The Far Side of Paradise Read Free

sand.
    His foster-mother’s influence was embedded so deeply he couldn’t evade it, Cade thought wryly, stamping out a tuft of grass that was still smouldering. Women were to be protected—even when they made it obvious they didn’t want it.
    He glanced up the hill. No sign of the fire brigade yet. If they didn’t appear damned soon he’d grab the woman and, if he had to, drag her away. It would be too late once the bullrushes caught; they’d be in deadly danger of dying from smoke inhalation even if they took refuge in the sea.
    Panting, she ran up from the beach and almost flung the dripping towel at him. Her face was drawn and smoke had stained the creamy skin, but she looked utterly determined. Clearly, giving up was not an option.
    Cade said abruptly, ‘The brigade should be here soon,’ and hoped he was right.
    His arms rose and fell in a regular rhythm but, even as he beat out sparks along the edge of the fire, he accepted their efforts were making very little headway. No way could they stop the relentless line of fire racing through the grass towards a stand of rushes so dry their tall heads made perfect fuel.
    If they caught, he and the woman would have to run, but not to the cars. The beach would be their only refuge.
    Once the fire got into the coastal scrub it would take an aerial bombardment or heavy rain to put it out. The cloudless sky mocked the idea of rain, and a helicopter with a monsoon bucket would take time to organise.
    And if the wind kept building, the blaze would threaten not only the beach house he’d rented, but the houses and barns around the homestead further up the coast. Cade hoped the farm manager had warned everybody there to be on the alert.
    A muted roar lifted his head. Relief surged through him as the posse from the station came down the hill on one of the farm trucks, almost immediately followed by two fire engines and a trail of other vehicles.
    ‘Oh, thank God,’ his companion croaked, a statement he silently echoed.
    Taryn had never been so pleased to see anyone in her life. Smoothly, efficiently the firemen raced from their vehicles, the chief shouting, ‘Get out of the way—down onto the beach, both of you.’
    She grabbed a bottle of water from her car and headed across the sand. Without taking off her shoes, she waded out until the water came up to her knees, and only then began to drink, letting the water trickle down a painfully dry throat.
    Heat beat against her, so fierce she pulled off her T-shirt, dropped it into the sea and used it to wipe herself down. The temporary coolness was blissful. She sighed, then gulped a little more water.
    The stranger who’d helped her strode out to where she stood. ‘Are you all right?’ he demanded.
    He was so tall she had to lift her face to meet his eyes. Swallowing, she said hoarsely, ‘Yes. Thank you very much for your help.’
    ‘Go easy on that water. If you drink it too fast it could make you sick.’
    Taryn knew the accent. English, clipped and authoritative, delivered in a deep, cool voice with more thana hint of censure, it reminded her so much of Peter she had to blink back tears.
    Not that Peter had ever used that tone with her.
    The stranger was watching her as though expecting her to faint, or do something equally stupid. Narrowed against the glare of the sun on the sea, his disconcerting eyes were a cold steel-blue and, although Taryn knew she’d never seen him before, he looked disturbingly familiar.
    An actor, perhaps?
    She lowered the bottle. ‘I’m taking it slowly.’ Stifling a cough, she kept her eyes fixed on the helmeted men as they efficiently set about containing the flames. ‘Talk about arriving in the nick of time!’
    ‘I wouldn’t have thought the village was big enough to warrant a fire station.’
    A note in his voice lifted tiny invisible hairs on the back of her neck. He was very good-looking, all angles and strong bones and lean distinction. Not exactly handsome; that was too neutral