by Leah Ashton
Ivy nodded as she smiled. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
She closed the infinitesimal gap between their mouths with a soft kiss.
‘We all make mistakes, Angus,’ she said, ‘but I know I’m not making one now.’
EPILOGUE
It was a beautiful day for a wedding.
Once again, an aisle stretched before Ivy. Once again, guests twisted on their white wooden chairs to look in her direction.
But today, it wasn’t beach sand that she walked upon.
Instead, her path was a dusty red, her destination the dappled shade of a boab tree.
It was late October in the Pilbara, the sun warm—but not harsh—against her skin. Ivy walked to the gentle sounds of an acoustic guitar duo, the only sound amongst the surrounding silent landscape of Bullah Bullah Downs.
Until Nate began to cry.
Instantly, every guest’s attention shifted to the pram that Irene Molyneux pushed back and forth, just to the left of the rest of the bridal party. Ivy’s sisters, in their emerald-green dresses, abandoned their posts beside the swollen trunk of the Boab to coo somewhat helpfully—but it was Angus, in tailored shorts and an untucked white shirt, that immediately took action.
By the time Ivy stood beside him, her son was cradled against Angus’s shoulder, and his cries had quietened to a half-hearted whine before spluttering out to a contented sigh. Angus smiled at Ivy, then kissed Nate’s dark head.
Irene gestured to take Nate back, but Ivy shook her head.
Nate was happiest in his dad’s arms, anyway.
A moment later Mila, April and Tom were all back in place, and Ivy, Angus and Nate stood before the celebrant.
A year ago, in Nusa Dua, Ivy never would’ve imagined any of this. A son, a soon-to-be-husband, a wedding.
Her whole life had been her career, her entire focus on Molyneux Mining.
But now—everything had changed.
Her career was still important, but it could wait a few more months.
Since Nate’s birth, life had been a blur—but a different type of blur from before. Rather than meetings and emails and negotiations it was all about feeding, and nappies and—if she was lucky—sleep.
She couldn’t say she loved every aspect of motherhood so far—especially not those three a.m. feeds—but she definitely, definitely loved Nate.
‘You okay?’ Angus asked, softly, as the celebrant introduced herself to the guests.
He was so handsome in the dappled light. His hazel eyes were gorgeous, and even now they made her heart leap whenever he looked in her direction. And he was a wonderful father. He’d been home for Nate’s birth, and then gone for eight weeks. It had been hard, for both of them, but now he was back for a few months and was making every moment with his son count.
Yes, she definitely, definitely loved Angus, too.
Ivy nodded.
‘No step counting?’
Ivy shook her head, surprised at the question. ‘No, not in months.’
Angus’s gaze had knocked Ivy off her axis all those months ago, but her world had realigned now. Different, but better than she ever could’ve imagined.
‘I did,’ Angus whispered.
‘Really?’
‘I counted your steps,’ he said, with a smile. ‘As you walked down that aisle.’
‘Why? Do I make you nervous?’ she teased.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I was counting backwards, counting down until you become my wife.’
‘That’s very romantic,’ Ivy said, with a smile. Angus’s gaze traced every line of her face, as if she were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. She’d never felt more loved. More happy.
He shrugged. ‘Seemed the time for it.’
Ivy laughed. ‘But—how did you know what number to start counting at?’
‘Would you believe I had special SAS training?’
‘I’d believe you got it totally wrong and ran out of numbers too early.’
Angus grinned as their son burrowed tighter against his shoulder. ‘If I did, it was only because Nate distracted me.’
He leant closer, to whisper against her ear. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’
Together, smiling, they finally turned towards the celebrant, and the ceremony began.
And as the words washed over Ivy she wasn’t worried about counting her steps, or work, or what anyone thought—or expected—of Ivy Molyneux.
As she stood here beneath the Pilbara sun, surrounded by the people she loved, all that mattered was this moment, this man, and this amazing baby they’d made together.
She’d wasted so much time terrified she’d made the worst mistake of her life that night in Nusa Dua.
But instead she’d got everything—absolutely everything—spectacularly right.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from BEHIND CLOSED DOORS... by Anne Oliver
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ONE
It wasn’t the homecoming he’d pictured. Jack Devlin pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose and stared at the two-storey house he’d lived in for the first twenty-one years of his life. For the past six years he’d been pretty successful in making a point of not picturing it.
Perhaps that was the reason he was tripping through this emotional minefield now. Being dead didn’t exonerate his father, but Jack had to concede he himself should have attempted some sort of reconciliation years ago.
But he wasn’t the same naïve young man who’d left without a backward glance. The Jack Devlin who’d scaled that trellis to his room at three a.m. till he knew the steps blindfolded and backwards seemed like someone else.
And the woman he was about to come face to face with was no longer the sixteen-year-old kid he’d left behind.
He cursed the familiar gut-punch that always accompanied that particular image and hooked a finger inside the too-stiff collar of the shirt and black tie he’d picked up at Melbourne International Airport. In this suffocating summer heat he could almost feel those memories reaching out to strangle him.
