Meredith Webber - Bride at Bay Hospital

He turned toward her and smiled. “Well, you were the only girl I ever imagined beside me in the red convertible, although I did wonder if the color would clash with your hair.”

“Is that why you bought a blue car?” Meg teased, feeling more at ease with Sam since his surprise return.

“Maybe it was,” he told her, but he wasn’t smiling now. He was looking at the road ahead and frowning slightly. He couldn’t possibly have bought a blue car because it would go better with the hair of someone he hadn’t seen for thirteen years, Sam told himself. No, not even subconsciously.

But the thought had rattled him—the way everything about Meg was rattling him.

Dear Reader,

I live in Queensland, which is the northeast corner of Australia. From my home on the Gold Coast in the far south, there are a series of long sand islands off the coast. Over millions of years they have built up, so some have sand dunes as mountains and all of them have patches of thick rainforest, as well as coastal vegetation. All but one are accessible only by boat or barge, but all are popular with locals and tourists. I’ve been visiting these islands all my life and enjoying their beauty and peaceful tranquility, so I suppose it was inevitable that one of them would find its way into a book one day.

Another Australian custom when I was growing up, was that of the “holiday house.” Although often the house was only a large tent, every Christmas, during the six weeks of summer holidays, Aussies head en masse for the beach, usually going to the same place each time. The result is kids that grow up with friends they hang around with for six weeks every summer, and often don’t see for the rest of the year. But the friendships, which are formed as the kids surf alongside each other, or fish from dinghies hired with pooled pocket money, or walk the coastal tracks and explore the rock pools, are special friendships that bypass the restraints of distance and last forever.

This is how Meg and Sam met. Drawn together by the bond of being only children, they became “holiday” friends—and “holiday” friends are special, because you can share the secrets of your heart with them, knowing you won’t be seeing them as often as you see your regular friends. “Holiday” friends share some of your happiest memories.

In this story, these friends grew into teenagers and fell in love….

Meredith Webber

Bride at Bay Hospital

Meredith Webber

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MEG heard the voice as she grabbed an armful of clothes from the built-in wardrobe in the main bedroom.

Her bedroom!

Or it had been until today.

Or officially yesterday.

‘Vacant possession!’ The voice was deep, and powerful enough to carry right through the old wooden house without being raised to shouting level. ‘I stipulated vacant possession.’

Whoever was on the receiving end of the cold statement must have had a quieter voice, for Meg heard nothing of the explanation. But by then she was scurrying through the kitchen, intending to slip out the back way, down the steps and across to the cottage next door without being seen.

‘He’d have had his bloody vacant possession if it weren’t for the flu,’ she muttered to herself, as exhaustion from an extra night shift weakened her bones and sapped her confidence so self-pity lurked perilously close.

She didn’t do self-pity!

‘Not that he’s arrived with a furniture van all ready to move in,’ she told her cat, who’d come out of the cottage to see if any of the clothes were trailing a belt or ribbon that would make a good plaything.

Meg dumped her load on her bed and crossed to the window in time to see the realtor’s car drive off.

Great! She could nick back over and get the rest of her stuff. One drawer full of undies—that was it!

She’d give him vacant possession!

But as she walked through the kitchen a sense of loss overwhelmed her, and she faltered as she remembered the happy times she’d had in the old house. Up until now, she’d only considered the financial aspect of moving—her father had let her have the house at a nominal rent because he’d understood her dream.

But now…

No, she wouldn’t think about her father—or about the dream.

The dream her mother said was foolish…

Anger swamped her maudlin mood. Anger at her mother for deciding to sell their old holiday house—anger at the stranger who had bought her memories. Muttering dire threats she would never carry out, she stomped back into the bedroom.

The stranger, tall and dark, face shadowed by the window behind him, was twirling one of her G-strings round his fingers so the little red hearts on it made a circle of red against the white—red, white, red, white.

‘Put that down!’ She gave equal emphasis to each word, her own red anger, barely controlled, whirling in her head.

‘Megan?’

The stranger looked from the panties to her, back to the panties, and then frowned before he said her name again—this time with even more incredulity.

‘Megan?’

She snatched the garment from him and turned away, certain it couldn’t be Sam—knowing from the rapid pulsing of her heart it had to be.

‘Megan.’

Not a question this time but a statement, accompanied by a touch of his hand on her shoulder. A mist of rage and something that could almost have been hatred filled her head, and she didn’t need the pressure of that hand to make her turn.

‘What is this, Sam? Some variation on the return of the prodigal son? Some revenge thing that you had to buy my house? Turn me out? Well, great! Have the bloody house! Have your vacant possession! And you can have my knickers, too, because I’d be damned if I’d wear them after you’ve touched them!’

And with that she stormed away, head held high but cheeks aflame with heat, while her heart skittered about in her chest like a terrified rabbit in search of the deepest, darkest burrow it could find.

‘Well, that went well.’

Sam sighed as he looked at the minute undergarment she’d dropped on the floor in her hurry to get away. Then he shook his head.

What was Megan doing in the Bay? And how could he have known she’d been living in the house? He’d bought it from the trustees of her father’s estate and had been told the house was tenanted, but never in his wildest dreams had he considered Megan might have been the tenant.

Megan…

Something in his chest scrunched tight as his head repeated her name, but he had it on good authority from any number of women that he didn’t have a heart, so it had to have been some other organ scrunching.

Or perhaps a muscle.

Intercostal muscles tightening his ribcage because of a perfectly natural trepidation about this return to the town of his childhood.