by Trish Morey; Day Leclaire; Natalie Anderson; Brenda Jackson; Ann Voss Peterson
And then he did a double take when he got to number twenty-four, or what was left of it, little more than a burned-out shell, the tiled roof caved in and with police tape still stuck between poles. He got out of the car and stood there on the side of the road, the air still tainted with the smell of ash and burning.
Gone. All gone now. His grandparents and the fragrant kitchen. His mother and her promises and dreams. Even the very house where he’d nursed her in her final weeks before the tumour that stopped her in her tracks had claimed her for its own.
All gone.
‘You from the insurance company?’ A grizzled old man wearing a white singlet and shorts stood watering a stringy row of tomato plants next door with a bucket, clearly more interested in the stranger with the flash car.
Dominic shook his head. ‘What happened, do you know?’ And the old man frowned as he looked at what was left of the house. ‘Bad business. Some feud between some local school kids, barely out of primary school, not that they didn’t know what they were doing. A gang of them came around and threw home-made Molotov cocktails through the windows. The wife and I heard the crash. By the time we came out to see what was happening, the place was going like a bonfire. Too quick for the firies.’
God. ‘What about the people who lived here? Are they okay?’
‘Yeah. How they made it out in time, I don’t know. Single mum with a couple of kids. Another one on the way. A miracle they all made it out alive, we reckon.’
‘She was pregnant.’ He wasn’t really asking. He was thinking, his eyes on the burned-out shell of the house where he’d grown up.
‘Yeah. It’s a miracle, all right.’
A miracle? It sounded more like hell on earth to him. What if this had happened three streets away? What if they’d got the wrong house? What if another woman wasn’t fast enough to get out?
He imagined the fear the woman must have felt. Imagined the panic at the crash of windows and the heat from the flames and the desperation to get herself and her children out before they might succumb to the fire and the smoke. What kind of experience was that for anyone to go through, let alone a pregnant woman? Let alone her unborn child?
How could he now drive away and leave her here, exposed to who only knew what danger?
How could he calmly head home and leave his baby behind?
It wasn’t going to happen.
Something else would have to be organised. An apartment. A six month lease. It would work. Now he just had to make them see that.
Angie was still at the kitchen table clutching the letter when the knock came, loud and purposeful. She jumped and swiped a tissue over her cheeks, mopping up what she could of her tears. What now? Was Shayne already sending around real estate agents to hasten the process?
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Whoever it was wasn’t going away. She sniffed and stole a glance through the window, frowning when she saw a familiar-looking black car outside. Why was he back? Surely he hadn’t changed his mind. Although the way this day was going…
She opened the door with the safety chain in place, just enough that they could talk through the crack, not enough that he could see into the empty lounge room within. But even the small sliver of him was enough to remind her of his sheer power and presence. She could feel his aura like a blanket of heat. ‘What do you want?’
‘Let me in. I have to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘You expect me to talk through a crack in the door? I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not about to mug the woman carrying my child.’
She sighed. Did it really matter if he found the truth out now rather than later? There was no way she could hide the truth for ever. She pushed the door closed, released the safety chain and reluctantly opened her house to him, knowing it would inevitably result in baring her soul.
‘I’ve got a proposal for you,’ he said, oblivious to her discomfort as he strode past her, the woody tang of his masculine scent curling into her senses. She breathed it in, wondering how just a scent could convey a sense of power and luxury. ‘When will your husband…’
He stopped, staring at the near empty room and she saw it through his eyes—the sole armchair and old television set, a rickety side table with a stack of library books on pregnancy and birth and a star-shaped ticking clock on the wall that had been there for ever.
He turned, slowly and purposefully. ‘What the hell is going on? Is this how you live?’ He peered closer at her face. ‘Have you been crying?’
Lids fell shut over eyes that still felt scratchy raw. She prayed for strength. Because the disdain was back in his voice and his words and his body language. The censure was back. And if he offered her pity she’d have the whole damned trifecta.
‘There was more furniture,’ she said, avoiding the second part of his question.
‘What did you do? Sell it to buy a tin of beans?’
No, damn it! She wheeled away. Headed for the kitchen. She was wrong. She couldn’t do this now. She didn’t need it.
She snapped the kettle on again, determined this time to have that cup of tea she’d promised herself, but then she turned to get the milk and he was right there, shrinking the kitchen with his height and those damned broad shoulders as he took in the boxes in one corner, stacked with crockery and glasses from the dresser Shayne had decided he’d like. ‘Are you packing? Are you going somewhere?’
‘No!’ He was standing between her and the fridge. She gave up on the milk. Pulled a cup instead from a cupboard and dropped in a herbal tea bag. Stood there with her arms crossed and her back to him while the kettle roared back into life.
‘Then do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?’
The roar from the kettle became a burble, the burble became a shrill thin whistle and her nerves stretched to breaking point.
‘What are you trying to hide?’
