enjoy this over-the-top wedding? Mike was standing at the end of the aisle, looking stunned. Nervous as hell, despite the array of assorted males supporting him.

      This was ridiculous, Alistair thought. What a production.

      And then the great front doors swept open. ‘I Will Always Love You’ had segued into a full orchestral rendition of the Bridal March and the guests turned as one to see the bride make her entrance.

      Emily. The bride.

      This was crazy. She was a powder puff of brilliant white sweeping into the church, with Charles Wetherby in his wheelchair beside her. Charles looked proud fit to burst.

      Emily was seeing no one. She looked straight ahead until she saw Mike and faltered in mid-step.

      Alistair turned to look at the bridegroom. And he saw the look that flashed between the pair of them …

      The whole ridiculous bridal production faded to nothing. This was what it was all about, he thought, stunned. One man and one woman, committing to each other, with all the love in their hearts.

      It was no wonder Em hadn’t put her foot down over the apricot tulle. The apricot tulle was nothing.

      This man and this woman loved each other.

      He had been right to break it off with Eloise, Alistair thought suddenly with a flash of absolute certainty. Eloise would never have looked at him like that. And the way he’d felt about Eloise …

      No. This was loving. Out-of-control loving, letting go, a leap of faith—and who cared about apricot tulle? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they belonged together.

      He didn’t belong here, he thought suddenly. He felt like an impostor, an outsider privy to emotions he hardly understood.

      Embarrassed—or maybe not embarrassed but caught in some emotion he couldn’t begin to fathom—he turned away. He didn’t want to intercept that look again.

      He turned to Georgie.

      She’d caught the look as well. Her face had changed. Her hands had risen to her cheeks as though to drive away a surfeit of colour.

      Her eyes were filled with tears.

      ‘Georg,’ he whispered, but she shook her head fiercely, denying him the chance to say a word.

      He wasn’t going to say a word. He couldn’t think of a word to say.

      But tears were slipping down her cheeks. He felt in his pocket, produced a handkerchief and handed it over. Then, as she wiped her face, he took her free hand in his and held it.

      What sort of man still used handkerchiefs?

      It was a bit of an errant thought but it helped.

      Why was she crying at a wedding? This was dumb. It was the stupid analgesics, she thought. It had nothing to do with the way Mike was looking at Emily.

      She didn’t do weddings. She didn’t even do relationships. The only relationships she’d ever experienced had led her to disaster.

      It was her own fault. She didn’t know who she was herself. She was dumb. She’d go out with a lovely gentle fellow doctor. He’d treat her as if she were Dresden china and she’d feel … empty.

      Did she want to be slapped around, as her mother had been?

      Of course she didn’t. But there were times when she’d be drawn into a relationship with someone … well, someone her stepfather might have thought a mate. Someone who treated her as she’d learned to expect. She hated that, and it never lasted but, still, at least she knew where she stood.

      So she’d never fall in love with a good man?

      That thought slammed home, alarming her. She’d been sitting a mite too close to Alistair and now she edged away. He turned and looked at her and he smiled.

      He had a killer smile.

      He was still holding her hand.

      Alistair was one of the Dresden china ones, she told herself, feeling suddenly breathless. She knew from past experience that such men couldn’t make her happy. She’d make them unhappy.

      So stop smiling now!

      Look at the bride and groom. That was why she was here. Not to think about Alistair-Good-Looking Carmichael.

      And not to cry.

      Pull your hand away, stupid, she told herself, but she didn’t.

      The bride and groom were making their vows, softly but with all the sincerity in the world. Mike was smiling at his bride, making Georgie feel …

      Squirmy.

      ‘Soppy,’ she whispered, sounding as dumb as she’d felt for her tears, and Alistair grinned.

      ‘Yeah, real Romeo-and-Juliet stuff. Bring on the violins.’

      ‘They’re happy though,’ Georgie whispered, giving them their due.

      ‘But we know this love bit’s dangerous.’

      She frowned, thrown off balance. ‘Do we?’

      ‘Of course. You need to decide with your head.’ The priest was talking about the sanctity of marriage, but way back here they could whisper without fear of being overheard. The sound of the wind whistling around the old church was almost overwhelming, so bride and groom and priest needed the microphone to be heard.

      ‘Decide what with your head?’ Georgie asked.

      ‘Your life partner, of course,’ he told her, warming to his theme. ‘You and I are doctors. Scientists, if you like. We know the heart’s nothing but a bit of blood-filled muscle. If it fails you might even replace it with a transplant.’ He motioned to the bride and groom. ‘So where do you think these two would be if their hearts were transplanted? Unless there’s a fair bit of cool, calculated thought in the equation, then the marriage is doomed.’

      ‘Hush.’ But there was no need to hush. No one could hear.

      But she needed to hush him. What was he saying—that she should choose one of the gentle ones? The guys her head told her were suitable, but her heart abandoned as they pushed the wrong buttons.

      ‘So what do you—?’

      ‘Hush,’ she said again, becoming so flustered she wasn’t sure what she was thinking. Concentrate on the wedding, she told herself. This was an overblown Greek wedding. The church was full of apricot and white tizz. The bride and groom were surrounded by a sea of apricot and white attendants.

      It was over-the-top ridiculous.

      It was lovely.

      He was still holding her hand.

      The head and not the heart?

      Yeah, well, that was where she’d been in trouble in the past. The Croc Creek doctors’ house was always full to bursting with medics from around the world. Doctors used this place as a base where they could put their skills to use in a way that was invaluable to the remote peoples of Northern Australia. Doctors came here to help. Or sometimes they came just to escape.

      Like her?