The Australian's Desire

She stared at him for a long moment. She raked her curls with her fingers and shuddered. The shudder made him move instinctively toward her, but she held up a hand as if to ward him off.

‘No.’

‘I’m not—’

‘I know you’re not,’ she whispered. ‘And I’m not either. But I am really, really tired.’

‘I’ll help you to bed.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I’ll go on my own.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘If you think of any place you want searched,’ he offered, ‘I have a week before Gina’s wedding. I was going to do some sightseeing but if you’d like me to help search for your son …’

‘My son.’

‘Max.’

She bit her lip. Then she whispered. ‘No. Thank you. I don’t know where to start looking and if Ron doesn’t want to be found then he won’t be. Even if I found them … I couldn’t turn Ron in. I just … couldn’t.’

‘You still have feelings …’

‘I don’t have any feelings at all,’ she whispered. ‘Not for Ron. You’re thinking he’s my ex-husband. Well, that fits. Leathers, stilettos, bike, an ex-husband who’s a criminal. Sorry to disappoint you but no.’

‘Then …’

‘Ron’s my stepfather,’ she whispered. ‘He’s the man who taught me to ride a punch. He’s the reason I left home at fourteen and have never been back. And he’s Max’s father. My lovely Max. My kid brother. He calls me Mum because I’m the only mother figure he’s known. He’s the only male I’ve ever loved and ever will. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to bed.’

Out to sea, Hurricane Willie paused. For no good reason. The massive front of bad weather had been inching eastward. It had been expected to blow out to sea but now it seemed indecisive. It stilled, building strength. Building fury.

Even now the force from its epicentre was being felt by the mainland, from Brisbane to Cooktown. The mainlanders checked their weather charts and listened to the forecasts.

No one knew …

CHAPTER FOUR

GEORGIE wasn’t at breakfast.

‘I’m not sure where she is,’ Gina told Alistair. ‘She could even be sleeping in. This is an odd day. Georgie normally does an antenatal clinic out on Wallaby Island on Saturday morning but it’d be curtailed anyway because the wedding’s at four. And now … this weather’s so awful there’s no way anyone’s going out there.’

It certainly was awful. Alistair had been planning to take a diving trip to the Great Barrier Reef. Now he was trapped in Crocodile Creek, surrounded by wedding preparations for a couple he hardly knew.

‘Maybe I should check on her,’ he said, and Gina paused in what she was doing—was she really tying silver-painted chicken wishbones to baskets of sugared almonds?—and looked at him. Thoughtfully.

‘Don’t. She doesn’t want you to. You upset her last night.’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said, taken aback.

‘She said you treated her like a tramp.’

‘I didn’t mean to do that either.’

‘You suggested it was no wonder she didn’t get custody of Max.’

‘Hey.’ He sighed and sat down at the kitchen table in front of Gina. And tried to think what to say. And couldn’t. ‘How many of these do you have to tie?’ he said at last, which was pathetic but small talk had never been his forte.

‘A hundred and twenty.’

‘How many have you done?’

‘Thirty.’

‘And they’re for?’

‘Fertility. Mrs Poulos says.’

‘Silly me for asking,’ he said, and picked up a wishbone. ‘Tell me about Georgiana.’

Gina kept on tying. ‘She says you have her summed up.’

‘I did have her summed up,’ he said ruefully. ‘I may have got it wrong.’

‘She doesn’t always wear stilettos,’ Gina conceded.

‘You mean she only did it for my benefit?’

‘I suspect she was horrified about the way she behaved when you were here last.’

‘I was pretty horrified at myself, too.’

‘So have you apologised?’

‘I … No.’

‘She had a reason for behaving appallingly. What was yours?’

‘I thought she was …’

There was a lengthy pause. Four more chicken wishbones got attached to baskets.

‘You thought she was cheap?’ Gina suggested.

‘I thought she was gorgeous,’ Alistair admitted. ‘Cheap, yeah. But still gorgeous. When she threw herself at me, I couldn’t resist.’

‘Men!’

‘She was … gorgeous. Trashy but great. You don’t feel like that when you look at Cal?’

‘Hey, we’re talking about my future husband here,’ Gina said with asperity. ‘My husband in a week. Someone I respect. You’re talking about someone you’re describing as trashy.’

He winced. ‘Are these wishbones for your wedding or for the one this afternoon?’

