From different worlds...

...to the perfect family?

Entrusted to take his late colleague’s young son to his grandmother, Manhattan financier Matt McLellan hires down-on-her-luck skipper Meg O’Hara to take them across Australia’s Bass Strait. He might be a billionaire, but aboard Meg’s boat she’s the boss! The flame-haired beauty gets under the committed bachelor’s skin and by the time they reach their destination, Matt’s wondering if he’s finally found the family he never knew he needed...

MARION LENNOX has written more than one hundred romances, and is published in over a hundred countries and thirty languages. Her multiple awards include the prestigious RITA® Award—twice—and the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award for ‘a body of work which makes us laugh and teaches us about love’. Marion adores her family, her kayak, her dog—and lying on the beach with a book someone else has written. Heaven!

Also by Marion Lennox

Christmas Where They Belong

The Earl’s Convenient Wife

His Cinderella Heiress

Stepping into the Prince’s World

Stranded with the Secret Billionaire

Reunited with Her Surgeon Prince

The Billionaire’s Christmas Baby

Finding His Wife, Finding a Son

English Lord on Her Doorstep

The Baby They Longed For

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Cinderella and the Billionaire

Marion Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09125-1

CINDERELLA AND THE BILLIONAIRE

© 2019 Marion Lennox

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To our friends, Neil and Dale,

and to all the intrepid islanders who make their homes

and/or their livings on the islands of Bass Strait.

It’s a harsh and unforgiving place to love,

but it gives back in spades.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

THE LACEWORK ON McLellan Place’s gatehouse looked almost perfect. From the helicopter, Matt and Henry saw the last piece being fitted into place. Once they landed they admired the result, agreeing with the foreman that it had been a major storm. The damage wasn’t the fault of workmanship.

If Matt had come by himself he might have headed straight back to Manhattan, but he was entertaining a seven-year-old. He and Henry therefore walked across the vast sweep of lawn to the main house beyond.

‘It’s big,’ Henry whispered as Matt led him into the massive kitchen and through to the butler’s pantry to find juice and cookies. The place was always stocked, even though Matt was lucky to arrive once a month.

The house was big, Matt conceded. With eight bathrooms and ten bedrooms, it was far too large for one semireclusive bachelor. But the East Hampton home, two hours’ drive or a short chopper ride from Manhattan, had been in his family for generations. Its upkeep kept a team of locals employed, its seclusion gave wildlife a precious refuge and it was as much a home as he’d ever known. It had been his refuge as a child from being dragged from one international hotel to another by his jet-setting parents.

Henry should have somewhere like this, he thought. McLellan Place was a far cry from the Manhattan legal offices where Henry seemed to spend half his life.

The seven-year-old was now sitting at the vast stretch of granite that formed the kitchen bench, seriously concentrating on his juice. He was nothing to do with Matt, but there was a part of Matt that connected with him.

Henry’s mother, Amanda, was one of Matt’s employees, a lawyer and a good one. Nothing got in the way of her work, including her son. When he wasn’t at school she left him in her office and often, somehow, he ended up in Matt’s office, reading or playing computer games.

The call today, to tell Matt of the storm damage, had come through when he’d had an unexpected break in appointments. Matt hadn’t been near McLellan Place for weeks. His chopper was available. It was time he checked on the place.

He’d looked at the silent kid and made a decision. A call to Amanda had given slightly stunned permission—she couldn’t believe her boss had time for the boy.

Thus Henry was here with him, quiet and serious.

‘It has beautiful furniture,’ the little boy ventured.

It did. His mother’s interior designer would be pleased.

‘Those stairs are really long.’

‘When I was your age I used to slide down the bannisters.’ The bannisters were an ode to craftsmanship, the oak curving gracefully at the end to stop a small boy coming to grief. ‘Would you like me to show you how?’

‘No, thank you.’

Probably just as well. He hadn’t slid down for maybe twenty years.

‘We have time for a swim,’ he suggested. The horizon pool by the house was kept warm all year round.

‘I didn’t bring my swimmers.’

‘We could swim in our jocks.’

‘No, thank you,’ Henry said again, politely, and Matt felt like banging his head. This kid had been schooled to be seen and not heard, to fade into the background.

‘Then let’s go for a walk on the beach,’ he told Henry.

And then his personal phone rang. Uh-oh.

Matt’s secretary knew what he was doing and when he’d be back. She’d only contact him if it was urgent.

‘Helen?’

‘Matt?’ And by the tone of her voice he knew something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

What the...? ‘Tell me.’

‘Matt, it’s Amanda. You know...she went out to lunch. Matt, they say she was texting and she walked... Matt, she walked straight into traffic. Matt, she’s dead. That poor little boy. Oh, Matt, how are you going to tell him?’

CHAPTER ONE

‘YOU EMPLOYED ME to act as a fishing guide. Now you want me to act as a glorified taxi driver? And in Bertha? Four hours out and four hours back, with overnight stays? Is she even safe?’

‘She’s safe as houses.’ Charlie’s voice was smooth as silk as he patted the reservation book with satisfaction. ‘This is a last-minute booking, Bertha’s the only boat available and Jeff’s rung in sick. Have you any idea how much this guy’s prepared to pay? Never mind,’ he added hastily, no doubt figuring Meg would up her wage demands if she knew. ‘But it’s enough to give you a decent bonus.’

‘Charlie, I’ve been out since dawn on a fishing charter. I’m filthy. I’m off for the next three days. I have five acres of grass to slash and it’s almost fire season. If I don’t get it done now the council will be down on me like a ton of bricks.’

‘Sell that place and move into town,’ Charlie said easily. ‘I know it was your grandpa’s, but sentimentality gets you nowhere. Look,’ he said placatingly. ‘You do this job, and I’ll send Graham out to slash the place for you.’

Charlie’s son. Not in a million years.

‘You’re kidding. Knowing Graham, he’d slash the house before he touched the grass. Charlie, I’m not about to drop everything and spend the next three days ferrying some cashed-up tourist with more money than sense. Why does he want to go to Garnett Island anyway? No one goes there.’

‘I do.’

The voice made her jump.

She’d been leaning over the counter of Rowan Bay’s only charter boat company, focusing on Charlie. Not that Charlie was anything to focus on. He was flabby, florid, and he smelled of fish.

