LITMIR.BIZ

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machine.’

      ‘Then I’ll make do without the apron.’ Some things were no-brainers. ‘Just this once.’

      ‘That’s big of you,’ she told him, laying the frills aside with regret. ‘Why are you tipping out the dripping?’

      ‘That was half an inch of fat, and if you thing I’m spoiling my first Australian steak, you have another think coming.’

      ‘Ooh,’ she said in mock admiration. ‘Bossy as well as a good cook.’

      ‘Watch your fries,’ he told her, disconcerted.

      ‘Hey, we’ll get on fine,’ she said happily. ‘You can cook. I can’t. A marriage made in heaven.’

      Then she realised what she’d said and she blushed. The blush started from her eyes and moved out, and he thought, She’s lovely. She’s just gorgeous.

      Rose chortled from her high chair and Hamish allowed himself to be distracted. He needed to be distracted. Whew!

      Rose was a chubby toddler, dressed only in a nappy and a grubby T-shirt reading MY AUNTY WENT TO NEW YORK AND ALL SHE BROUGHT ME WAS ONE LOUSY T-SHIRT. She had flame-coloured curls, just like her mother, and huge green eyes that gazed at him as if expecting to be vastly entertained.

      It was very disconcerting to be gazed at like that. He’d never been gazed at like that.

      In truth, Hamish had never met a toddler.

      This situation was getting out of hand.

      Rosie chortled again, raised her hand and lifted her rusk. It fell. On the floor beneath, on his back, Boris did a fast, curving slide so his mouth was right where it needed to be. The rusk disappeared without a trace.

      Rose and her mother—and Hamish—all gazed at Boris. Boris gazed back up at Rose in adoration, and then opened his mouth wide again.

      Hamish laughed.

      Susie stared.

      ‘What?’ he said, disconcerted, and she flushed and turned away.

      ‘N-nothing.’

      ‘Something.’

      ‘It’s just… For a minute…’ She took a deep breath. ‘The Douglas men,’ she said. ‘Angus and Rory had the same laugh. Low and rumbly and nice. And it’s here again. In this kitchen. Where it belongs.’

      For a moment neither of them spoke. Did she know what power she had to move him? he wondered.

      He’d never known his father. Oh, he had a vague memory of someone being there, a grey, silent, ghost-like presence, but that was all. He’d seen faded photographs of a man who didn’t look like him. He had no connection at all.

      And suddenly he did.

      He didn’t do emotion.

      ‘I’m hardly a Douglas,’ he said, more sharply than he’d intended. ‘My father died when I was three, and I’ve had no contact with anyone but my mother’s family.’

      ‘But you are a Douglas.’

      ‘In name only.’

      ‘You don’t want to be a Douglas?’

      Not if it means all this emotion, he thought, but he didn’t say it.

      ‘Move over,’ he told her instead. ‘It’s time to put the steak on. Four minutes either side, which gives me time to whip up a salad. But there’s no time for idle chat.’

      ‘You don’t do idle chat?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I’ll concentrate on my chips, then,’ she told him, and proceeded to sit on the floor, flick on the oven light and watch. Which was distracting all on its own. ‘I know when to butt out where I’m not wanted.’

      ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’

      ‘Neither did I,’ she told him. ‘But maybe that’s the way we have to be. You don’t want to be a Douglas. I can’t bear to be near one. So let’s get tonight over with and then we can both move on in the direction we intend to go.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      SHE woke to singing.

      She must be dreaming, she decided, and closed her eyes but a moment later she opened them again.

      ‘“I’ll be true to the song I sing. And live and die a pirate king.”’

      It was a rich, deep baritone, wafting in from the window out to the garden. Straight out of Gilbert and Sullivan.

      Hamish?

      It was early. Too early. She’d had trouble getting to sleep. Rosie was still soundly sleeping and she didn’t have to get up yet. She didn’t want to get up yet.

      She closed her eyes.

      ‘“It is, it is a glorious thing, to be a pirate king.”’

      She opened one eye and looked at her clock.

      Six a.m.

      The man was mad, she decided. Singing in the vegetable garden at six in the morning.

      It was a great voice.

      OK, she’d just look. She rolled out of bed, crawled across the floor under the level of the sill, then raised herself cautiously so she was just peeking…

      He was digging her path. Her path!

      The window was open and the curtains were drawn. Before she’d even thought logically, she’d shoved her hands on the sill and swung herself out. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

      Hamish paused in mid-dig. He was wearing shorts. And boots.

      Nothing else.

      This wasn’t a stockbroker’s body, Susie thought as he set down his spade and decided what to say. The man had a serious six-pack. He was tanned and muscled—as if he’d spent half his life on a farm rather than in a stockbroker’s office.

      He had great legs.

      Oh, for heaven’s sake…

      ‘Whose boots are they?’ she demanded, and then thought, What a ridiculous question to ask. But the boots were decrepit—surely not carefully brought over from New York.

      ‘I found them in the wet room,’ he told her, looking like he was trying not smile. ‘There’s a whole pile. I figured if I inherited the castle with contents included, then at least one lot of boots must be mine. They’re a size or two big but I’m wearing two pairs of socks. What do you think? Will I take Manhattan by storm?’ He raised a knee to hold up a boot for inspection.

      Boris had been supervising the path-digging lying down. Now the big dog rose, put out a tongue and licked the specified boot. Just tasting…

      It was such a ridiculous statement—such a ridiculous situation—that Susie started to giggle.

      Then she suddenly thought about what she was wearing and stopped giggling. Maybe she should hop right back in through the window.

      But he’d already noticed. ‘Nice elephants,’ he said politely.

      And she thought, Yep, the window was a good idea. She was wearing a pair of short—very short—boxer-type pyjama bottoms and a top that matched. Purple satin with yellow and crimson elephants.

      There was a story behind these elephants. Susie’s two little step-nieces had wanted pyjamas with elephants on them. Harriet from the post office had been in Sydney for a week to visit an ailing sister and had thus been commissioned to find pyjama material with elephants. What she’d found had been royal purple satin with yellow and red elephants—the lot going much cheaper by the roll. Harriet had been so pleased that she’d bought the entire roll, and every second person in Dolphin Bay was now sporting elephant-covered

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