INTERRUPTED LULLABY

by Valery Parv

  "You could be right." He didn't sound as if he was giving in and she regarded him suspiciously. But he rolled back his cuff to look at his watch. "Damn this TV show."

  She told herself it was for the best but part of her wanted him to stay so much that she almost blurted it out loud. She hadn't, she realized, as he shrugged on his jacket.

  Phone in hand, he turned. "Will I see you when you get back?"

  "I don't know when that will be," she prevaricated. "If I like the cottage, I may stay there and start on the book right away."

  She had taken him unawares, she saw as his eyebrows flickered upward. "I didn't have you pegged as a country girl."

  "I am on my mother's side. Dad preferred living in the city but my mother would have moved away like a shot. Now she's talking about living somewhere like Phillip Island herself."

  "What about your charity commitments?"

  "The island is only a couple hours' drive out of Melbourne. It isn't the moon. I can come back when I'm needed. And with faxes and e-mails, it's easy to stay in touch." Harder to drop out if you wanted to, she thought. Even if she hadn't given Zeke her number, he would find a way to contact her if he wanted to, so she probably hadn't done herself any harm.

  "I have to go," he repeated, reluctance still evident. His phone rang and he gave a grimace of apology as he turned aside to answer it. From his end of the conversation, she gathered it was the television producer. Zeke flipped the phone shut. "The taping is running an hour or so behind schedule, so they haven't missed me yet. Can I call you when you get to the island, and tell you what Bill Ellison has to say?"

  Hadn't he heard a word she'd said? She didn't care what the private detective thought or said. She just wanted to let things lie. But she didn't possess the energy to fight Zeke on this anymore. "Do whatever you want," she said tiredly, knowing he would, anyway. "You know where I'll be."

  * * *

  Knowing where she was and being with her were two different things, Zeke thought as he drove to the studio. He found he wanted the latter more than he probably should, and he cursed the physical reaction that followed the thought.

  That's all it is, physical, he told himself. He'd had plenty of relationships based on nothing more, and they were satisfying enough in the short term. Since he didn't believe in the long haul, it was as good as he was going to get.

  Tara was the first woman to make him want more, to expect more, he amended inwardly. It bothered him to feel more attracted to her than ever. In the heat of their lovemaking, she had blurted out that she loved him and he still felt the force of his rejection of this idea. He didn't want her to love him, any more than he wanted to love another human being. Be with them, glory in what they could be to each other, but never bind themselves to each other with ties that were all too easily broken.

  Love didn't last. It was as simple as that. If he needed more evidence than he had gained in his early years, there was Tara's concealment of her pregnancy and her refusal to accompany him to America. Pregnant women traveled all the time. Why couldn't she have had the baby there? Plainly she hadn't wanted to, and had used the assignment and the baby as excuses to end the relationship.

  Then there was Lucy's roller-coaster-ride idea of romance. One minute vowing undying devotion to him. The next, agreeing with indecent haste when he suggested she'd be better off without him. He hadn't really believed in the devotion, or the crocodile tears she shed at their parting. She hadn't been too heartbroken to find someone else within weeks of them splitting up, he remembered.

  Oddly enough Tara's resistance to him bothered him far more than the breakup with Lucy. Did it make him the unfeeling bastard Lucy had accused him of being? Or did it simply mean that Tara had engaged more of his emotions all along? He had a strong suspicion which it was and didn't much care for the conclusion.

  The light ahead of him changed to red. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. This thinking wasn't getting him anything except a headache. Between researching and writing the story and promoting it, he was tired to the bone.

  Thinking of Tara on her island, a sense of longing swept over him. He dismissed it. When he suggested joining her, she had done everything but bar the door to him. Couldn't he take a hint?