The guy who’d walked in was hitting six feet, maybe even more, lean, ripped, tanned. Sleek? The word seemed to fit. In the circles Meg O’Hara moved in, this guy was...well, a fish out of water.

Or a shark? His smart chinos, his butter-soft leather jacket, his brogues all screamed money. His hair looked as if it had been cut yesterday, conservative and classy, every jet-black wave knowing its place.

And his eyes...

Dark as deep water, they were watching her and asking questions. She found herself getting flustered just looking into those eyes.

‘I’m Matt McLellan,’ he said softly, but there was a growl underneath, an inherent threat. Was it...don’t mess with me? ‘You’re booked to take me to Garnett Island. Is there a problem?’

Charlie stood up so fast his chair fell over behind him. He grabbed a grubby notepad from beside the phone, wrote a figure on it and shoved it across the desk at Meg.

She glanced down at it and turned bug-eyed.

‘That’d be my cut?’ she asked incredulously. What had this guy offered Charlie?

‘Yes,’ he said hurriedly and surged around the desk to take the stranger’s hand. ‘There’s no problem, Mr. McLellan. This is Meg O’Hara, your skipper. She’ll take you out, anchor until you have the little one settled and then bring you back.’

‘Little one?’ Meg asked.

‘He’s taking a boy out to his grandmother,’ Charlie said, talking too fast. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, sir?’

‘That’s right.’ The man dropped Charlie’s hand and glanced at his own. She saw an almost-instinctive urge to wipe it.

She didn’t blame him. Charlie’s hands... Ugh.

Though she glanced down at herself and thought... I’m almost as bad.

‘But you have reservations?’ he said. He’d obviously overheard. ‘The boat?’

‘We had the boat in dry dock just last week,’ Charlie said. ‘I checked her personally. And Meg here is one of our most experienced skippers. Ten years of commercial fishing and another two years taking fishing charters. There’s nothing about the sea she doesn’t know.’

‘She doesn’t look old enough to have done any of those things.’

‘Is that a compliment or what?’ It was time she was part of this conversation, Meg decided. She knew she looked young, and her jeans, baggy windcheater, short copper curls and no make-up wouldn’t be helping. ‘I’m twenty-eight. I started fishing with my grandfather when I was sixteen. He got sick when I was twenty-five so we sold the boat and I took a part-time job helping Charlie with fishing charters. My granddad died six months ago, so I can now take longer charters.’ She glanced at the note Charlie had given her. This amount... She could even get the leak over the washhouse fixed. ‘The boy... Is he your son?’

‘I don’t have a son.’

Hmm. If she was going to be forthcoming, so was he.

‘I’m not about to let you take a kid I know nothing about and dump him on Garnett Island.’ She planted her feet square and met him eye to eye. ‘Garnett Island’s four hours off the mainland. As far as I know, Peggy Lakey lives there and no one else.’

‘Peggy’s Henry’s grandmother.’

‘Really?’ Local lore said Peggy had no relatives at all. ‘How old’s Henry?’

‘Seven.’

‘He’s going on a holiday?’

‘To stay.’

‘Is that right? Are you his legal guardian?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘If you want my help it’s very much my business.’ Behind her she could see Charlie almost weep. The figure he’d scrawled represented a month’s takings and that was only her cut. But she had to ignore the money. This was a kid. ‘You’re American, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Henry’s American, too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you must have had documentation allowing you to bring him out of the country. Giving you authority. Can I see?’

‘Meg!’ Charlie was almost wringing his hands but Charlie wasn’t the one being asked to leave a child on an almost-deserted island.

‘You can see,’ he said and flipped a wad of documents from an inside pocket and laid them on the desk. Then he glanced outside, as if checking. For the child?

‘Where’s Henry now?’ she asked.

‘We just had fish and chips. He’s feeding the leftovers to the seagulls.’

‘Greasy food before heading to sea? Does he get seasick?’

That brought a frown. ‘I didn’t think...’

She was flipping through the documents. ‘These say you’re not even related.’

‘I’m not related,’ he said and then obviously decided the easiest way to get past her belligerence was to be forthcoming.

‘I’m a lawyer and financial analyst in Manhattan,’ he said. ‘Henry’s mother, Amanda, is...was...a lawyer in my company. She was a single mother and no one’s ever been told who Henry’s father is. Henry’s quiet. When he’s not in school he sits in her office or out in the reception area. He reads or watches his notepad. Then two weeks ago, Amanda was killed. She was on her phone, she walked into traffic and suddenly there was no one for Henry.’

‘Oh...’ And her head switched from distrust to distress, just like that. Her own parents... A car crash. She’d been eleven.

Her grandparents had been with her from the moment she’d woken in the hospital. She had a sudden vision of a seven-year-old who sat in a reception area and read.

There was no one for Henry.

But she wasn’t paid to be emotional. She was paid to get the job done.

‘So...your relationship with him?’ She was leafing through the documents, trying to get a grip.

‘I’m no relation.’ His voice was suddenly bleak. ‘Sometimes he sits in my office while I work. It was term break, so he was with me when we heard of his mother’s death. The birth certificate names the father as Steven Walker but gives no details. We haven’t been able to track him down and no one else seems to care. Apart from Peggy.’

And just like that, her bristles turned to fluff.

‘Garnett Island?’ she said, hauling herself—with difficulty—away from the image she was starting to have of a bereft seven-year-old sitting in a lawyer’s office when someone came to tell him his mum was dead.

‘As far as we can find out, Peggy Lakey’s now Henry’s only living relative,’ he told her. ‘Peggy’s his maternal grandmother. Unless we can find his father, she has full say in his upbringing.’

‘So why didn’t she get straight on a plane?’ The solitude of Henry was still all around her.

‘She says she turns into a whimpering heap at the sight of a plane. I’ve talked to her via her radio set-up. She sounds sensible, but flying’s not an option. She made arrangements for an escort service to collect Henry and bring him to her, but, at the last minute, I...’

‘You couldn’t let him travel alone.’

The last of her bristles disintegrated. For some stupid reason she felt her eyes fill. She swiped a hand across her cheek—and felt an oil streak land where the tear had been. Good one, Meg.

