Read Online No Rescue by Jenny Schwartz - Free Book Online Page A

girlfriends, and that explained his obsession with her?
    It had been easy when he was young and stupid. He hadn’t looked for staying power, just casual relationships that asked little and gave less. There were always women willing to believe the television glamour of being a Water Rat. There were precious few willing to hang around once they understood the long hours, the danger and the burn-out rates of any security job.
    He reckoned he was pretty stable. His dad’s family had been fishing the Sydney area for decades and fishing had its own stresses; hence his decision to opt for steady employment, and a solid retirement plan. He had his skipper’s licence and he enjoyed the work.
    â€˜Can’t stay away, Sarge?’
    He puffed in through the entrance of Marine Area Command, flipping off the loud mouth. Thinking about his love life — possibly about to become healthier — he’d run too fast, finishing in a near sprint. He hit the showers, swiftly efficient, pulled on the clean jeans and shirt he kept in his locker, and crouched to lace his shoes.
    He ran a hand through his wet hair and reckoned it would do.
    If he kept moving this fast, he’d be back at the beautiful stranger’s flat well before half an hour was up. A man ought to show some pride, so he forced himself to an amble.
    All around him, Sydney was waking up. A few people were jogging as he’d been, and a lone elderly man practiced tai chi beneath a jacaranda tree, with a Siamese cat sitting on a low brick wall, watching him. On the harbour, ferries travelled their regular routes, while private boats darted about. The skyline was a tribute to Sydney’s status as a commercial centre. High, jagged buildings cut the blue sky, the drama of the skyscrapers ending in the beautiful sweep of the famous Harbour Bridge.
    He reached the grounds of his mystery woman’s apartment block as she stepped out the front door. Call him shallow — he was a guy — but his eyes did the quick once-over and he grinned. He’d known it. His luck was in.
    More than a pretty face, she had a sensational figure. His mum was an Elizabeth Taylor fan and that was who this stranger reminded him of: Elizabeth Taylor playing Cleopatra. Except this Cleopatra was in jeans and a dull red jacket zipped to her throat.
    Their eyes met.
    Hers were brown, not the startling blue of Elizabeth Taylor’s.
    He decided he preferred brown, especially these coffee-dark eyes that were watchful and clever, and dared him to try anything.
    â€˜You look different clothed,’ she said.
    â€˜I miss the bunny rabbits on your pink PJs.’
    She blushed.
    â€˜Do you know, I don’t even know your name?’
    â€˜Miri Blair.’
    â€˜Miri.’ He hadn’t heard the name before. It suited her.
    Gold hoop earrings hung from her ears, reminding him again of Cleopatra. They caught the sun and glinted.
    She held her phone up. ‘Do you mind if I take your photo and send it to my sister?’
    â€˜In case I’m a serial killer?’ But it wasn’t really a joking matter. ‘No, that’s sensible.’ But he felt stupid, standing there, waiting for her to take the photo. Was he meant to smile?
    She snapped it fast and bent her head over the phone, tapping in a short message. Then she slipped the phone in her bag.
    He wanted to hold out his hand to her, as if they were an established partnership. Mad. He was mad. ‘Ready to join the commuter rush?’
    â€˜Breakfast first.’ Her voice was firm. ‘There’s a place on the way to the ferry.’
    The place was a small café squeezed into one of Balmain’s old buildings, the floor uneven scuffed wood, and white lace curtains at the window. Not his sort of place, with its collection of teddy bears on an old mantelpiece — but the pancakes, stacked high and served with maple syrup and cream, changed his mind.
    Miri smiled at him as she broke a