Long-Lost Father. Melissa James
loved padding around the darkened house in as little clothing as possible, feeling the whispering breezes through her windows surrounding her. With a long, cool drink and her lightest sarong, lying on the hammock she could only set up on her veranda at night—lest Casey walk into it and hurt herself—and she could indulge her senses, lose herself in the pulsing silence of darkness.
Shimmering waves still rose from the ground as the earth cooled itself from the scorching heat of day. Her body took on its heat and pulse, the waiting for the storm, the pressure building, heat sliding into her pores. She took an ice cube into her mouth, letting it melt, and the cold liquid slipping down her throat in cool relief.
The build-up toward the distant rumble of thunder set her nerves jangling; the promise of electricity lashed in tiny whip-flicks along every nerve ending.
The glistening water of the inground pool, lit by floor lights, whispered her name. It was her only indulgence, renting a house with a safe, solar-heated pool. She told herself Casey needed hydrotherapy, but deep down she knew it was for her. A swim was the only way she could release the pressure of the day.
A perfect night for a swim…moonlight and starlight and dark, roiling clouds, terrifying and beautiful—she wanted to slide into them, become part of the night.
Stop the memories…
She had little time before the storm hit. She was all Casey had; she couldn’t risk her life, as she used to when it didn’t matter—before Casey gave her life strength, meaning and love.
Twenty or thirty hard laps would dissipate the tension, bring her back to reality.
She wouldn’t admit that it was thinking of him that she wanted to escape.
A minute later, dressed in her favourite sky-blue one-piece swimsuit, she plunged into the deep end, her splash coinciding with the distant crack of thunder from the clouds closing in on the Sydney Basin.
Tire yourself out and you’ll stop thinking.
During the buildup to a storm, memories overwhelmed her. The tension took hold of her heart, body and soul, leaving her so alone, and the power of him came like a knight on a white charger to rescue her from endless isolation. Memories of his laughing face. Of him taking hold of her hand, something serious and intent inside those golden-brown eyes as her boss had introduced them at a swish poolside function at his fashionable Kew home.
“Samantha Holloway, this is my doctor, Brett Glennon. He saw you standing alone over here and wanted to meet you.”
Brett had smiled at her as if he knew something wonderful, amazing, that she didn’t. World-weary at twenty-two, she’d waited for the trite line about Fate or something blatantly sleazy; but he’d looked at her kicked-off sandals, glanced down and said, “I never could resist a pair of bare feet as good-looking as that. My feet are jealous.” And he’d kicked off his shoes, defying the disapproving looks of the formally clad guests with a conspiratorial grin that had melted her heart.
He was like that from the first, making her feel special and keeping her laughing. Life wasn’t serious or tragic with Brett; she wasn’t the Ice Princess—she was Sam, a young woman enjoying life with a man who saw beneath her cold facade to the scared girl inside.
Brett was the laughter she’d never known in her sterile world, the caring she’d always hungered for in the dark emptiness of the orphanage—and on their wedding night, he’d overcome her fears and introduced her to the passion she’d read about but never understood. For five exquisite months, he’d been the light in her starved life, the love, the reason to get up every day. Brett was everything.
And then he was gone, and the sun disappeared behind the clouds of her life: she was back to the mistrust and anger, the abandonment and dark emptiness, of life in the orphanage and repeated bouts of foster care…the nothing. He’d left her behind.
Yet for a little while, she had been loved—or at least she’d believed so at the time. Sometimes she wished she could have remained that blissfully ignorant.
Still, he hadn’t left her totally alone. He’d left her a priceless treasure. Every day she thanked God for the gift of her beautiful daughter. To Sam, Casey was perfect, precious—her beloved daughter, her only family. She’d spent six years on the run to keep them together. David and Margaret Glennon might be Casey’s grandparents, but they’d only gain custody of her over Sam’s dead body.
Don’t think. Swim!
On a night like this it was impossible not to relive her time with Brett. He’d been gone for too long, and memories were all she had. But she ached with what she’d lost—the absolute love from a man who knew her inside and out.
Every so often the memories became overwhelming, so incredibly real. She could almost feel the tender brushing of his lips against her mouth, the gentle waft of cool breath, the whispered comments that made her choke with laughter, made her body come alive with need and her heart overflow with love at once; and tonight she was already aching, yearning for what could never be again…
Swim harder!
She turned at the end and struck out again. Twenty. Twenty-one.
The memories, beautiful and unforgettable, were worse than useless. Painful and bittersweet, they hurt her as much as his words after their first kiss. He’d caught her behind the palms surrounding the pool, laughing—and something in him had called to her, melting the frozen walls she’d built to keep all men at arm’s length.
Her resolve had died by the end of that incredible kiss—and he hadn’t been laughing when they’d finally parted. He’d said, his voice shaking and almost bitter, “Why couldn’t I have met you three years from now?”
Don’t think about it. Swim! You have only—
“Hello, Sam.”
She gasped in water, halting midlap. Had she really heard that beautiful dark-malt-whiskey voice? No! Don’t drive yourself mad with hope!
Yet she whimpered, “Brett.” Hungering, craving…
“Yes, it’s me.” The dark, smooth voice was strong, sure—so masculine yet so cold. “Despite your best efforts to hide, I found you. I hear I have a daughter. I’d like to meet her.”
She gasped again. Her eyes snapped open. She jerked backward in the water until she stood facing the shadows of the veranda from where the sound of his voice had come. No—it couldn’t be Brett. He was…was—
Obviously not in an unmarked grave behind enemy lines in some war-forsaken tiny nation in Africa. All six feet of strong, 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.”
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