A Southern Star (22 page)

“I guess I’d better prepare for a barrage of questions.” Amazed, Blake realised Christie was talking to him, her voice deadpan. He stopped walking, waiting for her to catch up, his gaze questioning. “Scott thought we were together, wanted to get breakfast for both of us.” She looked up at him briefly, mentally crossing her fingers Scott had not told him about her ordering Blake’s breakfast. “So I had to tell him we weren’t. And it won’t be long before Mel finds out.”

A wave of relief washed over Blake, mixed with humour as he realised Christie was so fiercely independent she wouldn’t even accept a free breakfast from one of his friends. “But Scott did get you breakfast,” Blake said, trying to keep his voice neutral, realising now why she had told Scott.
 

Christie smiled suddenly. “Scott said I needed to keep my strength up for the hours of questioning ahead.”

“Don’t worry,” Blake said, his voice becoming light, teasing as he started to relax. “Scott won’t have been able to get a word in edgewise to tell Mel anything.” Christie fell silent, realising how much she enjoyed Blake’s abrasive wit, his dry sense of humour, even as she acknowledged the hurt she felt at his lack of openness about his life. Her gaze became troubled as she approached the car, filled with doubt as she thought again of Blake’s secretiveness.

Christie heard the click of the car unlocking, reached for the door, tensed as she felt Blake’s hands lightly on her waist as he stood close to her. “I told you to hold on,” he said, his voice low, suggestive, an unmistakeable echo of his words on the ferry, words that seemed a lifetime ago now.

Her body almost betrayed her, the longing to relax back against him so strong it was a tangible thing to her, only emphasising his solicitous attention. “I told you I’m fine, Blake.” Desperate to disguise her longing, the seductiveness of Blake’s concern, she spoke coldly. He instantly removed his hands, stepped away without a word. Christie climbed into the seat, her face set.

In her mind, Blake’s secretiveness was another representation of Paul’s infidelity, his betrayal, as Christie asked herself why Blake had deliberately withheld any explanation about his career, his new home. Her thoughts battled with the memory of his touch; she barely noticed Blake turn the car back onto the road, hardly registered or responded to Scott’s questions about her impressions of the landscape and the small towns they had driven through.

Exhausted by her thoughts, Christie eventually made a conscious effort to join the discussion in the car, welcoming the distraction. Mel had fallen asleep; Scott and Blake were discussing Blake’s house, the progress of the builders, what still needed to be done. Interested despite herself, Christie made a couple of comments, asking about the design, the plans. Blake shot her a look, obviously taken aback by her grasp of practical design, the dimensions of the home.

Clearly making an effort, he volunteered information about the design, answering her questions, responding to her genuine interest. Scott became quiet and Christie realised he too was asleep; that the conversation was now solely between her and Blake.

“You said yesterday you were interested in design,” Blake said, searching for a neutral comment. Christie nodded, explained she had studied different aspects while obtaining her graphic design qualifications. “I need ideas,” Blake said suddenly. “For inside.” Christie shrugged, trying to mask the way she was feeling. It would be an amazing house to see, obviously, the features the architect had included sounded innovative, but the last thing she wanted to do was involve herself further with Blake.

In her work, her career, she was confident, decisive, but now she was suddenly conscious of feeling out of her depth, uncertain of her ability. Silently, Christie realised this was because of her feelings for Blake, instinctively tried to shield herself from more heartbreak. She shook her head, trying to justify her reluctance.

“I don’t think I could help, Blake. I don’t know any of the shops around here. And it’s such a…” she faltered suddenly, “personal thing. It’s your home after all… no one else could tell you what to like, what to choose.” Christie stopped abruptly, looked away.

Blake had seen the flash of interest in her eyes, her unmistakeable interest in the conversation, was frustrated at her refusal to help. “Look at everything you’ve found in Dunedin, just by using the Internet,” he said. “And it won’t be finished for several months. You could look at it then, give me some ideas. Or I could choose the colours, and you can check what I’ve chosen.” He had continued to speak as though she had not turned him down.

