Southern Star: Destiny Romance (6 page)

‘Better?’ Blaze crouched down in front of the dog and let him sniff her hand. A rough tongue swiped her skin, making her laugh. ‘I guess that means you want seconds, huh? Just a minute.’

In the kitchen, she grabbed the bag of food and filled a jug with water. Again the bowls were empty within minutes, and she replenished his water once more, but withheld the food. ‘Don’t want to turn you into a pig,’ she said, daring a soft stroke of his side. He twitched and growled, and it was then that Blaze realised the cause of his strange gait. His rear left leg was scraped raw, enough to be uncomfortable.

Sitting back on her heels, she wondered what to do. The dog wasn’t wearing a collar, and there was no point trying to find a vet tonight, even if she could persuade the dog into the car, which was unlikely. At the same time, she didn’t want to have her hand bitten off if she tried to clean the wound.

Still, it wasn’t fair to leave an animal with an obvious injury, so although she was already imagining sharp canine teeth on her fingers, she went to get a bowl of warm water. Gram’s old first-aid kit yielded an ancient bottle of antiseptic lotion – intended for humans, but it was all she could find – and a bandage. Under the kitchen sink, she located a pair of thick leather work gloves, far too big, but they’d give her hands some protection if the dog decided to nip her. On impulse, she also pulled a bone from the frozen pack and left it out to thaw.

‘Okay, now if this hurts, don’t blame me,’ she said to the dog.

With a soft cloth from Gram’s ragbag, she dipped it into the warm water, wrung it out, and ran it gently along the healthy part of the dog’s leg down to the wound. He flinched and whined but didn’t snarl. More confidently, Blaze gently cleaned around the wound, eventually pressing the cloth to the raw patch. The dog yelped and half rose, before sinking down again. When she’d finished, Blaze pressed a fresh cloth to the wound, and tied the bandage firmly around his leg.

‘Okay, the hard bit’s over. Now you get a treat.’

Taking the first-aid supplies back into the kitchen, Blaze collected the bone. Gram didn’t believe in microwaves, so Blaze finished the defrosting process with a pan of warm water. When she returned to the veranda, the dog was making his way cautiously to the steps. He turned back to look at her, and when she approached, he gave her hand another lick.

‘You’re welcome. And look what I’ve got.’ She showed him the bone, and then placed it on the floor.

The dog actually licked his lips, making her laugh, and then pounced on it, gripping it firmly in his mouth. His tail wagged, and then he trotted towards the waterhole until the night swallowed him up.

For long minutes, Blaze stood there staring into the dark as moths clinked against the light and the moon shone high and white.

Even though he wasn’t her dog, she had to call him something, didn’t she? Especially as she was pretty certain he’d come calling again.

‘Paddy,’ she said to the night. ‘That’s what I’ll call you. After Gramps.’

It wasn’t until she went smiling to her attic bed that night that Blaze realised she was actually happy. And she couldn’t even remember how long it had been since she’d felt that way.

The phone rang, startling Blaze from a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep. More than a week had passed since she’d arrived back in Queensland, and the change of location, the hot, exhausting days and undemanding company of Paddy had achieved what none of Hollywood’s fancy doctors had been able to give her: a good night’s sleep. Until now.

Groaning, she groped for the phone. She’d bet a good bottle of wine that Jaxon had somehow tracked down her landline number, having given up on her ever answering her mobile messages. Since her escape, her California agent had left fifteen voice mails and sent a dozen texts, but Blaze had been enjoying her solitude too much to let the real world back in. Now it was intruding, noisily, at 6:10 a.m.

‘Jaxon, do you know what time it is?’ She yawned, and listened to static on the line. ‘Jaxon, I know it’s you. Who else would it be at this unearthly hour?’

Silence.

‘Hey, I know you’re pissed off, but I was no good to you in that state. I told you I needed to get away.’

Static.

‘Jaxon? Can you hear me?’

Click. The line went dead.

