A Southern Star (24 page)

“Is that it then?” Christie turned to the doctor, adopting a businesslike tone, suddenly desperate to leave before she broke down again.
 

“Not quite,” the doctor said. “I just want to check the baby’s heartbeat again.” Christie heard Blake’s chair scrape across the hospital floor as he stood up abruptly, obviously intending to leave the room. The doctor looked up at him, back at Christie. “Go back to your friend’s place and relax for the rest of the day,” the doctor said. “I’m sure the baby is fine but just make sure you’ve got someone around to keep an eye on you.”
 

Christie froze, remembering Lisa and her family were out. “And have a good home- cooked meal,” the doctor continued. “I’m rostered on tomorrow so call back in around this time so I can see how you are.” Hysteria rose up in Christie. She knew the reality would be a light snack on her own at Lisa’s place, realised that she would have to see whether Lisa could bring her back tomorrow for the further check-up, or else catch a bus or taxi.

Unaware of Christie’s thoughts, the doctor stood up, obviously intending to check the baby’s heartbeat. Christie heard the door open as Blake left the room without a word. She shut her eyes, trying to relax, relieved at least the light-headedness had abated. “The baby’s fine,” the doctor confirmed. “Just take it easy.”

Blake was not waiting outside in the corridor for her, or in reception. Unsettled, Christie walked towards the main door, wanting to see if the car was still there, saw it gone. Her heart pounding, she took out her mobile phone, unable to believe Blake would simply leave. “He said to tell you he’ll be back soon.” Christie looked up in surprise as the receptionist spoke. Shrugging, thanking the receptionist, she took a seat in reception, still feeling slightly shaky.
 

“I hope the doctor prescribed bed rest.” Christie heard the words, looked at another young woman about her age waiting in reception, frowning politely, not understanding the woman’s cheeky tone. The woman gestured to the door as though it was obvious. “Your boyfriend. Hot!” Blushing, Christie inclined her head as words failed her, hearing the other women in earshot giggle.

Blake strode through the doors several minutes later, his dark eyes searching the reception, immediately settling on Christie. “Okay?” he asked gruffly. She nodded silently, conscious of the rustle of old magazines as the other women looked at Blake discreetly. Christie saw Blake as if for the first time, noticing with almost detached appreciation his unconscious, natural charisma, the staggering good looks, the dark eyes hinting at…
Stop it,
she told herself firmly.
Don’t go there. Focus on the baby.
He was walking over to her, she noticed, knowing she needed to thank him.

“And the baby?” Blake asked, making her realise with a shock that he had been asking about her first.
 

“Both of us are fine,” she said in a businesslike tone, standing up. “Sorry for the hassle; thanks for hanging around through all that.” She tried to camouflage her embarrassment, feeling ridiculously exposed.

Blake shrugged, his eyes still on her face, watching her intently. “No worries. Took me right back to the farm.” Her heart lurched as he grinned at her, his eyes suddenly warm.
 

“What do you mean?” Christie asked, blushing.
 

“Listening to the vet talk to Dad about the ewes on the farm.”
 

Christie gave a shocked laugh, unable to believe what Blake had just said, fighting down the feeling he was trying to reassure her, put her at ease. “That’s good then. I think,” she replied. They were almost at the car; remembering her coldness earlier, the privacy she had wanted in the consulting room, Blake hesitated, unsure how Christie would react to him assisting her into the car.

Christie bit back her disappointment as Blake stood by the car, making no move to help her after opening the door. Her mind flashed longingly back to the remembered sensation of his hands on her waist as she climbed into the car silently. Blake did not speak again for several minutes, wondering when Christie would notice, wondering whether he should say something, unable to think of another solution, bracing himself to maintain a friendly distance, a brotherly demeanour.
 

The feeling that had gripped him at the hospital still shocked him with its intensity. The news that Christie was ambivalent about her pregnancy, even keeping the baby, had shaken him to the core, her responses to the doctor’s words filling him with a sudden awareness of something he had never realised before.