“No,” Christie said, softly but firmly. “Sorry.”

“But you’d help if it was Lisa’s house, wouldn’t you? Or Scott’s house,” Blake continued, naming other people they both knew. Christie kept her face averted, didn’t answer him. She heard Blake exhale but he said nothing further, drove in silence, upset at her refusal to help.

“Those nightclubs in Auckland sell your wine,” Christie said suddenly, surprising him.
 

He realised she was thinking about the winery, glanced at her. “Yes,” he replied.
 

“So that’s why you know those clubs,” she continued.
And that restaurant,
she thought silently, remembering his comment at Mason Bay. He nodded.

Christie kept asking him about the winery, the pinot noir the region was famous for, the other varieties, following on from the conversation at lunch with his family. “And how did you become a part owner of the winery?” Christie asked. Blake answered after a brief hesitation, explaining how he had studied, then worked overseas at wineries and in viticulture in technical positions and then management, saved considerable capital, then decided to return home for the lifestyle. Christie noticed he did not mention his family as a factor in his decision to return to New Zealand.

Blake kept talking, telling Christie how he had found out about the winery, which had been in financial difficulty, needing backers, how luck with an investment had meant he had been able to purchase not just an interest but a majority share, together with business partners he had known for years.

“So I, we, are working to turn it around,” he continued. “I went to Stewart Island to help Tony out, he’s also got a small silent share in the winery, as well as the tourism venture. He needed some business advice. Once we knew the winery purchase was definitely happening, it was a good chance to get together and plan. And with the house, it’s been busy,” he added, silently thinking how he had travelled between the island and the winery, drawn back to the island at any excuse, far more often than he had ever planned, by Christie’s presence. “I wanted to help with the house, but there’s been so much going on, in the end I’ve left a lot of it to the builder and subbies.”

Blake glanced at Christie as he drove. “Subcontractors,” he explained automatically, seeing her unspoken question.
 

Christie said nothing, still embarrassed by her earlier assumptions, Blake’s comments about the incorrect conclusions she had drawn, the comparisons to Paul he had accused her of making.
But that’s not true,
she thought desperately, still upset that Blake had not told her the truth to start with. “What else haven’t you told me?” she asked weakly, trying to joke, uncertain of her feelings.
 

“That’s everything,” he lied, his heart pounding. Christie remained silent.

Chapter Eleven

Twenty minutes later, after dropping Mel at her flat, Blake pulled into a long curving driveway on the edge of Clyde, shaded by magnificent established trees. Christie looked out the side window, seeing a huge copper coloured dog coming out to bark ferociously at the car.

“He’s a teddy bear, really,” Scott said with a laugh, jumping out of the car, grabbing the dog with rough affection, smiling as the dog growled softly as if in greeting. Ignoring Blake’s automatic caution, Christie got out of the car, fascinated by the dog—
another thing Paul didn’t like,
she thought suddenly—realising it was now sitting obediently by Scott, its tail thumping the gravel in greeting.

Christie approached, asking Scott about the dog, reaching out to pat it, noticing its amber coloured eyes watching her, the alert expression, the soft growl changing in tone but not in the least threatening. Scott’s parents came out of the house, greeted her pleasantly.

The day was already baking hot; suddenly feeling faint, Christie returned to the car for her water bottle, realised Blake had come around to talk to Scott’s parents, unloaded Scott’s bag. Seeing her get the bottled water, Scott immediately suggested they stay for a drink; Christie was aware of Blake’s stillness, his hesitation. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, recognised the tenseness in his body.

Blake spoke before she could, saying they needed to be on the road, to get back for his work commitments. Christie frowned, unable to fathom the undercurrent in Blake’s response to all of Scott’s suggestions. Half annoyed, half relieved, wanting to be back in Arrowtown so she could rest, Christie turned to Scott and his parents. “I would just like to go for a quick walk, stretch my legs, before we go,” she said, asking if she could wander round the garden.

