Nikki and the Lone Wolf / Mardie and the City Surgeon: Nikki and the Lone Wolf / Mardie and the City Surgeon

‘There’s no need to be scared,’ he said.

‘I’m not scared.’ But then the dog howled again and she jumped. Okay, maybe she was.

‘You can’t afford to be,’ he said, and she could tell by the strain in his voice that he was hurting. ‘Because the dog needs help. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s standing on the beach howling. You were heading down with a poker. I, on the other hand, intend to try steak. I believe my method is more humane. It might take me a few moments to stop seeing stars, however, so you fetch it.’

‘Are you really seeing stars?’

‘Yes.’ Then he relented. ‘It’s night. There are stars. Yes, I’m dizzy, but I’ll get over it. I won’t die while you’re away, but I do need a minute to stop things spinning. My door’s open. Kitchen’s at the back. Steak’s in the paper parcel in the fridge. Chop it into bite sized pieces. I’ll lie here and count stars till you come back. Real ones.’

‘I can’t leave you. I need to call for help.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘I’ve had worse bumps than this and lived. Just do what I ask like a good girl and give me space to recover.’

‘You lost consciousness. I can’t …’

‘If I did it was momentary and I don’t need anyone to hold my hand,’ he snapped. ‘Neither do you. You’re wasting time, woman. Go.’

* * *

She went. Feeling dreadful.

She tracked the path with her torch, trying to run. She couldn’t. The path was a mass of tree roots. If Gabe had been running he must know the path by heart.

She didn’t have the right shoes for running either.

She didn’t have the right shoes at all, she thought. She was wearing Gucci loafers. They worked beautifully for wandering the Botanic Gardens in Sydney after a Sunday morning latte. They didn’t work so well here.

She wanted so much to be back in her lovely apartment overlooking Sydney Harbour. Back in her beautifully contained life, her wonderful job, her friends, the lovely parties, the coffee haunts, control.

Jon’s fabulous apartment. A job in a lovely office right next to Jon’s. A career that paid … extraordinarily. A career with Jon. Friends she shared with Jon. Coffee haunts where people greeted Jon before they greeted her.

Jon’s life. Or half of Jon’s life. She’d thought she had the perfect life and it had been based on a lie.

What to do when your world crumbled?

Run. She’d run to here.

‘Don’t think about it.’ She said it to herself as a mantra, over and over, as she headed up the track as fast as she could in her stupid shoes. There’d been enough self-pity. This was her new life. Wandering around in the dark, coshing her landlord, looking for steak for the Hound of the Baskervilles?

It was her new life until tomorrow, she thought miserably. Tomorrow Gabe would ask her to leave.

Another city might be more sensible than moving back to Sydney. But it was probably time she faced the fact that moving to the coast had been a romantic notion, a dignified way she could explain her escape to friends.

‘I can’t stand the rat race any longer. I can deal with my clients through the Internet and the occasional city visit. I see myself in a lovely little house overlooking the sea, just me and my work and time to think.’

Her friends—Jon’s friends—thought she was nuts, but then they didn’t know the truth about Jon.

Scumbag.

She’d walked away from a scumbag. Now she’d hit her landlord.

Men! Where was a nice convent when a girl needed one? A cloistered convent where no man set foot. Ever.

There seemed to be a dearth of convents on her way back to the house.

Steak.

She reached the house, and headed through the porch they shared, where two opposite doors delineated His and Hers.

She’d never been in His. She opened his door cautiously as if there might be a Hound or two in there as well.

No Hounds. The sitting room looked old and faded and comfy, warmed by a gorgeous open fire. There was one big armchair by the fire. A half-empty beer glass. Books scattered—lots of books. Masculine, unfussed, messy.

All this she saw at a glance as she headed towards the kitchen, but strangely … here was the hormone thing again. She was distracted by the sheer masculinity of the place.

As she was … distracted … by the sheer masculinity of her landlord.

Stupid. Get on with it, she told herself crossly, and she did.

His fridge held more than hers. Meat, vegetables, fruit, sauces—interesting stuff that said when he was at home he cooked.

She needed to learn, she thought suddenly, as she caught the whiff of meals past and glanced at the big old firestove that was the centrepiece of the kitchen. Enough with ‘Waistline Cuisine’.

