A Miracle for His Secret Son / Proud Rancher, Precious Bundle: A Miracle for His Secret Son / Proud Rancher, Precious Bundle
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The memory filled her head and how crazy was that, to be obsessed by such a teensy, short-lived moment?
It was nothing.
No.
It was something. There’d definitely been something happening when Gus had touched her skin…intensity in his face that couldn’t be ignored. He’d looked that way all those years ago…on so many occasions during their perfect summer.
Thinking about that summer, Freya found herself drawn into a web of memories…beginning with the first time Gus had asked her out, when he invited her to be his partner at their senior formal.
She could recall every detail of that afternoon in their last year of high school…
Wednesdays always finished with double history, one of the few classes Freya shared with Gus. And on that particular mid-week afternoon he spoke to her just outside the school gate.
Her heart started a drum roll the minute she saw him standing there and realised he was waiting for her.
She’d been hopelessly smitten from the day Gus arrived at their school two years earlier, but she’d been quite stupidly shy around him and, as Gus had been rather shy too, they’d hardly spoken.
Oh, there’d been a little flirting…and a lot of smiling…but he’d been caught up with his surfing, his football and his studies, and he’d never asked her out on a date. As far as Freya knew, Gus hadn’t taken any girl out and there were plenty of girls who’d been hoping.
But, on that special afternoon, he approached her with endearing nervousness.
‘Hey, Freya?’
‘Hey.’ She’d tried to sound casual, as if this wasn’t a big deal, like maybe the biggest deal of her life to date…
‘I was wondering…if you have a partner for the formal.’
‘Um…no, I haven’t.’ Oh, God. Her knees were shaking. ‘Not yet.’
Mel Crane shuffled past and sent them a goofy grin.
Gus scowled at him, then offered Freya a shy tilted smile. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.’
‘Um.’ Her tongue was suddenly paralysed. Speak, simpleton! ‘Yes,’ she managed at last.
‘Yes?’ Seemed he was about as inarticulate as she was. Why did he look so disbelieving? As if she wouldn’t jump at the chance? His shock gave her courage.
‘Yes, Gus, I’d really like to go to the formal with you.’
‘Sweet.’ He was smiling properly now, smiling fully at her in a way that was a little short of dazzling. ‘Terrific. I don’t know any details yet, about what time I’ll pick you up or anything.’
‘That’s OK. There’s no rush.’ She smiled at him bravely. ‘Thanks, Gus.’
He walked with her then for three blocks, and she wasn’t sure that her feet were touching the ground. They talked about their history teacher, about their friends, about surfing…
When they reached The Esplanade they said goodbye. Their houses were at opposite ends of the Bay.
Oh, man. Freya rushed home to Poppy, bursting with excitement.
And, immediately, she met her first hurdle.
Poppy didn’t like the idea of her only daughter going out with a football jock. Weren’t they all smart-mouthed thugs? Wasn’t there a nice boy Freya could go with? Someone more artistic and sensitive?
Naturally, Freya insisted that Gus was nice. He wasn’t just good at football; he was practically top of their class. He was lovely, and she was going with him or with no one.
When Poppy finally, but unhappily, acquiesced, they moved on to the Battle of The Dress.
‘I can do wonderful things with a sewing machine and a bucket of dye,’ Poppy suggested.
Freya was beyond horrified. She loved her mum, but she flatly refused to go to the formal dressed like a tie-dyed hippie.
‘All the other girls are getting their dresses from Mimi’s in Dirranvale. Phoebe’s mother’s even taking her to Brisbane to buy her dress.’
‘That girl’s mother never had any sense,’ Poppy muttered darkly. ‘And you know we can’t afford so much as a handkerchief from one of those fancy salons.’
‘That’s OK. I’ll earn all the money I need.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll sell aromatherapy candles at the markets.’
Poppy rolled her eyes. She’d gone through her ‘market phase’, as she called it. She’d sold handmade soaps and candles and jewellery and she’d made quite good money, but she hated the long hours of constant toil that were required to replenish her stocks week after week, and she’d opted for a part-time job caring for seedlings at a local plant nursery instead.
