A Southern Star (7 page)

“Quiet, look.” He gestured over to the tussock. Incredulous, Christie watched another kiwi emerge from the tussock, following the first. She realised Blake had kept his hand on her arm; her heart lurched as the continued touch of his hand sent waves of longing through her. Suddenly nervous she looked up at Blake, felt herself held by his gaze, his face shadowed in the dark of the night.

“Blake, I…” she began, fell silent as he continued to watch her, hypnotised by his gaze.
 

“Quiet,” he repeated, his voice warm, still making no move to shift his hand or to move closer to her. Christie shivered with longing; she sensed Blake tense. “You’re cold.” Christie nodded, unable to say anything or admit the truth. Imperceptibly, he moved closer.
 

“Here, take my jacket.” Christie shook her head, frozen with desire. The mental image of Blake shedding his jacket was seductive, dangerous. She felt him remove his hand from her arm, heard the zip of his jacket, loud against the distant roar of the waves breaking on the sand.

“Blake, no, I don’t need your jacket,” she managed to say. She took a step away from him, looked up, trying to calm herself by focusing on the night sky. The stars seemed impossibly bright against the black sky, unlike anything she had ever seen in Auckland. Christie tensed as she felt Blake move towards her. He registered her tension; disappointment gripped him like a vice.

“That’s the Southern Cross,” Blake said quietly. “No city lights or pollution to dull it.” As though hypnotised, Christie gazed at the Southern Cross, focusing on the inky sky, hearing Blake as he pointed out the pattern that made up the famous constellation. She remained silent, intensely conscious of Blake’s proximity, the sound of his voice, the vastness of the landscape. “So that’s it then,” Blake continued, a range of meanings in his voice, hoping against hope she would turn to him. “You’ve seen the kiwis now.”

“Yes,” Christie said, still looking up at the sky, able to feel his gaze on her, realising he was moving closer to her, realising what that meant, what it would lead to. “Blake, I just came to the island for some time away, time to myself.” She sensed his shock at her words.
I should be able to explain,
Christie thought, hating herself for her inconsistent actions, her vague explanations. She finally looked at him, able to think of nothing else but being in his arms, unable to find the words to openly acknowledge how she felt.
To be in Blake’s arms, to share the night with him, to forget about the heartbreak Paul had caused…

She remained stubbornly silent, unable to explain even as she tried to fight her desperate longing. Blake did not move, said her name quietly, insistently. “It would be a mistake,” Christie said eventually, each word heavy on her heart.
 

“I don’t believe you,” Blake said. “You’re not being honest with me. Or yourself.” She said nothing further; he shrugged. “Have it your way then,” Blake said, his voice impersonal. “I’m heading back to the hut now anyway.”

— # —

Christie pushed open the painted wooden door to the room, sick at heart. Blake had been completely silent on the walk back to the hut, as Christie became increasingly upset with how she had handled things.
I could have explained properly,
she thought, still uncomfortable at the way she had shut down Blake’s advances, so completely, numb at the idea of sharing a room with Blake.
Or acted on my feelings.
She cringed inwardly as she replayed the way she had ignored or turned away from each and every one of Blake’s comments and blatant hints over the evening.
Hypocrite,
she thought to herself, Blake’s final words about honesty ringing in her eyes.

Christie briefly contemplated moving into the main room, remembered how crowded it already was.
At least there’s a third person in here now,
she realised, seeing another pack as she looked around the room, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. A traitorous voice inside her asked where Blake was; he had disappeared immediately after they reached the hut, pushing open the door to the main room without saying anything.

Exhausted by her thoughts, Christie unfurled her sleeping bag, each action seeming to take superhuman effort. Clamping down on her disappointment that Blake had not returned, she got into her sleeping bag, unable to believe how tired she was.
At least I don’t have time to think,
she thought sleepily, as she clicked off her torch and immediately fell asleep.

