A Southern Star (9 page)

Blake shrugged again, disguising his amazement at her early morning appearance simply to return his sleeping bag. “I would have walked over to the main hut this morning if I really needed it,” he said, not telling her he had in fact been about to walk back to the hunter’s hut to collect her bag before walking to the main hut to collect his. And to see her.

Christie’s heart sank at Blake’s impersonal tone; silently, she acknowledged the gaping chasm between them. When he had appeared a few minutes ago she had felt faint with longing, seeing Blake for the first time in his khaki overcoat and hunting trousers, noticing the distinct stubble on his face. Even now her eyes strayed to the gun slung over his shoulder, realising she had never seen one before she had met Blake. “It’s not loaded. And the safety’s on anyway,” he said, seeing the direction of her gaze.
 

“Of course,” she said quickly. “I mean, I wouldn’t know what’s on the gun or not.”

“The rifle,” he corrected softly, explaining the mechanics. Christie made another remark, instantly blushed as she saw the look on Blake’s face, realised the double meaning of her comment. “I’m not saying anything,” he said, obviously struggling to keep a straight face, his eyes teasing her. Christie’s sense of awkwardness increased; she remembered the other hunter’s comments, felt completely out of place even as she fought her attraction to Blake.

Blake’s eyes narrowed as he watched Christie hunch her shoulders. He wondered what had upset her so much, to the extent that she could not, would not even gently flirt with him.
And why should that be a surprise,
he thought bitterly.
She’s been cold to me ever since yesterday morning. At least,
he added silently. “You should probably be heading back to meet Ian,” he said gruffly.
 

Christie nodded, defeated. “Blake, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, assuming she was going to thank him for the sleeping bag again.
 

“Let me finish,” Christie said firmly. “I want to—”
 

“You want to what?” Blake interrupted. “Finally decide to lower yourself to talk to me?” He knew he was being unfair but couldn’t help himself. “Let me watch you talking to every other person in the hut, on the water taxi? Get escorted down here by Mark? But as soon as I—”

“That’s not true,” Christie said, her voice low as she heard the hurt in his voice, knowing he had a point. “Blake, we had dinner, we went kiwi watching, we shared a bunk. Because you wanted to,” she couldn’t resist adding, shocked as she heard her own words, remembering how desperately she had wanted to be close to Blake, the feeling of waking up held close in his arms.
 

Too late she noticed the cold anger in Blake’s face. “Yeah, you really did me such a big favour,” he said sarcastically.
 

“No, you did me the favour, Blake. I didn’t mean—”

“Sure, Christie. Like you didn’t mean to virtually ignore me yesterday morning. You didn’t mean to say—”
 

“You’ve misunderstood me, Blake. Please let me explain,” Christie said, steeling herself to tell Blake about Paul and Amanda. “And I did meet Mark, yes. But only because I mentioned I’d walked further down the beach. So he wanted to talk, talk about…” She hesitated, sensing that what Mark had told her was not something he shared readily. “He was going to walk along the beach today.” She amended what she had been going to say.

“And I can tell that even now you’re not telling me everything,” Blake accused. He made an effort to moderate his voice. “Christie, I know you talking to Mark, to whoever, is innocent, but why not talk to me the same way? You can’t even be straight with me about what you said to Mark.”

“Because I don’t want to betray Mark’s confidence,” she burst out, surprising him.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Sounds like the two of you had quite a talk,” he added, amazed that Mark, who was usually so private, had told Christie. In that moment, Christie realised that Blake knew also. She nodded and his eyes softened slightly.

“And I felt guilty last night when I realised what you’d done. Mark told me how I could find you, pointed out the track.”
 

“You felt guilty?” Blake echoed, watching her intently.
 

“Yes,” she said. “I thought you’d be cold all week.”
 

Blake’s eyes flicked away and back to Christie again, disappointment flooding him as he realised she was talking in a practical sense, rather than about her cold behaviour the previous morning. “Well you can stop feeling guilty then,” he said, his voice unreadable. “You’ve discharged your duty.”

Christie nodded silently, realising she had explained nothing of substance, merely parried Blake’s questions. “I wanted to talk to you,” she said, trying one final time.
 

“You’ve had so much time to talk to me, Christie. And I’ve tried. But it’s like getting blood from a stone.” The finality in his voice made her heart clench; she could not speak.

“Are we going hunting or not, mate?” Christie turned as she heard the surly male voice, seeing the hunter who had complained when she frightened away the deer. Her throat ached with unshed tears; she looked up at Blake a final time, knowing she needed to leave to catch the water taxi.

“You’d better head off then,” Blake said, not knowing what else to say, how to get through to her. “I’m going hunting.”
 

Christie nodded, glancing at the dunes in the distance, trying to bring herself under control. “It was only because—”
 

“What?” Blake interrupted harshly.
 

Because you mean more
,
Christie finished silently. “Thank you again for the sleeping bag, and for everything the other evening,” Christie said instead. “Everything.” She turned abruptly and walked quickly down the track, not wanting to break down completely in front of Blake.

Blake watched her go, exhaling, uncomfortable without knowing why. He heard Greg complaining again, rounded on him savagely, swearing bluntly.
I don’t know who the hell invited Greg along,
Blake thought, his instinctive dislike of the other man increasing. He could see Christie was still walking swiftly down the track, rounding a slight curve, almost out of sight.
She wanted to tell me something,
he realised.
And I kept interrupting.

Ignoring Greg, Blake strode up the track, catching up to Christie almost immediately. She swung around, obviously surprised as she heard him say her name. Shocked, he saw she had been crying. “What?” she said defensively, embarrassed that he could see her tears. “You were going hunting. And I’ve got to get going.”