Freya, however, was determined. She went with her best friend Jane and Jane’s mother to Mimi’s in Dirranvale and she fell in love with a most divine off-the-shoulder dress and put it on lay-by. Then she gathered used jars from all her neighbours’ households and spent hours in the evenings melting wax and adding essential oils and wicks, then decorating the candle jars with silver and gold calligraphy pens.
For a month she spent every weekend doing the rounds of the craft markets in the local seaside towns. She was exhausted, especially as she had to catch the bus back and forth, and she had to burn the metaphorical candle at both ends, sitting up till midnight to finish her homework.
But it was worth it. She’d earned enough to buy her dream dress from Mimi’s, as well as divine shoes that were dainty enough to make Cinderella jealous, and there was money left over for a trip to the hairdresser and a French manicure.
On the night of the formal, Freya slipped into the soft misty-blue chiffon dress that everyone said matched her eyes perfectly. And she felt—amazing!
Gus arrived at her door with a corsage and he looked all kinds of perfect—so tall and dark and handsome in his black tuxedo that Freya thought she might die and go straight to heaven.
And that was before they danced, touching each other for the very first time.
Chapter Six
WALKING home with Gus that night was even more sensational than dancing with him. They had to go all the way along the beachfront because Poppy’s house was at the far end of the Bay, and it was Freya who suggested they should take off their shoes and walk on the sand.
Gus agreed with gratifying enthusiasm, and they left their shoes beside a pile of rocks. Gus shoved Freya’s evening bag into his trouser pocket and rolled up the bottoms of his trousers, while Freya scooped up the hem of her dress in one hand, leaving her other hand free to hold his. Bliss City!
If there were other couples on the beach that night, they stayed well in the shadows and Freya and Gus felt quite alone as they strolled hand in hand on the edge of the sand beneath a high, clear sky blazing with stars.
Freya could have stayed out all night. She’d never felt so happy, so unbelievably alive. She kept wanting to turn to look at Gus. To stare at his gorgeousness. There were so many things she loved about the way he looked—his dark hair with the bit that flopped forward, his deep-set dark eyes, his strong, intelligent profile, his broad shoulders, his long legs, his sturdy hands.
Then there came that moment, the moment when Gus let go of her hand and touched the back of her neck.
Freya usually wore her hair down, but that night it was swept up by the hairdresser into a romantic knot.
‘Did you know you have the most gorgeous skin right here?’
The feel of Gus’s fingers on her nape made her want to curl into his arms.
‘I sit behind you in History,’ he said. ‘And your hair falls forward, and I spend hours admiring the back of your neck.’
‘So that’s why I get better marks than you in History.’
‘Could be.’ His fingers stroked just below her hairline. ‘I love this bit just here.’
And while she was melting from the touch of his fingers, he touched his lips to her neck.
Freya was shaking. His gentleness was excruciating. She bowed her head, exposing her skin in a silent appeal, begging for more. The touch of his lips on the curve of her neck made her ache deep inside, made her want to cry and to laugh, to dance, to lie down in the shallows.
Then Gus kissed her lips.
Of course it was late when they finally reached her house, especially as they forgot their shoes and had to go back to search for them, and it took ages to remember which pile of rocks they’d left them beside. They were laughing, giggling like children, drunk with happiness.
Gus kissed her again on the front steps. He was still kissing her when Poppy flung the front door open, letting bright light spill over them, and making them blink.
Arms akimbo, her mother glared at Gus.
‘Freya should have been home hours ago. Who do you think you are, coming down here and making all sorts of assumptions about my daughter?’
To his credit, Gus was very restrained and polite, but he left in a hurry. It was Freya who lost her cool, later, after he’d gone.
‘How could you be so mean, Mum? We were only kissing. Why did you have to be so awful to Gus?’
‘I don’t trust him, or any of that snobby lot up on the hill.’ Poppy picked up the damp hem of Freya’s dress and frowned elaborately at the clinging grains of sand.
‘Well, I trust him, and surely that’s what counts?’