It was hardly the time to be thinking cooking classes now, though. Or hormones.

Steak.

She had it. A solid lump, enough for a team of Hounds. She sliced it into chunks in seconds, then opened the freezer and grabbed a packet of frozen peas as well.

First aid and Hound meat, coming up.

Men and dogs. She could cope.

She had no choice. Convents had to wait.

What did you do with hormones in convents?

He’d terrified her.

Gabe lay back and looked at the sky and let his head clear. She’d packed a huge punch, but any anger he felt had been wiped by the look on her face. She’d looked sicker than he felt.

What was he about, letting the place to a needy city woman?

It was the second time he’d let it. The first time he’d rented it to Mavis, a spinster with two dogs. The moment she’d moved in she decided he needed mothering. Finally, after six months of tuna bakes, her mother had ‘a turn’ and Mavis headed back to Sydney to take care of her. Gabe had been so relieved he’d waived the last month’s rent.

And now this.

Dorothy in the letting agency had made this woman sound businesslike and sensible. Very different to Mavis.

‘Nikkita Morrissy. Thirty years old. She designs air conditioning systems for big industrial projects. Her usual schedule is three weeks home, one week on site, often overseas. She’s looking for a quiet place with a view, lots of natural light and nothing to disturb her.’

A woman who worked in industrial engineering. She sounded clever, efficient and non-needy.

His house was huge. He should move into town but he’d lived in this place all his life. His mother was here.

He’d lost his mother when he was eight years old, and this was all that was left. The garden she’d loved. The fence she’d almost finished. He walked outside sometimes and he could swear he saw her.

‘I’ll never leave you …’

People lied. He’d learned that early. Depend on no one. But here … in his mother’s garden, looking out over the bay she’d loved, this was all that was left of a promise he’d desperately wanted to believe in.

Emotional nonsense? Of course it was, he knew it, but his childhood house was a good place to crash when he wasn’t at sea. He had the money to keep it. If he could get a reasonable tenant for the apartment, then there’d be someone keeping the rooms warm, used.

Go ahead, he’d told Dorothy.

And then he’d met Nikkita. Briefly, the day she’d moved in.

She didn’t look like an industrial engineer. She looked like someone in one of those glossy magazines Hattie kept leaving on the boat. She was tall, five nine or so, slim and pale-skinned, with huge eyes and professionally applied make-up—yes, he was a bachelor but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pick decent cosmetics a mile off. Her glossy black hair was cut into some sort of sculpted bob, dead straight, all fringe and sharp edges.

And her clothes … The day she’d arrived she’d been wearing a black tunic with a diagonal slash of crimson across the hips. She’d added loopy silver earrings, red tights and glossy black boots that were practically thigh high. Low heels though. It was her moving day. She’d obviously thought low heels were workmanlike.

Tonight she’d been wearing jeans. Skin-tight jeans and a soft pink sweater. She must be roughing it, he thought, and his thoughts were bitter.

His head was thumping. He was trying hard not to think critical thoughts about ditzy air conditioning engineers who bush-bashed through the night with pokers.

And suddenly she was back again—practically running, though if she’d tried to run in those shoes she would have run right out of them. She was panting. Her eyes were still huge and the sculpted hair was … well, a lot less sculpted. She had a twig stuck behind one ear. A big twig.

‘Are you okay?’ she demanded, breathless, as if she’d expected to find him dead.

‘I’m fine,’ he growled and struggled to stand. Enough of lying round feeling sorry for himself. He shook away the hand she proffered, pushed himself to his feet—and the world swayed. Not much, but enough for him to grab her hand to steady himself.

She was stronger than he thought. She grabbed his other hand and held, hard, waiting for him to steady.

‘S … sorry.’ For a moment he thought he might throw up. He concentrated for a bit and decided no, he might keep his dignity.

‘Let me help you to the house.’

‘Dog first,’ he said.

‘You first.’

‘The dog’s standing up to his hocks in the water, howling. I’m not even whinging. I’m prioritizing.’ He made to haul his hands away but she still held.

He stopped pulling and let her hold.

Two reasons. One, he was still unsteady.

Two, it felt … not bad at all.

He worked with women. A good proportion of his fishing crews were female. They mostly smelled of, yeah, well, of fish. After a while, no matter how much washing, you didn’t get the smell out.

