Long-Lost Father. Melissa James

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СКАЧАТЬ dark-haired, golden male was right before her, living, breathing—and all she could do was gape at him while stinging tears rushed to her eyes.

      “Brett?” The name was laden with disbelief, with terror, her whole body shaking: the rush of shock, from her fingertips to her reeling mind, seemed to have changed her very heartbeat, stopping and kick-starting in painful waves. He was real…he was real.

      “Hello, Sam.” He stepped out of the languid darkness, into the soft brightness cast by the pool lights. Those eyes, those golden-brown laughing eyes, were dark with the intense emotion he was keeping under tight check.

      Sam couldn’t stop shivering; the world seemed to be spinning the wrong way. Her hand found the edge of the ladder, and she hung on for dear life. “Brett…” She sounded like the world’s biggest idiot, repeating his name over and over, but she couldn’t stop.

      “Yes.” His tone held no impatience; it held nothing at all.

      “But…” The change from languid heat to ice-cold fear, from deepest fantasy to utter reality in a matter of seconds left her too disoriented to be coherent. “Africa…Mbuka…when did…?”

      His face tightened. “If you mean when did I get back to Australia, almost two years ago.” He lifted something in his hand—it was a walking stick. “I only got the all clear from my physiotherapist a week ago.”

      Two years. He’d been home two years, and she’d known nothing, thinking him dead.

      It was too much. The sickness rushed to claim her. Her head drooped onto the ladder, but she breathed in water. Gasping, choking on one cough after another, she tightened her grip on the ladder as if it were a lifeline to sanity. Tears poured down her face.

      She felt his warm, strong hands grasp under her arms. A moment later he’d lifted her out of the pool and hauled her against him, patting with a cupped hand against her upper back, pushing upward with the heel of his palm to clear the water. He kept working on her until the choking subsided. “That’ll teach me to shock a woman in a pool,” he murmured somewhere near her hair. “You’d think a doctor would know better.”

      Even the intimacy of his hand on her back, his voice so close, overwhelmed her. Six years of painful dreams, waking to emptiness, always alone but never letting anyone close…now he was here and…touching her…Brett…

      There were times during the frantic days, the long, sleepless nights, when she thought she’d die for him to be here, to touch her one more time, to let her know she wasn’t alone.

      She choked again as the emotion came crashing down over her, and the more she tried to fight it, the bigger the burning ball of pain became, cutting off her breathing. The woman who’d never allowed herself the time or luxury to grieve for the husband she’d adored finally emerged from some dark place inside, demanding relief. Her legs shook too hard to support her. She dropped to her knees, buried her face in her hands and wept.

      “Sam.” He was so close she could smell the spicy aftershave he wore, the one she’d always loved so much. She’d bury her face into his throat and inhale it, inhale him. “I know this is a terrible shock. I had no choice but to do it like this, without warning.”

      Soft as the touch of butterfly wings, his fingertips touched her arms, caressing her. She felt the traitorous urge to snuggle against him, to take the comfort he was offering—

      A bolt of panic sent her scuttling back. “D-don’t touch me,” she cried through the sobs still overwhelming her. She ached for his touch but hated that vulnerability after six years of strength and independence. She couldn’t afford to be weak now.

      You’re at his feet in tears, a disgusted little voice said inside her. Is that strong?

      “Okay.” His voice grew deeper, hard yet rich with sensuality. “It’s your choice. But could you adjust that thing you’re almost wearing?”

      Oh! The shock stilled her tears like a twisted-off tap. Gulping and hiccuping, she looked down and saw her old, favourite swimsuit had gone patchy in places, delicately see-through. She groped for her sarong and scrambled away from him, hitching it over her breasts. Unable to stop herself, her gaze lifted to his.

      The tight-leashed control she’d sensed in him must have slipped just a little, for his dimples twitched. “You’d better get dressed now, Sam. It’s been a long time—for me, at least—and you’re still the most beautiful woman I know.”

      She crossed her arms over her breasts in guilty confusion. The winds, cooling now, sent a chill down the length of her overheated body. She shuddered, but with a massive effort she managed to stop her teeth from chattering. “W-why are you here?”

      His gaze remained steady on her face. “You’re shivering on a night as hot as this—you’re in shock. Dry off and get dressed or you’ll end up sick.”

      She jumped unsteadily to her feet and fled into the house, locking her bedroom door. She leaned against it for a minute or more, just shaking, drawing deep breaths. She couldn’t think, could only feel right now—and what she felt was sheer panic.

      She reached out with trembling hands to gather up her forgotten towel and dried herself.

      “Sam? Are you all right? You’ve been in there a long time.”

      Frantically she pulled herself together. “I’ll be right there.” She scrambled into her underwear and the plain cotton sundress she’d kicked under the bed and then used a second towel to fluff her hair semi dry. Time, she needed just a little more time to think…

      On the other side of the door waited the husband she’d been told was dead.

      She walked through to the living room and turned on the lights to negate the sensual, soft, deep velvet of night and the memories that were too strong, too beautiful, for either of them to forget, too dangerous to remember.

      Brett waited for her by the open double glass doors leading to the small back veranda, arms folded, leaning on the doorpost.

      It seemed some things didn’t change. He still wore his favourite hip hugging jeans and a black Screaming Jets T-shirt. The evening shadow showed that he hadn’t shaved since morning, giving him a rough, unfinished look that had always melted her.

      He’d seemed a living oxymoron to her at first: a high-born doctor, the son of a judge, dressed like a rock star. Then, as she’d come to know him, she’d seen beneath to the boy forced to wear designer labels and always looking perfect for the world, as expected of a Glennon. But Carlton Brett Glennon, while loving his wealthy, socially active family and remaining close to them, had rebelled against his parents’ perfect standards of dress and expectation from his teen years. From the day they’d met, he’d impressed her by caring more for his patients than his status, or the car he drove: the exact opposite of his socially conscious family he still somehow managed to love and respect—at least he had until he’d left for the tiny African nation of Mbuka to join Doctors for Africa, when their expectation had been for him to be a top Melbourne surgeon.

      Did he want that, now, too? Would he finally fulfil his parents’ hopes for him, and join the professional A-list?

      She shook herself. Whatever he’d been when he’d loved her, things were different now. I’m not the girl who ran from the threat of the Glennons. I will stand and fight this time!

      Then she noticed СКАЧАТЬ