‘So is that enough?’ Matt McLellan’s tone turned acerbic, moving on. ‘Can we leave?’

‘After I’ve double-checked Bertha,’ she told him with a sideways glance at Charlie. He’d checked her personally? Yeah, and she was a monkey’s uncle. She could at least give the engine a quick once-over. ‘And when you and Henry have taken seasickness tablets and let them settle. Bass Strait, Mr McLellan, is not for pussies.’

* * *

What was he doing here?

The Cartland case was nearing closure. He had to trust his staff not to mess things up.

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,’ Matt said and waited some more.

‘Boof likes boys more than grown-ups,’ Meg said from the wheel. ‘Though he likes me best. The same as your teddy, Henry. I bet your teddy likes you best.’

So she’d seen. His respect for her went up a notch.

Actually, his respect was mounting.

Even though it had annoyed him at the time, he’d accepted—even appreciated—her checking his authority to take Henry to the island. And her skill now... The way she turned the boat to the wind, her concentration on each swell... They combined to provide the most comfortable and safe passage possible.

She was small and thin. Her copper curls looked as if they’d been attacked by scissors rather than a decent hairdresser. She’d ditched her oilskin and was now wearing faded jeans and a windcheater with the words Here, Fishy on the back. Her feet were bare and she seemed totally oblivious to the wind.

Her tanned face, her crinkled eyes... This woman was about as far from the women he mixed with as it was possible to get.

And now she was focused on Henry. He saw Henry’s surprise as Meg mentioned Teddy. Henry’s hand slipped into his pocket as if he was reassuring himself that Ted was still there.

‘Ted likes me.’

‘Of course,’ Meg agreed. ‘Like Boof likes me. But Boof does love friends giving him his dinner.’

She went back to concentrating on the wheel. Boof sat beside her but looked back at Henry. As if he knew what was expected of him. As if he knew how to draw a scared child into his orbit.

Had there been kids in the past, scared kids on this woman’s fishing charters? He couldn’t fault the performance.

But there was no pressure. Maybe it was only Matt who was holding his breath.

Boof walked back over to Henry, gazed into his face, gave a gentle whine and raised a paw. Matt glanced up at Meg and saw the faintest of smiles.

Yep, this was a class act, specifically geared to draw a sucker in. And Henry was that sucker and Matt wasn’t complaining one bit.

‘Can I have the doggy bits?’ Henry quavered.

Meg said, ‘Sure,’ and tossed the bag. Matt caught it but she’d already turned back to the wheel.

No pressure...

He could have kissed her.

He needed to follow Meg’s lead. He dropped the bag on Henry’s knee. ‘You might get your fingers dirty,’ he said, as if he almost disapproved of what Henry might do.

‘I can wipe them,’ Henry said.

‘I guess.’

Henry nodded. Cautiously, he opened the bag.

‘Sit,’ he said to Boof, and Boof, who’d stood with alacrity the moment the bag opened, sat.

‘Ask,’ Henry said and the plan went swimmingly. A doggy bit went down the hatch. Boof’s tail waved and then he raised a paw again. His plea was obvious. Repeat.

It was such a minor act, but for Matt, who’d cared for an apathetic bundle of misery for two weeks without knowing how to break through, it felt like gold. He glanced up at Meg, expecting her to be still focusing on the sea, but she wasn’t. Her smile was almost as wide as his.

Did she know how important this was? She’d seen the legal documents. He’d told her the gist of the tragedy.

Her smile met his. He mouthed a silent thank you with his smile, and her smile said, You’re welcome.

And that smile...

Back at the boatshed she’d said she was twenty-eight. He’d hardy believed her, but now, seeing the depth of understanding behind her smile...

It held maturity, compassion and understanding. And it made him feel...

That was hardly appropriate.

She turned back to the wheel and his gaze dropped to her feet. The soles were stained and the skin was cracked.

She’d said she’d been fishing since she was sixteen. She was so far out of his range of experience she might as well have come from another planet. There was no reason—and no way—he could even consider getting to know her better. That flash of...whatever it was...was weird.

He went back to watching Henry feed Boof, one doggy bit at a time. The little boy was relaxing with every wag of the dog’s tail. Finally the bits were gone. He expected Meg to call Boof back, or that the dog would resume his stance at the bow. Instead, the dog leaped onto the seat beside Henry and laid his big, boofy head on Henry’s lap.

Matt glanced up at Meg and, surprised, saw the end of a doggy command—the gesture of clicked fingers.

Part of the service?

She grinned at him and winked. Winked?

Henry was feeling Boof’s soft ears. He wiggled his fingers, and the dog rolled his head, almost in ecstasy.

Henry giggled.

Not such a big thing?

Huge.

His hold on him tightened. This kid was the child of a business connection. Nothing more, but that giggle almost did him in.

He glanced back at Meg and found her watching him. Him. Not Henry. His face. Seeing his reaction.

For some reason that made him feel...exposed?

That was nuts. He was here to deliver a child to his grandmother and move on. There was no need for emotion.

He didn’t do emotion. He hardly knew how. That Meg had somehow made Henry smile, that she’d figured how to make him feel secure... How did she know how to do it?

Matt McLellan was a man in charge of his world. He knew how to keep it ordered, but for some reason this woman was making him feel as if there was a world out there he knew nothing about.

And when Henry snuggled even closer, when Henry’s hands stilled on the big dog’s head, when Henry’s eyes fluttered closed... When he fell asleep against Matt with all the trust in the world, the feeling intensified.

Once again he glanced at Meg and found her watching. And the way she looked at him...

It was as if she saw all the way through and out the other side.

* * *

She shouldn’t be here. She should be home, slashing her grass, doing something about Grandpa’s veggie patch. If he could see the mess it was in, he’d turn in his grave. That veggie patch had been his pride and joy.

She’d let it run down. She’d had no choice. The last months of her grandfather’s life he’d been almost totally dependent. She didn’t begrudge it one bit but she’d come out the other side deep in debt. She now had to take every fishing charter she could get.

The veggie patch was almost mocking her.

She should sell the whole place and move on. It’d cover her debts. She could go north, get a job in a charter company that wasn’t as dodgy as Charlie’s, make herself a new life.

