She also found news clips, incidents where neighbouring fighting had spilled into the country. She saw pictures of Seb, hauled out of his world of saving sight to save bomb victims, to be there for the casualties of war.

  She thought of the words Arthur had used to describe his great-nephew.

  ‘He’s a waste of space...’

  As if. He was driven, she thought. Driven as his uncle had been, but for such a cause...

  So, finally, she let herself think seriously of what he was proposing—what he had proposed. Surely it had to be ridiculous, but the more she watched, the more a voice in her head was starting to say... This isn’t about me. It’s about so much more.

  The thought was almost overwhelming. She desperately wanted to back away, but somehow, she made herself work on, doing her own research as well as following the links Seb had sent her. She worked through reams of information about the Cantrell mines, about the power the company held, about their reputation for riding roughshod over anything and anyone who got in the way of profits.

  The voice was growing louder.

  But...marriage?

  Finally, she reached the point where she had to talk to someone—someone who wasn’t Seb. So, a week later, she ended up sitting in Misty and Angus’s kitchen, spilling everything to her friend and colleague.

  This big and messy house had always seemed a haven for Jodie. Angus was out for the evening—island choir, for heaven’s sake—and it seemed Misty’s grandma was at bingo. Their two kids were asleep. Jodie was on call for any medical need, but the island seemed quiet and the decision she was about to make was doing her head in.

  So she set her laptop on the kitchen table, loaded the video of Seb’s tutorial and asked Misty to watch it. Then she showed her the website of Cantrell Holdings.

  A bemused Misty watched—and then listened incredulously as she outlined Seb’s proposal.

  To say Misty was thunderstruck would have been an understatement. She stared without saying a word for what surely must have been three or four minutes. ‘We need wine,’ she managed at last. ‘How dare you tell me this when I’m pregnant and you’re on call?’

  ‘I’m dizzy already and wine might make me even dizzier,’ Jodie told her. ‘Best not.’

  ‘So...so what are you going to do?’

  ‘Marry him?’ Jodie managed. ‘I think I have to.’

  ‘Marry!’ Her friend was staring at her as if she was out of her mind. ‘This is like something out of fantasy fiction, it can’t possibly be real.’

  But then she looked again at the image of Seb on the foundation’s website—they both looked—and Misty frowned in concentration. ‘I’ve heard of this foundation. What they’re doing is stunning. Jodie, the difference...’

  ‘I know.’ It was practically a moan.

  ‘And he looks nice too,’ Misty said, still sounding dazed. ‘In the video...spunky?’

  ‘Spunky?’

  ‘I’m looking at the overall picture here,’ her friend said hastily. ‘You have to admit he looks hot.’

  ‘Misty...’

  ‘Yeah, not a factor,’ Misty agreed, somehow hauling herself together. ‘Or...it shouldn’t be. But it’s not like you’re being asked to marry the great-uncle.’

  ‘But...marriage?’

  ‘I know,’ Misty said, sounding dazed again, but then she appeared to think it through. ‘But it’s only for two years. And I’ve read about arranged marriages. If you take romance out of the equation, you might even be able to make it work. As long as you’re emotionally and physically safe, as long as you have and give respect, and as long as you like being in their company, the chances for a decent marriage are predicted to be pretty good.’

  ‘That sounds...clinical.’

  ‘Maybe, but we’re talking a house share situation for two years.’ She gazed again at the screen. ‘I don’t know. What do you have to lose?’

  ‘So much.’ She closed her eyes.

  ‘This island?’ Misty asked, her voice gentling. ‘Your work here? We could cope without you.’

  ‘But you’re about to have a baby. You’ll need time off and that’d mean only one doctor on the island.’

  ‘We’ll cope,’ Misty said stolidly. ‘For something like this... Think of what else is at stake.’ And then her voice softened. ‘Jodie, what else is scaring you?’

  ‘Him,’ she said, before she could stop herself.