“Blake.” Christie turned to look across at him as he turned off before a bridge she had driven over with Lisa. “This isn’t the way to Lisa’s house, is it? I thought we needed to cross the Shotover River to get back to Arrowtown?”

“You said she’s not home,” he replied briefly. “So we’re heading to my place.”
 

Struck dumb, Christie looked at him. “I’ll be fine at Lisa’s,” she said eventually, finding her voice. “You’ve got work.”

“My place,” Blake repeated. “Doctor’s orders.” Christie said nothing, knowing she should protest further, not torture herself with an afternoon with Blake, imagining his teasing, his warm glances, sharing his home. She sank back into the seat, telling herself she was too tired to make excuses, trying despite everything to ignore the shiver of anticipation.

“Your place then,” Christie said ungraciously.
 

“You can’t be well. I expected more of an argument,” Blake said, his voice casual as he watched the road.
 

Christie flushed, sure her feelings were obvious, painfully aware of Blake’s perceptiveness. “I just want to rest,” she snapped.
 

“Sounds like a good idea,” he said calmly.

Christie could see they were in the country; she was unable to stop looking at the scenery, the river that she knew twisted through the gorge, flashes of it visible every now and then. Blake turned into a tree lined driveway winding up the hillside. Christie frowned. “Is your new home close by?” she asked, remembering the location Scott had mentioned.

Blake nodded, explaining he lived in an old cottage made of the local schist stone, that he was having his new home built on the same property. Christie fell silent as the car rounded the curve of the driveway, seeing a picture perfect stone cottage and the tasteful stone and wooden house under construction to the side.

“You’ve based the design on the cottage,” Christie said before she could stop herself, appreciating the raked lines, the picture windows, the stone features. Blake watched her silently, remembering her refusal to help.
 

“Come into the cottage and rest,” he said tersely. Christie looked at him quickly, hurt by his words, his tone.

“Of course,” she said, acknowledging to herself Blake did not want to show her around, realising she was too tired in any case and in no state to look around a building site.
 

Christie climbed out of the car, suddenly overcome by weariness, walking towards the cottage. She heard the car boot close, realised Blake was carrying her bag. She stopped, suddenly uncertain.

Blake walked past her, unlocking the door, disappearing inside. Slowly, Christie followed him inside, looking around in amazement at the cosy lounge and kitchen, the polished wooden floors covered with rugs, the open fireplace. She saw a small hallway, heard Blake moving around in one of the rooms. Not knowing what to do, Christie sank into the sofa, her mind a tumult of emotion, finding the interior of the cottage cool, restful, after the unbearable heat of the day.

Christie looked around as Blake walked into the lounge. He seemed ill at ease, distant. “Do you want some lunch…to rest?” he asked. “Or TV, a magazine…” His voice trailed off as he did not look directly at her.
 

“If I could just rest in your spare room,” Christie said, unable to disguise the slight tremor in her voice. She couldn’t read his expression as he finally looked at her.

“Down the hall on the left,” Blake said. Christie stood up, walking past him in the small compact room, intensely conscious of his presence. She walked into the room he had indicated, stopped abruptly. Tears of anger and embarrassment filled her eyes; she took a step back. Images of the previous night filled her mind; she started trembling.

Chapter Twelve

Christie spun around as she realised Blake was standing, framed in the doorway, slouching slightly as the top of his head met the top of the door frame. “I can’t,” she said, her voice trembling dangerously. “And I won’t, I told you last night I—”

“Christie, just let me explain—”

“No,” she said furiously. “I can’t believe you thought you could bring me up here and just move me into your room.” Her voice broke with the strength of her emotion.
 

“I won’t mention last night then,” he retorted, his voice low, scathing. “You weren’t too worried then.”