Nikkita smelled of something citrussy and tangy and outright heady. It didn’t make the dizziness worse, though. In truth it helped. He stood still, breathing in the scent of her, while the night settled around him.

She didn’t speak. She simply held.

Two minutes. Three. She wasn’t a talker, then. She’d figured he needed time to make the ground solid and she was giving it to him. It was the first decent thing he’d seen of her.

Maybe there were more decent things.

Her hands felt good. They were small hands for a tall woman. Soft …

Yeah, well, of course they’d be soft. For the last ten years any woman he’d ever gone out with was a local, one of the fishing crews, women who worked hard for a living. The only woman he’d ever gone out with who had soft hands …

Yeah. Lisbette. He’d married her.

So much for soft hands.

‘I’m right now,’ he said, finally, as another howl split the night. ‘Dog.’

‘Please let me take you home first.’

‘Are you good with dogs?’

‘Um … no.’

‘Then we both do the dog,’ he said. ‘Sure, I’m unsteady, so you do what I tell you. Exactly what I tell you. After the poker, it’s the least you can do.’

Was she out of her mind?

She was acting under orders.

Gabe was sitting in the shadows, watching, as she approached the dog with her hands full of steak. Upwind, according to Gabe’s directions, so he could smell the meat.

The dog was huge. Soaking wet, its coat was clinging to its skinny frame, so it looked almost like a small black horse.

Talk gently, Gabe had said. Soft, unthreatening.

So … ‘Hey, Horse, it’s okay,’ she told him. ‘Come out of the water and have some steak. Gabe’s gone to a lot of trouble to get it for you. The least you can do is eat it.’

Take one small step after another, Gabe had told her. Stop at the first hint of nervousness. Let the dog figure for himself that you’re not a threat.

‘Come on, boy. Hey, Horse, it’s okay. It’s fine. Come and tell me what your real name is.’

What was she doing, standing in the shallows with her hands full of raw meat? She’d tugged off her shoes but her jeans were soaked. To no avail. The dog was backing away, still twenty feet from her.

His coat was ragged, long and dripping. Fur was matted over his eyes.

He wasn’t coming near.

If Gabe wasn’t in the shadows watching she might have set the meat down on the sand and retreated.

But her landlord was expecting her to do this. He’d do it himself, only, despite what he told her, the thump on the head was making him nauseous. She knew it. He wasn’t letting her call for help but she knew it went against the grain to let her approach the dog. Especially when she was so bad at it.

‘Here, Horse. Here …’

A wave, bigger than the rest, came sideways instead of forward. It slapped into another wave, crested, hit her fair across the chest.

She yelped. She couldn’t help herself.

The dog backed fast into the waves.

‘It’s okay,’ she called and forgot to lower her voice.

The dog cast her a terrified glance and backed some more. The next wave knocked him sideways. He regained his footing and ran, like the horse he resembled. Along the line of the surf, away, around the bed in the headland and out of sight.

‘It’s okay.’

It wasn’t, but she hadn’t expected him to say it. She’d expected him to yell.

She’d coshed him. She’d scared the dog away.

A little voice at the back of her mind was saying, At least the howling’s stopped.

NYP, the same little voice in the back of her head whispered. Not your problem. She could forget the dog.

Only … He’d looked tragic. Horse …

Gabe was sitting where the sand gave way to the grassy verge before the bush began. At least he looked okay. At least he was still conscious.

‘You did the best you could.’ For a city girl. It wasn’t said. It didn’t have to be said.

‘Maybe he’s gone home.’

‘Does he look to you like he has a home?’ He flicked his cellphone from his top pocket and punched in numbers. Then he glanced at her, sighed, and hit loudspeaker so she could hear who he was talking to.

A male voice. Authoritive. ‘Banksia Bay Police,’ the voice said.

‘Raff?’ Gabe’s voice still wasn’t completely steady and the policeman at the end of the line obviously heard it. Maybe he was used to people with unsteady voices calling. He also recognised the caller.

‘Gabe? What’s up?’ She heard concern.

‘No problem. Or not a major one. A stray dog.’

‘Another one.’ The policeman sighed.

‘What are you talking about?’ Gabe demanded.

‘Henrietta’s Animal Welfare van was involved in an accident a few days back,’ the policeman explained. ‘We have stray dogs all over town. Describe this one.’

