His Brand of Beautiful

by Lily Malone

  “How did you get the colours?”

  “I painted them,” Leesa said, head down. “I was photocopying more templates so I could take them home over the weekend.”

  “Does Jobe know you’ve done this?”

  “Yes. He told me to. I hope I haven’t got him in trouble.”

  “No one’s in trouble. These are great.” He passed the page back into her trembling hand. “You take whatever copies you need. I want to see what you come up with on Monday.”

  He grabbed the box of crackers and dips and carried them up the stairs, Ruth two steps behind.

  Outback Brands’ staff sprawled in the boardroom chairs. Some leaned against the glass-fronted cabinet spanning the far wall. He dumped the box in the centre of the table Lily Malone

  and left the PR team to sort it out. They excelled at that sort of thing, drinks and nibbles was part of the job description.

  Two hours later, he did it all again. Only this time he balanced the whitest spray of orchids with a bottle of Montgomery Sauvignon Blanc, more crackers, a decadent slab of Tasmanian brie and Christina’s favourite brand of smoked-salmon dip.

  Slotting his key into 225 Three Oaks Lane? It felt like coming home.

  Chapter 18

  A key scraped.

  Tumblers clacked in the lock and it woke Tate so fast the rush of adrenalin crushed any hint of jet lag. The rainforest scent in the pillows told him exactly where he was, he didn’t need a light to know the ceiling overhead wasn’t speckled with the mould of some Darwin motel.

  The rain that had lulled him to sleep thrummed faint percussion on the iron roof. He hadn’t shut the curtain and streetlights streamed over the bed. A check of Christina’s clock-radio showed seven thirty-three—he’d been comatose for about half an hour.

  Three Pale Ales would do that. It had been a long day. Technically two long days of airports and playing backseat pilot from Canberra to Darwin, Darwin to Alice and Alice Springs to Binara. Even by his standards, today’s flight home had been an early start.

  “Don’t tiptoe, Christina. I’m awake,” he called to the muted jangle of keys in the hall.

  He heard the front door close. A switch clicked and light spilled over the jackets on the coat rack. A rectangle of light fell through the doorway to the carpet.

  “Who’s tiptoeing?”

  His heart skipped. Satellite phones couldn’t do justice to that buttery voice. Propped on his elbows, he waited for the tap of heels. Then a shadow in a light-coloured shirt blocked the door. A shadow made bulky by a laptop and a— sportsbag? He sat straighter.

  Chestnut hair gleamed beneath a— baseball cap?

  “Lady I think you got the wrong house.”

  No wonder Christina hadn’t made a sound on the tiles, those were joggers on her feet. “Did you hold a corporate golf day at Clay Wines or something?”

  The breath she let out was more like a snort. “No, silly. I told you I had plans with Lacy. We’ve been running.”

  “In this weather? You’re shitting me.”

  “Lacy didn’t want to miss a session this close to the City to Bay. We took turns on her treadmill.”

  The toe of her joggers peeked over the carpet but each heel stayed in the hall, like she played a child’s game where only the tiles were safe.

  “When you told me you had plans with Lacy, I thought you meant a few drinks after work.” He held out his hand. “Come here. Where have you buried the woman who owns this house?”

  There was an edge to Christina’s giggle and he told himself to take it slow. She had to get used to him again. She stood frozen in the doorway, eyes dark orbs in the pale oval of her face.

  After a long moment, the sportsbag thudded into the nearest corner. A water bottle sloshed inside but it was only when she took that first step into the room that he felt himself relax. She laid the laptop carefully over a scrap of pale material on her sewing table, yellow in the filtered light. A branch scraped the window and the laptop slipped from her hands, bumped. She swore.

  “Is everything okay? You seem a little jumpy.”

  Christina stared out into the rain. Muddy light illuminated the curve of her cheek, showed him the hitch in her profile where she chewed at her lower lip.

  Lily Malone

  “It’s this deal I had to make with Saffah and Richard to get Cracked Pots. I tread eggshells all day. I worry about every cent we spend. I’m not used to it.” She closed the curtain and the light winked out.