It was an argument that came back to bite Freya four months later, at the end of the summer, after Gus had already left for university in Brisbane and she missed her period.
Now, Freya was so lost in the mists of the past that when the bell at the front door rang, letting her know that yet another visitor had come into the gallery, she didn’t look up. Most people liked to be left to wander about looking at paintings without being observed, and she wasn’t in the mood for an exchange of happy banter with a tourist.
When a shadow fell over her desk, she realised she was out of luck. She looked up and heat rushed into her face. ‘Gus!’
Gus’s heart was pounding, actually pounding. As he’d walked into The Driftwood Gallery, he’d seen Freya sitting at the pale timber desk in the corner. She had her back to him and she was wearing jeans and a grey knitted top that shouldn’t have looked sexy, but it was soft and it clung lovingly to her shoulders before falling loosely to her hips, and somehow it managed to look incredibly feminine.
She was leaning forward so that her hair, light brown and streaked with gold, parted like a curtain to show a V of smooth, pale skin on her neck. And suddenly he was remembering every detail of falling in love with Freya Jones and the heady, blinding happiness of that magical summer.
Their summer.
To his dismay, he felt the sting of tears and he found himself recalling all the silly nicknames Freya had given him—Huggy Bear, Hot Stuff, Angel Eyes.
Her favourite had been Sugar Lips, while he’d simply called her Floss.
Memories pulled at him as he approached her desk but, when she looked up, he saw shock in her eyes and then unmistakable fear, and their happy past disintegrated like a jigsaw puzzle breaking up into a thousand separate scattered pieces.
Gus was wrenched back into the present in all its unhappy complexity.
‘Hi,’ he said, forcing the breezy greeting past the constriction in his throat. Freya’s smoky blue eyes were so clouded with worry that he tried to cheer her with a joke. ‘I’ve finally escaped from the evil clutches of the vampire.’
‘The vampire?’ She looked more worried than ever.
‘Hasn’t Nick mentioned her?’
‘No.’
Damn. Gus grimaced.
‘I thought you were at the hospital. What are you talking about?’
‘I have been at the hospital,’ he assured her. ‘Every one of my vital organs has been X-rayed and scanned from every conceivable angle, and I’ve given vast quantities of blood.’
‘Oh. Is that the vampire connection?’
‘Yeah. Bad joke. But you can blame Nick. He told me about the vampire nurse when he called in this morning on his way to school.’
‘Really?’ Freya was on her feet, twisting a locket at her throat with anxious fingers.
‘I’m so glad Nick called in to see me, Freya. He came to thank me, and it meant a lot. He’s a great kid. You must be proud of him.’
She showed no sign that his words reassured her. She looked distressed and rubbed at her temple, as if her head ached. ‘Nick didn’t tell me he was going to see you.’
‘Well, I think he felt bad about yesterday’s reception. And he’s entitled to see me. I’m his father, after all.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She was still frowning and not looking at him.
Gus’s jaw tightened. If Freya was going to be a dog in the manger about their son, she’d have a fight on her hands.
‘So what will you do now the tests are out of the way?’ she asked. ‘Will you fly straight back to the Northern Territory?’
‘Why?’ he asked coldly. ‘Are you keen to be rid of me?’
‘No. But you said you had commitments.’
‘I don’t want to rush away till I’ve had a chance to get to know Nick.’
Freya regarded him thoughtfully. ‘But you do know it will be a week or more before we get the results?’
‘A week, Freya? What’s a week when you’ve had Nick for more than eleven years? Don’t you understand that I need a chance to get to know my son?’
‘Yes, of course I understand that. I’m sorry.’ She looked as if she might weep.
‘They’re giving Nick’s case priority,’ he said in a more conciliatory tone. ‘So we might hear quite soon.’
‘That’s good news, at least.’
Gus glanced at his wristwatch. ‘It won’t be too long before school’s out and I thought Nick might like to come swimming with me this afternoon.’
‘Oh?’
‘I won’t keep him too long. I know he has homework.’ He frowned at Freya. ‘Nick does swim, doesn’t he?’
‘Of course. He’s like me. He loves the water.’