‘Big, black and malnourished,’ Gabe said. He was watching Nikki as he spoke. Nikki was trying to get the sand from between her toes before she put her shoes on. It wasn’t working.

She was soaking. She sat and the sand stuck to her. Ugh.

She was also unashamedly listening.

‘Like Great Dane big?’

‘Yeah, but he’s shaggy,’ Gabe said. ‘I’d guess Wolfhound with a few other breeds mixed in as well. And I don’t have him. He was down the beach below the house. We tried to catch him with a lump of steak but he’s headed round the headland to your side of town.’

‘We?’ Raff said.

‘Yeah,’ Gabe said dryly. ‘My tenant’s been helpful.’

‘But the two of you can’t catch him.’

‘No,’ Gabe said, and Nikki thought miserably that he sounded as if he could have done it if he was by himself. Maybe he could, but at least he didn’t say so.

‘I’ll check from the headland in the morning,’ Raff was saying. ‘You okay? You sound odd.’

‘Nothing I can’t handle. If he comes back … you want me to take him to the shelter?’

‘You might as well take him straight to the vet’s,’ Raff said. ‘He was on his way there to be put down. If he’s the one I think he is, someone threw him off a boat a couple of weeks back. We found him on the beach, starving. He’s well past cute pup stage. He’s huge and shabby. Old scars and not a lot of loveliness. He looks like he’s been kicked and neglected. No one will rehouse a dog like that, so Henrietta made the decision to get him put down. But if he doesn’t come back to your beach it’s not your worry, mate. Thanks for letting me know. ‘Night.’

‘‘Night.’

Gabe repocketed his phone.

Nikki flicked more sand away.

A starving dog. Kicked and neglected. Thrown from a boat. She hadn’t even managed to give him a meal, and now he was lost again.

Plus a landlord who was still sounding shaken because she’d thumped him.

Was there a scale for feeling bad? Bad, terrible, appalling.

‘Leave the steak just above the high tide mark,’ Gabe said, his voice gentle. ‘It’s not your fault.’

‘Nice of you to say so.’

‘Yeah, well, the bang on the head was your fault,’ he conceded, and he even managed a wry smile. ‘But there’s nothing more we can do for the dog. He’s gone. If he smelled the steak he might come back, but he won’t come near if he smells us. We’ve done all we can. Moving on, I need an aspirin. Do you have those toes sand-free yet?’

‘I … yes.’ No. She was crusted in sand but she stood up and prepared to move on.

She glanced along the beach, half hoping the dog would lope back.

Why would he?

‘Raff’ll find him,’ Gabe said.

‘He’s the local cop?’

‘Yes.’

‘He won’t look tonight?’

‘There’s no hope of finding him tonight. The beach around the headland is inaccessible at high tide. We’ll find him tomorrow.’

‘You’ll look, too?’

‘I’m leaving at dawn,’ he said. ‘I have fish to catch, but you’re welcome to look all you want. Now, if you want to stay here you’re also welcome, but I need my bed.’

She followed him up the track, feeling desolate. But Gabe must be feeling worse than she was. Maybe he was walking slowly to cater for her lack of sensible shoes, but she didn’t think so. Once he stumbled and she put out a hand. He steadied, looked down at her hand and shook his head. And winced again.

‘I hit you hard,’ she muttered.

‘Women aren’t what they used to be,’ he said. ‘Whatever happened to a nice, tidy slap across the cheek? That’s what they do in movies.’

‘I’ll remember it next time.’

‘There won’t be a next time,’ he said, and she thought uh-oh, was her tenancy on the line?

‘I’m not about to evict you,’ he said wearily, and she flinched. Beside being clumsy and stupid, was she also transparent?

‘I didn’t think …’

‘That I was about to evict you for hitting me? Good.’

‘Thank you,’ she said feebly and he went on concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

He didn’t stop until they reached the house. The lights were still on. He stood back to let her precede him into the porch. Instead of going straight into her side of the house, she paused.

Under the porch-light he looked … ill. Yes, he still looked large, dark and dangerous, but he also looked pale under the weathering, and the thin trickle of blood was at the centre of a bruise that promised to be ugly.

He staggered a bit. She reached out instinctively but he grabbed the veranda post. Steadied.