Blaze groaned again and slumped back on to the pillow. If there was one thing worse than a phone call at this hour, it was a wrong number.

A kookaburra cackled noisily from the waterhole where they liked to play in the early morning. Sparrow fart, the locals called this time of day. The expression made her grin as she shoved open the attic window to let in the fresh morning air. No doubt the working day had already begun on stations like Macauley Black’s to take advantage of the relative cool.

Macauley Black.

She really didn’t want to have to contact him, but she was out of options as far as finding someone to remodel the house was concerned. She’d even checked the supermarket’s notice board to see if any handyman advertised there, without luck. The only other possibility was the local paper, which meant another trip into town today. She didn’t relish the drive, but Paddy had nearly chomped through the dry food she’d bought, and there were other things she needed, so she could kill two or three birds with one stone.

First things first, though. The day didn’t officially start until she’d had coffee. In the kitchen, she switched on the kettle, opened the veranda door and found Paddy on the other side. At her greeting, he jumped to his feet and sidled over with a woof of welcome.

‘Hello, boy. You’re early.’

She knelt down for his lick, and gave him a good rub until he lay down in sheer pleasure, inviting her to rub some more. Blaze indulged him, taking the opportunity to check that his wound was continuing to heal. It was, so she removed the makeshift bandage to allow the fresh air to continue the process.

When she went into the kitchen, Paddy followed her, venturing inside for the first time. He sniffed at the skirting board, then lapped at the water she put down for him. Blaze poured her coffee and leant against the kitchen bench, watching him. Feeling generous, she got a bone from the fridge and gave it to him, and Paddy disappeared back outside.

Armed with her coffee and a slice of toast, Blaze jotted down her shopping list, then reluctantly checked the series of increasingly frustrated messages Jaxon had left on her mobile. The first ones, from ten days ago, were relatively benign. Hoped she was feeling better, did she realise the Oscars were just days away, had she read his emails and please call. In the last one left yesterday, he was screaming and pleading.

‘For God’s sake, Blaze, this could be the role you’re waiting for. Call me back or Natalie Portman will have it wrapped up!’

He’d emailed the script to her. She’d seen it in her inbox the other day.
Siren
. But as yet she wasn’t ready to think, let alone talk, about work, and Natalie Portman would do a fine job.

There were a couple of calls from reporters running stories about her escape to her homeland after the scandal, and another from a journalist she knew well saying that he’d heard something she needed to know. Cal Marsden was pretty fair as far as entertainment reporters went, but right now she was on leave from Hollywood.

At least there were no messages from the LAPD, as she’d been dreading. But all that meant was that they were still investigating their case. When her lawyer had informed them that she wished to return to Australia for a period, they had made it clear that, as the last person to see Mitch alive, she was expected to return to L.A. immediately should they request her to do so.

While the LAPD hadn’t mentioned the rumours, she was sure they’d heard the theory that Mitch had threatened to leave her after Rick Beatty’s sleazy story about her and the crew of
Bad & Co.
She and Mitch had fought and she’d killed him. It even sounded plausible in a 1940s bad melodrama way, but that didn’t make it the truth.

In fact, she and Mitch had never been lovers. Close friends, sure – and it had suited both of them to maintain a façade of something more – but a sexual relationship had never been on the cards.

Just before eight, all messages deleted, showered and dressed in a strappy top and knee-length tiered navy skirt, she was ready to leave for town. The morning was still cool so she drove with the window down, enjoying the empty landscape and the feel of the breeze in her hair.

The shopping centre car park was quiet when she drove in and she was able to park close to the doors. As she approached, an old sedan drew up, and a pregnant young woman with spiky dark hair and an eyebrow ring, wearing a supermarket-branded badge with the name Marianne, heaved herself from the passenger seat.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said with little conviction.

‘I’ll be here at five to pick you up. Don’t keep me waiting.’

Marianne sounded as though she would object, but then capitulated with a weary shoulder shrug. ‘Mum . . . I’ll be here.’

‘Better be. If I catch wind of you showing your shameless self around town, you’ll be out the door. And what’ll happen to you then? You just tell me that.’