The dog bounded to join her, his copper coloured coat glowing in the sun, the colours of the summer garden brilliant. Being out in the fresh air relaxed Christie after the turmoil of the journey back from Dunedin; she knew it was now only about an hour’s drive back to Arrowtown. Still noticing the heat, she sipped at her water, seeing a wooden seat in the shade, walking in that direction. She had read how pregnancy could affect body temperature, was acutely aware of the hot day, the sun on her face.

Christie settled onto the seat, automatically patting the dog as it stayed close to her, pleased to be in the shade, thinking about Blake’s reaction to Scott’s invitation. It was clear to her Blake did not in fact trust her, was overreacting to everything Scott said, no matter how innocuous.
And now Blake was upset she had refused to help him with his house…
She sighed softly, her eyes reflective as she tried to think of a way to extricate herself from Blake’s assumption she would help.

Christie had been embarrassed when Blake had asked whether she would help Lisa or Scott, had not known how to respond, uncomfortably aware he was right. Christie silently acknowledged to herself the cost to Blake for the trip to Dunedin, part owner of the winery or not. He had paid for petrol, for most of the meals, shared his own business accommodation and now she had refused to help him with something within her expertise.
 

Christie squared her shoulders, gazing at the magnificent garden without really seeing it as she tried to think of a way to help Blake but still maintain a distance from him. His evident lack of trust hurt her and she knew that throwing herself into a design project with him was a recipe for disaster. The dog put his head on her knee, whined softly. “Exactly,” Christie said, smiling suddenly, rubbing the dog’s ears.

“Feeling all right?” She turned around at the sound of Blake’s voice.
 

“Fine,” she said briefly, looking up at him, clamping down on the rush of desire, maintaining a polite tone.
 

Blake watched her, hesitating before he spoke further. His eyes were dark, shadowed. “I suppose you did want to stay for a drink, did you?” he said abruptly, thinking of Christie’s refusal to help him with his house, her evident friendliness with Scott. Jealousy surged through Blake again.
 

Christie looked back at the dog; its amber eyes were fixed on her. She stood up, picking up her water bottle. “No,” she said clearly. “Not if it means watching you misinterpret everything Scott says.”

“I said I trusted you,” Blake protested.
 

“Yes, you said,” she replied, emphasising the last word.
 

“But not Scott?” she guessed.
 

“Of course, I trust both of you,” Blake said, clearly uncomfortable.
 

“So what’s the problem then?” Christie said bluntly.
 

He was silent, not wanting to acknowledge the way he was feeling, bitterly aware he could not reasonably object even if she and Scott… Deep down, Blake acknowledged he was being unreasonable, that his friend was only being polite, Christie the same. For some reason he found he could not expunge the image of Christie laughing, talking openly with Scott at the café, her relaxed acceptance of Scott’s assistance when she almost fell, her coldness when he himself tried to help her, contrasting so completely with her words in the night.
I may as well still be the stranger on the ferry,
Blake thought to himself silently.

Of course he had been aware of the talk on the island, the ripple that had gone through the community on Christie’s arrival, her generally acknowledged striking looks the subject of much discussion among his mates. He had managed to keep a distance from all of that; now for the first time he had watched one of his close friends really interact with Christie, get to know her.

Realising she was watching him, waiting for an answer, Blake kept his tone casual. “There is no problem, Christie. Scott has invited us to stay for a drink, even for an early lunch, up to you.” Christie looked away, far from convinced, noticing his deliberately unconcerned tone. The dog had moved over to sit by Blake; she looked at it a moment, her gaze moving back to Blake’s face.

Christie realised she was starting to feel slightly light-headed, almost dizzy, even though she was in the shade. Suddenly, she longed for the air-conditioned cool of Blake’s car, hoping to be able to rest. “Can we get back on the road, Blake?” she asked softly. “You said you’ve got your work…”