ZANE - THE WILD ONE

by Bronwyn Jameson

  She nodded and looked down, studying her hands again. "Before you go, do you want to talk about the … wedding?"

  The word fell clumsily from her tongue, and once spoken, it seemed to hang awkwardly in the stilted silence. A wedding. White dresses and flowers and speeches. The good townsfolk staring and whispering and shaking their heads.

  "I mean, I don't even know if you want a church wedding or a civil ceremony, or how soon we should—"

  "I don't care what kind of ceremony, and I imagine you'd be looking for one as soon as possible."

  She stiffened visibly. "As in, before I start to show?"

  His gaze dropped to her lap, became snarled in images of her soft curving belly, lush with his child. Unbidden heat filled his loins and spilled into his veins, heat with no outlet other than anger. "That's not what I meant, but if you want to do it that quick, fine. Just give me a month to get my end of things together, okay?"

  Eyes sparking, she rushed to her feet. "Take your time, but I won't be making any wedding plans until we have a place to live."

  "Having second thoughts?"

  "Not yet." She lifted her chin. "But I do think you should be rethinking where we live."

  "Is this some sort of ultimatum? If I don't change my mind about living in Plenty, you won't marry me?"

  "No." She actually looked taken aback. "I want to marry you, Zane."

  Hope flared in his heart, as searingly quick and brilliant as lightning, then disappeared with equal speed. Sure, she wanted to marry him. That was why she looked so all-fire thrilled by the prospect. That was why she'd tripped over herself in her haste to tell him about the pregnancy.

  Bitter cynicism twisted his lips. "If you want to marry me so bad, start planning the wedding, Julia. And let me organize where we're going to live."

  * * *

  He left that evening, while Julia and Joshua were down at the shops. Her resentment bit deep, but not as deep as the frustrated hurt. Damn his stubborn, inflexible, short-sighted hide. Couldn't he see that she cared? That she would live with him in the middle of the Nullarbor if that would make him happy?

  It wouldn't, though.

  Deep in her heart she believed he wouldn't be content, couldn't be at ease with his pride, until he faced down the shame of his past. And the only place to do that was right here in Plenty. He needed to prove himself to the people who looked down on him, but mostly he needed to prove himself to himself. It was a matter of both respect and self-respect.

  Sadly, she had no idea how to go about convincing him.

  * * *

  Chantal collected Joshua the next afternoon and drove him to Sydney to meet his grandparents' plane. Without his energy, the house felt instantly flat, and Julia could only throw herself back into a grinding work routine. It filled the days. Every evening she tried to stymie the ridiculous leap of anticipation when she saw a blinking light on her answering machine.

  Why would he call? He hadn't even bothered to say goodbye.

  Tonight she ignored the machine's taunts and let her head loll heavily against the sofa back. Her eyes drifted closed, and she allowed her mind to float, to empty, to just be.

  When the back door started to open she lifted six inches off the sofa. Her vacant drifting mind focused instantly. No one used the back door, no one except Zane…

  …and his sister.

  Julia met her halfway across the living room, flung herself into a fierce hug and promptly burst into tears. Kree laughed and blubbered and hugged her right back, and the familiarity of it, the warmth, the comfort, only brought more tears, harder and faster.

  Eventually Kree managed to squirm her way free, and she stood grinning into her friend's hiccupping face. "So, okay, I know you missed me, but isn't this a bit excessive?"

  Julia felt her eyes brim again and bit down on her lip.

  "Hoo-kay. Shall I put the kettle on, or would you rather I break out the duty-free?" Kree lunged for a discarded carry-bag and started dragging out bottles. "What do you reckon? Feel like breaking the seal on this?" She held up a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream liqueur.

  "Thanks, but no thanks." As she wiped at the tears that refused to stay put, Julia felt her friend's perceptive narrow-eyed inspection and grimaced. "I'm sorry. Hormones."

  Kree put down the bottle she held with extravagant care. "Are we talking regular hormones or excessive maternal-type hormones?"

