Chapter 1

“Howie, relax.”

Michael Adams pulled his recently acquired truck into the red dirt on the side of the road and switched his phone to his other ear.

“Relax?” Howie’s voice spat through the receiver. “You want me to relax when Saskia is spreading ten different types of lie about you?”

“Saskia will burn herself out.”

“No, Mikey—Saskia will ruin your ass. You have got to get back here now before she causes real damage to your reputation.”

Reputation. Oh, man. When had he stopped caring about his goddamn reputation? Had it been last month when he’d finally told Saskia he’d wanted out? Or just last week when he’d blown off a live TV appearance in favor of flying first class, Vancouver to Cairns, with just his phone, wallet and passport?

“And, need I say, Mikey, your father is going apeshit. Ape. Shit.”

Michael snorted. If he didn’t want to hear about Saskia, he certainly didn’t want to hear about his father. Stepping out of the truck, he stretched his long legs and loosened up his left shoulder, stiff from the five-hour drive.

“Tell Dad I’m taking a break,” he said. His father had been managing his life since he was eight years old and as far as Michael was now concerned, he could go screw himself—just like he’d screwed Michael’s latest assistant. Maybe that’s when Michael had stopped caring about his reputation. The day he’d walked in on his father banging a twenty-five-year-old secretary over the kitchen counter—his kitchen counter. “Yeah, tell Dad I’m taking the vacation he promised me when I was twelve.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Mikey, listen—”

But Mikey didn’t want to listen. He hadn’t used his real name since last week, not since that shameful night in Port Douglas—an hour north of Cairns on the east coast of Australia—where he’d come to his senses. He called himself Adam now, and that’s who he was going to be while the media shitstorm raged back home, just some Canadian guy traveling around Australia in a rusty truck pleasing only himself. He hadn’t shaved for a while. Hadn’t showered either, which in this heat probably wasn’t the best idea, but with the odor and the grime came freedom from conformity and a new life ethos—if he didn’t need to or want to, he damn well wouldn’t.

As Adam, he swayed wherever the hot wind blew. He drifted with the tide, slept under the stars and ate cold beans out of the can. He wasn’t controlled by other people’s plans and expectations.

Unlike Michael.

Michael Adams was an Olympic swimming legend. Retired for over a year, he was a veteran of three Olympics and countless competitions in between. He’d brought his country glory. He’d broken world records. But the gold medals—and a bronze he didn’t want to think about—weren’t the reason he’d been mobbed by fans in Vancouver four months ago. And they weren’t the reason for the constant violation to his privacy. Nope. The real reason was his wife, Canada’s hottest glamour model, Saskia Williams.

He couldn’t blame Saskia for being angry over what he’d done—he could even understand it—but Michael wanted out of their fake marriage, no matter how lucrative the Strive Sportswear campaign and the Michael-and-Saskia brand, organized by dear old Dad and Howie. Michael wanted to be left alone. He needed to regroup. Sort out what to do with his life and, more importantly, how he was going to do it.

So as Howie ranted about reputation and damage limitation, Michael leaned back against his rusty truck only too happy for a bum like Adam to take over. Adam didn’t give a shit about reputation and he didn’t give a shit about publicity either—good or bad.

“Are you on your way to see Shane McDermit?” Howie asked, boiling over with impatience.

“I haven’t seen Shane since his last Olympics.”

“He lives in Sydney.”

“Is that so?” Actually, his friend and former competition buddy lived 4000 kilometers northwest of Sydney in Fannie Bay, a suburb of Darwin in the Northern Territory, but wouldn’t be back home for another six weeks—not that Michael had known this when he’d boarded the first flight bound for Australia.

“Is Sydney where you’re heading, Mikey?”

“Yes.”

“Great! Tell me exactly where you are, and I’ll book you a flight home. I’ll set up a press conference at the Vancouver Hotel.”

Michael pictured Howie pacing the waxed wooden floors of his home office in West Point Grey, one of the most affluent areas of Vancouver. Michael had helped pay for that house, for that office. He’d sat in it many times but just the thought now of those oak-paneled walls had his chest heaving for air.

“And we’ll set the record straight about that fight with the paparazzi in Port Douglas,” Howie continued.

Michael looked to the cloudless sky. The record was that he’d had enough of cameras being shoved in his face. He’d had enough of being treated like public property.

“And, Mikey, we’ll show the world you haven’t had a nervous breakdown.”

A nervous breakdown?

“Is that what they’re calling this?” Michael choked out a laugh and Howie went ballistic, shouting through the phone. But too bad—Michael wasn’t listening.

And neither was Adam.

“I’m hanging up now.” And I hope you’ve got your pills and a glass of water at hand, Howie. Holding his breath, Michael braced for the fallout, forcing out his next words. “See ya in a few months.”

“A few months! Are you fucking crazy?”

Yes. Possibly. Quite likely.