‘This afternoon. Mike’s mum read it in Vogue about a hundred years ago and she’s had her heart set on them ever since. Every chicken that’s gone through this kitchen has died for the greater good of Mike’s wedding.’ She tied another. ‘So …’ She looked at him dubiously across the table. ‘You saw Georgie and you got the hots for her.’

‘I’m sure there are better ways of framing it.’

‘I don’t have to watch my mouth with my cousin. Do you still have the hots?’

‘No!’

‘But six months ago … you felt so strongly that you went home and broke it off with Eloise’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Just because our mothers are dead, it doesn’t mean I don’t know your intimate secrets, Alistair Carmichael. Not that breaking off an engagement is an intimate secret. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘It wasn’t important.’ He glowered. ‘We’re still friends and professional colleagues. So how exactly did you find out?’

‘Georgie told me. She said you told her last night.’

She and Georgie had talked about him. That was … interesting.

‘So why didn’t you tell me?’ Gina asked again.

‘I didn’t want you to—’

‘To get the wrong impression,’ she finished for him, suddenly thoughtful. ‘You know, I’m starting to think there might be some other purpose in you agreeing to come here and give me away.’

‘There’s not,’ he said shortly.

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘But if Eloise is out of the picture …’

‘Don’t even go there.’

They went back to tying ribbons. Great intellectual exercise. It left Alistair’s mind free to wander in places he didn’t particularly want to wander. Finally they were interrupted. It was Gina’s fiancé, Dr Cal Jamieson. He saw what they were doing and grinned. ‘Hey, you’ve got another suck—I mean helper,’ he told Gina. ‘Well done, mate. Gina asked me to help but I was really busy. Lawns to watch grow. Imperative stuff like that.’

He got two wishbones thrown at him simultaneously. Followed by two baskets of almonds.

‘Hey, don’t both of you shoot,’ he said, wounded.

‘We’re cousins,’ Gina said briefly. ‘It’s called family support.’

‘Why isn’t CJ doing this?’ Cal asked.

‘He said it was boring.’

‘Which it is—mate,’ Alistair said, and rose. ‘I’ve done twelve. That’s my quota.’

‘Actually, I have a job for you,’ Cal said, turning serious. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Anything that doesn’t involve chicken wishbones and painted almonds. And I’m not even going to this wedding …’

‘It’s Georgie,’ Cal said. ‘She’s over in the nursery. She and Charles are fretting about Megan. We want your advice.’

‘I’m a neurosurgeon,’ Alistair said, frowning. ‘Advice?’

‘She’s hoping she doesn’t need it,’ Cal said, suddenly grim. ‘But she’s afraid that she might.’

Hell, this weather was wild. The moment they stepped out the door Alistair reeled back against the strength of the wind. Cal, who’d come out behind him, shoved his hands in the small of his back and pushed.

‘Just a nice, gentle, ocean breeze, kiddo,’ he said, grinning as both men put their heads down and battled the short distance to the hospital.

‘My God … This is cyclone stuff.’

‘Edge of a cyclone,’ Cal agreed. ‘Willie. But the weather guys are still saying it’ll turn out to sea. They’re predicting strong winds for this afternoon’s wedding, but not as strong as this. It’ll settle soon.’

‘Do you often get cyclones?’

‘Not bad ones. Or not often. Tracy took out Darwin on Christmas Day twenty years ago and one came through south of here last year and flattened the nation’s banana crop.’ He was yelling, but as he spoke they reached the hospital and walked inside. Cal’s last couple of words echoed round the silence of the hospital.

‘Why does Georgie want me?’ Alistair asked. He knew this wasn’t a social call. He knew she’d be avoiding him. So what now?

‘She’s worried,’ Cal said. ‘And Charles and I concur, but there’s not a lot we can do about it. If this wind wasn’t grounding all planes, we’d do an evacuation but … well, let’s see what you think.’ And he pushed open the doors to the nursery.

Charles was there, in his wheelchair. It hadn’t taken long for Alistair to discover that Crocodile Creek’s medical director was a really astute doctor. Charles had lost the use of his legs through an accident in his youth, but what he lacked in mobility he more than compensated for with the sheer breadth of his intellect.