Marianne slammed the door as her mother looked set on continuing her tirade. In the end, the sharp-faced woman pursed her lips and drove off.

‘Bad day?’ Blaze nodded in the direction of the departing car.

‘Bad life,’ the girl muttered and burst into tears.

Oh shit.

Blaze felt terrible. Looking around, she ushered Marianne over to a bench. ‘Sit down.’ She dug a tissue from her bag. ‘Here. Blow your nose.’

The girl did, and wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’ She looked up, her mascara a little smudged. ‘It’s just . . .’ she tailed off, staring. ‘Omigod, are you Blaze Gillespie?’

‘Guilty,’ Blaze said. ‘But don’t say anything, okay? I’m trying to keep a low profile.’

‘Yeah, I mean sure. Whatever. Wow!’ Marianne cheered up. ‘Wow. I just blew my nose on Blaze Gillespie’s tissue!’

She looked so pleased with herself that Blaze had to laugh. ‘Well, I’m glad to brighten your day. Hopefully your mum will calm down.’

‘Not likely.’ The girl shook her head, a look of despair returning. ‘I’m going to have to leave home. Ever since I got pregnant she’s been in my face night and day. Yeah, I stuffed up, but so did she when she had me!’

‘She’ll mellow when she sees her grandchild. Mums usually do.’ Didn’t they? Not having a clue, Blaze winged it.

‘Uh-uh. I’m not letting my kid grow up with that old bag. Not like I did,’ Marianne said with a trace of defiance. ‘I’m just getting some money together and then I’m out of there. I’m Marianne Goranovich, by the way.’

‘Well, good luck,’ Blaze said, standing.

The girl stood too, glancing at her watch. ‘Yeah, I gotta go. Clock-in time’s in two minutes and I can’t afford to lose this job if I’m gonna save to get out of this stupid town.’

Blaze watched her retreating back. She wasn’t the only one with a tricky life path to navigate. Passing the florist, who was still placing buckets of flowers outside the shop, she paused and decided to pick up some lemon yellow banksia later. First she wanted to buy a local newspaper in case there were any ads for local carpenters in the ‘work wanted’ column.

She nodded at the newsagent as she leaned to pick up a paper, and then pulled her hand back as if she’d been stung, when she saw the lure below the tabloid masthead, flagging a story inside.

Blaze’s Starring Role in Sex Tape

The air crackled with heat. Mac swiped a filthy sleeve at his damp forehead, and stomped into the bunkhouse where, except for old Amos, the hands were still huddled around the common-room table where they took their meals, even though it was well past noon. They should have been back at work twenty minutes ago, and as there was a full afternoon of hot, dusty, backbreaking work to do repairing fences in the far pasture, he was pissed off. And that was an understatement.

He let the door slam and young Lewis came off his seat with a jump, his tanned face ruddy with embarrassment.

‘Sorry, boss,’ he stammered.

‘Yeah, boss.’ Pete Woodall echoed, coming lazily to his feet. ‘Just catching up with the latest about the young’un here and his girlie.’

‘Pete!’ Lewis’s agonised whisper succeeded only in turning his face redder. ‘She’s not . . . I haven’t . . .’

‘But you’d like to, eh?’ The older man dug the younger in the ribs with his elbow as he slapped his hat on his head.

‘You haven’t got time to stand around gossiping like a goddamned mothers’ group,’ Mac told them, his voice edged with steel. ‘Not unless you want your pay docked by half an hour.’

That cleared the room pretty quick, with Pete the last to saunter to the door, his crooked-legged cowboy’s gait telling of long hours in the saddle. Mac was going to have to deal with him, but not today. Not when it was so fucking hot, and when he hadn’t lined up a replacement.

‘Waiting for something, Pete?’ He kept his voice even, though he was itching to plant a boot in the man’s backside. He was a hard worker when he chose. But mostly he didn’t, and before you knew it, Lewis would be following his example. Mac had seen it all before.