She’d be here. No matter what she’d been up to since Jack had last seen her, Cleo Honeywell would not miss his father’s funeral.
His jaw tensed as he reached for his bag. He frowned down at the shirt’s packaging creases as he hefted the pack and winced as pain shot through his injured shoulder. So much for returning in style.
The heavy aroma of greasy food wafting through the open windows overlaid the outdoor’s fragrance of lemon-scented gums. The resulting nausea churned in his stomach and the headache that had been building behind his right eye now throbbed in time with The Easybeats’ ‘She’s so Fine’ pumping from the stereo. No prizes for guessing who’d selected Dad’s favourite musical entertainment—Cleo was obviously this afternoon’s hostess.
The ground heaved and he slumped against one of the verandah pillars, gritted his teeth. Damn painkillers were wearing off. What he needed was sleep, twelve hours of blessed uninterrupted oblivion. But that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. With a deep breath, he slipped his glasses in his shirt pocket, pushed away and stepped inside.
&
nbsp; He’d missed the funeral by a good two hours, but apparently the party wasn’t over yet. A motley bunch of senior citizens in psychedelic seventies gear were still in full swing, Ben Hargreaves included. His father’s solicitor was wearing a lime and purple tie and flares. A fancy dress funeral. And why the hell not? One corner of Jack’s mouth lifted at an irony only he could appreciate. A fitting finale for the quintessential wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Then his gaze snagged on the woman in the red and white daisy-splashed halter dress with a spectacular rear end as she slung her arms round Ben’s neck for a slow dance. Her skirt—if you could call the scrap of fabric a skirt—hiked several inches to reveal equally spectacular thighs.
A different kind of heat stirred his lower body. There wasn’t a whole lot of her, perhaps five-two if you discounted the platform shoes, but the curves were all there and in all the right places. His photographer’s eye admired the form, but it was a purely masculine hum that slid through his veins.
Then she turned slightly and he got his first look at her profile.
Cleo.
For the second time in as many minutes the old punch slammed into his solar plexus. He set his pack down before he dropped the thing as what little strength he had left drained from his limbs.
He could try telling himself it was jetlag, or the fact that he’d discharged himself from hospital against the doctor’s advice and grabbed the first flight out of Rome. Face it, Devlin, you’ve never gotten Cleo out of your system. Still those slumberous blue eyes, that wild-in-the-moonlight hair. For years he’d imagined how that hair would feel in his hands, how it would look on his pillow.
At sixteen she’d been off limits, a beauty with a chip on her shoulder you could carve a monument from. He didn’t know about the attitude, but her looks had only improved.
She’d twisted her hair up into one of those clasp things that showed off her nape and made her look elegant and casual at the same time. Her full mouth, more often than not set in a pout, had been one of his forbidden fantasies.
She wasn’t pouting now and her smile was as stunning as he remembered. But then, he thought with a wry grimace, she hadn’t seen him yet.
His throat was suddenly parched. Right now he’d kill for a cold Aussie beer. Or something stronger to mask the feelings that had sprung to life again as if the past few years hadn’t existed.
Watching her, he steeled himself against anger, resentment, regret, and, churning through it all, the burning sense of loss for this girl who’d grown into a woman.
All ancient history. He let out a slow, tired breath. The sooner he finalised his father’s affairs, sold the house and got out of here, the better.
* * *
He was here.
Cleo knew by the way her scalp tingled the minute Jack Devlin arrived. Her breath backed up in her lungs and the tingling spread from her scalp, down her spine to the backs of her exposed bare legs.
She could feel those hot-chocolate eyes on her, no doubt dark with disapproval at her choice of attire for the occasion. Tough. Gerry had wanted a celebration of his life and that was what she’d arranged.
She might not have been Gerry Devlin’s daughter by blood, but he had been her father in every other sense of the word, which gave her the right to do as she saw fit. His only offspring hadn’t even had the courtesy to contact her about funeral arrangements.
Typical Jack Devlin. Too self-absorbed to think beyond his next conquest. Her lip curled. More than likely he’d been bonking some bimbo while his father lay dying.
But she didn’t feel tough. She felt uncommonly fragile. Through sheer will, or plain old desperation, she restored her smile while she tugged ineffectually at the hem of her dress, then reached up to kiss Ben’s cheek. ‘Thank you for everything. Gerry would’ve enjoyed the send-off.’
‘A pleasure, Cleo. Anything you need, just name it.’ Ben’s warm hands clasped her suddenly clammy ones and squeezed. She wanted to hang on, just a moment more—please—but his eyes flicked to the door, and her heart jolted. ‘I’ll be...it’s Jack!’
Sucking in a breath, she braced herself. And turned.
But the dishevelled man a few feet away wasn’t the fashion-savvy, smooth-cheeked Jack Cleo remembered. Oh, his broad shoulders still blocked the doorway and he still oozed that lazy, raw sexuality. Nor had his dark eyes—make that dark, bloodshot eyes—lost that uncanny knack of appearing hot and cold at the same time.