She could have killed him. He looked so … so …

Male?

There was a sensible thought.

‘You could have me arrested,’ she managed. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘But you weren’t planning to hit the dog.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘N … no.’

‘That’s why I won’t have you arrested. You meant well.’

‘You need to see a doctor.’

‘I need to go to bed.’

‘But what if it’s terrible?’ she said before she could stop herself. ‘I’ve read about head wounds. People get hit on the head and go to bed and never wake up. You should get your pupils looked at. If one’s bigger than the other … or is it if one doesn’t move? I don’t know, but I do know that you should get yourself checked. Please, can I drive you to the hospital?’

‘No.’ Flat. Inflexible. Non negotiable.

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve spent my life on boats. Believe it or not, I’ve been thumped a lot worse than this. I’m fine.’

‘You should be checked.’

‘You want to look at my pupils?’

‘I wouldn’t know what to look for. But if you go to bed now … It could be dangerous. Please …’

He was too close, she thought. He was too big. He smelled of the sea. But maybe it wasn’t just the sea. He smelled of diesel oil, and fish, and salt, and other incredibly masculine smells she’d never smelled before.

The only man she’d been this close to in the last few years was Jon. Jon of the sleek business suits, of expensive aftershave, of cool, sleek, corporate style.

Compared to Jon, Gabe was another species. They both might be guys at the core, but externally Gabe had been left behind in the cave. Or at sea.

Beside Gabe she felt small and insignificant and stupid. And he made her feel … vulnerable? Maybe, but something more. Exposed. It was a feeling she couldn’t explain and she didn’t want to explain. All she knew was that she didn’t want to be beside him one moment longer, but she was still worried about him. That worry wouldn’t be ignored.

‘You should be checked every couple of hours,’ she said, doggedly now. Once upon a time, well before Jon, she’d dated a medical student. She knew this much.

‘I’m fine.’ He was getting irritated. ‘In eight hours I’ll be out at sea. I need to go to bed now. Goodnight.’

‘At least let me check.’

‘Check what?’

‘Check you. All night.’

He stilled. They were far too close. The porch was far too small. Exposed? It was a dumb thought, but that was definitely how he made her feel. His face was lined, worn, craggy. He couldn’t be much over thirty, she thought, but he looked as if life had been hard.

It could get harder if she didn’t check him. If he was to die …

‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded.

‘I need to check you every two hours,’ she said miserably, knowing her conscience would let her off with nothing less. ‘I’ll come in and make sure you’re conscious.’

‘I won’t be conscious. I’ll be asleep.’

‘Then I’ll wake you and you can tell me your name and what day it is and then you can go back to sleep.’

‘I won’t know which day it is.’

‘Then tell me how much you dislike the tenant next door,’ she said, starting to feel desperate. ‘For worrying. But I need to do this.’ Deep breath. ‘It’s two-hour checks or I’ll phone your friend, the cop, and I tell him how badly I hit you. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he’s the kind of guy who’ll be up here with sirens blazing making you see sense.’

Silence.

Her guess was right, she thought. In that one short phone conversation she’d sensed friendship between the two men, and maybe the unknown cop was as tough as the guy standing in front of her.

‘I’m serious,’ she said, jutting her jaw.

‘I’ll be on the boat at dawn. This is nonsense.’

‘Being on the boat at dawn is nonsense. After a hit like that you should stay home.’

‘Butt out of my life!’ It was an explosion and she backed as far as the little porch allowed. Which wasn’t far, but something must have shown in her face.

‘Okay, sorry.’ He raked his hand through his thatch of dark, unruly hair. He needed a haircut, Nikki thought inconsequentially. And then she thought, even more inconsequentially, what would he look like in a suit?

Like a caged tiger. This guy was not meant to be constrained.

That was what she was doing now, she thought. She was constraining him, but she wasn’t backing down. There was no way she could calmly go to bed and leave him to die next door.

She met his gaze and jutted her chin some more and tried to look determined. She was determined.

‘Every two hours or Raff,’ she said.

‘Fine.’ He threw up his hands in defeat. ‘Have it your way. You can sleep tomorrow; I can’t. I’m going to bed. If you shine your torch in my eyes every two hours I might well tell you what I think of you.’

‘Fine by me,’ she said evenly. ‘As long as you’re alive.’