  ‘Seb?’ Misty looked again at the image on the screen, the front page of the foundation’s website. It was a plea for funds, so the image tried to evoke emotion. On the screen was a photograph of Seb, stooping to talk to a young mother. She was holding her little boy in her arms, the child had a patch over one eye and the hope and trust on both their faces was almost tangible.

  The gentleness and professional reassurance on Seb’s seemed equally real.

  ‘He looks wonderful,’ Misty said. ‘Is there something I’m not getting? Jodie, would you be afraid to marry him?’

  ‘No. I... Yes.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to be... I don’t want to be...’

  ‘Drawn into caring?’ Misty ventured. ‘I get that.’ She hesitated. ‘Jodie, this is way beyond my ability—or right—to even think about giving advice. I know you’ve always held yourself apart. Sometimes I’ve even tried to guess why, but I won’t ask. It’s none of my business. Bottom line is that this has to be your decision and your decision alone. If you can’t do this then there’ll be no judgement from me. We’ll forget this whole conversation.’

  And then, blessedly, Jodie’s phone rang. She answered and rose, with some relief. ‘Croup,’ she said, and Misty nodded.

  ‘You know you’re needed here,’ she said softly. ‘And you’re doing good. We all do what we can. Go and deal with croup, Jodie love.’ And then she gave her friend an impulsive hug. ‘There’s no judgement from anyone if you can’t do more. But...’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But, no pressure, love, but if everything else fits...he does look really, really sexy.’

  ‘That can’t possibly fit into the equation.’

  ‘I don’t see why not!’ Misty retorted with a grin. ‘There’s no rule about life not being fun.’

  * * *

  The call from Jodie a week later was brusque, to say the least.

  ‘We need to talk. Can you come this afternoon? I’ll meet you at the ferry.’

  Was she about to accept? Seb forced his mind carefully into neutral, trying to suppress panic at the thought that she might refuse. To lose so much...

  But there was also fear of what lay ahead if she said yes. Marriage.

  No. House sharing, he told himself. Independence. It couldn’t work any other way. But when the ferry reached the island and she was outside the terminal waiting for him, the qualms he’d been trying to suppress at the thought of marriage came flooding back.

  Why did the sight of her make him feel...as he had no right to feel?

  She was wearing shorts and a frayed T-shirt, her sun-bleached hair still looked like it could do with a good comb and her long, tanned legs looked like they went on for ever.

  She was leaning against a beach buggy that looked ancient, as did the battered surfboard strapped on its rollbars. But even though she looked scruffy and the vehicle she was driving looked as if it was almost ready for the scrapyard, the way she looked... Weirdly, it made him feel amazing. That this woman was waiting for him... That she was smiling and waving, straight at him...

  And she was here to talk marriage?

  ‘Hey,’ he said as he met her. And then, because he felt like his entire body was clenched in readiness for a verdict, he asked directly, ‘What’s the decision?’

  ‘Not here. We need to go somewhere private.’ And she refused to speak again, just shook her head and motioned to the passenger seat.

  The silence continued as they drove. The need to know was hammering in his head but she seemed intent on her driving. Finally, she turned off the main road onto a sandy track, then pulled up at the entrance to a cove which seemed both secluded and lovely.

  ‘This island has ears everywhere and I don’t want us to be disturbed,’ she said briefly as she parked. She produced a picnic blanket from the back, spread it out on the sand, then fetched a basket containing coffee and a packet of biscuits. She sat down, opened the biscuits and poured coffee. Then, as he was still standing, feeling bemused, she came right out with it.

  ‘Okay, Seb. Bottom line is that I’ll marry you. But with conditions.’

  Whoa. To say he was hornswoggled would have been an understatement. He was about to be married. How did that make him feel?

  Panicked, he conceded. Very, very panicked.

  ‘Conditions?’ he managed, and was surprised that his voice actually worked.

  ‘Arthur threw conditions at us,’ she told him. ‘We can surely throw a few back.’ She held out a coffee. ‘Sit.’

