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Authors: Trish Morey
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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 truthout 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, stackedwith 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
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 truthout 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, stackedwith 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
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