The Surgeon's Love-Child. Lilian Darcy

      Don’t let it show on your face, Steve.

      This woman is…No, she’s not gorgeous. Not even pretty. Something much better, and much more interesting. She’s magnetic, womanly, responsive.

      He hadn’t felt it at first. He had been too busy thinking about the last time he’d been at Sydney airport, several months ago, seeing Agnetha off on her flight back home to Sweden.

      The memory was like a splinter in his thumb. Yes, sure, he knew it wasn’t a major wound, but that didn’t stop it from hurting. And it had preoccupied him more than he’d wanted it to, during his wait for the visiting American doctor.

      Did I even consider getting serious, asking Agnetha to marry me? No!

      If she’d asked me to go to Sweden with her, would I have gone? No!

      So what’s my problem?

      One of sheer, bloody male ego, perhaps. He was…miffed…that Agnetha had apparently viewed him the same way she’d viewed the second-hand surfboard she’d bought at the surf shop in Narralee. Something to be enjoyed during her stay, but not something to take home with her, except in a photo or two. The surfboard was still in the back shed, beside his own. Agnetha had smiled as she’d waved goodbye. Five months down the track, she hadn’t even sent a postcard.

      Now, here was another visitor from the northern hemisphere, equipped with what was known as special needs registration so that she could work here in a rural hospital in her surgical specialty. She was about fifteen years older than Agnetha. She had a long, thick, satisfying rope of honey-gold hair, bound back in a braid, instead of a fine thatch of short, Scandinavian blonde.

      She had skin that would probably freckle like bits of melted milk chocolate under the Australian sun, while Agnetha’s skin had remained a perfect pale gold. Candace had almond-shaped eyes like brown pebbles, polished by the sea, while Agnetha’s were blue and clear and round. She had a ripe, luscious figure, with exquisitely full breasts and rounded hips, instead of a lean, almost boyish slimness.

      And she had a lot more living evident in her face.

      Terry had told him that Dr Fletcher had been divorced last year, and that she had a fifteen-year-old daughter. Well, it showed. Some of the sadness and complexity showed, around her tawny eyes and her generous mouth. For some reason, it actually added to the quiet richness of her unconventional beauty.

      There was one thing that Candace Fletcher and Agnetha Thorhus had in common, however. With both of them, Steve had recognised within an hour or two of meeting them that there was a definite, undeniable and very bewitching spark. In this case, he wasn’t yet sure what he intended to do about it.

      He took Candace to the café that was housed in the little town’s former bank. The place had a lot of charm, and excellent Devonshire teas.

      ‘My stomach is suddenly saying dinner, very loudly, at eleven-thirty in the morning,’ Candace confessed, so she began with a bowl of pumpkin soup, some salad and a hot, buttered roll. Then she moved on to scones with strawberry jam and whipped cream.

      Not particularly hungry himself, Steve drank black coffee while he sat back and watched her eat. She was good at it. Just the right combination of fastidiousness and relish. Her response to the whipped cream was particularly appealing, and when she had finished there was a tiny beauty spot of white froth left just beyond the corner of her mouth.

      Knowing that it wasn’t just a casual gesture, he leaned forward and used the tip of one finger to wipe it off. She didn’t object. Didn’t even look startled.

      She knows, he thought, and felt an odd little flutter inside his chest which he didn’t have a name for.

      She knows, too, just the way I do. She knows that something could happen between us. Whether it will or not, neither of us has decided yet…

      It was a very pretty drive, Candace decided.

      Dairy country, according to Steve. To the right, cliff-like escarpments rose above thick forests of eucalypts, but as the steepness of the terrain shelved away, the forest gave way to fenced farmland that was lush and green. To the left, in the distance, Candace glimpsed the sea. It twinkled in the sun like Steve Colton’s eyes.

      And I’ll be looking at this sight every single day for the next year…

      Looking at the sea, not the eyes.

      Terry had arranged the rental of a furnished beach cottage for her, sending details, including photographs, of three or four for her to choose from. Narralee wasn’t quite on the coast but a mile or two inland, built on the banks of a river’s coastal estuary.

      She hadn’t wanted the tameness and tranquillity of a river, no matter how pretty it was. She’d wanted the sea, fresh and wild and as solitary as possible, and the place she’d selected was in a little seaside community called Taylor’s Beach, about ten minutes’ drive away.

      Steve had the address, and the keys. As soon as he pulled into the short driveway, she knew that the house and its setting were going to go way beyond her expectations. The house was built high, with the utilitarian parts beneath—carport, laundry, storage. On top, with magnificent views of the sea, were the living areas. There were other houses close by but, with tangles of bushland garden surrounding them, they didn’t impinge.

      Steve helped Candace carry her luggage inside, then watched with a grin on his face as she simply wandered from room to room, uttering incoherent exclamations of pleasure.

      ‘You like it, then?’ he asked finally, when she returned to stand, woolly-witted, in front of the French windows that opened onto a shaded deck.

      ‘It’s perfect!’

      ‘I told Terry you’d pick this one if you were any good at reading photographs.’

      ‘They didn’t do it justice.’

      ‘How about my descriptions?’

      ‘Oh, it was you who wrote those?’

      ‘I tried to be objective, but probably didn’t succeed. I’m incurably biased. Couldn’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to live along this stretch of beach.’

      ‘So where do you live?’

      ‘Five doors down.’

      ‘Right.’ She nodded, and looked quickly out at the ocean again before their eyes could meet. Five doors down. That had the potential to be very convenient. ‘Um, I like the interior, too, as well as the setting and the views,’ she added, speaking too fast.

      The house wasn’t elaborate or huge. There was an open-plan lounge and dining room, a modern kitchen, a generous bathroom and two airy bedrooms, one furnished with twin beds, one with a queen-size. But with a whole world of sand and ocean and sky out there, she didn’t need interior space. The rooms were decorated in summery blues and yellows, with light, casual touches of good taste in the occasional piece of ceramic work or glassware.

      Steve opened the French windows, and a sea breeze combed through the outer screens and puffed air into the full-length blue and yellow curtains, which were pulled back on their tracks to reveal the view. Candace went out onto the deck, willing him not to follow her. She could smell the fresh salt in the air at once.

      Here on the deck, the outdoor furniture was made of cane. It didn’t normally appeal to her, but fitted in this setting. Yes, she would eat here at this little cane and glass table and watch the ocean, every chance she got…

      ‘I think Linda was planning to pick up some basic supplies for you,’ Steve said behind her, just inside. ‘Shall I check the fridge?’

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Then I ought to head off. I have appointments at my practice, starting at two.’

      ‘You’ve been terrific.’ She stepped back into the cool living room.

      They were both being very neutral and polite with each other now.