Except the house was all she had left of Grandpa. All she had left of her parents.

Stop it. There was nothing she could do to solve her problems now, so there was no use thinking about them. She was heading out to Garnett Island. The money would help. That was all that mattered.

Except, as the hours wore on, as Bertha shovelled her way inexorably through the waves, she found herself inexplicably drawn to the man and child seated in the stern.

They’d exchanged niceties when they’d first boarded: the weather, her spiel about the history of this coast, the dolphins, the birds they might see. The guy... Matt...had asked a few desultory questions. Other than that, they’d hardly talked. The child had seemed bereft and the guy seemed as if he didn’t want to be here.

And then she’d convinced Henry to feed Boof and something had happened. She’d seen them both change. She’d seen the kid light up. She’d seen him pat Boof and then snuggle into the side of the man beside him.

And she’d seen Matt look as if he was about to cry.

What was it between the pair of them? What was a Manhattan financier doing carting a kid down into the Southern Ocean to dump him on Garnett Island?

Except the guy now looked as if he’d cracked wide open. He cared. Something had shifted inside him, and when he’d smiled at her...

Um...not. Let’s not go there. This was a seriously good-looking guy being nice to an orphan, and if that wasn’t a cliché for hearts and violins nothing was.

But that smile...

Was nothing to do with her. She was doing a job, nothing else.

They were getting close to Garnett now. She could see its bulk in the distance. There were a couple of uninhabited rocky outcrops in between, the result of some long-ago volcanic disturbance. She needed to watch her charts, watch the depth sounder. Not think about the pair behind her.

And then, suddenly, she had something else to think about. Bertha coughed.

Or that was what it sounded like, and after a lifetime spent at sea Meg was nuanced to every changing engine sound. She checked the dials.

Heat?

What the...? She’d checked everything obvious. How could the engine be heating? And almost as she thought it, she caught her first faint whiff.

Smoke.

CHAPTER TWO

SMOKE?

Oh, dear God.

Meg had a sudden flashback to a couple of days back. She’d been bringing in a fishing charter and she’d seen Graham, Charlie’s son, coming out of the inlet. He’d been in this boat.

Rowan Bay was a marine reserve, a fish breeding ground. It was tidal, shallow, full of drifting sand and water grasses. It was a good place to add to your catch for the day—if you weren’t caught by the fisheries officers.

And if you didn’t care about your boat.

She was suddenly hearing her grandpa’s voice.

You go in there in anything bigger than a dinghy, you’re an idiot. Operating in murky waters can cause blockages in the cooling-water intake. That can lead to engine overheating.

Graham was an idiot.

But now wasn’t the time for blaming. Almost instinctively, she shut the motor down, grabbed the fire extinguisher and headed below.

The whiff of smoke became a wall.

Meg O’Hara was not known to panic. There’d been dramas at sea before. She’d swum to shore when a motor died. She’d dived overboard to clear a fouled propeller. She’d even coped with a punter having a heart attack as he’d caught a truly excellent bluefin tuna.

But fire at sea, this far out...

Fire extinguishers had limited volume. It was useless to simply point it at smoke and pull the trigger. But how to get to the seat of the fire?

She hauled her windcheater over her face and tried to open the hatch over the engine...

Flames.

‘Get out.’ The voice was harsh, deep, and then repeated, a roar of command. She hesitated, shoving the extinguisher forward, trying desperately to see...

‘Now!’ And a hand hooked the collar of her windcheater and hauled her upward.

She dropped the extinguisher and went. He was right. The speed of this fire...

There was a bag at the entrance to the galley. Heavy. Lifesaving. She grabbed it and lugged it upward.

‘Let it go,’ the voice roared, and the hand on her collar was insistent.

Pigs might fly, she thought, clinging like a limpet as the hand hauled her higher. And then she was out on the deck, clinging to her precious bag.

‘The tender...’ A condition of charters in these waters was that a lifeboat was with them at all times and she’d checked the inflatable dinghy before she left. Thank God. The deck was now a cloud of smoke. If the fuel went...

She had to get the tender into the water and get them all into it. Now!

She grabbed the lifeboat’s stern pulley. Matt was beside her, seeing what she was doing, matching her at the bow. Lowering it with her.

It hit the water. Almost before it did, she grabbed Henry and thrust him into Matt’s arms.

‘In. Now.’ She grabbed one of the lines from the tender and thrust it into his hand. ‘Don’t let go. If you fall in, shove the tender away from the boat and pull yourselves in.’

‘You take him,’ Matt snapped.

‘Don’t be a fool.’ The engine could go up at any minute. ‘Take care of the kid. Go.’

She copped a flash of concern but the decision was made. Henry had to be his first priority. He lifted the stunned Henry onto the side of the boat, steadied for a moment and slipped downward.

Thank God she had them both in lifejackets. Getting into an inflatable from a wallowing boat was fraught at the best of times. But he had Henry in, tucking him into the bow. Then he was standing, holding on to the boat. ‘You!’

It was the kind of order her grandfather would have made. A no-nonsense order, the kind you didn’t mess with, but she still had stuff to do.

‘Boof!’ she yelled and the big dog was in her arms. She thrust him downward and somehow Matt caught him.

‘Get down here,’ he yelled.

She could no longer see him. The smoke was all around her.

One last thing...

She grabbed her bag and slid over the side. Strong hands caught her, steadied, but she allowed herself a mere half a second for that steadying. Then she was at the tiller of the tender. The little engine purred into life. Thank You, God.

Without being asked, Matt was shoving with all his might, pushing the tender as far from the boat as he could.

Into gear... Full power... Away.

And maybe twenty seconds later the fuel tank caught and Bertha erupted into a ball of flames.

She kept the tender at full throttle. The danger wasn’t passed yet. Burning fuel could spread across water.

A minute. Two. The distance between them and the flames was growing. She could breathe again.

Just.

She did a quick head count. Not that it was necessary but she needed it for her sanity.

Matt. Henry. Boof. Bag.

They should survive.

* * *

‘Wow, that was exciting. We’re safe now, though, Henry. We’re okay.’