  “I can’t imagine anyone making you do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “Can’t you?” Her question hovered in the air between them.

  Her weight shifted to the other leg. He sensed, more than saw movement and then her knee dug into the top of the mattress and it bounced and she dove at him, slipped on the quilt, cannoned into his chest and almost knocked him flat. His arms went around her and he took her back to the mattress with him.

  Her cap pecked his temple. Damp hair whipped his jaw and something wet trickled down his throat. Rainwater or tears? He didn’t know. Holding her still on the bed was like trying to keep a water-loving retriever from leaping off a boat. The cap came loose, cartwheeled to the floor.

  She crawled up his body, tangled her arms around his neck. The mattress shook, made their bodies rock and slide in ways that reminded him of other times, other places. He felt new firmness in the thighs clamped around his hips, a layer of muscle coiled beneath the soft flesh.

  “Hello,” she sighed.

  “I’ve missed you.” He filled his lungs with her scent. Her breath warmed his throat.

  “I can tell.”

  “You’ll break it off at that rate,” he grunted, readjusting her weight over the growing ridge of his cock, easing her arms from their stranglehold around his jugular.

  She laughed—nothing forced in it this time—and folded her forearms flat across his chest so the point of her chin was on the back of her interlaced hands. He wished for more light, he would have loved to see her face. The tip of his finger traced silky soft skin at the exact point where her cheek joined her ear. It came away wet. Putting it to his lips he tasted salt.

  “You’re not crying?”

  “Not exactly. I’m happy. I think.” She wiped her cheeks with the backs of both hands and sniffed. “Hell, I don’t know. I really am an emotional wreck. I’m such an idiot.”

  She laid her ear flat against his chest like she listened for his heartbeat. No stethoscope required there. It could move mountains.

  “You’ve lost weight,” he said.

  “I haven’t actually. I’m just a bit more—” she hesitated over the word, settled on:

  “toned.”

  “Are you now? More toned? Let me see.” His hand found bare skin at her waist and it quivered to his touch. When he placed his palm beneath the curve of her belly it thrust back at him. “That’s definitely firmer than I remember,” he teased, breathing her in. Loving her.

  Abruptly, her weight disappeared and something heavy thudded to the floor. It took him a second to work out what . A jogger. Then its partner. He was stretching for the bedside lamp when a ripping buzz from the foot of the bed diverted his attention completely.

  Christina knelt there, her hand on the zip of a now three-quarter‐open shirt, breasts spilling from a black sports bra, a triangle of light from the hall shining through her spread knees.

  She took his breath away.

  He reached for the soft swells. The bra had no hook so he had to pull the material out and down to tumble her breasts free. He’d forgotten how full they were. How ripe.

  Were they bigger? She leaned forward until her nipples dangled above his mouth, her palms on his chest and when he lifted his head to tongue at her, she moaned. That little sound was electric. Everything inside him boiled.

  Her fingers tugged at the buckle on his belt, then his fly. Fingernails scratched his pubes. She knelt beside him on the bed, hair veiling her cheek. She didn’t bother to remove his jeans and her f
ingers sprang his cock free.

  He tried to get at the drawstring of her tracksuit pants but she moved her hips out of reach.

  Tongue and lips enveloped every straining inch. His hands clenched into fists and he lost himself in the delicious sensations of tug and suck and pull.

  “Jesus, Christina. You had me at hello.”

  She lost her rhythm for a few seconds as her mouth shaped into a grin, but then she had it under control and took him into the back of her throat. Her hand chased her mouth up and down his shaft.

  He wanted to make love to her, wanted to be inside her and he groaned, fighting the wave because she was going too fast and it had been way too long and he didn’t want it to end. Ever.

  “Christina. Baby. Stop. Give me a minute. You’ll make me come.”

  Her moan of denial vibrated around his cock. If anything she sucked him even slower, even deeper. The way she knew he couldn’t resist.