Pete smirked. He nodded towards the table where the newspaper lay open. ‘Might want to take a gander at that, boss. Seeing as how she’s your neighbour an’ all.’

Mac frowned, and glanced at the local rag. A studio portrait of Blaze Gillespie’s beautiful face took up half the spread, but it was the headline next to the photo that caught his eye:

The Film that Movie Star Blaze Doesn’t Want You to See

‘Might take meself over to Sweet Springs tonight.’ The cowboy adjusted himself in his tight jeans, a none-too-subtle indication of his intentions. ‘Show the slut you don’t need a gang bang if you got a Queenslander between your legs.’

‘Okay, you’re finished,’ Mac said in a low voice. ‘Get your stuff together and come up to the house in fifteen minutes. I’ll have your severance pay ready.’

‘Can’t do that, boss.’ Pete smirked again. ‘The others can’t handle the herd by theirselves, seein’ as we’re short an’ all until we get the full crew on. And anyway, you gotta give me an official warning first, and notice.’

‘Actually, I don’t,’ Mac pointed out. ‘You’re casual, and you’ve had one verbal warning already, which you weren’t entitled to. But you’ll have an additional week’s pay to stay away from Rosmerta . . . and Sweet Springs.’

The greedy look on Pete’s face fell away, replaced by the first stirrings of panic. ‘Now look, you can’t tell me where I can go!’

‘No, I can’t. So I take it you don’t want the extra week’s pay?’

‘I didn’t say that, but what’s that bitch —’

‘Take it or leave it.’ Mac turned to walk away.

‘I’ll take it,’ he shot. ‘Plenty other women.’

Mac yanked the door open but Pete’s sly voice stopped him as he went to walk through it. ‘Give her one for me, eh, boss?’

Clenching his fists, Mac resisted the urge to turn and punch the smirk up Woodall’s nostrils.

‘Fifteen minutes, Pete.’ He let the door close behind him.

Anger at the headline and Pete’s attitude radiated from him, and he had to make a deliberate attempt to control his fury as he walked over to where the other men were saddling up.

‘You head on over,’ he told Lewis, Smithy and Fred. ‘Pete won’t be joining you, but I’ll be along in about half an hour.’

The hands kept their heads down and didn’t ask any questions, so Mac figured he was still looking fucking furious. Still, if it meant they focused on their work instead of lurid headlines it was probably a good thing.

Turning, he went to where Amos was fixing up some loose timbers in the stable. The old man was in his sixties, and Mac was trying to lighten his workload without making him feel less valued.

‘Pete’s leaving this afternoon. Isn’t coming back,’ he told Amos.

The man swivelled around on the ladder where he was hammering a nail into a board, a cigarette clasped loosely between his lips as usual. After a brief pause, he stuck the hammer in his tool belt and removed the smoke.

‘Bout time, boss. Woodall’s no good, and he’d only rub off on the others.’

‘I’ll see about a replacement soon as I get a chance.’

‘Want me up at the paddock this arvo?’

‘Uh, nup. You carry on. Those timbers have needed fixing a while. I’ll help the boys out.’

‘Righto, boss. Listen, ya might want to sound out Harry Blenheim’s boy. Hear he’s keen to step up into a foreman’s job.’

‘You’re the foreman here, Amos.’

‘Want to work me to death, boss?’

‘No.’ Mac considered the wiry man, who’d worked the property before Mac had bought it and knew every inch of land, every blade of tough grass. This was obviously his way of saying that Mac didn’t need to pussyfoot around.

‘Time to slow down a bit. Let a younger man do the hard yards.’ Amos tapped the ash from his cigarette.

‘Well, we sure need someone to keep the place fixed up, otherwise it’d be falling down around our ears. Property manager, how does that sound?’ Mac asked.

‘Right fine, boss.’

‘Comes with perks. Two extra days off a month.’

‘Where do I sign?’ Amos grinned, showing a big gap where two teeth were missing.

