Stepping into the Prince's World (2 page)

‘I hope I'm imagining things,' she told Rocky. Rocky was sniffing for lizards under the carefully arranged rock formations that during summer visits formed a beautiful ‘natural' waterfall. ‘The forecast's still for calm.'

But then she looked again at those clouds. She'd been caught before.

‘If we lose sun for a couple of days we might even lose power. I might do some cooking in case,' she told Rocky.

Rocky looked up at her and his whole body gave a wriggle of delight. He hadn't been with her for two weeks before he'd realised the significance of the word ‘cooking'.

She grinned and picked him up. ‘Yes, we will,' she told him. ‘Rocky, I'm very glad I have you.'

He was all she had.

She'd been totally isolated when she'd left Sydney. There'd been people in the firm she'd thought were her friends, but she'd been contacted by no one. The whispers had been vicious, and who wanted to be stained by association?

Enough
.

She closed her eyes and hugged her little dog. ‘Choc chip cookies for me and doggy treats for you,' she told him. ‘Friends stick together, and that's you and me. That's what this six months is all about. Learning that we need nobody else.'

* * *

The wind swept in from the south—a wind so fierce that it took the meteorologists by surprise. It took Tasmania's fishing fleet by surprise, and it stretched the emergency services to the limit. To say it took Raoul's unprepared little yacht by surprise was an understatement.

Raoul was an excellent yachtsman. What his skills needed, though, was a thoroughly seaworthy boat to match them.

He didn't have one.

For a while he used the storm jib, trying to use the wind to keep some semblance of control. Then a massive wave crested and broke right over him, rolling the boat as if it was tumbleweed. The little boat self-righted. Raoul had clipped on lifelines. He was safe—for now—but the sail was shredded.

And that was the end of his illusion of control.

He was tossed wherever the wind and the sea dictated. All he could do was hold on and wait for the weather to abate. And hope it did so before
Rosebud
disintegrated and left him to the mercy of the sea.

CHAPTER TWO

T
WO
DAYS
INTO
the worst storm to have hit the island since the start of her stay Claire was going stir-crazy. She hadn't been able to step outside once. The wind was so strong that a couple of times she'd seriously worried that the whole house might be picked up.

‘You and me, Rocky,' she'd told him, when he'd whimpered at the sound of the wind roaring across the island. ‘Like Dorothy and Toto. When we fly, we'll fly together.'

Thankfully they hadn't flown, and finally the wind was starting to settle. The sun was starting to peep through the clouds and she thought she might just venture out and see the damage.

She quite liked a good storm—as long as it didn't threaten to carry her into the Antarctic.

So she rugged up, and made Rocky wear the dinky little dog coat that he hated but she thought looked cute, and they headed out together.

As soon as she opened the door she thought about retreating, but Rocky was tearing out into the wind, joyful at being allowed outside, heading for his favourite place in the world. The beach.

The sea would look fantastic. She just had to get close enough to the beach to see it. The sea mist was so heavy she could scarcely see through it—or was it foam blasted up by the wind? She could scarcely push against it.

But she was outside. The wind wasn't so strong that it was hurling stones. She could put her head down and fight it.

Below the house was a tiny cove—a swimming beach in decent weather. She headed there now, expecting to see massive damage, expecting to see...

A boat?

Or part of a boat.

She stopped, so appalled she almost forgot to breathe. A boat was smashed and part submerged on the rocks just past the headland.

The boat wasn't big. A weekend sailor? It must have been trying to reach the relative safety of the beach, manoeuvring into the narrow channel of deep water, but the seas would have been overwhelming, driving it onto the rocks.

Dear God, was there anyone...?

And almost as soon as she thought it she saw a flash of yellow in the water, far out, between the rocks and the beach. A figure was struggling through the waves breaking around the rocks.

Whoa.

Claire knew these waters, even thoughtshe'd never swum here. She'd skimmed stones and watched the tide in calm weather. She knew there was a rip, starting from the beach and swinging outward.

The swimmer was headed straight into it. If he was to have any chance he had to swim sideways, towards the edge of the cove, then turn and swim beside the rip rather than in it.

But he was too far away to hear if she yelled. The wind was still howling across the clifftops, drowning any hope of her being heard.

Was she a heroine?

‘I'm not,' she said out loud. But some things weren't negotiable. She couldn't watch him drown—not when she knew the water. And she was a decent swimmer.

‘You know where the dog food is, and the back door's open,' she told Rocky as she hauled off her coat and kicked off her boots. ‘If I disappear just chew a hole in the sack. Tell 'em I died trying.'