Michael disconnected the call. He let out a long, pent up breath and took in his surroundings. He was on a deserted coastal road lined with red earth and lush green mangroves, somewhere just outside of Broome, northern Western Australia. It was late October. A hot wind—so unlike the cold-laced currents that blew into Vancouver at this time of year—licked the side of his face. It dried the gathering sweat on the back of his neck, bringing something else to him. Something foreign and exciting. Something alive and expanding. He filled his lungs with sweet, dense air, the bright blue sky enticing him, the glittering ocean daring him. He’d broken the mold.

Yeah, he felt crazy.

But crazy sure felt good.

Five minutes later, Adam drove through the gates of the Camel’s Back Campground, past its sun-bleached, paint-peeled welcome sign and parked next to a row of trash bins. He turned off his engine and contemplated the handful of tents scattered across the dry, dusty ground and a single trailer perched up on bricks. Signs of life, but not many.

Perfect.

Slipping on his wraparound shades, he grabbed his cap off the dashboard and stepped out of the truck. As the midmorning sun bore down on his air-conditioned skin, he pulled the peak of his cap down to cast a shadow across his nose. The chances of being recognized here were slim. He was out of context—Saskia wasn’t a global star and only sports mad fans would know of him—but after the fiasco in Port Douglas, Adam wasn’t taking any chances.

“Mate, you’ve got to stick to places where people won’t expect to find you,” his friend Shane had said during their phone call the morning after Adam had shoved that dickhead pap out of his face. “You’re lucky not to be held for assault, you idiot. Mix with normal people and get your arse out of your wallet.”

Adam had stayed clear of luxury resorts ever since and was pretty sure he could buy this campground five times over. In the heat-muffled stillness, he made his way to the open kiosk of a wooden hut above which hung an Office sign and read a note on the counter. Back in five minutes. Adam checked the chunky TAG Heuer strapped to his wrist—nearly half past ten—then looked again. Get your arse out of your wallet. He slipped the silver limited-edition watch off and tucked it into his pocket, making a mental note to buy something more within Adam’s price range later.

Looking around, there was no one to be seen—not even on the beach in the distance—so he ambled the few paces to a bulletin board to the side of the office and glanced at the ads while he waited.

Wanted: car-share to Perth. Adam had just come that way and wasn’t going back. Two-man tent for sale. He had one of those. It came with the truck he was renting from Shane’s cousin, Ted—along with the promise that Ted would keep his mouth shut. Catalina flying boat wrecks of WW2. A guided low tide walk with George O’Sullivan. No thanks.

And then: Going to Darwin along the Gibb River Road? I’m looking for travel buddies to share costs and adventures.

Adam rubbed his chin. That’s the route he’d been thinking to take.

After the shame of Port Douglas, he’d flown to Perth where Shane had arranged for him to meet Ted and pick up the truck. Having arrived in the middle of the city, Adam had walked into the Astoria, paid for a week’s stay then begged the reception staff to show him a back exit. He’d then checked in to a cheap hostel several streets away and lay on a dorm bed for two days, mapping out the best route to Darwin while he waited for Cousin Ted and the truck.

Adam had read all about the rough, largely unsealed Gibb River Road which cut through the Kimberley region—a vast and remote area of north Western Australia that some still described as Australia’s last frontier. Adventure tourists flocked here in the cooler months of May to September but at this time of year, when the heat soared and heavy monsoon-like rains threatened, the area returned to relative quiet.

It’s why he’d come this way.

A steady flip-flap of sandals had Adam’s head lifting. A short woman in a floral dress approached, carrying a large cardboard box.

“G’day!”

“Good morning.” Adam took three long strides toward her and lifted the box out of her arms. “Am I too early to check in?”

“No set time here, doll. Thanks.”

He followed her to the door of the office hut and set the box on the floor by her feet. When he straightened, the woman cranked her neck to take in his full height and his shoulders relaxed a little when there were no signs of recognition on her face.

Adam took a step back. He didn’t smell too good, though judging from the woman’s wide smile, she hadn’t noticed.

“Where’d you come from, handsome?”

“Port Hedland.” Damn. He should have lied and given her the name of a town in the opposite direction. Derby or Fitzroy Crossing, perhaps. He’d seen them on the map.

“Heading along the Gibb River Road?”

“Ah . . . maybe.”

The woman scooted around to the counter and perched a pair of narrow-framed reading glasses on her small nose. “If you want company, I know someone who’d like to head that way. Could share the cost of fuel and camp fees.”

“Thanks, I’ve just read the ad.” But Adam was too desperate for a wash and too hungry to think about it, or anything else, right now. He’d shower, eat and then conjure up a plan that consisted of more than just driving to Darwin to see Shane and his wife Krista. He had six weeks until they returned from Sydney where Shane was finishing up his latest contract teaching sports psychology. Six weeks to while away, waiting for the storm to die down. And if his lawyers were doing the job he was paying them to do, Saskia would be signing divorce papers by then too, and she’d be extracted from his life.

“She’s a nice girl.”

Eh? Saskia nice? Adam blinked, hoping whatever the woman had just said didn’t require more of an answer than, “Sure.” It didn’t seem to, so before she said anything else, he asked, “Where shall I pitch up?”

