‘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.




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