Charles was a big man with a commanding presence, but right now Alistair hardly noticed Charles. For Georgie was beside him. The bruise across her cheek had darkened overnight and swelled still more. She’d removed the dressing he’d put over the split, and the cut looked … vicious.

They could throw away Smiley’s key as far as he was concerned, Alistair thought darkly. Hitting a woman …

Hitting Georgia …

But they were standing by a cot, looking worried. He needed to focus on their problem.

‘Cal said I might be able to help,’ he said softly, and Georgie turned.

‘Dr Carmichael,’ she said.

They were obviously on professional ground here. OK, he could do that. He nodded. ‘Dr Turner.’ He nodded to Charles. ‘Dr Wetherby.’

He looked down into the cot. Megan was lying on her side, one thumb pressed hard into her mouth. She wasn’t asleep. But …

She was quiet. She was oddly still. First rule for care of children. Worry about the quiet ones.

And she looked so small. Malnourished? Probably. The cigarette burn on her hand looked stark and raw, and once again his gut clenched in anger.

No. Put emotion away. He was there for a reason.

‘How’s her mother?’ he asked, still watching the little girl. They’d called him for something and he needed to figure out what. He was switching into professional mode, checking visually with care. Yesterday Megan had seemed lethargic. This morning he’d have expected her to be brighter. But she seemed apathetic. When he put his hand down in front of her eyes she blinked but didn’t otherwise respond.

Hell.

‘Lizzie’s good,’ Georgie said softly into the stillness. She was watching Megan’s reactions as well. ‘She’s even managed a little breakfast. We’ve put Davy and Dottie into the ward beside her so they can see her as she sleeps, and she’s a hundred per cent better than yesterday. Certainly she’s out of danger. And so is Thomas.’

This was the benefit of a country hospital, Alistair thought. To combine medicine with family … It’d be great to be able to do these things.

‘But you’re worried about this little one,’ he said.

‘We are.’

‘Tell me all you know.’

‘It’s not a lot but it’s more than yesterday. Damn, we should have picked this up on admission.’ Charles’ words were almost a growl as he wheeled away from the cot to bring an X-ray back from the desk. He handed it to Alistair without a word.

Silence.

The X-ray showed the little girl’s skull. With damage. The fracture was only hairline—no worse than the fracture of Georgie’s cheek. But under Georgie’s fracture lay muscle which could bear damage. Under Megan’s skull fracture lay her fragile brain. Internal bleeding would be a catastrophe.

Internal bleeding may well be causing the symptoms they were worried about.

‘Can I check?’ he asked at last, and got three sharp nods for assent.

He crossed to the sinks and washed, carefully. Megan had survived the squalid circumstances of the hut. There was no way Alistair was risking infection now.

What infections did chicken bones carry? He washed twice as diligently as he normally did, and then he washed again.

Then he examined her. Cal left them, obviously needing to be elsewhere, but Georgie and Charles stayed. He ignored them. Instead, he talked to Megan, explaining gently that he was looking at her head, trying to find what was hurting her, trying to find a way to make her feel better. He wasn’t sure that she was taking in anything.

He could see no retinal haemorrhage. That had to be a good sign. There was no obvious swelling.

‘No fever?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Georgie whispered. ‘But … Charles didn’t like the look of her. It was more on a hunch than anything that we did the X-ray.’

‘Good hunch.’

‘Which is when we bailed out and called you,’ Charles said.

‘Do we have the facility to do a CT scan?’

‘Our radiotherapist is on his way in,’ Charles told him. ‘He’s boarding up his mother’s windows or he’d be here now.’

‘Send someone else to board windows. I want him here now,’ Alistair snapped. He closed his eyes, thinking things through. But his decision was inevitable. ‘This little one was talking and responding normally last night. The provisional diagnosis is that she’s bleeding internally, but slowly. If I’m right then we get in there now to try to stop lasting damage. There’s no choice.’

We? Him.

He was under no illusion as to why Georgie had called him. He was a neurosurgeon.

But here …

He wanted a major city hospital. He wanted MRI scans. He wanted …

‘We can’t fly her out,’ Charles said, sounding apologetic. ‘Even by road we’re starting to get worried. We’ve had a couple of big trees come down already, and the road’s getting dangerous. They’re saying it’s worse down south—not better. With this level of wind it might be a few days before we can evacuate.’