Blake saw Christie’s face bleach white, instantly regretted his words. “Christie, listen.” She glared at him, still furious at his assumption, humiliated by his reference to the previous night. “I don’t have a spare bed. But I’ve changed the sheets. Try and relax.” His smile was humourless. “And don’t worry. I’m under no illusions about the reception I’d get if I tried to join you.”

Christie burned with shame as she realised he was only trying to help; instead, she had immediately jumped to conclusions. Blake gestured to the towels he had put on the freshly made bed, politely suggested she have a shower, try and cool down. “Thank you,” Christie murmured, unable to meet his eyes, tiredness washing over her. She shut her mind to Blake’s presence, suddenly desperate to rest in the cool peace of the bedroom. Blake left the room abruptly, saying nothing further.
 

Christie returned to the bedroom after a shower, feeling refreshed, calmer as she got into the bed, determined not to think about Blake. The sheets felt cool, scented lightly of soap powder. She felt a light breeze in the room, playing on her face, realised Blake had opened the window, pulled the curtains to shade the room from the harsh sun. The curtains moved slightly in the gentle breeze; Christie watched them sleepily, trying to empty her mind of the exchange with Blake just before, the words they had thrown at each other. Eventually, she turned her head into a pillow that still held a hint of masculine scent and fell asleep.

When Christie woke she sensed it was far later in the day; sleepily, she reached for her mobile to check the time
. I’ve been asleep for hours,
she thought, shocked to see it was early evening. She lay still for several minutes, feeling suddenly awkward at the situation, hoping Blake would drive her back to Lisa’s place. Christie was still tired but felt rested, more relaxed, knew Lisa and her family would be home in only a few hours.

The swooping anxiety about the baby was gone; the discussion with the doctor had finally made her focus, plan. The cautious optimism she had felt before her trip to Dunedin was returning; she resolved to contact her mother, confide in her, ask her to travel to Queenstown to be with her for the birth. She remembered the billboard she had seen advertising airfares from Sydney to Queenstown; she wondered where in Australia her parents would be on their trip in a few months.

I do have savings. And the contracting will start shortly after the birth…
Christie’s mind ran on, making plans, thinking through options. The days with Lisa’s family had made her realise what a glorious part of New Zealand this was; she knew the house sitting would allow her to explore, to enjoy a relaxed way of life.

Christie slid out of bed, pulling on a new summer dress she had brought in Dunedin, making a face as she thought of the cost of the clothes she still had in Auckland compared to the maternity clothes she had carefully selected in Dunedin at a budget chain store, only buying the clothes for herself after making sure the baby had everything it could possibly need.
Except for toys,
a small voice said inside her. Christie shook her head slightly, brushing her hair, hesitating before leaving the bedroom.

Blake looked around as Christie appeared from the hallway, unable to take his eyes away from her, her long legs, the hem of a blue printed dress swirling just below her knees, skimming over the curve of her stomach, the vee of the neckline emphasising… He swallowed, noticing her clear eyes, her calm untroubled expression betraying only a hint of tiredness.

Relieved at the obvious improvement in her demeanour, Blake smiled at Christie, leaned against the kitchen bench. “Looking better,” he said, his voice low. Christie inclined her head slightly, suddenly nervous. Blake’s face was polite, impassive, but his eyes, his voice… A shiver of longing went through her; she clamped down on it instantly.

Christie was still unnerved by Blake’s failure to tell her the truth about his work, embarrassed by the assumptions she had made. The whirlwind trip to Dunedin had been exhausting as she had fought her attraction to Blake, tried to plan for her baby and deal with the reality of Paul’s complete lack of support. Blake’s reaction to her conversation with Scott, Blake’s perceptive questions contrasted with his own lack of disclosure had put Christie on her guard, made her cautious.

And then her mind kept replaying those stolen moments in Blake’s arms, his voice whispering in her ear, his hands stroking her, his bitter, cold words to her afterwards.

Now that she was here, with Blake, in his house—in his bed—Christie still felt ill at ease, unsure how to bridge the chasm between them, unsure whether it was wise to even try. She stayed silent, conscious again of the time.