  Julia flushed, and Kree blew out a long whistle of breath. "Aunty Kree, huh?"

  "How on earth did you guess?"

  "Come on, Jules. When have you ever been able to hide anything from me?" With a firm hand, she enticed Julia to sit, but that hand lingered on her shoulder for a long, comforting moment. "My highly tuned intuition also tells me you need to talk."

  Once the words started, they spilled as rapidly as her tears, one on top of the other in a flood of emotion. At the end, when Julia took a long, shuddering breath, Kree lifted a brow. "Dare I ask if you've told him any of this?"

  "I told him I wanted to marry him."

  "But did you say why?" Kree shook her head. "He's a man, Jules, and worse than that, he's Zane O'Sullivan."

  Julia bridled. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "It means you can't afford to be subtle, to let him guess what you're thinking. For a start, it's safe to assume he hasn't a clue that you love him. He'd think you're marrying him for the baby's sake, for propriety, for security. And that you only went after him because you were attracted to the idea of a walk on the wild side."

  "Perhaps I did at first, but that was before we…" She gave a you-know-what kind of shrug. "I can't believe he couldn't feel how special…"

  "Maybe he did."

  "Do you think so?" Julia heard the wistful tone in her own voice, felt the optimism in her accelerated heartbeat.

  "I sure hope so, because otherwise the two people I love most in the world are not going to end up happy."

  "I know I have to talk to him, but will he believe me? How can I prove that I love him?"

  "I don't honestly know, Jules." Kree reached over and placed a reassuring had on hers. "But if it's worth anything, I have faith in you."

  "It's worth a lot." Dry humor quirked her lips. "Although some tips would be worth more."

  "Be honest and be strong. They've always been your best qualities."

  "Me, strong?"

  "Yeah, you, strong!"

  "I'm your friend, the chicken-livered shop clerk. Are you sure you're not confusing me with someone else?"

  "Heck, Jules, you don't have to be a loud, hard headed, power junkie to be strong. You have an inner strength, the kind that makes you stand firm over what you believe in."

  Julia snorted.

  "How about when your mother tried to make you give up this house and move in with Chantal? You just dug your toes in and refused to budge. So much more effective than ranting and raving."

  "Are you saying I should dig my toes in over where we live?" she asked skeptically. "Because your brother didn't react very positively when I suggested he rethink our future home. He more or less accused me of blackmail."

  "I was only demonstrating how you're not so chicken-livered when it comes to something important. If you believe where you live matters, then be strong about standing up for that belief. That's all I'm saying."

  Oh, it mattered. Not because of the four walls or the big old tree out back, not even because of her family. What mattered was Zane's self-image, his ability to love himself, to be the man she knew he could be.

  The longer Julia dwelled on the notion, the more certain she became. They needed to stay in Plenty. She needed to find a way to facilitate matters, and one solution shone like a beacon.

  Decision made, she picked up the phone and dialed Bill's number.

  * * *

  Zane stood on the neatly mown verge outside her house, drinking up the familiar sights and sounds and scents as thirstily as a man returned from the desert. For five weeks he'd crisscrossed the country, chasing after
For Sale signs with an escalating sense of frustration.

  Not one place had felt right.

  He couldn't nail down what he'd been looking for—still couldn't define it—but he'd felt it stir when he turned the corner into Bower Street

  . A sense of rightness that settled as warm as Julia's smile.

  Weird how he could still feel it when his pulse, his nerves, every cell, jangled with anticipatory tension. He didn't even know if she would be home from work yet, but that hadn't stopped him arrowing home like some kind of heat-seeking device.

  Home.

  He huffed out a breath and waited for denial to bumper-smack his involuntary use of the word. Nothing. Maybe because the thought of seeing Julia again was misting every other issue. Misting, huh! No way that ephemeral term described his state these past three days. Ever since he'd decided to abandon his fruitless quest, he'd been one hot, tight, aching streak of tension.

  And if he stood there much longer, he would be one hot, tight, aching streak of tension rooted to the verge. Whether he wanted to stay or not.

