Cinderella And The Billionaire. Marion Lennox

      He checked his phone and almost groaned. No reception.

      ‘There’s not a lot of connectivity in the Southern Ocean.’ The skipper—if you could call this slip of a kid a skipper—was being helpful. ‘You can use the radio if it’s urgent.’

      He’d heard her on the radio. It was a static-filled jumble. Besides, the boat was lurching. A lot.

      The boat he was on was a rusty thirty-foot tub. ‘She’s all that’s available,’ Charlie had told him. ‘You want any better, you’ll have to wait until Monday.’

      He needed to be back in New York by Monday, so he was stuck.

      At least his instinct to distrust everyone in this tinpot hire company hadn’t gone so far as to refuse the pills Meg had insisted on. For which he was now incredibly grateful. His arm was around Henry, holding him close. Henry was almost deathly silent, completely withdrawn, but at least he wasn’t throwing up.

      They were almost an hour out of Rowan Bay. Three hours to go before they reached Garnett Island.

      He thought, not for the first time, how much better a helicopter would have been.

      There’d been no helicopters. Apparently there were bush fires inland. Any available chopper had been diverted to firefighting or surveillance, and the ones remaining had been booked up well before he’d decided to come.

      Beside him, Henry whimpered and huddled closer. There had been no choice. The thought of sending him here with an unknown travel escort had left him cold.

      Dumping him on an isolated island left him cold.

      He had no choice.

      ‘Boof!’

      He glanced up. Meg had turned to look at Henry, but she was calling her dog?

      They’d met Boof as they’d boarded. He was a rangy red-brown springer spaniel, turning grey in the dignified way of elderly dogs. He’d given them a courteous dog greeting as they’d boarded but Henry had cringed. Taking the hint, the dog had headed to the bow and acted like the carvings Matt had seen on ancient boats in the movies. Nose to the wind, ears flying, he looked fantastic.

      Now...one word from Meg and he was by her side.

      Meg was fishing deep in the pocket of what looked a truly disgusting oilskin jacket. She produced a plastic packet. Then she lashed the wheel and came over and knelt before Henry.

      ‘Henry,’ she said.

      Henry didn’t respond. Matt felt his little body shake, and with that came the familiar surge of anger on the child’s behalf.

      In anyone’s books, Amanda had been an appalling mother.

      Henry had been lonely when Amanda was alive and he was even more alone now.

      Meg had obviously decided to join the list of those who felt sorry for the little boy. Now she knelt with her dog beside her, her bag in her hand, and she waited.

      ‘Henry?’ she said again.

      There was a muffled sniff. There’d been a lot of those lately. Matt’s hold on him tightened and slowly the kid’s face emerged.

      They were both wearing sou’westers Meg had given them. Henry’s wan face emerging from a sea of yellow made Matt’s heart lurch. He was helpless with this kid. He had no rights at all and now he was taking him...who knew where?

      ‘Henry, Boof hasn’t had dinner,’ Meg said and waited.

      The lashed wheel was doing its job. They were heading into the wind. The boat’s action had settled a little.

      The sea was all around them. They seemed cocooned, an island of humanity and dog in the middle of nowhere.

      ‘Boof needs to be fed,’ Meg said, as if it didn’t matter too much. ‘He loves being fed one doggy bit at a time, and I have to go back to the wheel. Do you think you could feed Boof for me?’

      There was an almost-imperceptible shake of the head.

      Unperturbed, Meg opened the packet. ‘I guess I can do the first bit. Boof, sit.’

      Boof sat right before her.

      ‘Ask,’ Meg said.

      Boof dropped to the deck, looked imploringly up at Meg, then went back to sitting. He raised a paw. Please?

      Matt almost laughed.

      That was saying something. There hadn’t been any laughter in the last two weeks.

      But Meg’s face was solemn. ‘Great job, Boof,’ she told him and offered one doggy bit. Boof appeared to consider, then delicately accepted.

      And Henry was transfixed.

      ‘Does he do that all the time?’ he whispered.

      ‘His table manners are perfect,’ Meg said, giving Boof a hug. ‘Boof, would you like another one? Ask.’

      The performance was repeated, with the addition of a sweep of wagging tail. This was obviously a performance Boof enjoyed.

      There were quite a few doggy bits.

      But Meg glanced back at the wheel. ‘Boof, sorry, you’ll have to wait.’ She headed back to the wheel, and Boof dropped to the deck, dejection in every fibre of his being.

      ‘Can’t you give him the rest?’ Henry ventured, and Matt could have cheered.

      ‘If I have time later.’ Meg’s attention was back on the ocean.

      And Matt could feel Henry’s tension.

      From the time he’d heard of his mother’s death, he’d been almost rigid. With shock? Fear? Who knew? He’d accepted the news without a word.

      Social Services had been there early. Talking to Matt. If there’s no one, we’ll take care of him until we can contact his grandmother.

      Matt hardly had the time or the skills to care for a child, but in the face of Henry’s stoic acceptance his voice had seemed to come from nowhere.

      I’ll take care of him, he’d said.

      Almost immediately he’d thought, What have I done?

      To say Matt McLellan wasn’t a family man was to put it mildly. He’d been an only child with distant parents. He’d had a few longer-term lovers, but they’d been women who followed his rules. Career and independence came first.

      Matt had been raised pretty much the same as Henry. Care had been paid for by money. But he hadn’t been deserted when he was seven. His almost-visceral reaction to Henry’s loss had shocked him.

      So Henry had come home to Matt’s apartment. The place had great views overlooking the Hudson. It had the best that money could buy when it came to furnishings and art, but Matt pretty much used it as a place to crash. In terms of comfort for a seven-year-old there was nothing.

      They’d gone back to Amanda’s apartment to fetch what Henry needed and found almost a carbon copy of Matt’s place. The apartment was spotless. Henry’s room had designer children’s prints on the walls but it still spoke sterile. His toys were arranged almost as if they were supposed to be part of the artwork.

      Henry had taken a battered teddy and a scrapbook that Matt had had the privilege to see.

      He’d wanted nothing else.

      The scrapbook was in his backpack now. There was panic when it was out of reach, so the backpack had pretty much stayed on for the entire trip. And Teddy... When Matt had put on his oversized sou’wester, Henry had tucked Teddy deep in the pocket, almost as if he expected someone to snatch it away.

      A kid. A scrapbook. A teddy.

      There’d been nothing else. And Matt had had no idea how to comfort him.

      ‘Maybe we could feed the dog,’