‘Handshake’ll do it,’ Mac said, watching Amos climb down the ladder, and grind his cigarette beneath his booted heel.

They shook, and then Mac strode back to the house. He heard cursing as he passed the bunkhouse. Evidently, now that reality was setting in for Woodall, the guy wasn’t too happy about his circumstances. Tough.

By the time he’d printed out a pay slip for his ex-employee and counted out cash from the small safe in his office, Pete was cooling his heels on the steps, his look surly. He grabbed the envelope, counted the money, and stuck it in his back pocket. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he spat close enough to Mac’s boots to make it clear it was a deliberate insult.

‘You’ll regret this, boss.’

Mac looked him squarely in the eye. ‘You know, Pete, I really don’t think I will.’

Right now, Mac thought, he should be nursing a cool beer on his own shady deck. Instead, he was riding out to Sweet Springs to check on his neighbour who, according to 362 922 articles uploaded to the world wide web, had not only fucked four crew members on the set of her forthcoming movie,
Bad & Co.,
in the one night, she had been filmed doing it. In fact, the X-rated home movie was freely downloadable for anyone with the software and inclination to watch it.

Mac had the software but lacked the inclination and definitely hadn’t had the time before he’d gone out to join his men for the afternoon’s work. He’d quickly Googled ‘Blaze’, just to get the gist of the story in case the newspaper headline had got it all wrong. But the web was filled with stories with similar lurid descriptions. Fortunately, the hands had kept their heads down and their mouths shut this afternoon, presumably not wishing to incur the boss’s wrath and follow Pete out the door.

In any case, fencing wasn’t something that could be tackled without all minds on the job. As it was, Mac’s wrists and forearms sported several scratches where the wire had caught him above the heavy leather gloves that protected his hands, a physical sign that his focus hadn’t been all it should.

More than once, his gaze had drifted towards Sweet Springs as it occurred to him that Pete would most likely have spent the afternoon at some country pub getting shit-faced. And as he knew first-hand, the guy was an ugly drunk. He’d be after revenge. There wasn’t much he could do to exact vengeance on Mac. The guy didn’t have the balls. But Blaze was another matter, and she was an obvious target for someone who thought Mac had something going with her.

As soon as the men trooped in for the day, Mac had made some brief excuse, set his heels to True’s flanks and made the fifteen-minute ride to Sweet Springs in twelve. Her ute was in the drive, so she must be home. He reined True in, ran up the steps and thumped his fist on the ill-fitting front door, which immediately swung open.

‘Blaze,’ he shouted. He hesitated only a second and then went straight in. He went down the hall and stuck his head in the kitchen. ‘Ms Gillespie? Blaze? Are you all right? Where the hell are you?’ Hearing a sound from the study, he retraced his steps and pushed open the door just as a grey blur launched itself at his chest.

‘Shit!’ He staggered back as a snarling dog bounced off him and into the door jamb, its teeth bared.

‘Paddy! Down, boy. Down!’ Blaze grabbed the dog by its collar, dragging it away as it snapped and snarled. It was a tug of war, but finally the dog was in the hallway, and the door shut where it proceeded to bark its head off and scratch at the door.

‘Jesus! He could have taken my head off!’ It was shock more than anything that had Mac resorting to anger.

‘Maybe I should have let him,’ Blaze retorted. She was dressed in denim shorts that made her legs look about ten metres long, and a sleeveless top in orange and red. Her burnished mass of hair was gathered to hang loosely down her back. Unpainted and unposed, she looked like the wild younger sister of the poised sophisticate pouting in the newspaper photo, and about a thousand times sexier. All the blood steamed south from Mac’s head to his cock as he stared at that full-lipped mouth.

He cleared his throat. ‘So you’re all right, then?’

She leaned back a little against the desk. An expensive notebook computer hummed behind her, next to it a pad with squiggles he couldn’t read upside down, and a folded newspaper.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Something flashed in her eyes, and her slender shoulders went back, her chin up. ‘Oh, I see.’ She tapped the newspaper with an unpainted fingernail. ‘You thought I might be tying a rope to the rafters after reading the headlines? Well, sorry to disappoint you, cowboy. Sticks and stones, and all that.’