  No, dammit, he couldn't, he thought angrily. Since when did he let a little resistance decide his actions? He wanted her, maybe not in the happy-ever-after sense, but in every other way a man could want a woman. He knew she felt the same, and his blood heated as he recalled how much. It wasn't in him to force himself on a woman. But she hadn't said no, not when he wanted to make love to her, and not when he brought up the notion of joining her on Phillip Island. What did it mean?

  He sighed. It meant he had another mystery to add to the one Bill Ellison was investigating. And since he wasn't going to get answers to either one right now, he'd better focus on the panel discussion ahead. He almost groaned out loud as he thought of the hours of sitting under bright lights, waiting while shots were set up and angles determined, all the while trying to behave like the life of the party when it was the last thing he felt like doing. How did he get himself into these things?

  Matthew Brock was waiting at the studio when he got there. In Zeke's opinion, the photographer hadn't received enough credit for the baby farming story. His pictures had done a lot to tug the nation's heartstrings and lead to justice being done. Now he pulled out a folder of proof photographs for Zeke's okay.

  "I had to bring these here because we don't see much of you in the office lately," he said a little breathlessly.

  Zeke glanced over his shoulder but the producer of the panel discussion was nowhere in sight and the set was still empty. "It looks as if I have a few minutes yet."

  "A few hours, more like it. I gather there's a power supply problem."

  At least they hadn't missed him, Zeke thought. He bent over the proof sheets. They showed a mother, father and child playing, apparently happily together in a backyard swimming pool. Only he, Matthew, and the police knew that the innocent-looking parents had bought the baby in a dirty deal from the hospital moments after he was born. He whistled softly. "How did you get these?"

  Matthew looked pleased. "Long lens, stepladder, helpful neighbor, the usual."

  "I'd better warn Hollywood. We'll make a paparazzo of you yet."

  Matthew pouted. "No need to get insulting."

  "Seriously, these are brilliant." He stabbed a finger at one of the postage-stamp-size shots. "Blow this one up for the front page. Run the rest in a strip alongside the article, with the faces obscured of course."

  "Innocent until proven guilty," Matthew agreed, accustomed to the protocol.

  Zeke scowled. "The only innocent is that beautiful little boy."

  Matthew looked surprised. "Getting clucky in your old age?"

  "None of your business."

  Matthew spread his hands. "Okay, no need to bite my head off."

  Zeke stabbed his temples with his index fingers. "Sorry, just tired, that's all. This has been a long campaign." He jerked a thumb toward the now-lighted set. "This stuff doesn't help, either."

  Matthew nodded in sympathy. "Too much waiting around for a few minutes of activity, but it's worth it. Once the police move in on this pair tomorrow, that's the last of the parents who bought babies."

  "Apart from the major players the international police will have to nail, we've done the best we can." Zeke clamped a friendly hand on Matthew's shoulder. "You deserve a Walkley Award for this job."

  Matthew reddened but he looked pleased. "If there are any awards being handed out, they're yours. With the new security measures in place at the hospital as a result of this story, it will be a long time before anything like it happens again."

  Zeke nodded, gratified. None of the personal publicity or TV stardom compared with the satisfaction of knowing he had done his job. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other members of the panel being herded onto the set. "Looks like something's happening."

 
; As the producer started toward him, Zeke's cell phone rang. He nodded dismissal at Matthew, mouthed, "one minute," at the producer who tapped his foot impatiently, despite causing the holdup thus far. Zeke ignored him and flipped the phone open. "Blaxland."

  The producer pointed ominously at his watch. Zeke nodded. In his ear he heard the voice of Bill Ellison, the private investigator. "I've been trying to reach you," Zeke said.

  "I turned the phone off. I was following someone and didn't want to tip them off. Looks like I've got a lead for you."

  Zeke's heart double-timed and he debated whether to abandon the panel show and follow up whatever the investigator had uncovered. But he was too much the professional, the producer's frantic body language a vivid reminder that he had given his word. He sighed into the phone. "Good news, Bill. But right now I'm stuck with something that can't wait where can I reach you when I'm free to talk?"