‘Jack, my boy, it’s good to see you.’
Ben’s booming voice broke the spell she seemed to find herself under. Jack’s gaze lingered on her a second longer, then switched to the man beside her.
‘I’m only sorry it’s under these circumstances,’ Ben continued. ‘My condolences.’
Jack nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Rooted to the spot, Cleo watched them come together and shake hands.
Jack hadn’t bothered to shave and he looked as if he’d just left a lover’s bed. Unkempt dark hair curled over his collar. His trousers looked as if they’d been slept in, although she didn’t imagine Jack slept in anything but a tan.
And did he think that stubble on his jaw was sexy? But her palm itched to touch; she could almost feel the roughness beneath her fingers... Heat rose up her neck and into her cheeks. Lucky for her both men were too busy talking to notice.
If the Jack she knew left stubble on his jaw, it was a skilful designer shadow. One that highlighted that dimple in his chin. The dimple she’d loved to touch just to annoy him. Of course that was before she’d become aware of him as a man rather than a brother—which he wasn’t. But there was no mistaking the fact that Jack Devlin was all man.
Once again Jack’s attention focused on her.
‘I’ll let you two get reacquainted,’ she heard Ben say as he moved away.
She wasn’t sure if the sound of music and conversation behind her dimmed. They simply ceased to exist. All she could hear was her pulse drumming in her ears, all she was aware of was the thick pounding of her heart against her chest. And Jack.
Drawing a deep breath, she forced her legs to move but stopped a safe arm’s length away. Safe? His unfathomable eyes all but devoured her. She watched them roam her face, felt them as surely as a touch—brow, eyes, cheeks. Lips... If she hadn’t known better she could have sworn—
But no. He hadn’t come back for her. He’d come back for his father.
She willed away the humiliating sting of tears. Hasn’t he hurt you enough already? He doesn’t think of you that way, never has, never will.
He smelled of the aircraft, new shirt and unfamiliar soap, but underneath she smelled the scent unique to him. The scent that had invaded her dreams for too many years.
Clenching her fists at her sides so he wouldn’t see the tremor, she lifted her chin. Even though she wore platform shoes he towered over her. ‘So, the prodigal son returns.’
‘Hello, Cleo.’ Perhaps because it was expected of family, he touched his lips to her cheek. Her breath caught, then trembled out at that first physical contact. Unlike that final fevered and furious night in his room, his kiss was cool and detached.
But no less devastating.
To compensate, she waved a careless hand behind her. ‘You’re too late.’
‘How ironic.’ He was still leaning intimately towards her. His lips were smiling, and a casual observer might have thought he was pleased to see her, but his eyes were like granite. ‘You said those exact same words the last time I saw you.’
At his twenty-first birthday party.
The night was indelibly printed into her brain. Sam Denton’s bloodied nose when Jack had punched him through the car window, his fury as he’d dragged her from Sam’s car. The shame when his father had caught Jack hustling her upstairs to his room with his jacket covering her open blouse and bare breasts.
<
br /> And that final humiliation... She’d gotten the reaction she’d wanted all right, and paid the price. Her attempts to make Jack notice her, just once, had driven him out of her life.
‘Or perhaps you were lying that night,’ he murmured.
His voice catapulted her back to the present and the reality that he was going to throw all those old hurts in her face when what he should be asking about was his father.
He leaned closer. ‘Was I?’
‘Were you...what?’
‘Too late.’
‘What are you talking about?’
His voice was even enough but his expression held no hint of amusement. ‘Convenient amnesia, Cleo?’
A fist slammed into her stomach. Amnesia would be a blessing. ‘You’re one to talk about “too late”.’ His sheer nerve, bringing up that night at his father’s funeral, made her voice clipped and hard. ‘You denied a dying man—a man I loved even if you didn’t—his last wish.’
‘Which was?’
‘To say goodbye to you.’
Something dark and disturbing flickered in his eyes. But not guilt, not even regret. ‘I came as soon as I heard.’ His voice was rock-hard, like the set of his jaw.
Probably true, but it didn’t let him off the hook. No way. She gave him her best impression of ‘do I look stupid to you?’—pouted lips, lifted brow, a look she’d perfected years ago that never failed to provoke the heck out of him.
‘If you don’t mind, Goldilocks...’ he retaliated in kind as he moved to collect his bag ‘...I’ll dump my gear and wash up. Is my old room still my old room?’
How long had it been since she’d heard that pet name? And hated it?
Since Jack.
Determined not to make it easy for him to simply slip back into her life, she shrugged. ‘If you can still find your way.’
As he bent to pick up his bag he staggered again, what little colour he had beneath his stubble leaching from his face. Cleo looked closer. His lips suddenly looked like chalk, the skin around them white and drawn. Alarmed, she fought her immediate response to lay a hand against his sweat-sheened brow and kept her voice impersonal. ‘What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?’