He took a step closer, noticed that the bruising near her temple had disappeared but her gold eyes were a little red, as if she’d been crying. Interesting. He reckoned Blaze Gillespie would kill herself before she’d admit to crying.

‘Actually, it was something else. I thought . . . well, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got to get back.’ He really needed a beer.

‘Wait, I’ll make sure Paddy . . . God!’ She grabbed his left hand, staring at the scratches. ‘Did Paddy do this? Oh God, I’m sorry. He was just being protective. When you barged in here, he thought you were going to attack.’

Her cool slender fingers touched one of the little cuts made by the fencing wire, and then another. Mac’s mouth went dry. His balls began to throb. She picked up his other hand, and then looked at him.

‘No, no. It wasn’t . . .’ He struggled to get the words out. That sea breeze scent she wore combined with essence of Blaze to curl sensuously around him.

She dropped his hand as he pulled away. ‘Whatever. They need to be cleaned. Come on.’ She opened the door and murmured softly to the dog, which had calmed down. Mac let him sniff his boots, and held out a hand. The dog sniffed some more and then backed off, taking himself out the open front door.

Blaze led the way into the kitchen and over to the old porcelain sink. ‘Wash your hands. The soap is anti-bacterial.’

While he did as she said, she pulled out the salve and took a clean, dry tea towel from a drawer. When he’d finished, she inspected his hands, nodded and patted them dry.

He cleared his throat. ‘The cuts are from fencing wire. We were repairing sections of fence today,’ he said.

Blaze nodded, her head bent over his hand as she dabbed the antiseptic salve on the little cuts. She was too close to him, aware of the movement of his powerful chest as he spoke in that low, rumbling tone. His breath stirred little wisps of her hair that curled in the humid air. He smelled of man and horse and leather.

‘That should do it.’ She still held his hand. ‘That’s the second time I’ve done that since I’ve been here. Paddy had an injured paw.’

‘You named him after your grandfather,’ Mac said.

Shrugging, she moved back and thought he let out a deep breath. ‘It seemed . . . I don’t know. It was the first name I thought of.’ She returned the salve to the cupboard. ‘He must have another name, though. One day he just turned up on my porch, but he must belong to someone. Do you recognise him?’

Mac shook his head. ‘A lot of people have blue heelers around here. I’ll mention it around. Thanks.’ He held up his hands. ‘I should go.’ He didn’t budge.

Blaze closed the cupboard door and turned around. She felt ragged and on the edge, perhaps not surprisingly after crying half the morning, having read the insinuations of the newspaper article. And now this big, brooding hulk of a man was putting her even more off-balance.

In an effort to act normally, she smiled. ‘Actually, you might be able to help me. I need a recommendation: a builder or carpenter to help me remodel this place; someone sensitive to its age and style. Unfortunately, my reputation precedes me, and all I get are slammed doors – well, phones actually. But you get my drift.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ He turned to go. ‘What’s your number?’ He dragged a sleek phone from his pocket and tapped in the mobile and landline numbers she gave him before she thought to refuse.

Blaze followed him out to the porch, watching as he walked down the steps to where a silver-grey horse stood. He mounted with the ease of a man who’d been doing it all his life, plucked his hat from the saddle and put it on.

‘So if it wasn’t the headlines that brought you out here, what did?’ Blaze asked before he could leave.

Mac’s slashing black brows collided above his nose. ‘One of my guys, a jerk named Pete Woodall, was mouthing off. I fired him and thought he might have headed over here looking for trouble.’ He glanced at the watch on his broad wrist, and Blaze looked away. His powerful hair-sprinkled forearms below the rolled-up sleeves of his blue shirt made her insides shiver, and she needed to keep her mind on the important stuff. ‘He still might,’ Mac continued. ‘And he’s likely to have had a skinful. If he does show up, call me.’ He handed her a card from his wallet.