“Take your pick, doll, the season’s pretty much over.” The woman signaled to the almost empty campground. “Scribble your name and rego on that sheet over there. Come back and pay once you’re all set up. One of the best pitches is by the shower block. Great view of the bay.” She pointed to a square beige-colored building surrounded by spikey-leafed bushes full of bright pink flowers. Sea view or not, to Adam any place near a shower sounded great. He wrote down his information and stepped away.

The woman called him back. “Hold on a sec.”

Gripped by the dread of what usually followed those words—You’re that guy!—Adam took a calming breath. It was no big deal if she recognized him, really not a problem. Thanks to his cash-in-exchange-for-silence plan all he had to do was pay her the thousand bucks he kept hidden in the truck, call it a fee for the use of her shower and discretion, then move on to the next place.

“Throw these in those bins over there, will ya please, chook?”

Adam stared at the empty cardboard boxes she held out to him.

“Sure.” He grinned as he took them, very much liking being called a chook by a woman who barely reached his ribs.

“Thanks, doll.”

He liked being a doll, too, and he certainly liked how she turned her back on him, more concerned with the contents of her new delivery than the fact she had Michael Adams standing in her campground.

Adam was still grinning when he parked by the shower block. He grabbed his gel and towel, and stepped out of the truck. Man, this heat was intense. The air, thick and heavy like soup. He wiped the towel over his sweat-slicked face, desperate for cold water on his skin, then stopped dead at the bright yellow sign standing in his way.

CLOSED FOR CLEANING

No frickin’ way!

He called out a Hello and when no reply came back, stepped inside. What the hell, he’d be thirty seconds, sixty tops—just long enough to feel something cold on his skin and wash away the three-day grime. Adam stripped, stood under the shower and turned the dial full blast toward the blue arrow. By the time the cleaning guy returned, he’d be cooled off, dressed and out.

Only the water wasn’t cold and the cleaning guy not a guy at all.

The pointed cough had Adam wiping soapy water from his eyes, focusing on the figure standing before him. The cleaning guy was a young woman with huge brown eyes and sun-streaked hair scraped back into a tight knot on the top of her head, just like his favorite aunt Florence used to wear. Except Aunt Flo’s hair was gray and looked like wire, and she’d never before stood outside his shower gawping at his naked penis—unlike this bug-eyed stranger. Adam whipped around.

“The showers are closed,” the woman said to his bare butt. Her accent was flat and clipped—British—like royalty, though there was nothing else regal about her. She was dressed in dark green shorts and a dirty light-blue vest, damp with patches of sweat or water, or both. White earphones dangled around her neck. Adam turned off the shower.

“Didn’t you notice the bright yellow sign? The cleaning bucket? The distinct lack of shower curtain?”

Well, he’d ignored the sign and bucket—obviously—and throughout his career, he’d been in plenty of changing rooms at top sporting venues around the world all boasting a distinct lack of shower curtain. Okay, they were all a lot nicer than this dump but he’d never been in a place like this before so how would he know?

“If you’d be so kind as to pass me my towel, I’ll get out of your way.”

She handed it to him, finally lifting her gaze to his face. Her eyes narrowed. He narrowed his own back, already picturing the headlines.

EX-OLYMPIAN FOUND NAKED IN OUTBACK

“I’ve not seen you before,” she said after a long moment. “Only paying clientele can use these showers. When did you check in?”

So she hadn’t recognized him? Close call. “I arrived a few minutes ago.”

He waited for her to move to the side so he could step out of the cubicle, but she seemed too distracted by his chest to move. Mildly amused, he followed her gaze as it trailed a slow journey south to where he’d tucked the towel low over his hips. The corners of his mouth kicked up and he couldn’t help but flex his torso, bulging each of his intensely trained muscles.

“Like what you see, honey?”

“What? Oh, God! I’m so sorry.” Aunt Flo slapped both hands on her red cheeks and turned her back as he sniggered. “Yeah, funny guy,” she snapped in that dry tone only the British could pull off. “What would you do if you found a naked supermodel in the shower while you were trying to clean it?”

Actually, he’d had enough of supermodels, naked or clothed, and being compared to one himself after the year he’d had quickly wiped the smile off his face. This body hadn’t come from vanity. It was the result of years of discipline, dedication, and hard, hard work.

He snapped on his boxer shorts and stepped out of the cubicle. Aunt Flo faced him again, not looking so impressed now she no longer had a view of his penis. Like most women, she barely reached his chest, but the lack of height didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. She tilted her chin up as if this alone would make up the shortfall.

“You ignored the sign.”

“So shoot me.”

“If I had a gun I would.” She grabbed the rest of his clothes off the bench and pushed them at his damp chest. “Now please leave so I can finish up here.” She then shooed him to the door and shut it in his face.

Huh.

Adam stared at the chipped and faded yellow paint inches from his nose. No one had ever shut a door in his face before.

A slow grin spread from ear to ear.

Normal people.

So this is how it feels to be like everybody else.