  He reached for her breasts—the only part of her body she’d let him touch—and cupped the warm weights in each hand and he knew he couldn’t wait. As his hips thrust to meet her mouth he clasped a hand to the back of her head. Not because he thought she might pull away, because it felt so. damn. good. To hold her to him like that.

  He remembered the orchids later.

  ****

  “You were hungry,” he said over dinner, eyeing the dribble of oil on her lips as she licked homemade mango salsa from her finger and reminded him again of what she could do with her tongue. A nest of chicken-wing bones lay strewn across her plate.

  “We had the same amount. You’ve been talking too much.” Her gaze dropped to the remnants in the salad bowl like a seagull ogling the last chip on the beach. “Don’t you want that?”

  “Hasn’t anybody been feeding you while I’ve been away?”

  She grinned around a mouthful of cherry tomato and rocket. “It’s hungry work growing a—” and she hesitated for a second and swallowed: “brand.”

  After dinner he took their glasses of wine and the box of crackers, brie and dip into the lounge. Christina put Regatta de Blanc in the CD player. Not loud, but not so soft they had to strain to hear. She dimmed the lights, tucked herself into his ribs and began to quietly butcher Message In A Bottle alongside Sting.

  He kissed her hair. Her rainforest scent was stronger after her shower, unmasked by deodorants or perfumes and he found himself touching her often, loving her solid warmth, the way her body fit perfectly with his.

  Lily Malone

  She crunched another dry biscuit, sighed, and untied the drawstring on her pants. “I think I ate too much.”

  “You’re telling me.” His thumb rubbed her upper arm. “I thought that dip was your favourite?”

  She made a face. “I’ve gone off smoked salmon.”

  “Wasn’t it beef you decided to boycott?”

  “This might come as a shock,” she said, tilting her head to meet his eyes. “So brace yourself.”

  Her seriousness made him grin.

  “I’m actually on your side, maybe because I’m in a family business too. Maybe now I’ve met people like Shasta and Bree and Corky and Doug, I can see what the cattle industry means to them. Employment. Self-worth. Purpose. So many people drift like seaweed. They go wherever life takes them. Especially in the outback where there’s so much of nothing.

  We can’t just ban their livelihoods and all those opportunities. It isn’t that simple.”

  “I never thought I’d hear you take the side of the cattle baron.”

  “The wine industry has its fair share of people who want to ban us, too.” She punched his arm. “Don’t get me wrong, that television footage was barbaric. I had nightmares about men coming after me with knives for weeks after you left. People were right to be appalled. The government did the right thing by stepping in. There has to be a better way. Why can’t Australia butcher the animals here and export the meat?”

  “No cattleman I know wants to see his animals suffer,” Tate agreed. He didn’t want to talk about mandatory stunning policies or religious slaughter when Christina was warm in his arms and the last few bloody months had finally ebbed to the back of his head.

  She lapsed into silence, fingers tapping Bring On The Night on his jeans. The tap was slightly out of rhythm, a little hurried.

  He took a sip of his wine and noticed her untouched glass. “Are you boycotting wine too?”

  She put the glass to her lips, took the tiniest sip and set it back on the coffee table.

  “What? Is it corked?”

  “It’s a screwcap, my friend. It can’t be corked.” She reached for another dry cracker.

  “I don’t feel like wine, that’s all.”

  “You realise that’s like a fish not wanting water? At least Ruth had a good excuse.”

  Christina shoved her hands in the front pockets of a sleeveless purple wool cardigan with bullet-shaped bits of wood for buttons. “Is Ruth on a de-tox or something?”

  “No, Ruth’s pregnant. Alcohol’s off the list, and soft cheese. It’s something to do with Listerine.”

  “Listeria,” Christina murmured, reaching for another dry cracker.

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  She tucked her legs up on the couch and brushed biscuit crumbs from her shirt to the floor. Cracker flakes fell like dandruff.

  “Christina?” He stopped.

  She looked up quickly then her eyes slid away. The first finger of ice touched the back of his neck.

