life as the wife of a mega-rich Californian and she hadn’t been ready to confess the truth about her spectacularly failed marriage. Besides, the few of her friends who lived in Sydney were party girls, and, being pregnant, Milla hadn’t been in party mode. She’d been waiting till the next scan to announce the news about her baby.
But now...
Milla wrapped her arms over her stomach, reliving the cramping pains and terror that had brought her to the emergency ward. She had wept as the doctor examined her, and she’d sobbed helplessly when he told her that she was having a miscarriage. She’d cried for the little lost life, for her lost dreams.
Her marriage fiasco had shattered her hopes of ever finding love and trust in an adult relationship and she’d pinned everything on the promise of a soft, warm baby to hold. She longed for the special bond and unconditional love that only a baby could bring, and she’d been desperate to make a success of motherhood.
Such wonderful dreams she’d nurtured for her little boy or girl, and imagining the months ahead had been so much fun.
Along with watching a tiny, new human being discover the world, Milla had looked forward to patiently caring for her little one. Chances were, it would be a boy—the Cavanaugh wives always seemed to produce sons—and Milla had imagined bathing her little fellow, feeding him, dressing him in sweet little striped sleep-suits, coping with his colic and teething pains and the inevitable sleepless nights.
She’d pictured trips to the park and to the beach as he grew, had even seen herself making his first birthday cake with a cute single candle, and issuing invitations to other mums and babes to join in the party.
Now...
‘Ten to twenty per cent of known pregnancies end in miscarriage,’ the doctor had informed her matter-of-factly.
But Milla could only see this as another failure on top of her failed marriage. After all, if the statistics were turned around, eighty to ninety per cent of pregnancies were absolutely fine. Just as two thirds of marriages were perfectly happy.
The irony was, she’d become pregnant in a last-ditch attempt to save her marriage. When that had proved to be clearly impossible, she’d turned her hopes and ambitions inwards. To her child.
She’d been mega careful with her diet, taking all the right vitamins and folates, and, although she’d been through a great deal of stress and a long flight from LA to Sydney, she’d made sure that her new lifestyle included a healthy balance of rest and exercise and fresh air.
And yet again, she’d failed. Fighting tears, Milla packed her toothbrush and wallet into the carryall she’d hastily filled when she’d left for the hospital.
It was time to go, and after one last look around the small white room she set off down the long hospital corridor.
The final years of her marriage to Harry Cavanaugh had been grim, but she’d never felt this low...or this lost...as if she’d been cast adrift in a vast and lonely sea.
Fleetingly, she wondered if she should let Harry know about the baby. But why bother? He wouldn’t care.
* * *
In his midtown Manhattan office, Ed Cavanaugh was absorbed in reading spreadsheets when his PA buzzed that he had an important call. Time was tight and the info on his computer screen was critical. Ed ignored the buzzer and continued scanning the lines of figures.
A minute later, he sensed his PA at the door.
‘Mr Cavanaugh?’
Without looking up, Ed raised a silencing hand as he took a note of the figures he’d been hunting. When he was finished, and not a millisecond before, he shot a glance over the top of his glasses. ‘What is it, Sarah?’
‘A call from Australia. It’s Gary Kemp and I was sure you’d want to speak to him.’
Gary Kemp was the Australian private detective Ed’s family had had hired to track down his escapee sister-in-law. An unexpected tension gripped Ed. Had Milla been found?
‘Put him through,’ he said, closing down the screen.
Scant seconds later, his line buzzed again and he snatched up the receiver. ‘Gary, any news?’
‘Plenty, Mr C.’
‘Have you found her? Is she still in Australia?’ They already knew that Milla had caught a flight from LA to Sydney.
‘She’s still in the country, but you’ll never guess where.’
Ed grimaced. This Aussie detective could be annoyingly cocky. Ed had no intention of playing guessing games, although in this case it would be dead easy to take a stab at Milla’s whereabouts. Her tastes were totally predictable. She would be holed up in a harbourside penthouse, or in a luxury resort at one of those famous Australian beaches.
‘Just tell me,’ he demanded with a spurt of irritation.
‘Try Bellaroo Creek.’
‘Bella-who what?’
‘Bellaroo Creek,’ Gary repeated with a chuckle. ‘Middle of nowhere. Dying town. Population three hundred and seventy-nine.’
Ed let out a huff of surprise. ‘Where exactly is this middle of nowhere?’
‘Little tinpot whistle-stop in western New South Wales, about five hours’ drive from Sydney.’
‘What are you telling me? My sister-in-law passed through this place?’
‘No, she’s still there, mate. Seems it’s her hometown.’
Just in time, Ed stopped himself from asking the obvious. Of course, his brother’s sophisticated socialite wife must have grown up in this Bellaroo Creek place, but he found the news hard to swallow.
‘Her family’s long gone,’ the detective went on. ‘So have most of the former residents. As I said, the place is on its last legs. These days it’s practically a ghost town.’
None of this made sense to Ed. ‘Are you sure you have the right Milla Cavanaugh?’
‘No doubt about it. It’s her all right, although she’s using her maiden name, Brady. Interesting. As far as I can tell, she’s barely touched her bank accounts.’
‘No way,’ retorted Ed. ‘You can’t have the right woman.’
‘Check your emails,’ Gary Kemp responded dryly. ‘This isn’t amateur hour, mate, as you’ll soon see from my invoice. I’ve sent you the photo I took yesterday in Bellaroo Creek’s main street.’
Frowning, Ed flicked to his emails, opened the link and there it was...a photo of a woman dressed in jeans and a roll-necked black cashmere sweater.
She was definitely Milla. Her delicate, high-cheek-boned beauty was in a class of its own. His younger brother had always won the best-looking women, no question.
Milla’s hair was different, though. Pale red-gold, with a tendency to curl, the way it had been when Ed had first met her, before she’d had it straightened and dyed