He couldn’t think what else to say. Matt sat in the bow of the little boat and held Henry. Tight. He was giving comfort, he told himself, but the feel of the child against him, the solidness of the little body, the safeness of him... It was a two-way street.

The charter boat was now a smouldering wreck. The flames were dying. It was already starting to look skeletal.

They’d been so lucky. From the time he’d seen Meg’s head jerk around, heard her cut the engine, from the time he’d caught the first whiff of smoke himself... A minute? It must have been more but it didn’t feel like it.

He felt stunned to numbness.

They were safe.

Meg was at the tiller. She was coughing, but she was in control. She’d been hit by a wall of smoke as she’d gone below and she’d fought him for that stupid bag. When she’d got herself together, he was going to have words with her about that bag. Like passengers on an airliner trying to save their carry-ons after a crash landing, she could have killed them all. His and Henry’s baggage was now ashes, and he wasn’t grieving about it one bit. For her to fight to get her bag...

Mind, there was nothing unprofessional about the rest of the way she’d performed. She’d moved seamlessly. All he’d done was follow what she was doing. She’d made them safe.

Safe was a good word. A great word.

He held Henry and let it sink in.

And then he thought, Where are we?

Maybe they weren’t so safe.

Meg had pointed out Garnett Island to him a few moments ago. It was still in the distance, surely too far to head for in these seas, in this little boat. The tender was sitting low already. The swells didn’t cause a problem but the wind was causing a chop on the top of the water. Meg was steering into the wind, minimising water resistance, but if one of those waves veered sideways...

He looked ahead and saw where she was steering.

A rocky outcrop rose, almost like a sentinel, straight up from the ocean floor. Maybe half a kilometre from them? Maybe less. It looked rough and inhospitable, but part of the rock face seemed to have slipped, forming what seemed a little bay. A few hardy plants must have fought their way to survival, because there was a tinge of green.

‘That’s where we’ll land,’ Meg said, watching his look, and then she had to stop and cough again. And again.

She buckled, fighting for breath. She’d copped so much smoke.

‘We’re swapping places,’ he said.

‘I’m not moving anywhere.’ Every word was a gasp.

Time to be brutal.

‘No choice. Your breathing’s compromised. Think about what happens if you collapse at the tiller.’

‘You can’t...’

‘I can handle a boat.’

And he saw her shoulders sag, just a little. Relief? She was only just holding herself together, he thought, and with that thought came another. She’d gone down below, to try to fight a burning engine.

‘The flames... Is your throat burned?’

‘Only...only smoke. Not...burned.’

‘Good, but you’re still moving. When I say go, move.’

She didn’t reply, fighting another paroxysm of coughing.

‘Meg needs help,’ he told Henry. He was torn. Henry needed to be held, but the tiller had to be priority.

Boof was on the floor of the boat, crouched low, almost as if he knew stability was an issue. He took Henry’s hand and guided it down to the dog’s collar. ‘I want you to hold on to Boof,’ he told him. ‘He’ll be worried. Hold him tight. Don’t let him move, will you?’

And to his relief he got a silent nod in response. Excellent. Not only would Henry’s hold anchor him to the big dog, it’d keep him low, as well.

Right. Meg. The tiller.

He watched the sea, waiting for his chance. The next swell swept by. No chop.

Now.

* * *

One minute she was holding the tiller, trying to stop the coughs racking her body, trying to keep control. The next...

Matt seemed to come from nowhere. Keeping his body low, he was suddenly at her end of the boat, though with enough sense to keep his weight back as far as he could. Crouching low, he tugged her hard against him, pulling her forward. For one long moment he held her still, checking balance, checking the waves.

Another swell passed—and then she was swung around and propelled onto the central seat.

And then Matt had the tiller and she was no longer in control.

His hold had been swift, firm to the point of brutal, a hard, strong grasp that had left her with nowhere to go. In any other circumstance it would have been terrifying, but right now she’d needed it. It was the assurance that responsibility wasn’t all hers. That she wasn’t alone.

It was a feeling that made her almost light-headed.

Though maybe that was the smoke.

She was still struggling to breathe. Matt might be in control, he might have reassured her that the boat was being cared for, but she needed air.

Smoke inhalation...

She’d done first-aid training. Grandpa had insisted and he’d also insisted on her updating over and over.

‘The bag...’ she managed and then subsided again. Oh, her chest hurt.

Matt was handling the tiller, watching the sea, but in between she could see him coming to grips with controls. He was also watching Henry, but he flashed her a glance that told her he was almost as worried as she was about her lungs.

He looked down at the bag. She’d seen his reaction as she’d tossed it down to him—what, you’re worried about luggage? Now, though... He wasn’t a fool. He had the bag opened in seconds, and, still with one eye on the oncoming sea, he started checking the contents.

The first-aid kit lay on top.

What she needed apart from a canister of oxygen—which she didn’t have—was a bronchodilator. Albuterol. It was in the first-aid kit to cope with possible asthma attacks.

‘Alb...alb...’ she gasped but he got it. He had the small canister clear, and she clutched it as if she were drowning.

‘You know how to use it?’

She did. She’d used it once on an overweight fisherman with a scary wheeze. She held it and inhaled, held it and inhaled.

Matt was steadied the little boat and turned her slightly away from the outcrop they were heading for, making a sensible adjustment to their path so it was more of a zigzag. It would stop the sideways swell.

He knew boats, then.

Maybe panic had as much to do with the coughing as smoke did, she thought. As she felt her breathing ease...as she watched Matt turn the tiller to avoid a cresting chop...as she twisted in the boat and saw Henry, crouched over Boof, holding his collar and even speaking reassuringly to him...her world seemed to settle.

For now they were safe. Moving on.

They needed help.

Radio...

‘There’s a radio in the bag, too,’ she managed. The coughing wasn’t over but at least she could talk. ‘And a GPS tracker. In the side pocket.’ She subsided and coughed a bit more while she watched Matt delve into the bag again.

And come up with nothing.

‘There’s nothing in the side pocket.’

‘There must be.’

No charter boat went to sea without an emergency radio and tracker beacon. It was illegal to leave port without them. Every boat in Charlie’s Marine Services therefore held a bag such as the one Meg had rescued. The presence of the bag was one of the things she checked, every time she boarded. She hadn’t checked the contents today, though. There’d been no need. The contents were standard, always in there.

