A Southern Star (27 page)

“What about the alcohol?” he continued. “Had you been worried about that?”
 

Christie nodded, her face shadowing. “The first doctor I saw in Invercargill was quite disapproving. So I didn’t ask. And then the Internet said so many different things…” Her voice trailed off. She noticed Blake seemed uncomfortable.
 

“Will you have the baby in Queenstown?” he asked suddenly.
 

Christie looked at him, surprised at his question. “That’s the plan,” she said lightly.
 

“Will you enrol with the doctor you saw today?” She nodded, taken aback by his continued questions, his detailed interest, explaining she hoped to confirm the details at the follow up consultation the next day.

“With Lisa,” she added, not wanting to assume Blake could take her.
 

He tensed. “Of course,” he said neutrally. “You’d prefer to go with Lisa. But I’m around tomorrow, could take you.” He shrugged, striving for a casual, unconcerned tone, knowing he had already revealed far too much with his specific questions. “See how tomorrow turns out.”

“To remind you of the farm vet visits?” Christie asked, trying to keep the edge from her voice and failing.
 

Blake laughed, his eyes bright in the low light of the lounge. “Pregnancy is a part of nature, Christie. No point in being embarrassed about it. That’s all I meant.”

Mollified as he confirmed he had only been trying to put her at ease, Christie finished the fruit in her bowl, spooning up the last of the syrup. “More?” Blake asked. Christie nodded, embarrassed but suddenly realising that for the first time since her pregnancy was confirmed, she felt like eating, that her appetite was returning.

— # —

Christie realised Blake had fallen silent suddenly, wondered why. She relaxed back into the chair, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts, watching him surreptitiously, her breath catching as awareness of his tall, lithe frame flooded through her. Her mind whirled, images from the past two days playing in her head, instinctively aware Blake still had not been completely honest with her, was still close-mouthed about areas of his life. His abrupt silence just now had been pronounced; she wondered whether to ask him about it.

As a friend
, Christie thought ruefully, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge Blake’s comments, the blatant desire in his eyes, his continued assistance, his interest in her as a person. Lost in her own thoughts, Christie did not realise Blake was watching her, looked up with a start as he spoke. “You must be tired. After everything today.”
 

Christie tensed, miserable at his impersonal tone, despite her own thoughts, doubts. “Yes,” she said politely, realising they were both talking like slight acquaintances. “I might go—” she hesitated, her eyes fixed on the coffee table, “—to bed.”

“All right,” Blake said, his voice calm. Christie stood up, carrying the empty dessert plates into the kitchen, seeing the dishes on the bench. Covering a yawn, Christie resolved to do the dishes before she went to bed, opened cupboards as she looked for the plug, the detergent. “Leave them.”
 

She looked around, seeing Blake standing in the kitchen. “Blake, I—”

“Leave them, Christie,” he repeated, his voice rough. “You can do them in the morning if you’re so hell bent on it,” he continued, obviously making an effort to moderate his voice. Christie fled, bolting from the kitchen, unable to stay, face Blake’s sudden coldness.

Chapter Thirteen

It was much later when Christie woke. She lay watching the thin shaft of moonlight reach across the wooden floor, thinking back over the evening, acknowledging her regret, wondering again why Blake had been so distant after dinner. Again, she contrasted Blake’s gruff, genuine support with Paul.
There is no comparison,
she whispered to herself, tears glittering on her cheeks as the moonlight played on her face.

As if in a dream, Christie slid out of bed, realising her water bottle was still in Blake’s car, telling herself she needed a drink of water, looking down at her stomach and plain cotton pyjamas as she wryly acknowledged they would be an effective antidote for Blake, even if he did wake up.

Christie stole down the hallway into the kitchen, started lightly opening a cupboard, trying to remember where the glasses or mugs were.
I’ll just rinse my old glass and use that,
she thought, turning to the sink. She froze, mesmerised, as she realised Blake was standing by the kitchen bench, watching her, his arms folded casually. Her face burned as her gaze fell on his black boxer shorts, his toned, tanned body, his muscular shoulders.

Blake’s eyes watched her intently; Christie realised she could not look away. “I just wanted a drink of water,” she said faintly, forming the words with difficulty. Without a word, Blake stepped over to a cupboard, got a glass, his body illuminated in the moonlight streaming through the uncovered windows.

Christie tensed, watching silently as Blake moved close to her, reached around her, holding her next to the sink, almost embracing her; instead, she saw his strong hand turning the tap on, his other hand holding the glass to fill it with water before he placed the glass on the bench in front of them. Christie looked around, up at him, her eyes huge as he stayed standing close to her, conscious of his bare chest against her, his arms still lightly encircling her.

Christie took a deep breath, a wave of longing crashing over her, unable to be denied. “Thank you,” she said quietly, relaxing slightly against him. “For everything,” she added. She felt Blake shift slightly, felt him embrace her more firmly, his arms clasping around her waist, drawing her closer against him, her head tucked under his chin.

“No worries,” he said, his voice strangely hoarse. Christie crossed her arms over his, leaning back against him, secure in his strength, suddenly uncaring of the changes in her body, her pregnant stomach. Unwilling to move, Christie stayed leaning against him, feeling his hands lightly stroking her stomach through the thin cotton of her pyjama shirt, gently moving under the fine fabric, over her bare skin, moving upwards as he pressed against her.

Knowing she needed to talk to Blake she ducked her head, feeling him tense, his hands still briefly. “Still want to do the dishes?” he asked, his voice low, intimate in her ear, his hands continuing to caress, hold her. Christie choked back laughter as she realised she was standing at the kitchen sink, still surrounded by dirty dishes, her amusement receding, replaced by fresh desire as Blake’s touch became more insistent.