  He sat and she proffered her biscuits. ‘Tim Tams,’ she told him, her voice amazingly steady, given the circumstances. ‘These are my favourite biscuits, especially through coffee. Are they yours? I suspect that should be one of our marriage conditions. If you don’t like Tim Tams we’re clearly incompatible.’ Then she bit off two diagonally opposite corners of her biscuit, stuck one end in her coffee and proceeded to use it like a straw.

  What was happening here? He’d arrived thinking this would be a businesslike discussion—and they were sitting on the beach eating Tim Tams.

  And there was the lesser—surely lesser?—fact that this woman was starting to seem...gorgeous. Had she been gorgeous the first time he’d seen her? She’d been battered and weary, he’d hardly taken in what she was wearing, but she had made an impression. Or more than an impression.

  Had Arthur seen the same thing? Was that why he...?

  No. That was too deep. He shook his head, trying to clear confusion, but confusion refused to be cleared.

  Marriage?

  ‘Did you really just say yes?’ he said faintly, and she looked at him in surprise. She lifted what remained of her Tim Tam out of her coffee, half biscuit, half oozing melted chocolate, and popped it all into her mouth. And focused. Her eyes said bliss.

  She had him fascinated.

  ‘I really did say yes,’ she managed when it was finally gone. ‘I swear these are nectar of the gods. When life gets complicated, Tim Tams and coffee—or Tim Tams and hot chocolate—are the only answer. This scheme seems complicated enough to warrant all three.’

  ‘Is this a discussion of marriage or an advertisement?’ he asked, still befuddled.

  ‘I just thought...how long since you’ve done this? Sat on a beach and eaten whatever you wanted? I’ve done some major research on you now, Seb Cantrell, and your lifestyle sounds appalling. I apologise for implying you were as much a waste of space as I am.’

  ‘I never implied that you...’

  She cut him off. ‘Of course you did. What was your proposal? That I come to Brisbane and spend a couple of years surfing and spending a million dollars? As if I’d be happy doing that. But to a certain extent I agree. I don’t take life seriously.’ She shrugged. ‘But you...how often do you surf?’

  What sort of a question was this when so much was at stake?

  ‘Not often,’ he confessed. ‘In fact, not for years. But I was surfing the day my uncle was injured. I accused him of never enjoying himself, and then...’

  ‘And then you both decided to surf? But before then? Or since?’

  ‘Um...what’s this got to do with marriage?’

  She shot him a strange look. ‘Hey, am I wasting your time discussing details? Do you want to go straight to the register office?’

  ‘Jodie...’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ She shrugged again. ‘This is serious. The whole thing’s ridiculously serious. But I have done my due diligence, and you’re right, there doesn’t seem much choice but for me to marry you.’

  What? Had she just said ‘I do’? Was he about to be married to this...beach nymph?

  ‘There’s a romantic acceptance,’ he managed, feeling winded. Or feeling more than winded. It wouldn’t be a real marriage, he told himself a trifle desperately. Not a real commitment. She was agreeing to sign a piece of paper. She wasn’t promising to commit long-term.

  He wouldn’t have to commit either.

  She’d gone back to concentrating on the next Tim Tam. He watched her eat in silence until finally she sighed, put down her empty mug and faced him head-on.

  ‘It’s not romantic, is it, and that’s what I’ve figured,’ she said bluntly, her gaze locked on his. ‘So let’s get this straight. You’re suggesting we marry, I live with you in Brisbane, I get some sort of job over there—not that I’ll need to, according to you. You’re proposing that I can be as frivolous as I like, while you get on with saving the world.’

  ‘That’s an overstatement.’

  ‘But essentially correct?’

  ‘Jodie, I don’t see how else it can work,’ he told her, fighting back emotions he was struggling to understand. ‘I can’t go back to Al Delebe, but I’ll need to be in Brisbane, to keep up my skills, but also to focus on company matters. You have no idea of the complexities of changing the direction of such an enormous corporation. I still don’t know how I’ll do it.’ He paused and gestured out towards the beach—the beckoning waves, the sunlight glinting through the palms. ‘So I can’t afford to do this.’