But Bertha wasn’t usually used for charters.

No!

‘What?’ Matt went back to looking at the sea but she could tell by the rigidity of his shoulders that he’d sensed something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

‘My idiot boss.’ She buckled and coughed a bit more, and maybe that was caused by panic, as well. She was trying to make herself think.

Radios and GPS trackers had batteries that ran out. Charlie ran a regular schedule of checking, because it was sensible, but also, if any marine inspector found a charter boat without a working GPS beacon, or a radio with a flat battery, he’d be down on them like a ton of bricks.

But if such an inspector had come...say, last week...and Charlie had panicked and realised one of the sets was flat...

Why not grab the set from Bertha’s bag? Bertha wasn’t being used for charters. She wouldn’t be checked.

All these things were flying through her head like shrapnel. Her head felt as if it might explode. For one awful moment she thought she might be sick.

And then Matt’s hand was on her head. He was leaning forward, propelling her downward.

‘Head between your knees until it passes,’ he said. ‘And there’s no need to panic. We’re safe. One step at a time, Meg.’

She had no choice but to obey. She ducked her head and started counting breaths. It was a trick her grandpa had taught her after her parents had been killed.

When all else fails, just feel your breath on your lips, lass. That’s all that matters. One breath after another.

It felt wimpy. It felt as if she’d handed total responsibility to a stranger but she put her head down and counted.

She was up to about a hundred and twenty before she heard Henry, his thin little voice piping up from the back. ‘Where are we going?’

She should answer. She should...

‘We’re going over to that big rock you see in front of you.’ And Matt sounded totally in control, as if he were stranded at sea after fire every day of his life.

‘Is that Grandma’s island?’

‘Nope.’ Matt’s voice sounded almost cheerful. ‘We’re going to this island first. Garnett Island’s a bit far away for us to get there in this little boat.’

‘But how will we get to Grandma’s?’

Good question, Meg thought. Right now she didn’t have an answer. Luckily Matt did.

‘We might have to wait awhile,’ he conceded. ‘But I’ve been checking this interesting bag our skipper’s brought with us. Apart from muesli bars and bags of nuts and sultanas, there are some cool things that look like flares. When you light flares you can be seen for miles. So my guess is that we’ll land on this island, we’ll eat our muesli bars and our sultanas, and we’ll wait for Meg’s boss to realise she’s no longer in radio contact. I imagine they’ll send a helicopter to find us. If we need to, we’ll light our flares to help him find us and then we’ll all be rescued. Even Boof. Is that a good plan?’

‘We might need a drink,’ Henry said cautiously.

‘There’s a water carton under the seat you’re sitting on,’ Meg managed and then turned and checked herself. All the tenders carried fresh water. At least that was there.

‘And what if it gets dark?’ Henry quavered.

‘I’d imagine Meg’s boss will send help before that, but if he doesn’t then we’ll build a fire with driftwood. I can see matches in Meg’s Marvellous Bag. We’ll sing songs and tell each other stories and then we’ll lie on these...yep, thermal blankets...and we’ll wait until they come. Is that okay with you, Henry?’

‘I...guess...’

It was okay with Meg, too. It sounded like a workable plan—the only hiccup being...

Charlie.

We’ll wait for Meg’s boss to realise she’s no longer in radio contact...

Charlie’s charter boats were supposed to check in every hour, acknowledging to Charlie that boats and punters were safe. Meg couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Charlie monitor those calls. The calls were made—most of his skippers were punctilious—but they were made to an empty control room.

Charlie was always on the pier, chatting to the locals. He watched his boats come in every night. If Meg was due in tonight and didn’t show, Charlie would notice. The trouble was, Meg wasn’t due back tonight. Or tomorrow.

She closed her eyes.

‘Bad?’ Matt asked sympathetically.

And she thought, He’s not going to be sympathetic when I tell him I work for one of the world’s shonkiest charter companies.

But it was no use telling him now, especially not when he’d just reassured Henry.

‘I’m okay,’ she muttered and lowered her head again. It must be the smoke still making her feel sick. ‘We’ll all be okay. Eventually.’

CHAPTER THREE

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER they reached their destination.

The combination of medication and salt air had worked their magic. Meg’s lungs felt almost clear.

She still wasn’t in control, though. Matt had taken over. The letterhead on the documents she’d read had been embossed with the words McLellan Corporation. Matt’s name? Her first impression had been wealth and command, and she was now adding skill to the mix. Wherever he’d learned it, he’d acquired knowledge of the sea and small boats. He was now in charge, and the feeling was almost overwhelming.

How long had it been since anyone had taken charge of her world? Not since her grandpa had got sick. Even as a child Meg had learned to be leaned on. Her grandparents had been gutted when her parents had been killed. If she cried, they couldn’t handle it. She’d had to act cheerful even when things were dire.

When she was sixteen her gran had died, too, and Grandpa had pretty much fallen to pieces. That was when she’d decided to quit school and go fishing with him. She’d cajoled him back to enjoying life.

It was only when he was gone that she realised how restricted her own life had become. She could heave craypots. She could count punters in and out of charter boats and she could cope with boats in heavy seas.

Was that what she wanted for the rest of her life?

At twenty-eight, what other choices did she have?

Oh, for heaven’s sake, why was she thinking that now? They’d reached the outcrop. Matt was steering carefully—because the boat was inflatable and the rubber could rip on any one of these sharp rocks—into the tiny cove. There was a stony beach.

She needed to stop thinking of the complications of her life. More immediately, she needed to stop thinking how good it was to let this guy take over—and how good he looked while he did it—and start being useful.

She hauled up the legs of her jeans, checked the bottom and jumped out into knee-deep water. Beaching the tender wasn’t an option on these sharp stones.

The cove was sheltered from the prevailing winds, and she could see to the bottom.

‘I didn’t mean you to do that,’ Matt said, sounding displeased. ‘I thought we’d run her up on the beach.’

‘And rupture the membrane?’

‘Instead of your feet? Yes. And we won’t have any more use for her. We’re hardly here to reprovision and set off for the mainland.’

