Hot Island Nights. Sarah Mayberry

grabbed a pair of board shorts from the laundry, tugged them on, then exited the house and walked down the hot concrete path toward her car. She didn’t notice him approaching and she started when he rapped on the passenger window. She hesitated a second, then pressed the button to lower the glass.

      “Look, Sam’s in Sydney until the start of the race and won’t get into Hobart until New Year’s Eve at the soonest,” he said. “But once he knows you’re here, I’m sure he’ll come straight back.”

      “Race? What race?”

      “The Sydney to Hobart yacht race.”

      She bit her lip. “I’ve heard of that. Isn’t it very dangerous?”

      “Sam’s an experienced sailor. One of the best.”

      “Is that what he does? Sail, I mean?”

      “He hires out as crew mostly, and sometimes he delivers yachts for owners.”

      He took a step backward to signal the question-and-answer session was over. It wasn’t his place to fill in the blanks for her. That was between father and daughter. Nothing to do with him.

      “I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve spoken to Sam,” he said.

      She hesitated, then nodded. The glass slid up between them and she started the car then pulled away from the curb.

      Nate watched until she’d turned the corner. Guilt ate at him. He should have helped her more. Reassured her. She’d come a long way looking for a man she knew nothing about. He could have called Sam on the spot, told him—

      Nate caught himself before he let the thought go any further. Since when had he made himself Elizabeth Mason’s knight in shining armor?

      He smiled grimly, the action more a show of teeth than anything else. Rescuing damsels in distress was hardly his forte, after all. Look what had happened to the last damsel who’d put her faith in him.

      Tension banded his shoulders and chest. Pressure pushed at the back of his eyes and nose. His heart started to race as sweat prickled beneath his arms.

       Olivia. Bloody, bloody hell.

      He stared at the dry lawn beneath his feet, battling with himself. Then he strode toward the house and took the steps to the porch in one long-legged leap. Usually he tried not to drink before four o’clock, but trial and error had taught him that there was only one way to hold the anxiety at bay. He went straight to the kitchen and grabbed a can of beer from the fridge. He downed it quickly, closing his eyes and waiting for the alcohol to warm his belly. Vodka would be faster, of course, as would any other hard spirit. He wasn’t sure why he clung to beer as his therapy of choice. The illusion that it still meant he had some self-control, perhaps?

      Whatever. The tight feeling banding his chest eased and he reached for his second beer with less urgency.

      After this, maybe he’d phone around, see who was heading out to Summerlands or one of the other surf beaches so he could catch a few waves. Kill a few hours before he could hit the pub at a more socially acceptable time and start drinking himself toward oblivion again.

      And then another day would be over. One less trial to be faced. Hip, hip, hooray.

      ELIZABETH STARED AT THE peeling paint on her hotel room ceiling. The sound of laughter and the hum of conversation drifted in the open window. She’d been trying to sleep for the past three hours, but the room she’d been assigned at the Isle of Wight Hotel boasted only an old oscillating fan to combat the heat. Even though she was lying in her underwear on top of the sheets it was like being in a sauna. A really noisy, loud sauna, thanks to the fact that her window looked out over the hotel’s beer garden.

      She was so tired she should have been able to sleep through a hurricane, but her mind was racing, going over and over the same ground. She didn’t know what to do. Stay and wait for her father to come home? Go to Sydney and try to track him down somehow? Or—God forbid—return to England with her tail between her legs.

      She hated the idea of having come all this way for nothing, but the idea of waiting and putting her trust in Nathan Jones was enough to fill her with despair.

      She made an impatient sound and flopped onto her back. Every time she thought about Nathan Jones she got annoyed all over again. The way he’d told her straight up that he didn’t trust her and that he didn’t want to get involved in whatever was going on between her and her father. The way he’d shrugged so negligently when she’d been practically throwing herself on his mercy.

      “Stupid beach-bum git,” she muttered.

      Because that was exactly what he was—a beach bum. He’d very obviously just rolled out of bed when he opened the door, even though it was nearly midday. His short, dark hair had been rumpled, his pale blue eyes bloodshot, and she’d caught a whiff of stale beer when she passed him on the way to the kitchen. It wasn’t hard to guess what he’d been up to last night.

      As for the way he’d stood around with nothing but a frayed towel hanging low on his hips and his ridiculously overdeveloped body on display.

      She stirred, uneasy about the way images of his big, hard body kept sliding into her mind. The deeply tanned firmness of his shoulders. The trail of gold-tinted hair that bisected his hard belly and disappeared beneath the towel. The way his biceps had bulged when he crossed his arms over his chest.

      The way he’d laughed at her when she’d reminded him that anyone with half-decent manners would have thrown some clothes on before inviting someone into his home.

      She sat up and swung her legs to the floor.

      Clearly, she wasn’t going to get any sleep.

      She crossed the threadbare carpet to where she’d left the shopping bags from her brief foray along Main Street earlier in the day. By the time she’d checked into her room her linen shirt had been damp beneath her armpits and perspiration had been running down the backs of her knees. She’d packed for an English summer, not an Australian one, and she’d quickly realized she would need to get a few items of lighter clothing if she was going to survive the next few days with her sanity intact. She’d bought herself a yellow-and-red sundress and a couple of pastel-colored tank tops. None of it was in her usual style—tailored, elegant—but it was light and breezy and much more suitable for the weather.

      Now she pulled on the sundress and checked herself in the tarnished mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The skirt was a little shorter than she’d like—just above her knee—and the halter neck meant she couldn’t wear a bra, but there was no doubting that the cotton fabric was blessedly cool compared to her own clothes.

      She spent a few minutes coiling her hair into a neat chignon, then she checked her watch. Six o’clock. The whole evening stretched ahead of her, long and empty.

      Maybe she should explore Main Street more thoroughly while the light lasted. Or perhaps she could walk along the jetty, maybe even along the beach …?

      She crossed to the window to close it before she left the room and her gaze fell on the life and color and movement in the beer garden downstairs. There were dozens of holidaymakers clustered around tables, dressed in shorts and swimsuits and bright summer clothes, downing beer and wine and laughing with each other.

      Every time she’d ever holidayed someplace warm she’d always been traveling with her grandparents or Martin. The sort of restaurants and hotels they favored were discreet and refined—a far cry from the raucous chaos on display down below.

      A peal of laughter floated up through the window and Elizabeth found herself smiling instinctively in response.

       If Violet was here, she’d go down and join in the fun, a little voice whispered in her ear.

      Elizabeth frowned and pulled the window closed, flicking the lock into place.

      She wasn’t Violet. She couldn’t just go downstairs and buy herself a drink and become part of the