  "At home, watching the cricket," the man assured him.

  Zeke felt a wry grin start. "Half your luck." He warned that it could be late before he called again, and got the investigator's assurance that he'd be awake. The call left Zeke feeling unsatisfied, his journalistic instincts on red. But he wouldn't let the producer down at this late stage. With a sigh, he closed the phone, switched it off, and headed toward the lighted set.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  Tara felt a sense of homecoming as she drove across the suspension bridge linking the fishing port of San Remo with Phillip Island. The island was only about twenty-three kilometers long and ten wide, with beautiful coastal scenery and an enviable location at the entrance to Westernport Bay. On impulse, she had rented a silver Branxton cabriolet at the airport, and with the top down, her hair streamed like a banner in the sea breeze. The salt-laden air tasted of her childhood.

  As she drove toward the main town of Cowes, for a moment she was a teenager again, visiting her grandparents. It was hard to think they wouldn't be there to greet her, having died within weeks of each other after more than forty years of marriage, when Tara was twenty-two.

  Her mother had inherited the old house. Tara's father had persuaded her to pull down what he called "that ancient eyesore." Tara was sure her mother regretted letting him have his way. She certainly did. Despite the lack of modern conveniences, she wished she was going there now. Her grandfather would hug her so tightly she would feel his bones through the hand-knitted cardigan he wore year 'round. Her grandmother would have lemon tea and homemade coconut cake waiting and they would talk long into the evening. Her eyes started to mist as memories crowded in.

  Where their house had been was now a tourist hotel, she saw as she drove past it. Her grandparents had farmed chicory on the island before retiring to the cottage near the town. Tara's grandfather had told her of how he used to harvest the turniplike plants used as an additive in all kinds of foods, especially coffee. He had shown her the kilns where the chicory root had been sliced and dried, ready for sale. The tumbledown buildings, disused now, were still found all over the island.

  Maybe there was a story for Zeke in the forgotten industry, she speculated, wondering why it hadn't occurred to her before. She might write it herself. Zeke would probably find her attempt amusing, but he would encourage her efforts. He always had.

  For a moment she missed him with an intensity that rocked her. She almost wished—no, she clamped down on the thought. Inviting him to accompany her would have been a recipe for disaster. Hadn't she learned that it was better to leave well enough alone? They had parted on good terms, if not exactly as friends, and she had the memory of one afternoon of ecstasy in his arms as a parting gift. It was more than she had expected. He had said he would call but she didn't intend to wait by the phone. When he did—if he did—she amended inwardly, she would keep things strictly business.

  As she drove past Cowes beach she wondered how Zeke would react if he knew that a century before, the pier had been described as a meeting place "sure to be fatal to any susceptible bachelor." He was a bachelor, she thought, but she had been the susceptible one, for all the good it had done either of them.

  When she'd last seen him he had looked drained, as if the baby farming story had exacted a heavy toll. She hated to think their reunion had contributed to his condition, until she reminded herself that he had sought her out. That it might be because he hadn't given her time to contact him, she didn't like to think.

  How must it feel to not have at least some happy childhood memories, she wondered, seeing his life through his eyes. Her father had been demanding and unfeeling but her mother's and grandparents' unconditional love had made up. Zeke's memories were of abandonment and rejection, and her heart ached for him.

  Why had he come looking for her? He hadn't known about the baby then. She didn't believe it was only in pursuit of a story. That was more likely an excuse. And he was an intensely attractive man. He wouldn't have to look far for female companionship, if that's what he needed. A thrust of something like jealousy accompanied the thought. Make up your mind which you want, she ordered herself. Well, she had come to the right place to do it.

  A car horn sounded behind her and she started, looking in the mirror to see a man leaning on his horn. It couldn't be. She smiled broadly, recognizing the driver as he had evidently done her. She pulled off to the side of the road and waited while he pulled in behind her. She got out as the driver hurried up to her.

  "Tara McNiven, I thought it was you."