Out of nowhere, something about the soft, vulnerable droop of her lower lip triggered a memory for Gus. Damn it. He was recalling a folk song he’d heard years ago, a song about a forsaken mermaid.
He’d only heard it a couple of times—once at an outdoor folk festival and once on the radio—but each time the lament about a lost and heartsick mermaid had drenched him with memories of Freya.
For days afterwards, the memories had haunted him. He’d only shaken them off, eventually, by convincing himself that Freya Jones had moved on with her life just as he had. But how could he have guessed that she hadn’t settled down with some lucky man? How could he have dreamed there was a child, a living connection that would link him to her for ever?
Perhaps it was because of the memory that he said, ‘Freya, you’re welcome to come swimming with us, if you like.’
‘I…I can’t go. I’ve got a gallery to look after.’
Gus looked about him at the empty rooms and the walls filled with artwork. He lifted an eyebrow in a silent question.
‘I know it doesn’t look very busy at the moment,’ she said, reading his thoughts. ‘But you never know who might drop in. I can’t close on a whim.’
‘Pity.’ He let his gaze travel over the colourful walls. ‘You have some great paintings here.’
‘Yes, I’ve been lucky.’ Freya moved into the centre of the room, looking about her with evident satisfaction. ‘I’ve managed to capture quite a bit of interest in this little gallery. It’s developed a reputation and people are starting to come here from all over Australia. Now I have top artists asking me if they can hang their work here. It used to be the other way round.’
‘That’s quite an achievement,’ Gus said, genuinely impressed.
She nodded, smiling, unable to hide her satisfaction.
‘So are any of these paintings yours?’
‘Yes.’ Freya lifted a hand, about to point out her work.
‘Hang on,’ Gus said. ‘Let’s see if I can find yours.’ After finding Nick in a tribe of similarly dressed footballers, he was feeling a tad smug.
Now, with vague memories of the sketches that Freya had drawn twelve years ago, Gus began to wander the rooms checking out the landscapes, seascapes, vibrant arrangements of tropical flowers and fruit, portraits, abstracts…
Freya stood watching him with her lips curled in a small smile and her eyes sparkling with an I dare you gleam.
It wasn’t long before Gus was forced to admit defeat. He sent her an apologetic grin. ‘I give up. These all look really good to me, but none of them screams you.’ He made a circling gesture to the paintings all around him. ‘I have to say, if you’ve painted any of these, you’ve improved a hell of a lot since high school.’
‘I should jolly well hope so.’ Smiling archly, she came and stood beside him, arms folded over her front. ‘Just out of interest, which paintings do you like? Which ones appeal to you most?’
He must have looked anxious because Freya laughed. ‘This isn’t a trick question, Gus. I’m not going to slash my wrists if you don’t pick mine. I’m just curious.’
‘I’m no expert.’
‘I know that.’
His gaze flickered over the fruit and flowers, paused briefly on a bright, daring landscape with sand and palm trees, then on to a realistic seascape with waves crashing onto rocks. He stopped at a piece that seemed to be a collage of watercolours and paper of varying textures. It was beautiful and incredibly clever—the sort of thing he would buy for a woman, the sort of thing he should have bought for Monique, perhaps.
He moved onto an abstract with stripes in browns and ochres overlaid with splashes of charcoal and crimson. ‘If I was buying something for myself, I would probably choose this one,’ he said, pointing.
Freya nodded. ‘That’s a Carl Barrow.’ She smiled. ‘You have good taste. It’s probably the most expensive painting here.’
‘Really?’ He pointed to the collage. ‘What about that one? It’s beautiful.’
‘That’s one of mine,’ she said, turning pink.
‘Wow.’ Genuinely excited, he moved closer. ‘I really like the way you’ve grouped everything and the combination of colours. It’s incredibly pleasing to the eye. Intricate without being cluttered.’ He turned to her, beaming. ‘Floss, you’re brilliant.’
‘Well, thank you, sir.’
She was blushing prettily and her eyes were glowing with pleasure and he wanted to kiss her so badly he couldn’t breathe.
Instead, he found himself saying, ‘Why don’t
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