  What the hell did he know? So what if her boobs seemed bigger and she was eating like a horse? If he asked that question he couldn’t go back. It was one of the golden rules.

  Never ask.

  Bugger not asking.

  “You’re not pregnant?” He waited for her indignant snort. “Christina?” Nothing.

  Nada. And she’d gone very still. “I thought you were taking precautions,” he sputtered. “I mean, you told me it was safe—”

  “Technically,” she interrupted, like a teacher about to preach the difference between a verb and a noun: “you asked if we needed to use a condom. That’s not the same as asking if I was on the pill.”

  “That’s bullshit, Christina. You knew what I meant.”

  Her bravado crumpled. She wrapped her hands around her knees. “I would have told you about the baby sooner. I wanted to tell you first, but I found out when you were away and I wanted to tell you face to face. And I thought I should wait, until—”

  “Until what? You knew if you wanted to keep it?”

  “No, of course not.” Her green eyes jerked to his face. “Until I was at least twelve weeks pregnant.”

  He felt more and more out of his depth. “I don’t understand what difference it makes.”

  She drew in a deep breath, stared out through the French doors to a tree fern in a half-wine barrel, leaves shaking in the wind. “I’ve miscarried before, Tate. At eight weeks, a few years ago. I had fibroids. I’ve had them out since and I didn’t think I could get pregnant, not so easily. And I’m getting older.” Her eyes flicked back to his face. “I turned thirty-five this week. My doctor said the statistics are only slightly higher that women who’ve had a previous miscarriage might have another with a subsequent pregnancy but I still thought it would be best to wait till I was twelve weeks before I told you; told anybody. The chances of miscarrying dive after twelve weeks.”

  He touched the nape of her neck.

  “No one knows,” she said in a small voice. “Not even Bram. We’d split by the time I found out I was pregnant and I was so angry with him, I hadn’t even told him. Lacy came to the hospital with me and I swore her to secrecy. I felt like such a failure. The only thing a woman is put on this earth to do is have children and I couldn’t.”

  He unwrapped her arms from her knees and gathered her to him. “I’m sorry about your baby.”

  “It was a long time ago. The specialist thought the fibroids may have added to it.

  They’ll never come out and te
ll you one-hundred‐per cent what causes a miscarriage; it frustrates the hell out of me. He said I might have trouble falling pregnant after he removed the fibroids. He told me not to wait too long. That’s why I asked you about skeletons in your closet.”

  Something about that nagged him but he put it to the back of his mind. Right now, there were more pressing things to deal with. She needed to know he was in this for the long haul, he’d be there for her and the baby—his family—come what may. Which meant one thing.

  “We’ll get married,” he announced, once his mouth caught up with his mind.

  She spun away from him and ended up with her arse hard-up against the far arm of the couch and a gold brocade cushion clutched to her stomach. “You don’t have to marry me because I’m pregnant.”

  His spine prickled. “I want to be part of this baby’s life, Christina. A child of mine will know its father. I want to do the right thing.”

  “You don’t have to marry me to be part of this baby’s life.” The skin over her top lip had gone bone white.

  Lily Malone

  And it clicked. Skeletons.

  “You asked me if I had any skeletons in my closet at the wedding. You asked if I wanted kids.”

  She nodded. “You said you did.”

  “I said, one day.”

  Her hand karate-chopped the cushion. “I’m thirty-five with a dodgy womb, Tate.

  There wasn’t any point in me going on the pill and us going through the motions for six months or however long before I broached the subject of my biological clock. I didn’t think I’d get pregnant so quick anyway. It took years of trying… last time… and then when Bram got married he and Abigail had twins right away. So I knew the problem was in my department.”

  “Wasn’t any point?” He’d heard everything she just said, but his mind stuck on that one thing.

  She shrugged. “I’m not going to apologise. What’s done is done. I can’t undo it. It’s what I want. I don’t want anything from you. I want this baby and you’re very welcome to be part of this baby’s life. And mine.” Her voice turned husky then. “That’s enough for me.”