But she had no intention of dying. She'd stick within reach of the rocks, where the current was weakest. She was not a heroine.

Her jeans hit the clothes pile, and then her windcheater.
Okay, then—ready, set, go
.

* * *

He was making no headway. The current was hauling him out faster than he could swim.

Raoul had been born tough and trained tougher. He hadn't reached where he was in the army without survival skills being piled on to survival skills. He couldn't outswim the current, so he knew he had to let it carry him out until it weakened—and then he had to figure out a way back in again.

The problem was, he was past exhaustion.

By the time he'd reached this island the yacht had been little more than a floating tub. The torn sails were useless. He'd used the motor to try and find some place to land, but the motor hadn't had the strength to fight the surf. Then a wave, bigger than the rest, had hit him broadside.

The boat had landed upside down on the rocks. He'd hit his head. It had taken him too long to get free of the wreck and now the water was freezing.

If he let the current carry him out, would he have the strength to get back in again?

He had no choice. He forced his body to relax and felt the rip take him. For the first time he stopped trying to swim. He raised his head, looking hopelessly towards the shore. He was being carried out again.

There was someone on the beach.

Someone who could help?

Or not.

The figure was slight—a boy? No, it was a woman, her shoulder-length curls flying out around her shoulders in the wind. She had a dog and she was yelling. She was gesticulating to the east of the cove.

She was ripping off her windcheater and running down to the surf. Heading to the far left of the beach.

If this was a local she'd know the water. She was heading to the left and waving at him.

Maybe that was where the rip cut out.

She was running into the water. She shouldn't risk herself.

He tried to yell but he was past it. He was pretty much past anything.

The woman was running through the shallows and then diving into the first wave that was over chest high. Of all the stupid... Of all the brave...

Okay, if she was headed into peril on his behalf the least he could do was help.

He fought for one last burst of energy. He put his head down and tried to swim.

* * *

Uh-oh
.

There'd been a swimming pool in the basement of the offices of Craybourne, Ledger and Smythe. Some lawyers swam every lunchtime.

Claire had mostly shopped. Or eaten lunch in the park. Or done nothing at all, which had sometimes seemed a pretty good option.

It didn't seem a good option now. She should have used that time to improve her swimming. She needed to be super-fit or more. There was no rip where she was swimming, but the downside of keeping close to the rocks at the side of the cove was the rocks themselves. They were sharp, and the waves weren't regular. A couple picked her up and hurled her sideways.

She was having trouble fighting her way out. She was also bone-chillingly cold. The iciness of Bass Strait in early spring was almost enough to give her a heart attack.

And she couldn't see whoever it was she was trying to rescue.

He must be here somewhere,
she thought. She just had to fight her way out behind the surf so she could see.

Which meant diving through more waves. Which meant avoiding more rocks. Which meant...

Crashing.

* * *

Something hit him—hard.

He'd already hit his head on the rocks. The world was feeling a bit off-balance anyway. The new crack on his head made him reel. He reached out instinctively to grab whatever it was that had hit him—and it was soft and yielding. A woman. Somehow he tugged her to face him. Her chestnut curls were tangled, her green eyes were blurred with water, and she looked almost as dazed as he was.

He'd thumped his head and so had she. She stared at him, and then she fought to speak.

‘You'd think...' She was struggling for breath as waves surged around them but she managed to gasp the words. ‘You'd think a guy with the whole of Bass Strait to swim in could avoid my head.'

He had hold of her shoulders—not clutching, just linking himself with her so the wash of the waves couldn't push them apart. They were both in deadly peril, and weirdly his first urge was to laugh. She'd reached him and she was
joking
?

Um... Get safe first. Laugh second.

‘Revenir à la plage. Je suivrai,'
he gasped, and then realised he'd spoken in French, Marétal's official language. Which would be no use at all in Tasmania's icy waters.
Get back to the beach. I'll follow,
he'd wanted to say, and he tried to force his thick tongue to make the words. But it seemed she'd already understood.

‘How can you follow? You're drowning.' She'd replied in French, with only a slight haltingness to show French wasn't her first language.

‘I'm not.' He had his English together now. And his tongue almost working.

‘There's blood on your head,' she managed.

‘I'm okay. You've shown me the way. Put your head down and swim. I'm following.'

‘Is there anyone...?' The indignation and her attempt at humour had gone from her voice and fear had replaced it. She was gasping between waves. ‘Is there anyone else in the boat?'