  "Ryan Marshal," she said on a delighted note. "How did you know it was me?"

  "Once seen, never forgotten," he said. "I'm glad you're not too famous to say hello."

  She laughed, feeling a weight of care lift from her shoulders. "Never. You're practically family." His parents managed a tourist shop at Summerland Beach where a colony of fairy penguins paraded up the beach to their nests each evening, drawing hordes of sight-seers from all over the world.

  Tiring of the crowds, Ryan had spent more of his school holiday hours at her grandparents' place than at his own home. She felt a pang of regret at not making more of an effort to keep in touch with him after her grandparents died.

  He didn't seem to hold it against her. "Your grandparents were great people. I still miss them."

  "And my gran's apple and cinnamon muffins," she said, remembering how many of them Ryan had been able to put away. It hadn't done him any harm, she noticed, admiring the wide set of his shoulders and his athletic build. She remembered him as a lanky youth. In the years since they'd last seen each other, he'd filled out. "Unless I've shrunk, you've actually grown," she said.

  He made a cheeky assessment of her from head to toe. "Nothing I can see has shrunk. You're still breathtakingly beautiful."

  "Flatterer," she said, but smiled. A little ego boost wouldn't hurt as long as she didn't let it go to her head. "Do you still live on the island?"

  "Not far from here," he explained. "The family business grew until it employed me, too."

  She grinned. "As a boy, you thought it was boring."

  "We all change," he said. "As I recall, you were going to be a marine biologist and work with the penguins."

  She remembered that dream. She had been fascinated by the small creatures waddling up the beach at the same time every night, carrying in their own stomachs the food they would pass on to their chicks. The chicks themselves bounded up and down on the beach, waiting impatiently for their parents' return.

  "Yes, well, I didn't have much of a head for science," she confessed.

  "I doubt your head is what appeals to the magazine buyers," he teased.

  She pretended to be insulted. "Modeling takes brains, as well, you know."

  "Yeah, right."

  It felt like old times, sparring contentedly with someone who had been as much a brother to her as her real brother. Except that Ben had hated the island, using every pretext to avoid accompanying her. She hadn't minded, regarding it as her private preserve and Ryan as her exclusive companion.<
br />
  He held out his arms and she went into them, the hug setting the seal on her sense of homecoming. She pulled back a little. "What's been happening with you?"

  Pride beamed from him. "I'm married, with a little boy."

  Another pang shot through her although she told herself how illogical it was. As a child she had told Ryan she would marry him herself as soon as they were old enough, but it had never been more than a game. "Who's the lucky woman?" she asked.

  "Jeanette Bury from Melbourne, and she is a marine biologist," he said.

  "You always did find science sexy."

  "No, only scientists," he amended with a laugh. "Jeanette came to the island to study the penguins, and never left."

  "It sounds like a marriage made in heaven," she said, pleased to see the happiness fairly radiating from him.

  Disengaging from her, he pulled out his wallet and extracted a photo. "This is our son, Jonathon. He's two."

  She admired the photo, saddened to think that she would never be able to pull out a photo of Brendan and show it off.

  "Are you still married to your career?" Ryan asked, as if zeroing in on her change of mood.

  She affected a shrug, reluctant to talk about herself. "You know what it's like in the big city."

  "Not really. I never wanted to live anywhere but here."

  "Wise man." She patted his arm. "Your son is gorgeous, just like his father."

  His color heightened and he fumbled the photo back into his wallet. "What brings you to Phillip Island?" When she explained about leasing the cottage, he said, "I know it. Pretty flash place but the family who built it hardly seem to use it."

  "That's probably why they donated the lease to the auction."

  "When you've settled in, how about joining Jeanette and me for dinner?"

  She nodded agreement. "That would be lovely."

  "Tomorrow night, then?"

  She nodded. "It's a date. Now can you direct me to my new abode?"

  "I'll take you there myself. It isn't far."