Chapter Four

Christie’s eyes snapped open in the pitch black of the hut, her heart pounding, panicking as she realised the nightmare had woken her.
Did I call out,
she wondered wildly, choking back a sob.
Is Blake still asleep…what did I say in my dream…
Christie’s thoughts spiralled; unsure what to do she turned over, facing the wall. She tensed in her sleeping bag, trying to calm herself, trying not to cry as mingled heartbreak and confusion suddenly overwhelmed her. She heard the rustle of a sleeping bag, shut her eyes tightly, listening. “Christie.” Her eyes flew open in the darkness, wondering whether to answer. “I know you’re awake.” Blake’s voice was rough. “You ’right?”

“Yes, fine,” she said softly, not trusting herself to say more. She tried to relax, deliberately not thinking of what Blake might have heard her say. She shut her eyes again, utterly exhausted emotionally, on edge at the knowledge Blake was awake. Acutely attuned to every sound, Christie heard Blake unzip his sleeping bag, the creak of the old wooden floor. Unable to breathe, Christie listened silently to Blake walking across the floor, stand next to her bunk. She could feel his hesitation.

Without stopping to think she sat up, unable to see his face in the darkness. Half asleep, still groggy from the nightmare, Christie felt for her torch, moved to the edge of the bunk, reaching over to her pack for another woollen top. “What’s going on?” he asked.
 

“Just cold,” Christie said, holding the woollen top.
 

“Cold,” he repeated disbelievingly. “Let’s try the truth, Christie. What’s going on?”

“I must have had a bad dream,” she said carefully. “Sorry if I—”
 

“What was the dream?” he interrupted tersely.
 

“I don’t really remember,” Christie said, her voice trembling dangerously. Blake said nothing and in his silence, Christie realised he did not believe her denial.
 

She heard him exhale as he swore quietly. “Are you going to be honest with me?” Blake asked, his voice low.
 

Christie tensed as she heard the frustration in his voice. “It’s just a bad dream,” she repeated, still not comfortable explaining Paul to Blake.
 

“I don’t believe you,” he said, his gaze pinning her in the glow of the torch beam.

 
“Whatever,” Christie said. “Please don’t make a big deal out of it, Blake. Just go back to bed.” Christie could hardly breathe, acutely conscious of Blake standing by her bunk, watching her. Desperately, she hoped her explanation would at least shut down his relentless questions, the unbearable hint of concern behind his rough tone. He did not move, still standing by the bunk, frustrated she would not talk to him when he had heard her call out, thinking what he had heard her say.
 

He tried a final time. “You won’t talk to me then?”
 

“Blake, just leave it, please. I don’t want to talk about it.” She felt his frustration like it was a physical barrier between them, heard his quiet oath. Christie stared blankly at her torch, watching the shaft of light glowing, illuminating the wooden bunk frame, the top of her pack. She heard Blake returning to his bunk, fought the mingled disappointment and relief.

Too late, Christie realised he was returning, crossing the small room in only a few strides, ducking his head, climbing around her into the bunk, catching her with his arm and silently pulling her against him before she could react. “No talking then,” he said, his voice unreadable.
 

“Blake, I…Stop,” Christie began disjointedly, trying to form a sentence as he threw his open sleeping bag over them both like a blanket. She acidly pointed out it was a single bunk, frantically seizing on a practical complaint as desire rippled through her, instantly realising how revealing her comment was.
 

“Is that your only problem?” Blake’s voice was low.
 

“No, it’s not,” she began heatedly, denying her desire. “Just because—”

“Christie, listen.” Blake’s voice was still unreadable. “It’s a wide bunk. You’re still in your sleeping bag and we’re both wearing God knows how many layers of wool. And—” he paused, “—you can change bunks any time. I’m the one against the wall. Up to you.” Christie stayed silent, incapable of moving, able only to think of the reassuring strength of Blake’s body warming her through her sleeping bag, the extra warmth of his sleeping bag over hers. “You did say you were cold,” he added, his voice low in her ear, sending a shiver of desire down her spine.