“Bambi can wait,” he said irreverently.
 

“Not according to your friend,” Christie muttered.
 

Blake’s eyes narrowed. “Scott?” he queried, remembering he had heard Scott introduce himself.
 

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I do really need to get going, Blake.”
 

“You wanted to tell me something,” he stated.
 

Christie shrugged, her eyes defeated. He fought the urge to take her in his arms, conscious of his rough attire after two days and nights camping. “You’ve said it all, Blake,”
 

she replied, not wanting to admit how she felt in the face of his coldness, aware of his masculine scent, the stubble on his face emphasising his dark eyes.

“That’s it then?” he said abruptly.
 

“What more do you want?” she said, an edge of bitterness in her voice. Unable to stop himself he stepped closer, looking down at her, standing so near she could see the coarse wool of his jacket collar, the strong column of his neck. Her gaze crept upwards. Unbidden, she half raised her hand, wanting to—

“A goodbye kiss,” she heard Blake say, his voice deep, rough.

Before she could react she sensed Blake move closer, unslinging his rifle and laying it down on the tussock.
 

“Blake—”
 

His strong hands moved up to unclip the strap of her pack across her chest; Christie had a sudden intense memory of his words to her on the ferry. “Forgot to get my sleeping bag,” he said softly. “And it’s in your pack.” His touch brushed over the front of her thick woollen jersey, seeming to burn through even the fine merino top underneath.

“Why are you undoing the…” Christie’s breath strangled in her throat as his hands moved lower, snapping open the clip across her hips.
 

“So I can do them up again,” Blake replied, laughter, desire, in his voice. Effortlessly, he eased the pack off her shoulders. Again, Christie said his name, hardly realising she had spoken out loud, aware only of Blake standing close to her, the distant roar of the waves from the bay. Christie looked up at him, moving closer imperceptibly. She felt the stubble on his
 

cheek as he turned his head, pulling her against him, kissing her hungrily. Christie returned his kisses ardently, clinging to his heavy wool jacket, pressing against him.

Blake kept his arms around her, holding her tightly before relaxing his embrace. “So I’ll see you when I get back,” he said, trying to be casual, instantly registering her tense
 

reaction. “To return your sleeping bag,” he added quickly. “It’s back at the hut.” Christie relaxed slightly, suddenly relieved she didn’t have to explain despite her earlier resolve. She knew it was far too soon to be in another relationship, even a casual one, which Blake’s comments clearly hinted at.
More like spelled out in very clear words
,
Christie thought wryly, unable to clear her mind of the spiralling desire she felt for Blake, belatedly trying to disguise her feelings.

Paul’s face suddenly filled her mind; her quickly indrawn breath made Blake tilt his head to look down at her, frowning. Reluctantly, feeling strangely empty, Christie straightened up, stepped out of Blake’s embrace. “I should go,” she muttered woodenly. Blake nodded silently, stung by her continuing rejection despite her initial reaction to his embrace.
Blood from a stone,
he repeated to himself silently.

Without speaking he moved over to her pack, discarded on the ground only a few minutes ago. Mechanically, he unzipped the lower compartment, removed his sleeping bag, put it to one side. Christie moved over towards him, reached for her pack. She stilled at the look on Blake’s face, knowing she had upset him. Suddenly intensely weary, she stood as Blake held the pack for her to slide her arms through the side straps, the memory of his help on the ferry, his words only a few minutes ago, threatening to overwhelm her.

Blake moved to stand in front of her; before he could do anything more, Christie deliberately reached up herself to fasten the straps across her chest and hips, the decisive snap of each clip loud in the silence between them. She watched as Blake slung his rifle over his arm, reached for his sleeping bag, quietly appalled at her own behaviour, knowing she richly deserved the cold look he slanted at her before he walked off without another word.

— # —

Christie walked into the clearing at Freshwater Landing just as Ian threw the rope over the wooden post on the jetty. The tramp back to meet him had passed in a blur. With no time to linger at Mason Bay she had walked down the beach as if in a dream, staring blindly at the crashing surf as she replayed Blake’s words, her own behaviour.

She spoke to Ian for several minutes, minimising Blake’s presence, emphasising the incredible scenery. As she mechanically answered Ian’s polite questions, Christie’s mind was still on Blake, realising he still had to return her sleeping bag.
I’ll talk to him then
, she decided, not wanting to leave things between them as they were. Christie was uncomfortably aware of the grains of truth in what Blake had said as she agonised again over how to explain herself.
Maybe I shouldn’t say anything
, she decided suddenly, as the water taxi bumped against the wharf at Golden Bay.
Blake will just drop off the sleeping bag at the hotel and that will be that. I can hardly expect anything more,
she thought, remembering the coldness of his words, her own contrary behaviour.
An explanation won’t fix things.
 

Again, Ian helped Christie with her pack, not commenting on her sudden blush. Soon Christie was back at the crib, looking forward to a hot shower and a comfortable bed. Exhausted, she fell into bed early, thoughts of Blake filling her mind.
So much for Paul,
she thought sleepily.
Maybe I will talk to Blake
.

— # —

The next day at the hotel was a haze of people and routines; Christie was relieved as she realised it was almost the end of her shift. Smiling, she handed room keys and copies of a tourist map of the island to two middle—aged women who had just checked in. They smiled back, still preoccupied with their own conversation. Christie focused on what she needed to tell the next receptionist, only half listening to what the two women were saying as they walked up the stairs.

“She’s so thrilled,” Christie could hear one of them say. “They’ve been trying for so long, and she’s so lucky, no morning sickness.”
 

“Really?” the other woman commented. Christie froze, feeling like ice cold water had just washed over her.