‘But why wreck a perfectly good inflatable?’ She wasn’t about to tell him it might well be needed again. Focus on now.

She clicked her fingers. Boof jumped into her arms and she carted him to shore. Ouch, these stones were sharp! Her shoes were...with the remains of Bertha.

Henry next. ‘Will you let me carry you to Boof?’ she asked him.

‘I’ll take him,’ Matt said but she shook her head.

‘Can you stay at the tiller until we’re unloaded? If we get an unexpected swell the boat might be damaged.’

His eyes had narrowed. ‘So that matters?’

‘That matters.’

He got it. But he glanced at Henry and didn’t comment.

‘You’re not fit enough to...’

‘Lift Henry? Of course I am. Henry, I bet you don’t weigh as much as Boof. Will you let me carry you? You could jump in and walk, like me, but the water’s a bit cold. I think I saw a seal somewhere round the back of these rocks. Boof might show you if you ask.’

But the strangeness of their situation was taking its toll. Henry clutched his seat and held. ‘Our boat burned,’ he said flatly.

‘It did,’ Matt told him. ‘It was a bad accident and we’re lucky Meg brought this little boat along. Now we need to stay here for a bit.’

‘Will you stay?’ Henry demanded and Meg heard raw fear. Matt, then, was more than just his mother’s employer to this little boy. He was the only link Henry had to his past, to an unknown future.

And Matt obviously got that, too. ‘I’ll stay with you,’ he said solemnly, and Meg thought what choice did he have? But Matt didn’t waste time explaining. He simply promised. ‘I said I’ll stay with you until you’re with your grandma and I will. No question, Henry. Now, will you let Miss O’Hara...?’

‘Meg,’ said Meg.

‘Will you let Meg carry you to the shore?’

There was a moment’s thought. Then: ‘Yes,’ Henry said. ‘Yes, please, Miss O’Hara.’

‘Meg,’ Meg said again.

‘Yes, please, Meg,’ Henry said and looped his arms around Meg’s neck and allowed her to carry him.

And why that made her feel like bursting into tears, she had no idea.

* * *

She was amazing.

Half an hour ago she’d been coughing so hard she’d been retching. Now it was as if this were nothing out of the ordinary.

He couldn’t fault her.

While he kept the boat steady she gathered the bag and carted that to shore, as well. Finally she agreed to allow him out of the boat.

‘We need to take the motor off and cart that up the beach, then the water and the bench seats, and then carry the tender itself,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m not strong enough to cart it with the motor attached.’

‘We can’t just anchor?’

‘Too risky—these rocks are sharp. Leave your socks on by the way.’ She was already disconnecting the motor.

‘So we’re being careful of the tender...why?’ Henry was out of earshot now. Boof had met him on the shore and they were both tentatively looking for seals. With his hand on the dog’s collar, Henry seemed to have found courage.

‘If we can get it onto the sand it’ll make a comfy place to sleep,’ Meg told him. ‘With the thermal blankets, we’ll be snug as bugs in rugs.’

‘We’re not expecting rescue tonight?’

‘No.’

‘I would have thought,’ he said almost conversationally, ‘that a burned boat in the middle of Bass Strait, with three stranded passengers and one dog, might mean immediate search and rescue.’ He kicked off his shoes, hitched his trousers and was over the side. ‘You hold the boat. I’ll cart the motor in.’

She was more than happy to let him. Someone had to hold the boat. She’d heaved an outboard motor before, but she was five feet four and slightly built, and even a lifetime of heaving craypots wouldn’t have prevented her from staggering.

So she could only be grateful as Matt disconnected bolts, heaved the motor into his arms and strode through the shallows to the beach.

What sort of New York financier and lawyer was this? One who worked out, obviously.

She’d given them both sou’westers and lifejackets as they’d boarded the boat. Henry was still wearing his, but Matt’s was on the floor of the tender with his shoes. She thought fleetingly of his gorgeous leather jacket, replaced with the sou’wester. It’d be ashes by now, but he wasn’t worrying about a jacket.

He’d hiked up his trousers and rolled his shirtsleeves. He’d taken her advice and was still wearing socks. Another guy might look naff in bare legs and socks, but not this man. He was all hard muscle, lean, toned, ripped. He carted the motor as if it were nothing and, as she held the boat steady, Meg had a sudden fantasy of what it’d be like to be carried by such a man. To be held in those arms...against that chest...

Um...not.

‘Earth to Meg,’ Matt said as he returned, hauling her back to reality. ‘You were explaining why rescue isn’t imminent.’

Time for confession. Just say it.

‘The radio’s not in the bag, nor is our emergency transmitter,’ she admitted. ‘Someone’s head will roll for that.’ Probably not, though, she thought. Charlie was her boss and she was hardly in a position to complain. ‘Our phones don’t work out here. We have no way of saying we’re stranded.’

‘I’d imagine your boss will be checking your position, though. If you don’t make it to Garnett tonight, surely he’ll notice.’

And there was no way she could sugar-coat this. ‘Don’t bet on it. Monitoring the radio takes staff or work, both of which Charlie keeps to a minimum. The reason you were able to hire Bertha at such short notice is that we’re not a flash operation. In fact—’ go on, say it ‘—Charlie runs on the smell of an oily rag. If there’s a corner to cut, he’ll cut it. Bertha’s due back to port by Monday. On Monday night he’ll start wondering.’

‘But not before.’

‘Probably not.’

He didn’t comment. Instead he heaved the water container from under the seat and carried that to the beach as well, then did the same with the removable seats.

A lawyer with muscles.

She thought, suddenly, idiotically, of fairy tales she’d read as a kid, and romance novels since. It had seemed to her that a hero would be rich and handsome. She’d thought mistily that a hero might even heave her craypots for her.

And here he was, rich—presumably, if his name headed a prestigious Manhattan law firm. Handsome... Yeah, tick that. Now he was carting the motor and water as if they were featherweights.

Fantasy plus. She almost grinned but then he was striding back, gripping the boat’s bow, readying to lift it and carry it to shore.

He couldn’t do this alone. It wasn’t the weight; it was the sheer size of the thing.

‘So we’re dependent on Peggy,’ he said, almost conversationally.