  He ducked to clear the rosebush arching over her gateway, but a thorny twig snagged his sleeve. When he twisted to free himself, another caught at his back. A message? he wondered ruefully, reaching for his pocketknife. And just because the damn bush was being so difficult to get along with, he lopped off a couple more twigs for good measure.

  A pink bud tipped his latest pruning, and he pressed his thumb into its velvety petals. The coloring, texture, scent, all reminded him of Julia. Not to mention how it had grabbed hold and refused to let go, the same way she had snared his heart.

  The revelation eased comfortably into his consciousness. He loved her, and who could blame him? She was as beautiful inside as out, a rare mix of strength and tenderness, of sunshine and storm clouds. He recalled her darkening expression the afternoon he'd left, and wished he'd brought some peace offering … like flowers.

  He inspected the one tiny bloom in his had, then its mates scattered thinly through the climbing bush. The longer he studied them, the more appealing they looked. He'd cut half a dozen before he heard footsteps. The hackles rising on the back of his neck told him neighbor from hell.

  "So, you're back," she said brusquely.

  "Appears so."

  "Good. Julia will be so pleased."

  The knife slipped and skidded off his finger. Carefully he folded the blade into its handle, turned to scowl at her. "Why do you say that?"

  "You have been gone a long time." A note of censure pinched her tone. Much better, Zane thought. For a second there she'd sounded almost pleased to see him. "Your sister's back, but that isn't the same as having a man around."

  Dumbfounded, Zane could only stare back, but her attention had shifted to his collection of rosebuds. Dwarfed by his big hand, scrunched by his tense fingers, they didn't look so appealing anymore.

  "What are you doing with those?" she asked.

  Strangling them.

  "If you're picking them to take to Julia, I have some late Queen Bessie's that'll do better. You wait right here."

  He didn't have a clue what Queen Bessie's were, but if they rated with her cookies, he would wait. Eventually she returned bearing a huge bunch of roses and a satisfied smile.

  Completely humbled, Zane shook his head. "They're perfect. Thank you."

  "Nothing's too good for our Julia." She handed him the roses and placed a restraining had on his sleeve. "You just do the right thing by her. She deserves to be happy."

  Until that moment he hadn't realized why he'd returned. To make her happy. It was as simple—and as complex—as that.

  Fixing Mrs. H. with a straight look, a look filled with new respect, he said, "That's my intention."

  * * *

  Mac heard him before he'd circled the first garden bed, and by the time he let himself through the gate in the new section of fence, the dog's excited yelps had reached fever pitch. Grinning widely, he hunkered to rub his pal's ears and felt a tingle of heat race through his whole body. His hand stopped mid-stroke. He straightened slowly.

  It took him a second to find her in the shadowed doorway, but then she came the rest of the way out and let the door fall shut behind her. Myriad details skimmed through his awareness—the man-size shirt hanging to mid-thigh, hair scooped into a messy knot on top of her head, her expression still frozen with stunned surprise—before one grabbed and took hold.

  Long, milk-pale legs, totally bare.

  He'd rehearsed this moment a hundred times in the last five hundred miles, another dozen between the front gate and here, but the welcoming grin, the Hell, I missed you, the flowers and apology, were broadsided by that one inconsequential detail.

  "Good look," he said slowly, eventually.

  She blinked once, twice; then her head dipped as if to check out his meaning. As if she hadn't a clue what she was wearing or not wearing.

  "I was lying down when I heard Mac going off." Her shrug looked self-conscious, diffident. "This is comfortable."

  Up close it looked rumpled—she looked rumpled. And so breathtakingly beautiful that it took a minute for the rest of her message to register. He frowned. "Why were you lying down? Are you sick?"

  An almost-smile teased her lips. "No. I'm pregnant."

  The glow in the rich warm depths of her eyes dazzled him. He ought to smile back; he should grab her and kiss her until this time tomorrow, but it took all his effort to form a few simple words. "How have you been?"

  "According to Dr. Lucas, I am obscenely healthy."

