Melissa James - Long-Lost Father

Even the intimacy of his hand on her back, his voice so close, overwhelmed her. Six years of painful dreams, waking to emptiness, always alone but never letting anyone close…now he was here and…touching her…Brett…

There were times during the frantic days, the long, sleepless nights, when she thought she’d die for him to be here, to touch her one more time, to let her know she wasn’t alone.

She choked again as the emotion came crashing down over her, and the more she tried to fight it, the bigger the burning ball of pain became, cutting off her breathing. The woman who’d never allowed herself the time or luxury to grieve for the husband she’d adored finally emerged from some dark place inside, demanding relief. Her legs shook too hard to support her. She dropped to her knees, buried her face in her hands and wept.

“Sam.” He was so close she could smell the spicy aftershave he wore, the one she’d always loved so much. She’d bury her face into his throat and inhale it, inhale him. “I know this is a terrible shock. I had no choice but to do it like this, without warning.”

Soft as the touch of butterfly wings, his fingertips touched her arms, caressing her. She felt the traitorous urge to snuggle against him, to take the comfort he was offering—

A bolt of panic sent her scuttling back. “D-don’t touch me,” she cried through the sobs still overwhelming her. She ached for his touch but hated that vulnerability after six years of strength and independence. She couldn’t afford to be weak now.

You’re at his feet in tears, a disgusted little voice said inside her. Is that strong?

“Okay.” His voice grew deeper, hard yet rich with sensuality. “It’s your choice. But could you adjust that thing you’re almost wearing?”

Oh! The shock stilled her tears like a twisted-off tap. Gulping and hiccuping, she looked down and saw her old, favourite swimsuit had gone patchy in places, delicately see-through. She groped for her sarong and scrambled away from him, hitching it over her breasts. Unable to stop herself, her gaze lifted to his.

The tight-leashed control she’d sensed in him must have slipped just a little, for his dimples twitched. “You’d better get dressed now, Sam. It’s been a long time—for me, at least—and you’re still the most beautiful woman I know.”

She crossed her arms over her breasts in guilty confusion. The winds, cooling now, sent a chill down the length of her overheated body. She shuddered, but with a massive effort she managed to stop her teeth from chattering. “W-why are you here?”

His gaze remained steady on her face. “You’re shivering on a night as hot as this—you’re in shock. Dry off and get dressed or you’ll end up sick.”

She jumped unsteadily to her feet and fled into the house, locking her bedroom door. She leaned against it for a minute or more, just shaking, drawing deep breaths. She couldn’t think, could only feel right now—and what she felt was sheer panic.

She reached out with trembling hands to gather up her forgotten towel and dried herself.

“Sam? Are you all right? You’ve been in there a long time.”

Frantically she pulled herself together. “I’ll be right there.” She scrambled into her underwear and the plain cotton sundress she’d kicked under the bed and then used a second towel to fluff her hair semi dry. Time, she needed just a little more time to think…

On the other side of the door waited the husband she’d been told was dead.

She walked through to the living room and turned on the lights to negate the sensual, soft, deep velvet of night and the memories that were too strong, too beautiful, for either of them to forget, too dangerous to remember.

Brett waited for her by the open double glass doors leading to the small back veranda, arms folded, leaning on the doorpost.

It seemed some things didn’t change. He still wore his favourite hip hugging jeans and a black Screaming Jets T-shirt. The evening shadow showed that he hadn’t shaved since morning, giving him a rough, unfinished look that had always melted her.

He’d seemed a living oxymoron to her at first: a high-born doctor, the son of a judge, dressed like a rock star. Then, as she’d come to know him, she’d seen beneath to the boy forced to wear designer labels and always looking perfect for the world, as expected of a Glennon. But Carlton Brett Glennon, while loving his wealthy, socially active family and remaining close to them, had rebelled against his parents’ perfect standards of dress and expectation from his teen years. From the day they’d met, he’d impressed her by caring more for his patients than his status, or the car he drove: the exact opposite of his socially conscious family he still somehow managed to love and respect—at least he had until he’d left for the tiny African nation of Mbuka to join Doctors for Africa, when their expectation had been for him to be a top Melbourne surgeon.

Did he want that, now, too? Would he finally fulfil his parents’ hopes for him, and join the professional A-list?

She shook herself. Whatever he’d been when he’d loved her, things were different now. I’m not the girl who ran from the threat of the Glennons. I will stand and fight this time!

Then she noticed that he was pale beneath his tanned skin and he was shifting what was obviously his bad leg in an effort to find comfort. “Sit down, Brett,” she said, aching for him, for his pain. “Put your leg up if it’s hurting you.”

The grin he directed her way was strained. “Watch it, I might think you care. All those tears and concern about my leg.” He limped to the chaise lounge she’d found at a garage sale and lowered himself onto it with a sigh of relief. His cane clattered to the wooden floor.

And the spell broke. Brett was achingly familiar yet so distant, a man she’d once loved with all her starved heart. Now he was a stranger, and the memories of all they had shared only added to the awkwardness of this meeting. What were they now?

We are Casey’s parents and have shared memories. That’s all there can be.

“Don’t play games, Brett.” She knew her voice was curt, but she couldn’t help it. He looked so much like the man she’d fallen so hopelessly in love with. The Brett who had brought her to life, the man who’d taught her how to live, to laugh and love.

She had to bury those memories. Brett was Casey’s father, but he was also a Glennon: a man whom she had no doubt was still close to his parents, since he had always been before.

And his parents were the people who’d threatened to prove her an unfit mother, and take Casey from her by force.

David and Margaret Glennon, secure in family love and with wealth to back them up, didn’t care if they left her all alone, as she’d been before; all they knew was that Casey was a Glennon, and deserved better than the penniless orphan mother who had nothing but love to give her. They’d wanted her to give Casey life and then leave as if she’d never existed.

What if that was why Brett had found her? Had he come to take Casey from her?

SHE WAS SLAMMING the emotional shutters down on him.

Brett thought he’d steeled himself for this—after all, he’d seen it all before, but he thought he’d helped her past all the insecurity and pain in her childhood of neglect had branded on her heart. But she’d seemed terrified by his appearance, and while he’d half expected that—he must have seemed like a ghost—he still hadn’t seen a sign of happiness that he was alive.

The one thing that had kept him going until now was the hope she’d be thrilled he wasn’t dead. That she might run into his arms to rejoice at his resurrection…but she’d shrunk from his touch.