She reached out a hand to turn it off but he caught it and spun her around so fast she was left breathless. Or maybe it was just the touch of his big hand around her wrist, the heat of his fingers imprinting on her flesh and the impact of six foot something of potent male standing within inches of her. ‘Tell me!’
‘Fine!’ she said over the noise from the kettle. ‘Shayne took the furniture, okay!’
‘Why? Why would he take it?’
The kettle screamed, steam billowing in hot damp clouds around her. ‘So he could shack up with his teenage girlfriend. Why do you think? And now do you think I might turn that off?’
‘Shayne’s gone?’ He let her go and stepped back as she turned and pulled the plug and the fever pitch screaming wound down. Pieces of the puzzle slipped into place—her unwillingness to talk about him, her circling the issue whenever he was mentioned, the fact she’d gone to their meeting today alone.
Because her jerk of a husband had left her for someone else. ‘When did this happen?’
She shrugged, filled her cup with water and dunked her tea bag. He waited while she performed the action the requisite number of times before dropping the tea bag into the sink, where it landed with a splat. Then she turned and leaned back against the sink, cradling the cup in her hands. ‘He moved in with his girlfriend two months ago.’
She could have been reciting a shopping list, her voice was so calm, belying the obvious trauma that underpinned her words.
Two months ago? How long had they known about the mix-up? Was it a coincidence? ‘Why did he leave you?’
Her blue eyes turned misty and desolate as she stared into her tea. ‘Because I refused to have the abortion.’
He wheeled away, his hands in his hair. ‘Your husband didn’t want you carrying someone else’s child.’
‘Strangely enough, no.’
‘So you sacrificed your marriage for the sake of my child?’
She laughed, or attempted to at least before it became a hiccup instead and jerked her hands so that hot tea nearly sloshed over the top of her cup. She put it down on the bench bes
ide her. ‘I’m hardly that noble. I think my marriage was over a long time ago. I was just the last to know. He decided he might as well move in with his girlfriend when he learned it wasn’t his baby I was carrying and when I refused to accept the clinic’s offer to fix things.’
He just nodded, amazed at the inner strength of a woman he knew from experience could get blown over by a decent gust of wind, thankful for that inner strength, thankful for her circumstances. It suited him that the husband was gone. She would have no choice now.
He looked around the room, taking in the dated fittings and faded decor. The room was clean, he’d give her that much, but it was tired, as tired as this woman had looked when he’d met her today. ‘So now you live here alone?’
She nodded.
‘What about your family? Are they close?’
She shook her head. ‘Mum died a few years back. I was an only child.’
‘Your father?’
‘I never knew him.’
Better and better. ‘So who looks after you?’
‘I look after me, Mr Pirelli,’ she huffed, finding some of that lion-hearted feistiness she tapped into from time to time. ‘I’m not a child.’
As much as he admired her courage, anger curled the corners of his senses. Her bastard husband had walked out on her. He’d abandoned her, leaving her pregnant and alone in a house in a suburb that only the brave-hearted or the criminal or those who couldn’t afford to move out would choose.
She’d been alone since he’d gone. No wonder she looked so gaunt. Who was there to look after her? Who was there to ensure she ate properly or make sure she took proper care of herself? There was no other option.
‘Get some things together,’ he ordered. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You can’t stay here. You’re coming with me.’
‘No, I’m not. This is my home. At least…’ She trailed off mid-sentence and Dominic found himself wondering how many more secrets she had left to reveal.
‘At least what?’
‘I got a letter today.’ She nodded towards the table where the page still sat. Then she swallowed, her hands either side, gripping the bench top behind her. The action emphasized the leanness of her arms but, surprisingly, it also emphasized another part of her anatomy, one he hadn’t taken much notice of until now. For, without her cardigan to cover her, her singlet top pulled tight across an anything-but-flat chest. What the hell was he thinking? He snatched up the letter, concentrated on that.
‘Shayne took the car and most of the furniture when he left. He said that was enough. Now he’s telling me he wants his share of the house. But it’s my house! My mother left it to me. He can’t do that, can he?’
The raw pain in her eyes touched him in a place he didn’t know still existed. This house meant that much to her? But of course it would if it was all she had.
‘I’ll have my lawyers look into it,’ he said, folding the letter. ‘But you know you can’t stay here. I don’t want you staying here, knowing he’s out there, knowing he could turn up at any time making demands.’
‘I’m getting the locks changed.’
‘You think that would stop him if he wanted to get in? No way in the world can I leave you here alone knowing he’s out there, knowing what he wanted for my child. No way can I trust him anywhere near you. Don’t you understand that?’
‘But don’t you still need his agreement to take this baby?’
‘Let the lawyers take care of that as well. You think about what you need to pack just enough for tonight, I’ll send my people to pick up the rest tomorrow.’
‘Hang on. I haven’t agreed to anything!’
‘What do you have to stay for? You have no family and no husband. You have nothing, except a child that doesn’t belong to you.’
