The Flyer Read Online Free PDF

Ask anyone. Except my mate, Tim here. He lies.”
    “Yes, yes. I’m sure all of that’s true. Unfortunately, I can’t take the word of someone in your condition. And I’m not speaking of your injury.” She glared at him. But not with disapproval. No, she tried to wear a mask of indifference, but somewhere behind the censure lived a cocky grin.
    Slowly, careful of his newly repaired shoulder and chest, he slid off the table.
    “Has anyone told you you’re right pretty when you pretend you’re angry?”
    Whatever hint of a smile she’d been trying to hide vanished. The mock disdain went with it, replaced by something he couldn’t identify. Was it fear?
    “You need to get to bed, Mr. Campbell.”
    Sleeping was the last thing on his mind.
    It might have been the booze. Or it might have been the amount of blood he’d left on the road between the billabong and Doc’s front door, but the room spun a lazy circle. He leaned forward, and Helen immediately caught his good shoulder in one hand, and his waist with the other. She wore a subtle perfume, but it didn’t cover the scent of woman that permeated the small room. Sunlight, flowers, springtime in the desert. Would she taste as good as she smelled?
    When his lips came into contact with hers, his mind spun even more wildly. Aye, she tasted like a heady wind over the sea.
    His vision blurred, and the vertigo increased. Quickly, he broke the kiss and shook his head. “You’ll be … you’ll be seeing me again, Miss Helen. Whether ya like it or …”
    The floor leapt like a lizard on a spider and slapped him square in the jaw.

    Paul woke with a start. From outside the parlor windows, the unmistakable sound of a mob throbbed through the glass, and his brain. He couldn’t be certain which hurt worse, his head or his shoulder. Glancing at the large bandage covering most of his chest, he frowned. When the strain became too great for his alcohol-induced headache, he dropped back to the lumpy pillow set at an awkward angle on the sofa. It wasn’t like him to allow himself to imbibe quite so much Swan’s. At this point, he deserved what he’d got.
    “I see you’re finally awake.” The voice was crisp and decidedly feminine. A spark of awareness wound from his brain to his groin. “Since it proved impossible to keep you in bed last night, I would suggest you rise and address your adoring public.”
    Female. Bed. He strained his memory, searching for a naked body somewhere in the dark void of the night before. Crikey, he couldn’t find anything to indicate he’d bedded a strange woman.
    The owner of the voice stepped into view. Directly above his head. Dark eyes, framed with delightfully dark curls that hugged alabaster, sculpted cheekbones, studied him. Full, pink lips were pursed in a straight line. “Can you get up? Or are you still drunk?” One arched eyebrow rose in a mocking accusation.
    “I can get up just fine.” He regretted the words immediately. He’d have to prove them now, wouldn’t he?
    Luckily, she turned away. Probably because she didn’t believe him.
    Something about her was vaguely familiar. He hated not being able to place her, exactly, but rather enjoyed the view of her backside while she paced away from the sofa to pull the draperies back. Blinding sunlight added to his already miserable state. He squinted against it.
    She wore a black dress that was short enough to reveal shapely calves. The dark seam of her stockings drew his gaze to her ankles, and a pair of heeled shoes that buckled in the front. He’d traveled enough in the past few years to recognize the style. He could see her in a London club, dancing and laughing with the other flappers.
    Lots of women had come to Port Hedland in the recent months—looking for husbands—and soon found the slow, antiquated pace of an outlying mining community not to their liking. Most of them left. Others stayed, but adapted immediately to their new lifestyle.
    Hard work and a simple,