encounters, how dangerous could it be to get to know Brett Wyndham better?
Chapter Four
H OLLY decided to go for a swim as dawn broke over Palm Cove the next morning.
She put on her swimsuit, a pretty peasant blouse and a skimpy pair of shorts. She laid out the clothes she would wear after her swim and looked at her luggage, all neatly packed. The only thing that wasn’t quite neat and tidy in her mind was, which way would she go when she left Palm Cove? Out to Haywire, or back to Brisbane?
She collected a towel from the pool area and walked through the quiet resort to the beach.
There was a sprinkling of early-morning walkers and swimmers and, even so early, a feel of the coming heat of the day on the air.
She hesitated then opted to go for a walk first.
Palm Cove—most of Far North Queensland, for that matter—didn’t offer blinding white sand on its beaches, although its off-shore islands might. What you got instead was sand that resembled raw sugar but it was clean, and towards the waterline, firm.
What also impressed her was that from further down the beach you would not have known Palm Cove was there, thanks to the height limitations put on the buildings and the trees that lined the beach.
She strode out and reviewed her dilemma as she did so. If she did go back to Brisbane off her own bat—assuming she wasn’t sent back, and she had the feeling it wasn’t impossible for that to be on the cards—how would she handle it? She would have to confess to Glenn and her mother that she’d been unable to handle the Wyndham interview, and she would go back to travel reporting with a sense of relief.
If she did get sent back, though, she’d have to confess that she must have pressed some wrong buttons with Brett Wyndham.
In either case, she would not even contemplate the fact that at times Brett Wyndham fascinated her mentally and stirred her physically, probably more than any man had done. Well, she could tell herself that, anyway.
It would be true to say she was still on the horns of a dilemma when she got back to her towel. She shrugged frustratedly, dropped her top and shorts on it and waded into the water. It was heavenly, refreshing but not cold, calm, buoyant; when it was up to her knees, she dived in and swam out energetically.
After about ten minutes, she swam back to where she could stand and floated on her back, feeling rejuvenated—cleansed, even—as if she’d experienced a catharsis and could put the whole sorry business behind her one way or another.
‘Morning, Holly.’
She sank, swallowed some water and came up spluttering. Brett Wyndham, with his dark hair plastered to his head, was standing a few feet away from her, his tanned shoulders smooth and wet.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, somewhat indistinctly, through a fit of coughing.
He looked around. ‘I thought it was a public beach.’
‘Of course it is!’ She felt for the bottom with her toes. ‘I mean—it doesn’t matter.’
‘Have I done something to annoy you?’ he queried gravely.
Holly lay back in the water and rippled it with her fingers. Then she sat up and flicked her gaze from the strong brown column of his throat, from his sleek outline, and eyed a line of opal-pale clouds above, then their reflection on the glassy surface of the sea. ‘I thought it might be the other way round.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘I thought—I thought you were having second thoughts last night.’
She moved a few steps towards the beach, then something swirled in the water next to her; she jerked away and fell over with a cry of fright.
‘Holly!’ Brett plunged to her side and lifted her into his arms. ‘What was it? Are you hurt?’
‘I don’t know what it was. I don’t think I’m hurt, though. I just got a fright!’
‘OK.’ He carried her up the beach and put her down on her towel. ‘Let’s have a look.’
He could find no wound on her feet or legs and he looked patently relieved.
Holly
Chapter Four
H OLLY decided to go for a swim as dawn broke over Palm Cove the next morning.
She put on her swimsuit, a pretty peasant blouse and a skimpy pair of shorts. She laid out the clothes she would wear after her swim and looked at her luggage, all neatly packed. The only thing that wasn’t quite neat and tidy in her mind was, which way would she go when she left Palm Cove? Out to Haywire, or back to Brisbane?
She collected a towel from the pool area and walked through the quiet resort to the beach.
There was a sprinkling of early-morning walkers and swimmers and, even so early, a feel of the coming heat of the day on the air.
She hesitated then opted to go for a walk first.
Palm Cove—most of Far North Queensland, for that matter—didn’t offer blinding white sand on its beaches, although its off-shore islands might. What you got instead was sand that resembled raw sugar but it was clean, and towards the waterline, firm.
What also impressed her was that from further down the beach you would not have known Palm Cove was there, thanks to the height limitations put on the buildings and the trees that lined the beach.
She strode out and reviewed her dilemma as she did so. If she did go back to Brisbane off her own bat—assuming she wasn’t sent back, and she had the feeling it wasn’t impossible for that to be on the cards—how would she handle it? She would have to confess to Glenn and her mother that she’d been unable to handle the Wyndham interview, and she would go back to travel reporting with a sense of relief.
If she did get sent back, though, she’d have to confess that she must have pressed some wrong buttons with Brett Wyndham.
In either case, she would not even contemplate the fact that at times Brett Wyndham fascinated her mentally and stirred her physically, probably more than any man had done. Well, she could tell herself that, anyway.
It would be true to say she was still on the horns of a dilemma when she got back to her towel. She shrugged frustratedly, dropped her top and shorts on it and waded into the water. It was heavenly, refreshing but not cold, calm, buoyant; when it was up to her knees, she dived in and swam out energetically.
After about ten minutes, she swam back to where she could stand and floated on her back, feeling rejuvenated—cleansed, even—as if she’d experienced a catharsis and could put the whole sorry business behind her one way or another.
‘Morning, Holly.’
She sank, swallowed some water and came up spluttering. Brett Wyndham, with his dark hair plastered to his head, was standing a few feet away from her, his tanned shoulders smooth and wet.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, somewhat indistinctly, through a fit of coughing.
He looked around. ‘I thought it was a public beach.’
‘Of course it is!’ She felt for the bottom with her toes. ‘I mean—it doesn’t matter.’
‘Have I done something to annoy you?’ he queried gravely.
Holly lay back in the water and rippled it with her fingers. Then she sat up and flicked her gaze from the strong brown column of his throat, from his sleek outline, and eyed a line of opal-pale clouds above, then their reflection on the glassy surface of the sea. ‘I thought it might be the other way round.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘I thought—I thought you were having second thoughts last night.’
She moved a few steps towards the beach, then something swirled in the water next to her; she jerked away and fell over with a cry of fright.
‘Holly!’ Brett plunged to her side and lifted her into his arms. ‘What was it? Are you hurt?’
‘I don’t know what it was. I don’t think I’m hurt, though. I just got a fright!’
‘OK.’ He carried her up the beach and put her down on her towel. ‘Let’s have a look.’
He could find no wound on her feet or legs and he looked patently relieved.
Holly
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