How dared he talk to her like that—as if she was a nothing and a nobody he could order around at his whim? She stiffened her spine and kicked up her chin, sick of men who wanted to tell her what to do. ‘I still have this house. Or at least a share of it.’
‘And you’re welcome to return to your share of it after the baby is born. Rest assured, I’ll be the last person to stop you.’
She huffed off to her bedroom and packed her bag, just an overnight one for now, like he’d said, his words stinging in her ears as she flung in her pyjamas.
Damn the man!
So, maybe he had a point. Maybe she would be better off right away from here and from Shayne until this baby was born. Maybe it would be better for the baby.
Safer.
She pulled open a drawer, grabbed some clean underwear and slammed it shut the way she would have liked to have slammed Mr Rule-The-World Pirelli with a few choice words of her own.
I’ll be the last person to stop you. He’d said those words as if he couldn’t wait to see the back of her.
Well, fine, she didn’t want a baby and she sure didn’t want to hang around him any longer than was absolutely necessary, but why had she been struck dumb? Why couldn’t she have told him that?
I’ll be the last person to stop you. Too late she thought of all the things she could have said—should have said—in response.
I wouldn’t want you to stop me.
Just try to stop me.
You won’t see me for dust.
But she’d said nothing and she knew why. Because his words had hurt. Because it hurt to feel so utterly worthless. It hurt to be abandoned. It hurt to know you were a loser and a failure on so many counts.
Hopeless wife.
Broken marriage.
She couldn’t even manage to have the right baby.
Her underwear joined her pyjamas. She looked around the room. What else? He’d said he’d have his ‘people’ organise the removal of whatever else she needed tomorrow. Who the hell was this man that he had ‘people’ to do things, like a general with an entire army at his disposal, just waiting for him to bark out the next order?
She wrenched off her day-old top and pulled on a clean singlet top, threw another in the bag and reached for her thin cardigan, threading her arms through the sleeves. Too hot still for long sleeves but in the absence of full body armour she was going to need all the protection she could get.
The bathroom was her next stop, adding her hairbrush and a small bag of toiletries to her stash. She was back in the living room in ninety seconds flat.
He was making a call when she returned—probably organising a room for her somewhere or barking out more orders to his ‘people’, his eyebrows going north when he took her in. He snapped the phone shut. ‘What took you so long?’ he said as he reached for her bag and this time she almost did let fly with a few choice words. Until she saw the turned up lips and felt the urge to hit him instead. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You are. I thought the mouse was going to roar again.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
He took her bag and their hands brushed and she felt that unwanted sizzle of electricity again. His smile evaporated instantaneously.
‘Don’t do that!’ she said.
‘Do what?’
‘Don’t touch me.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said, his lips tight as he led her to his car, clearly unhappy to be lumbered with her. But that wasn’t her problem.
Her problem was him.
She’d been furious. Blood-spitting furious. And then with one comment, one tiny tweak of his lips, she’d felt the rug pulled out from beneath her, leaving her senses reeling and her thought processes scrambled.
He’d smiled and she’d faltered and lost her train of thought along with her anger, even with that mouse reference? Was that how he thought of her? A mouse? Little, drab and ordinary. And clearly amusing. She bristled, not sure if she resented the fact he thought she was drab and amusing, even if she was to someone like him, more than the fact he seemed to occupy more than his fai
r share of the car. And what he didn’t cover with his significant frame, his damn scent filled the rest.
Spicy and warm, woody and real.
Real.
There was that word again. She remembered she’d thought it the first time she’d seen him smile. Strange. She couldn’t remember ever thinking it about any man before. Maybe it was because he was so unreal in so many ways. His obvious wealth. His mountain-like demeanour. The way he dominated a room or a restaurant or any other space just by being there. Maybe that was why she noticed it when he reminded her he was just a man.
Just a man?
Who was she trying to kid? He was unlike any man she’d ever met before. He had presence and power and the ability to set her skin alight with just the brush of his fingers. She shivered. He made her feel uncomfortable on so many levels and she didn’t like it. She didn’t want to feel so vulnerable and so aware of any man, married or not. After Shayne, she had sworn off men for ever.
Every last one of them. Especially the arrogant ones who wanted to rule her life. And especially the ones with black-as-night eyes who laughed at secret jokes at her expense.
Damn the man! She squirmed in her seat, the car filled with the scent of him, desperately needing a distraction.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked in the stony silence, when they had left the side streets of Sherwill far behind and were heading east along the ribbon of highway towards the city. The traffic was busier now, close to peak hour, the tailbacks longer.
‘You’ll see.’
‘What if I don’t like it?’
‘You’ll like it,’ was all he offered, before he turned the radio on to the news channel, terminating the conversation. The stock market closing reports came on and Angie expected he’d change the channel, like Shayne had always done if he’d happened to stumble across it accidentally while flipping through the stations, but he didn’t. He hung on every word. She tried to make sense of it but clearly they were speaking another language and she tuned out.