I should leave the bunk
, her mind told her, even as her heart rejoiced at Blake’s closeness, the cocoon of warmth his body created, the light pressure of his arm burning through her sleeping bag, sending a trail of desire around her waist. Unable to speak without completely betraying her emotions, Christie made a half-hearted attempt to swing her legs out of the bunk, feeling Blake tense. She hesitated as she felt Blake’s arm tighten almost imperceptibly around her.

“I want to go,” Christie whispered, her voice heavy with unshed tears and hidden longing.
 

“Nothing’s stopping you,” Blake replied calmly.
 

“Your arm is around me,” she said, hating herself for her pretence, her denial of her true feelings.
 

“You can still go,” Blake said, the tension in his body belying his tone. Christie paused, her heart pounding, conscious only of Blake, her nightmare a dim memory now swept away by his presence. “Or you can stay.”

Blake’s voice remained low but to Christie it assumed the imperative of a direct command, echoing the voice in her heart. As if in a dream, she curved her legs back onto the bunk, trying to relax. “You’re staying then,” Blake said quietly.
 

Christie snapped off the torch, casting the hut back into darkness. “No talking,” she reminded him, real light-heartedness in her voice for the first time in weeks. She heard, felt, the low rumble of Blake’s laughter, sensed his arm tighten around her.

— # —

Christie woke up slowly the next morning, realising with a start her head was resting against Blake’s chest, feeling the rough wool of his jersey, the even rhythm of his breathing. Panic filled her, humiliation close behind as she remembered kiwi watching, the nightmare, Blake sharing her bunk. Christie tensed as she realised she was still fully clothed, embarrassed at the direction her thoughts were taking. She realised she had slept through the rest of the night without waking, that it was now morning, pale sunlight lighting the room.

“Don’t worry, nothing happened.” Christie heard Blake’s words with a shock, desperately tried to remain calm, casual.
 

“You jumping into the bunk was hardly necessary,” she said, hating the edge in her voice.
 

“Hindsight,” Blake said, his sarcasm unmistakeable, his voice close in her ear.
 

“God knows what that other tourist thought,” Christie continued waspishly.
 

“I thought it was fairly G-rated actually,” Blake retorted. “Apart from your dream, of course. Which you won’t talk about.”

“That dream had nothing to do with you,” Christie said, pulling away from Blake, hurt.
 

“That was obvious,” Blake said cuttingly, not wanting to betray his confusion, his hurt at Christie’s reluctance to explain. He had instantly accepted the offer to join a hunting group at the last minute, hoping to spend time with Christie, that the hut would not be too crowded, that… He thought back over the evening, the kiwi watching, still able to taste the disappointment of Christie’s indecision, of the other tourist taking a bunk in the room at the last minute. Each moment of the evening played out in his mind.

If only those memories weren’t so vivid
, Blake thought, fighting down the cautious hope he had felt when Christie pointed out the empty bunk in the room. To lie there through the night knowing she was in the room and then next to him, in his arms, had been almost unendurable, knowing he could make no real physical advance, trying to decipher her mixed messages.
 

Still trying to disguise her feelings, Christie sat up on the edge of the bunk, ignoring Blake, unzipping her sleeping bag as she tried to forget her dream and the night in his arms. Silently, she focused on looking in her pack for breakfast, conscious of Blake still lying in the bunk, watching her. She smiled politely at the tourist as he walked into the room to collect his pack, left again.

She sensed Blake move, half turned, acutely aware they were now alone in the room. Hastily, she made a comment about breakfast; Blake’s eyes narrowed. “And now I’ll mention the weather, shall I?” he said scathingly. “We can have a nice safe conversation.” Christie turned away, her face burning at his obvious derision.
Which is justified
, she thought despairingly.
One moment we’re almost kissing in the sand dunes and the next asleep together, and now I’m making small talk about porridge.