A Southern Star (16 page)

Christie’s eyes widened as she walked through the door. A spacious lounge area looked out over Dunedin, the plush carpet and modern conveniences tastefully incorporated with the classic furnishings. She could see a compact, fully self—contained kitchen and a small hallway opening out to bedrooms. Christie heard Blake’s low whistle. “Apparently, they’ve divided this floor into corporate apartments.”

She walked hesitantly down the hallway into a side room, assuming it would be a smaller bedroom, realising it was clearly the main bedroom with an ensuite and immense oversized bed.
Blake’s room.
Christie spun around, intent on leaving the room immediately, registered Blake leaning against the door frame, watching her, his face unreadable.

“Would you like me to tell you there’s a bunk free in this room?” His casual reference to Mason Bay almost brought tears to Christie’s eyes; she straightened, stepped towards him.
 

“I walked into the wrong room,” she said with dignity. He instantly stepped aside as she approached the doorway, watching her walk to the end of the hallway, into another room.

Christie looked around as Blake said her name, her eyes troubled. “I thought you might be more comfortable in the other room,” he said. She could not read his tone. “Or if not that room, then a different room to this one.” Embarrassed, Christie realised the twin single beds in the room would be impractical; increasingly, she was finding sleeping uncomfortable, even in a double bed. Blake shrugged. “Up to you.”

Christie’s eyes cleared; he wondered if he had imagined the flash of emotion. Silently, she walked back into the hall, looked in another room. Recovering her composure, she turned to Blake. “I might take this one,” she said, indicating a smaller room with a large double bed and an ensuite.
 

Blake heard the porter arrive, returned with Christie’s bag, put it down on the hamper, and turned to leave the room. “I hope these mood swings stop soon.” She spoke so quietly he barely heard her. He realised she was trying to apologise, pivoted back to face her.
 

“You’ve got a lot to deal with,” he said evenly, holding himself still, not daring to approach her. Christie looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. “Although lunch might be more enjoyable if they did,” he continued, his teasing tone taking the harshness from his words, thinking uncomfortably of his own bad temper the day before. “And you’ve certainly let the concierge off lightly. I was almost disappointed.” Blake left the room abruptly, leaving Christie staring after him.

When she came out into the lounge, Christie realised Blake was relaxing in a single chair; she stopped as he straightened, gestured to the sofa, seeming uncomfortable. Perplexed, Christie took a seat, looked out over the view of the city. “Different from Mason Bay,” she said softly.
 

Blake gave a short laugh. “What sort of gear will you look at today?” he said suddenly. Christie was quiet for several seconds, taken aback by his question, then explained her Internet searches, what she wanted to buy. She frowned slightly, sensing he was still ill at ease, a stark contrast from his usual brash confidence. “Any good sales on?” he asked, confusing her further.
 

Blake would hardly be interested in the practicalities of shopping. For a baby.
Christie flashed back to the distance, bordering on rudeness he had shown towards his own parents. “Nothing’s advertised as a sale, but I will compare prices. See what’s around.” She smiled, real humour in her eyes. “The baby won’t be wearing designer brands, but I’ve got some good deals on the Internet.” Christie couldn’t resist mentioning Rebecca. “I just hope your sister doesn’t mind the fact I’ve shopped elsewhere,” she said irreverently. Blake smiled back at her, his eyes warm, seeming more relaxed. She looked away quickly, unable to fathom his line of questioning, unable to cope with the look in his eyes.

Chapter Eight

Christie thought back to Blake’s questions, his demeanour later that morning as she looked around a children’s clothing store. She had found the morning difficult as a range of emotions washed over her. Her initial excitement after making plans with Lisa the night before had been tempered by the reality of a baby’s imminent arrival and the impact it would have on her life and career. The news of Paul and Amanda’s giddy engagement had filtered through from well—meaning friends and acquaintances a few weeks ago; now here she was shopping for clothes for a baby Paul didn’t want her to have and made no move to support.

Her mind turned to Blake’s reaction when she told him; his shock, his cutting comments, when she had really hoped… Christie blinked back sudden tears, tried to focus on the displays of clothing. She had only purchased a couple of things so far, content to look around at first rather than buy the first thing she saw.

Christie looked at her watch, realised it was approaching the time Blake had suggested meeting for lunch. She decided that after lunch she would go to the store she had seen advertised on the Internet; she could always look around the other city stores later that afternoon, before returning to the hotel. She walked out of the store, intent on finding her way to the café Blake had suggested. She saw it up ahead, realised that it was next to one of the stores Rebecca had mentioned.

Curious to see the display, Christie stopped to glance in the window. She remembered Lisa’s words about buying something special for the baby.
I could afford it,
she thought,
but I just don’t see anything special that I really love.
“Those don’t seem that practical.” Blake’s dry voice made Christie swing around.
 

“Certainly not for my baby,” she replied with equal dryness, pleased she could at least articulate a response, realising with a shock Blake was wearing business trousers and a formal shirt. Christie had only ever seen Blake dressed casually; guiltily, longingly, her mind veered back to Blake wearing his hunting jacket, his tramping clothes on the water taxi.

Standing close to him, Christie saw the buttons of Blake’s blue shirt, the angles of his perfectly pressed collar, his lightly tanned chest and neck. She tilted her head, looked up at him, sensing the discreet glances of other women on the footpath as they registered his charismatic good looks, his height and lithe, toned frame.
 

Christie noticed the shadows in his eyes, frowned slightly. “Blake, how are your meetings going?” she asked, wondering if he was preoccupied, concerned about work. She listened to his responses, not convinced, pressing him further for details.
 

“It all went really well,” he said again. “Better even than I thought.” He seemed keen to have lunch rather than talk on the footpath; soon they were looking at menus.