Anyone else to save? She'd dived into the water to save him and was now proposing to head out further and save others?

This was pure grit. His army instructors would be proud of her.

She didn't have a lifejacket on and he did.

‘No one,' he growled. ‘Get back to the beach.'

‘You're sure?'

‘I'm sure. Go.' He should make
her
wear the life jacket, but the effort of taking the thing off was beyond him.

‘Don't you dare drown. I've taken too much trouble.'

‘I won't drown,' he managed, and then a wave caught her and flung her sideways.

She hit the closest rock and disappeared. He tried to grab her but she was under water—gone.

Hell...

He dived, adrenalin surging, giving him energy when he'd thought he had none. And then he grabbed and caught something...

A wisp of lace. He tugged and she was free of the rocks, back in his arms, dazed into limpness.

He fought back from the rocks and tried to steady while she fought to recover.

‘W...wow,' she gasped at last. ‘Sorry. I...you can let go now.'

‘I'm not letting go.' But he shifted his grip. He'd realised what he'd been holding were her knickers. He now had hold of her by her bra!

‘We surf in together,' he gasped. ‘I have a lifejacket. I'm not letting go.'

‘You...can't...'

He heard pain in her voice.

‘You're hurt.'

‘There's no way I can put a sticking plaster on out here,' she gasped. ‘Go.'

‘We go together.'

‘You'll stretch my bra,' she gasped, and once again he was caught by the sheer guts of the woman. She was hurt, she was in deadly peril, and she was trying to make him smile.

‘Yeah,' he told her. ‘And if it stretches too far I'll get an eyeful—but not until we're safe on the beach. Just turn and kick.'

‘I'll try,' she managed, and then there was no room for more words. There was only room to try and live.

* * *

She couldn't actually swim.

There was something wrong with her arm. Or her shoulder? Or her chest? She wasn't sure where the pain was radiating from, but it was surely radiating. It was the arm furthest from him—if he'd been holding her bra on that side she might have screamed. If she
could
scream without swallowing a bucket of seawater. Unlikely, she thought, and then wondered if she was making sense. She decided she wasn't but she didn't care.

She had to kick. There was no way she'd go under. She'd risked her life to save this guy and now it seemed he didn't need saving. Her drowning would be a complete waste.

Some people would be pleased.

And there was a thought to make her put her head down, hold her injured arm to her side as much as she could and try to kick her way through the surf.

She had help. The guy still had his hand through her bra, holding fast. His kick was more powerful than hers could ever be. But he still didn't know this beach.

‘Keep close to the rocks,' she gasped during a break in the waves. ‘If you don't stay close you'll be caught in the rip.'

‘Got it,' he told her. ‘Now, shut up and kick.'

And then another wave caught them and she had the sense to put her head down and kick, even if the pain in her shoulder was pretty close to knocking her out. And he kicked too, and they surged in, and suddenly she was on sand. The wave was ripping back out again but the guy was on his feet, tugging her up through the shallows.

‘We're here,' he gasped. ‘Come on, lady, six feet to go. You can do it.'

And she'd done it. Rocky was tearing down the beach to meet them, barking hysterically at the stranger.

Enough.
She subsided onto the sand, grabbed Rocky with her good arm, held him tight and burst into tears.

* * *

For a good while neither of them moved.

She lay on the wet sand and hugged her dog and thought vaguely that she had to make an effort. She had to get into dry clothes. She was freezing. And shouldn't she try to see if something was wrong with the guy beside her? He'd slumped down on the sand, too. She could see his chest rise and fall. He was alive, but his eyes were closed. The weak sunshine was on his unshaven face and he seemed to be drinking it up.

Who was he?

He was wearing army issue camouflage gear. It was the standard work wear of a soldier, though maybe slightly different from the Australian uniform.

He was missing his boots.

Why notice that?

She was noticing his face, too. Well, why not? Even the pain in her shoulder didn't stop her noticing his face.

There was a trickle of blood mixing with the seawater dripping from his head.

He was beautiful.

It was the strongest face she'd ever seen. His features were lean, aquiline...aristocratic? He had dark hair—deep black. It was cropped into an army cut, but no style apart from a complete shave could disguise its tendency to curl. His grey eyes were deep-set and shadowed and he was wearing a couple of days' stubble. He looked beyond exhausted.

She guessed he was in his mid-thirties, and she thought he looked mean.

Mean?

Mean in the trained sense, she corrected herself. Mean as in a lean, mean fighting machine.