‘But we can’t wait,’ Georgie said. She looked terrified, he thought. She looked a far cry from the cocky, gum-chewing, bike-riding Georgie who’d greeted him at the airport yesterday. This morning she was wearing a professional white coat over jeans, T-shirt and sandals. Her sandals were crimson, matching her toenails. There were little gold crescent moons on each toenail. Despite her bruising, she’d gone to some trouble with her make-up—her lips matched her toenails.

There were traces of yesterday’s Georgie left, but she looked young, vulnerable and afraid.

How could he ever have thought she was a tart?

‘I don’t want her brain damaged,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’ll operate myself if I have to.’

She knew what the score was. Internal bleeding could cause—would cause—irreparable damage. The only option was to operate to relieve pressure, a tricky operation at the best of times, but here …

‘You’re not doing anything while we have Alistair. Gina says you’re good,’ Charles said grimly.

‘Let’s run a CAT scan first,’ he said. ‘I’m not doing anything on the basis of one X-ray. I don’t have a clue where the bleeding is. We need to get a definitive diagnosis and I’m not moving without it. And then I need the equipment.’

‘I suspect we have most of what you need,’ Charles told him. ‘Many of our indigenous people refuse to go elsewhere for treatment so if someone’s available, we fly in specialists and they operate here. We’ve had a couple of neurosurgeons who’ve done locum work here, and they’ve set up a store of surgical equipment. If you weren’t here, I’d have to ask Cal to do it. But he’s a general surgeon. He doesn’t have your level of expertise.’

‘He’d still do it,’ Georgie said bluntly. ‘Will you?’

And the thing was decided. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘OK, get this radiologist here now. I’ll check the scans, the equipment and the personnel available, and then we go. Let’s move.’

If anything could take Georgie’s mind off Max, this was it. Urgent, lifesaving surgery.

It had to be done. The CT—computerised tomography—scan showed very clearly a build-up of fluid, and when they shaved Megan’s hair they could see swelling. Not huge swelling, but it was there.

Then there was a swift family conference. Lizzie was exhausted, but fully conscious and aware. She was appalled at what was happening to her daughter—but at first she couldn’t believe Smiley would have done such a thing.

But the evidence was irrefutable. The white-faced woman held Davy’s hand and trembled while Davy answered Georgie’s questions.

‘It was when Megan was hungry and Mummy was asleep,’ Davy said, faltering. ‘Megan started crying. Dad burned her with his cigarette and then when she wouldn’t stop he hit her hard against the wall.’

For a moment Lizzie looked like she was about to pass out, but then anger took over and by the time Georgie explained exactly what the problem was, it was just as well Smiley was safely locked up.

‘Just save her for me,’ Lizzie said, close to tears. ‘I swear he’ll never lay a finger on her again but, please, Georgie, make her well.’

‘We have Alistair,’ Georgie said, and felt an almost overwhelming relief that this skilled surgeon was right here, right now.

She returned to Theatre to find everything was in place. Alistair examined Megan once more and then he nodded.

‘We have no choice. We go in now or brain damage’s inevitable. As it is …’

‘I should have picked it up yesterday,’ Georgie repeated, immeasurably distressed.

‘There were no signs yesterday. All her symptoms could be explained by dehydration. They probably were caused by dehydration. I’m thinking this bleeding’s gradual and slow, so we might be in time. There’s no need to punish yourself over it.’

‘So stop blaming yourself,’ Charles told her. ‘That’s Georgie’s specialty,’ he told Alistair. ‘She takes on the problems of the world and makes them her own.’

‘Well, you’re not on your own here,’ Alistair said. ‘Lizzie’s OK’d the operation? If she approves, we go in.’

‘We shouldn’t ask you. You’re not covered by insurance or medical indemnity,’ Charles reminded him.

‘But you are asking, right?’

‘I guess we are,’ Charles said, and managed a smile.

‘But Lizzie wouldn’t sue,’ Georgie said, horrified.

‘Smiley might,’ Charles said.

‘Alistair won’t care,’ Georgie said roundly, and Alistair met her look and held it.

‘God knows, I have no taste for heroic surgery,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’d like a skilled paediatric surgical team on this one, but we make do with what we’ve got.’

‘Maybe you’d better put your suit on first,’ Georgie said faintly.

‘Suit?’

‘It makes you look clever,’ she told him. ‘Shorts and sandals don’t cut it in the clever stakes and I want you to be clever.’