She’d already thought of that, with some relief. Peggy Lakey. Henry’s grandmother.

‘I assume you told her your travel plans,’ she said.

‘I did. She knows we landed in Melbourne this morning. She knows we were using this charter company and she’s expecting us by dark.’

‘And she has a radio.’ They were heaving the boat upward, out of danger of scraping, working as a team. Once again she had the impression that this guy was used to boats, used to the sea. Used to work?

‘It was a shaky connection this morning,’ Matt said. He was moving backward. She had the easy option of walking forward. ‘But I’d imagine if we’re not there by dark then she’ll call Charlie.’

‘And if Charlie doesn’t answer?’

‘Is that possible?’

‘The local football team’s reached the finals,’ she said dryly. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘And you work for this man?’

She couldn’t defend herself. She didn’t even try. They had the boat out of the water now, carrying it over the rocks to the strip of sand beneath the cliff. They set it down with care and Meg breathed a sigh of relief. The boat was safe. They had water and supplies. This wasn’t a total disaster.

‘So Peggy?’ she ventured. She knew a little about Peggy Lakey, an elderly woman who’d bought Garnett Island years ago. She was said to be reclusive—she’d have to be to live on Garnett—but the fishermen who carted her supplies over had always been impressed with her.

‘She seems no-nonsense,’ Matt told her. ‘Charlie assured me—and I assured Peggy—that we’d be there before dark. I’m thinking she’ll contact the rescue services soon after. This is her grandson, after all.’

‘Does she want him?’ Her gaze moved to Henry. The little boy had found a shallow rock pool. He was pointing to something in its depths and Boof, bless his doggy heart, was paying attention.

It’d be minnows. The thought almost made her smile. Years of devoted hunting, and Boof had never caught one.

She watched kid and dog watching the fish darting below the surface. Matt was watching, too.

‘Does his grandmother want him?’ she asked again.

‘I think so.’

‘You think so?’ That jolted her. What the...? ‘You bring him all the way here—and you think so?’

‘There’s no choice,’ he said, heavily now. He wasn’t taking his eyes off the child. ‘Amanda’s will left him in the care of his grandmother. Peggy’s expressed willingness to take him.’

‘But she wouldn’t fetch him.’

‘No.’

‘Does he even know her?’

‘They write,’ he said. ‘He tells me he gets a letter every week, old-style, in an envelope with a stamp. She sends Polaroid pictures of the island. That’s what’s in his backpack—letters and pictures she’s been sending for years. I’ve seen them. She also makes radio telephone calls when she can. He feels like he knows her and there’s no doubt she cares.’

That was something at least, but she hadn’t finished probing.

‘Has he ever met her?’

‘Will you cut it out?’ His voice was suddenly laced with anger. ‘The paperwork’s in order. It’s your job to get us there safely, and might I remind you that you’re doing an appalling job of it.’

‘And so are you,’ she snapped back. ‘Your job’s to get him to his grandma, so we’ve both failed. Get over it.’

‘I’m over it. Just don’t make me responsible...’

‘For what?’

‘For bringing him here.’ He closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture of total fatigue. ‘Look, this is a no-win situation,’ he said. ‘Amanda was an excellent lawyer but an appalling mother. According to office gossip, when she turned forty she decided she wanted a child like some people decide they want a puppy. She’s been paying as little as she could get away with for child care. During term breaks Henry would be alone in her office for hours. Now she’s dead and she has no friends close enough to care. Henry has a grandma he’s never met and no one else.’

‘So how come he’s never met her?’

‘Because Peggy hasn’t seen Amanda for years, either,’ he said wearily. ‘Peggy told me the outline when I contacted her. She’s Australian. She was married to an American. He died a couple of years back, but the marriage broke up when Amanda was in her teens. Peggy came home to Australia. She says she tried to keep in contact, but Amanda wasn’t interested. When Henry was born Peggy doubled her efforts. Maybe she knew what sort of mother Amanda would make. I gather Amanda allowed Peggy to write to him and speak to him occasionally via her not very satisfactory radio connection, but that’s all. Now she’s all he has.’

‘He has you, though,’ Meg said, thinking what she was hearing wasn’t weariness. This was desolation for a child left with nothing.

Desolation from a high-flying businessman who’d dropped everything to bring a kid to his grandma.

Her first impression of this guy had been arrogance. He’d reacted with astonishment when she’d questioned his right to bring Henry to the island, and what he was paying Charlie was astounding. He was obviously accustomed to throwing money and watching minions jump.

But now... Yes, the need to control was still there, but despite it she was starting to like what she saw around the edges. Even before the fire she’d been sensing helplessness in the way he was caring for Henry. Now he was stranded, shaken from his controlled world, his desolation was exposed, and it touched something deep within.

‘It’s okay.’ Her hand went to his shoulder, a touch of reassurance. ‘I bet Peggy’s lovely. Writing real letters every week... That’s awesome. We’ll land on the island, she’ll love him to bits and they’ll live happily ever after.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. She’d tugged her hand back but the look he gave her... It was as if he couldn’t figure her out. ‘But meanwhile...’

‘Meanwhile we collect driftwood before it starts getting dark,’ she said. ‘A fire will cheer us up. It’s a warm night. With the seats removed from the boat we have a comfy bed, and we have thermal blankets. We have the means to make a fire and we have food.’

‘Muesli bars?’ he said dubiously, stooping to check her bag.

‘Yes, but some of them have chocolate coating. Yay.’ She investigated with him. ‘Plus, here’s a fishing line and a lure. By the time you have the fire going, I’ll have fish to cook.’

‘Right,’ he said dryly.

‘You doubt me? I may not be able to deliver you to your island without sending you up in flames but I was born with a fishing line in my hands. Watch this space.’

‘And we’d cook it how?’

‘Seaweed and ash,’ she said. ‘Don’t they teach you anything in law school?’

‘Apparently not,’ he said faintly. ‘Henry,’ he called. ‘Do you want to help me make a fire, or watch Meg fish?’

And that was a no-brainer. Henry headed straight for Meg. And as dog and boy clambered over the rocks toward them, Matt thought, He looks almost happy.

He’d never seen Henry look happy.

It was almost enough to make a burned boat and a night on a deserted island worthwhile.