  ‘But my condition is that you’ll have to.’

  ‘Have to what?’

  ‘Stay here. On Kirra.’

  ‘How can I do that? My work is in...’

  ‘Brisbane. No, it’s not. Not all of it. Seb, I get what you need, but this marriage can’t be a one-way deal. I need to focus on me.’

  ‘You’ll get a million...’

  And that produced silence. He saw her eyes flash with something he didn’t understand—but suddenly he did. Her anger was almost tangible.

  ‘You know, if you say one more word about payment I might get back in the buggy and drive away,’ she said at last, very, very carefully. ‘You can get back to the ferry whatever way you like, but you’ll do it alone.’

  ‘It’s not payment. It’s...’

  ‘Shut up. I’m not kidding. Enough of me being a wastrel, a layabout. Without being insulting, are you prepared to listen to my part of the deal?’

  Was she implying the money wasn’t important? A million dollars? It surely had to be, but she was moving on.

  ‘I told you, I’ve been doing some research,’ she told him. ‘And a lot of thinking. The work you’re doing for Al Delebe can surely mostly be done online. You’ll need to cut down your public presentations, but for the sake of Al Delebe’s future, with your uncle’s entire legacy at stake, surely the cost/benefit breakdown will be worth it.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘Shut up and listen,’ she told him quite kindly. ‘You’re also currently doing clinical work three days a week and one weekend in three. I’ve thought that through, and I see no reason why you can’t continue. Lots of islanders use the ferry to commute. You could leave here at seven in the morning, get to Brisbane at eight, leave Brisbane at six at night and get back here by seven. Or there’s a company helicopter. Your uncle used it. I don’t see why you can’t.’

  ‘But the work I do...’

  She held up her hands as if to stop him, realised two fingers were covered in chocolate and obviously decided they needed to be licked. She proceeded to lick, then carefully wiped them on a napkin before proceeding.

  ‘I do realise there might be the occasional need to stay,’ she admitted. ‘Sometimes with surgery you need to be on hand for complications, but Brisbane Central has overnight accommodation for medical staff. I think the marriage boundaries can stretch to the occasional night apart. I assume there’ll be meetings with your corporation people too, lots of meetings. You can go back and forth to Brisbane if you must, or hold them online here.’

  Whoa. He stared at her, stunned. ‘You really have been researching...’

  ‘This is marriage. Why wouldn’t I research?’

  ‘But why do we need to stay on the island?’

  ‘Because,’ she said slowly, ‘contrary to what you think, I do care. I came here as a part-time locum but it’s become my home. Misty’s about to have a baby, which means the island would essentially be left with one doctor. Besides, I’m not doing this all on your terms. A quick wedding in a register office and then off to live a life of indolence in your fancy apartment? I don’t think so. Oh, and speaking of weddings...’

  ‘Weddings?’ He was feeling dazed.

  ‘Marriages require weddings,’ she said. Her flash of anger had gone and she was now even managing to sound cheerful. ‘And if we go through with this, I want a big one. Huge.’

  He blinked. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘But it’s not a real marriage.’

  ‘Of course it’s not, but I don’t see why it can’t be a real wedding. We...the islanders...have had a couple of bad fishing seasons, and the recent storm caused major damage. We could use some cheering up.’

  She hesitated but then continued. ‘Seb, everything I’ve read in this contract is all about you, and the company, and the good you can do. I acknowledge your work is save-the-world-important. But I only have one little life, and that’s important to me, too. So I’ve decided, if I’m indeed part of this equation then I need to stick with what makes me get up in the morning.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Surfing,’ she said tentatively, and then at the look on his face she held up her hands. ‘I know, there it is again. You think that’s a waste of space, and maybe it is, but it holds my head together. And teaching kids surfing is great too. It gives me joy.’

 

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