“Not right now,” she whispered, feeling him relax at her response, the warmth of his body through the thin material of her pyjamas, not wanting his touch to end, steeling herself to remind him of the physical reality before being swept away again on a strong current of intense desire.

Christie twisted against him, turning, her back to the bench, tilting her head, wanting to kiss him, almost gasping as she saw the desire in his eyes, felt his body against her. She was dimly aware of his hands ranging over her back as he kissed her deeply. Christie clung to him, her senses clamouring, knowing only that she wanted to be with him, reality washing over her as his hands curved over her stomach.

“Blake…” she began tentatively, her voice low, “I can’t…with the baby…” Her voice trailed off as Blake started lightly stroking the sides of her body.
 

“Doctor’s orders,” he commented, the intimacy in his tone making her voice catch, hearing the echo of understanding from the previous night.
 

“Yes,” she said softly, inhaling his scent, her cheek against his throat.

Christie shifted against him, wanting to be as close as possible to him, unable to imagine being apart, realising his hands were still wandering over her body, tracing a line down her spine, rubbing the small of her back, her stomach, teasing the waistband of her pyjamas. “Blake.” Christie’s voice was almost a sigh, only conscious of the intense sensation his touch was evoking.

Hazily, she realised Blake was responding to her closeness, to the press of her body, to her kisses. “Blake, we can’t…” He silenced her with his mouth, kissing her, locking her in an embrace, eventually moving his head, whispering in her ear, his intimate suggestions making her suddenly shy. His hand moved; Christie gasped with pleasure.

“What would the doctor say about more of that?” he murmured, his low voice emphasising he understood about the baby, repeating his need to be close to her, to hold her; his tact, his humour, smoothing away her doubts as he made no attempt to initiate leaving the kitchen. Completely overwhelmed, Christie nodded against him, suddenly hesitant as she suggested returning to bed.
 

“You mean the couch?” Blake’s voice was warm, intimate. Her hand played lightly across his stomach; marvelling at its tautness.
 

“Is there room for two on the couch?” He could feel the tickle of her breath against his neck as she spoke.
 

“Not really,” Blake replied hoarsely.
 

“That’s your answer,” Christie murmured.
 

“Sure?” Blake whispered against her hair. She nodded again. “Just making sure you’re awake,” he said, a thread of desire mixed with the amusement in his voice as he guided her down the hall and into the bedroom.

— # —

Christie woke late the next morning, the memory of the night before flooding back. She lay still, thinking back, remembering Blake’s touch, her reaction, his passionate response to her. She knew he was no longer in the bed, felt her heart lurch as she remembered falling asleep in his arms.

She stared up at the ceiling, focusing on the different grains in the wooden beams, trying to rationalise what had occurred. Christie acknowledged to herself she remained in love with Blake; the magnetic force of his charisma, his sense of humour, his arrogant tendency to take control, arrange things on her behalf.

And yet overlaying it all was his continued reticence, his reluctance to share entire aspects of his life. She allowed herself to think of Paul and Amanda; still shaken by their betrayal, she was troubled at the thought of involving herself with Blake who remained selective about what he told her, Blake whose charm clearly attracted not only her.

Christie ignored the small voice inside her heart protesting that he had given her no reason to worry about fidelity, had wanted her to go to a business meeting with him, taken her advice about the wine labels. A cold, foreign voice inside her mind listed the myriad of issues in her life, her pregnancy, its physical consequences, her financial position, her imminent single parenthood. All of these were surely disadvantages to someone like Blake, given his lack of closeness to his own family, his financial success; his stunning good looks. Again, the voice in her heart told her she was thinking like Paul, equating looks and money with love.

Blake had made her no promises overnight; she longed to hear words of love, commitment. In the cold light of day she wondered if last night was just opportunistic from his point of view, if she was someone to pass the time with until he could walk into the nearest bar and replace her.

Christie’s mind skittered from thought to thought, not acknowledging to herself how much Paul’s betrayal was still affecting her, damaging her judgment. Her mind replayed Blake’s outrageous teasing about reaching second base, his unquestioning understanding of her pregnancy while still making it clear he wanted her, his kisses silencing her self- consciousness about her pregnant body.

Christie felt better, calmer, after a shower, wondering what Blake would say this morning, hearing him moving around the kitchen. Steeling herself, she walked down the hallway, into the kitchen, her eyes involuntarily gazing at the bench, the sink, where last night… She realised with a shock the bench was clear, her mind seizing on irrelevant facts as she still didn’t look at Blake.

“Good morning.” His voice was cool, vaguely sarcastic as he noticed Christie’s apparent reluctance to look at him, acknowledge him. She finally replied, her face tinged with pink, glancing at him briefly, her face troubled. Blake breathed deeply, already on edge, knowing from her demeanour she regretted last night. He had started cooking breakfast, determined to talk to her this morning, explain. He glanced towards his mobile phone, sitting on the bench, silent
. I can call again this afternoon,
he rationalised.
Once I talk to Christie…

Blake looked back at Christie, unfamiliar nervousness filling him as he thought about what he wanted to tell her. Too late he had realised she hadn’t known, that his assumption was so dangerous, that people were assiduously protecting him, aware of his sensitivity.
And I’ve been gutless
, he thought, not sparing himself.
I don’t need other people to tell Christie what I can so easily tell her myself.

And he realised it was Christie who had made him see what his parents, Rebecca, his friends had constantly reinforced, tried to make him understand. Just then his phone rang; he snatched it off the bench, seeing the phone number on the screen, realising Christie was watching him. With a muttered excuse he headed outside, closing the door behind him.

Shocked at Blake’s reaction to the phone ringing, Christie moved over to check the scrambled eggs and bacon on the stove, shaking her head as she realised he had simply abandoned the cooking, wondering who could be on the phone to make him answer so eagerly, leave so abruptly.