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There was something about his competency that made her pulse rush. The way he moved with such confidence, opening latches, checking dials, before putting the timber back in front of the wheels and dusting his hands on the front of his trousers. He reacted visibly when he found her watching, almost as if he’d been too distracted to notice that she was just staring at him like a fool, as though she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Cheeks heated, she turned quickly and yanked open the door of the car, scrambling in as if that could undo the embarrassment of having been caught practically drooling over him. It wasn’t as if she had a competency kink or anything, but there was something so incredibly hot about seeing a man who could do anything he set his mind to—including fly a plane.

It felt as though he was the king of all he surveyed. Including her.

She pressed a hand to her stomach and closed her eyes. Oh, baby. What have we got ourselves in for?

* * *

As soon as he’d suggested dinner, he’d regretted it. Spending the whole day with Sarah Anderson had been an exercise in restraint, and he hated that. Tate didn’t want to be aware of her in the way he was. He hadn’t wanted to look at her lying on the bed in the hospital and feel a lurch of longing deep in his gut. Not just desire, but interest, he admitted to himself, deep, deep down. Interest in her, her life, her past, her dreams. He’d wanted to talk to her, and that had made him know he ought to run a mile.

Food, though, was an essential part of life. They both had to eat. And he’d meant what he’d said, about his duty being to take care of her. It was a small thing he could do, given the turn their lives had taken.

Still, the thought of being in the intimacy of the open-plan lounge and dining room, where they’d made love on that first night, made every cell in his body reverberate, so he knew he needed to avoid it like the plague.

Besides, after a day being in aeroplanes, cars and the city, he had a hankering to be back here, outdoors, in this great, wild Outback he loved so fiercely. That had been why he’d suggested they eat on the deck at the back of the house, overlooking the swimming pool Rex’s mother had had built. It was a decent size, formed in a shape that mimicked a natural watering hole, and surrounded by native vegetation, including a couple of gums that gave dappled shade in the middle of the day, when the sun was at its most biting. It was long enough to swim laps in—he and Rex had raced often as boys, trying to outdo each other. It was only when Willa had come to stay that they’d realised a pool could also just be used for fun. To splash each other and play stupid games.

Tonight, the pool was still and glass-like, reflecting the full, round moon, and crickets hummed and clicked as an ever-present background noise. On nights like this, when the moon was bright, the magpies called to one another from one gum tree to the next, in their musical, sing-song way that Tate never got sick of. Usually, they heralded the morning, their calls filling the pre-dawn sky, beckoning him to get up and out with them.

‘The stars are so bright out here,’ Sarah said as he set down two plates of pasta then took the seat beside her, so they could both look out at the pool. Her observation was completely natural—and correct—but he heard the undercurrent of nervousness in her voice, and wondered if she was having as much of a hard time with this as he was. Feeling as though every breath was burning with a need to touch, to be closer.

‘In London, the night sky is just a haze,’ she added. Yes, definitely nervous. Her voice was strained, and when she reached for her water glass, her hands trembled slightly.

‘It’s the same in Sydney,’ he agreed, his own voice curt and businesslike, and inwardly, he grimaced.

She drew her gaze to him, then down at the food, a tight smile forming on her pretty face. ‘This looks delicious.’

He repressed a sigh at how stilted things seemed between them. Then again, wasn’t that what this week was about? To go from being strangers to people who could actually forge a life together, for the sake of their baby?

‘I can’t take the credit. Mrs James stocks the fridge. You’ve probably noticed the food in there.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, after a beat. ‘I had wondered about that.’ She lifted her fork and pushed the pasta around her plate a little. ‘Is she here often?’

‘She comes a few times a week,’ he said, scooping a forkful of the carbonara into his mouth.

‘To prepare food?’

He shook his head once, swallowing. ‘She does that at home. When she’s here, she does laundry, cleans, whatever else needs doing.’

‘So, she’s like…a housekeeper?’

He scooped some more of the pasta and held it just above the plate. ‘I guess you’d say that, yeah. She’s been around since we were kids. She used to work full-time, but now it’s just me, and I don’t entertain like my dad and stepmother used to. And she’s older now—the reduced hours suit her. I think she does some work for the family next door, too. The Stewarts.’

‘And you call her Mrs James?’ Sarah asked, a more natural smile twitching on her lips. So he ached to reach out and smudge it properly to life, to see her smile. He had a feeling it would be every bit as bright as the moon. He forced himself to glance away, to look at the pool, to study the way the silver reflection inked across its surface.

‘She would take a dim view of me calling her anything else.’

Sarah laughed softly then. ‘Are you telling me you’re afraid of the housekeeper?’

He held his fork a little more tightly. ‘She’s more than that.’

But he didn’t want to admit it. He couldn’t. It was too hard to explain how, in the midst of the cruelty of their father, the hatred and anger he’d felt from his brother, and the rejection meted out by both his mother and stepmother, Mrs James had been the one source of acceptance and affection. The one person who had seemed to see and value him, just as he was.

He clenched his jaw, ignoring the waves of resentment that were washing over him. There was no sense being bitter about the past; it couldn’t be changed. Besides, he wasn’t that boy any more, no matter how he sometimes felt. He was Tate Carrigan—successful, respected, unbreakable. Heaven knew, enough people had tried.

‘You care about her,’ Sarah surmised, so he flicked his gaze back to her face and ignored the thudding in his chest. The sense he got, yet again, that she was really seeing him, deep inside him. Not writing him off as some ruthless bastard, but recognising that he was capable of caring, too.

‘I’ve known her a long time,’ he dismissed, not wanting to be looked at so carefully. ‘That’s natural.’