‘So no stilettos, Dr Turner?’

She managed a shaky smile. ‘No stilettos. Megan is too important.’

And after that there was no time to think of anything. There was certainly no time for Alistair to don his suit—he put on operating gear over his shorts and left it at that. Emily was called away from her hair appointment to perform the anaesthetic. Yes, this afternoon she planned to be a bride but ‘I’ve got hours and hours and how long does it take to put on a dress?’ Cal assisted Alistair and Georgie assisted Cal. Four doctors, three nurses and they were all needed.

That they all knew what to do was a testament to Alistair’s skill. ‘He does a lot of teaching,’ Gina had told Georgie, and she believed her. For not only did Alistair’s fingers move with skill and precision, knowing exactly what he was doing, improvising for any equipment he couldn’t find with a dexterity that left her awed, he also seemed to know exactly what everyone else in Theatre was doing—where every person needed to be moments before they needed to be there.

His soft orders filled the room, and under his commands they worked as a team that a major teaching hospital could be proud of.

The procedure sounded straightforward enough, but what looked straightforward in textbooks was technical surgery of the most challenging kind. First he needed to lift a piece of Megan’s small skull, working with infinite precision, aware that any false movement would aggravate the bleed. Then he worked carefully through the dura mater—the tough membrane around the brain—carefully separating the dura to locate the subdural clot causing the swelling.

After that he had to evacuate the haematoma and make sure there was no further bleeding from ruptured blood vessels. The skill lay in causing no more damage. This tiny brain was still developing. Any fractional miscalculation could have consequences for life.

Alistair worked as if this were a normal, everyday procedure. His demeanour was calm and methodical, as if this was nothing more serious than an inflamed appendix. But so much hung on his skill. OK, Cal would have tried to do this alone if Alistair hadn’t been there, but as a general surgeon Georgie knew his chances at succeeding would have been much less. If all the bleeding vessels weren’t located, the damage would continue.

Georgie knew instinctively that neither of these things would happen after Alistair had operated. This man was just too competent.

Too competent for his own good? Ego driven? Maybe, she thought, but now wasn’t the time to quibble about egos. He could be as egocentric as he liked, as long as he saved Megan.

And gradually it seemed that the combined skill of Alistair and Cal might do it. Hopefully they’d caught it in time. Hopefully there’d be no damage and Megan would grow up to be a normal, healthy kid like her brothers and sister.

Thanks mostly to Alistair. Georgie worked on with quiet competence, but inside she felt like weeping. They were so lucky this man was there. And to think she’d nearly abandoned him in the heat.

‘Yeah, you still owe me for that,’ Alistair said, as Cal carefully suctioned the wound, and she jerked her head up to meet his eyes.

The toad was smiling.

‘You didn’t want—’

‘And you figured that was exactly what I’d do.’

‘What are you guys talking about?’ Emily queried, and to her fury Georgie felt herself blushing. She turned back to her tray of equipment, thinking, Dammit, did the man have a mind-reader on board?

He scared her witless.

But he was saving Megan.

Maybe he’d already saved her. The worst of the damage had been cleared. Now he waited patiently, taking his time, watching carefully for any ongoing haemorrhage. Then, satisfied that the area was dry, he began the laborious task of suturing the dura and reattaching the bone.

He left nothing to chance. His fingers were so skilful Georgie could only watch in awe. Hand him equipment as it was needed. Try to anticipate his needs. Marvel at the skill of the procedure she was watching.

Finally he moved on to the superficial sutures. Even that wasn’t straightforward. For such surgery a specialist unit would have ready-made staples, but here Alistair could only suture, and the results of his suturing now would mean the difference between major scarring or whether Megan could wear her hair any way she liked as she grew up. Maybe such scarring didn’t matter so much in the greater scheme of things—he was well within his rights to hand over to Cal for this last step—but Georgie could tell by Alistair’s fierce concentration that he knew what scars could mean to a young woman. He was thinking forward to Megan’s life after this surgery.

He cared.

There would be minimal scarring from this man’s work today, she thought as he worked on. For a surgeon already weary from such an intense procedure, his sutures were flawless.

And then, finally, he could relax. They could all relax. Finally Georgie could hand over dressings, he could fit them over the child’s neat wound and he and Cal could step back from the table.