Marion Lennox - Nikki and the Lone Wolf / Mardie and the City Surgeon - Nikki and the Lone Wolf / Mardie and the City Surgeon

‘No, onto you.’

He reached out, grabbed the flashlight and turned it onto her face. Then he surveyed her while she thought ouch, having a flashlight in her eyes hurt.

‘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.