Christie took a deep breath, exhaled. “You looked preoccupied this morning at the apartment,” she said, her eyes fixed on her menu, not daring to look at him.
 

Blake shrugged, clearly taken aback by her words. “You ask a lot of questions about the business,” he said, his voice low.
 

“It interests me,” Christie replied. She tried to joke, realised Blake did not want to discuss his work further. “But if you’d rather discuss my mood swings, that’s fine.”

He grinned at her, the shadow of guilt easing from his eyes. She was easily just as—or more—intelligent than anyone else he knew; he wondered how long it would be before she found out, and yet he could find no words to tell her.
And why should it matter whether she knew or not?
Blake thought to himself, thinking of his parents, the winery.

His mind turned to the problem of the afternoon; he could not think of how to frame his concern; his eyes narrowed as he noticed Christie only had a couple of small bags.
And then there was the business meeting tonight.
He decided to bite the bullet, abruptly mentioned it, noticing her sudden uncertainty.

“So I thought you might like to come with me,” he said neutrally.
 

“I might have an early night,” Christie replied. “I don’t want to cause you any awkward questions. I’m not a colleague and…” She let her sentence trail off, unable to look at him. He noticed her hand was on her stomach, curved protectively around the child.

Blake shrugged easily, his face impassive. Christie realised she had been waiting for him to protest, ask again. When he did not, her heart plummeted, even as she told herself it would hardly be appropriate for her to attend, despite Blake’s invitation. Blake knew he should feel only relief, acknowledged the sense of her words, even as he fought the sharp sense of disappointment flaring in him.

Masking her feelings, Christie looked at him across the table. His gaze on her was intent as he asked about the morning, what she had purchased for the baby. Christie shrugged. “Just some clothes,” she said.
 

He noticed her hand still on her stomach, her flat tone. “You said this morning you’d need quite a lot of gear,” Blake said, trying to articulate what he wanted to say. “Didn’t you see anything you liked?”

Christie stared deliberately at the tablecloth, playing with her fork as she spoke. “I didn’t want to buy the first thing I saw,” Christie said, explaining her plan to look around the city again in the late afternoon.
 

Blake did not press her. “So the major things would be what: a cot, a pushchair?” Christie nodded. He paused. “I’ll be in Dunedin occasionally over the next few months,” he said. “So you could look at lay—by…I could collect the gear when I’m here again.”

She looked at Blake, suddenly realised he was concerned about the cost. She thought back to his questions that morning, to her comment after lunch the day before. Her eyes flashed; she was tempted to rail at him that it was none of his business; just in time she realised he was offering to help, remembered his tact yesterday when she had been so upset.

“I won’t need lay—by,” Christie said quietly. “I do have some savings, so I was hoping to get almost everything today. And with not having to pay rent for the first year and the contracting, I should have enough to tide me over. If I’m careful,” she added self—consciously, slightly embarrassed at revealing her financial situation.
 

Blake’s face cleared; he casually asked several questions about the contracting she had mentioned at lunch the day before. He noticed she had barely touched the small salad she had ordered; his face set at her defensive response when he politely suggested ordering something more. Soon after, he suggested they leave; Christie stood up, wanting to head out to another bigger store she had seen advertised.

At the door, Christie paused, wondering where a taxi rank was, not wanting to presume Blake would remember his offer that morning. “Are we going to tell my sister we’ve looked next door?” Christie looked up at Blake, her throat dry as she heard his teasing voice, realised he was standing close.

“You’ve got your meetings this afternoon,” she said, struggling to sound calm, businesslike.
 

“Rescheduled,” he said briefly, grinning down at her. She echoed the word, incredulous. “They rang just before lunch,” he continued, explaining the meetings would now be later in the afternoon. “I have a couple of hours free. So I’m tagging along. To carry the cot. Makes it a rush later on though.” He seemed unconcerned.

“Blake…” Christie stopped, not knowing what to say.
 

“I don’t want to intrude,” he said, quietly. “But I thought I could put the cot and pushchair straight into the truck.” Christie nodded, still speechless, uncertain. The cruel irony of Blake’s offer threatened to overwhelm her; she took a deep breath.
Just for two hours…
She resolved to make the most of this stolen time, to look around, make decisions about what the baby would need.

Blake’s tone, his teasing, reminded Christie of her earlier excitement about her plans for the day; her ambivalence of the morning faded. Christie looked at Blake, her cheeks flushed, determined not to betray her inner emotion. “I would like to have a quick look next door, just to get ideas.” She walked towards the shop, muttered a thank you as Blake reached past her to push open the door.
 

“Ideas for what?” he asked as they entered the shop.
 

“Colours for the nursery gear,” Christie said briefly. “I love design.”

“Easy, Christie. Pink or blue?” She could tell he was teasing her again.
 

“Pale green,” she replied, walking over to the displays of blankets and bedding.
 

“Pink or blue?” he repeated, his voice low. She turned to Blake, realising he was in fact asking about the gender of the baby.
 

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, unnerved by his question, thinking of her seesawing emotions through her pregnancy, the contrasting fear, excitement, apathy. With so much else to think about, she simply had not cared or thought it important when she had been asked whether she wanted to know the baby’s gender at her previous scan. Blake said nothing further; Christie browsed silently. The selection was amazing; a shop assistant approached but Christie hastily confirmed she was just looking. The assistant hovered, clearly trying to involve Blake in the conversation.

Christie was acutely conscious of Blake stepping forward, standing next to her, almost touching her, talking easily to the female assistant, seemingly completely at ease in a shop
 

like this, asking the assistant about cots, moving over to a display. Christie shook her head slightly, knowing looking at cots, anything substantial, in a shop like this would be futile.