  "You saw Doc Lucas?" Plenty's sole doctor, Doc Lucas? Her father's golfing buddy, Doc Lucas?

  "Of course. He's my doctor. He'll refer me to an obstetrician later, but at the moment I only need regular checkups."

  "That's all he said?"

  Her real smile threatened to break loose. "Oh, he also mentioned that I'm having a baby around the first week of November, and I have great child-bearing hips."

  His gaze dipped before he could restrain it. Focus, bud. And not on those hips. "You haven't been sick?"

  "Not once. Mum said her pregnancies were the healthiest times of her life, and the same for Auntie Lee. It probably runs in the family." One hand drifted up to cradle her belly, and her expression turned softly contemplative.

  "You know, it probably sounds really corny, but I feel like my body's built for this. For babies."

  That hand, so tenderly protective, drew him like a magnet. His hand itched to be there, resting over the place where their baby grew. He started to reach for her, but his arm felt ponderously heavy.

  The flowers. He'd forgotten the bloody flowers.

  "Oh. Are they for me?" Laughing softly she took them from his extended had and buried her nose in their center. "Where on earth did you get such brilliant roses at this time of year?"

  Eyes warm, quizzical, mesmerizing, she watched him over the top of the bouquet, and Zane had to shake his head to re-engage his brain. "They're from your neighbor's garden. She's a very loyal fan."

  "I know. She's seriously impressed with your fence, but you really won her over the day you looked after Joshua."

  For a second a weird surreal haze blurred his mind. Mrs. H. praising him? He shook his head. "I meat a loyal fan of yours. That's why she gave me the flowers. For you."

  "Whatever." She shrugged. "They're beautiful, and I should put them in water. Why don't you come inside and I'll put the kettle on? Have you been traveling all day?"

  Reaching past her, he pressed his palm flat against the door, holding it closed. "The flowers can wait. First I have something to say."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  «^»

  Turned halfway toward the door, she stilled. Her throat moved convulsively, as if she'd swallowed, and in that instant he became aware of exactly how close they stood. So close that he breathed the scent of her skin.

  Warm. Musky. Woman.

  Every muscle in his body contracted. Painfully. He squeezed his eyes s
hut and tried to concentrate on something other than leaning another six inches and burying his face, his hands, himself, in that scent. It didn't work.

  When he opened his eyes she was staring at his hand—not the one flat against the door, but the one hovering inches from her body. As if he'd unconsciously started to reach for her.

  "It's okay to touch me. If you want."

  Her low, husky voice tempted him as surely as her inviting words. Torn, Zane hesitated. If he touched her, that would be it—no talking, no setting things right. Yet he couldn't move, couldn't bring himself to back away.

  As if he were a fascinated bystander, he watched her reach for him, felt the slight tremor in her fingers as they pulled his hand inexorably closer, then pressed his palm to her belly.

  "You probably can't notice any difference, but sometimes, when I'm lying in bed at night, I imagine I can feel him. Or her."

  Awash with tears, her eyes met his. The concept of a tiny life evolving inside that firm flesh staggered him. He splayed his fingers, hipbone to hipbone, and imagined how she might feel in another month, another six. And his world tilted.

  "You've felt movement?" he rasped. His mouth, his throat, his voice, were all sandpaper-dry.

  "No—the doctor said that won't happen for another month or so. It's just a sensation that my body is … changing." A smile flickered uncertainly. "Do you … do I … feel any different?"

  He swallowed. "No belly button ring."

  "No."

  Apart from that … hell, the thirteen weeks without touching her felt like a lifetime. And she was asking him to be objective? To clinically assess the changes? With tremendous willpower, he reclaimed his hand and shoved himself back from the door.

  "I guess my waistline hasn't changed too much. It's mostly my breasts."

  Her offhand words whipped through Zane's blood. He forced himself to keep his eyes steady. On her face. "How so?"

  "They're tender. So tender sometimes they ache."

  Ache. Oh, hell, he ached. Not just to peel that shirt from her skin, not only to drink in those changes, to see, to touch, to hold. He wanted more than the physical.

  He wanted everything.