stakes. He would cope best if he concentrated on the kid and erased from his memory his fleeting history with its mother.
Frowning, he climbed out of the car and stretched his long, cramped limbs. Across the road, he could see a row of rundown, empty shopfronts in stone buildings that still showed traces of their former elegance. One door was open and above it, in faded green paint, the shop’s name, Bellaroo Bakery, was faintly visible.
With an air of determination Ed crossed the road and stood on the sidewalk outside, observing. He couldn’t see anyone in the front part of the store, but he listened for voices. Although he planned to take Milla by surprise, he didn’t want to embarrass her if she had company.
There was silence, however, so he knocked on the open door.
And waited impatiently.
No one came and he was about to knock again when Milla appeared at the back of the shop, wiping her hands on her jeans. She looked pale and tired, but her delicate features and candle-flame hair were as lovely as ever. And, as always, the sight of her sent a painful dart spearing through Ed.
Her face turned white when she saw him.
‘You?’ she said softly and her sea-green eyes looked stricken. Her lips trembled, parted and then shut again as if she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Ed swallowed to ease the sharpness in his throat and Milla came forward carefully, almost fearfully.
‘Hello, Milla.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I—’ He was halted by her fragile air, suddenly afraid that his news would flatten her completely. ‘There’ve been...developments.’ Damn, how clumsy was that? ‘We need to talk.’
‘No, thanks.’ Green fire flared in Milla’s eyes. ‘I’m finished with you lot.’ She shot him a tight, haughty glare. ‘I have nothing to discuss with you or with your brother.’
Turning away, she tossed her next words over her shoulder. ‘I know why you’re here, Ed. Harry sent you, because he didn’t have the guts to come and try to con me himself. But I don’t care if he wants me back. I’m done with him. It’s over.’
‘Harry didn’t ask me to come.’
Milla stiffened, half turned towards him again. Her eyes were sharp, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. ‘How did you find me?’ Before Ed could answer, a knowing light crept into her eyes. ‘It was that weasel-faced guy in the pub, wasn’t it? He’s watching me. He’s a private investigator.’
Ed shrugged.
‘Cavanaugh money,’ she scoffed bitterly. ‘It’ll buy anything.’
‘Milla, I’ve come a long way and we need to—’
‘You shouldn’t have bothered, Ed. I know your role in the family. Mr Fix-it. The others are always getting you to clean up after them and to sort everyone’s problems.’
At least her voice wasn’t quite as harsh as she said this.
And Ed found himself fumbling to explain. ‘Well...listen...I had to find you. I knew you couldn’t know what’s happened.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Milla, it’s bad news about Harry.’
‘Harry’s always bad news.’ Now she gave a theatrical eye-roll, as if she hadn’t heard the seriousness in his voice. ‘It took me four years to discover what you and your family probably knew all along.’
‘Milla, Harry’s dead.’
To Ed’s dismay Milla’s face turned whiter than ever. She clamped a hand to her mouth and she seemed to crumple and sway.
Instinctively, he stepped forward. The reaction was timely as Milla sagged against him as if her knees had given way.
Horrified, Ed remembered too late that she was pregnant. He should have delivered the news more gently, instead of oafishly blurting it out.
Scooping her into his arms, he scanned the empty shop, but there wasn’t so much as a chair. He carried her, trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore her soft curves and the flowery fragrance of her hair. Through the doorway, and at the back of the shop he found a huge cleaned space with, among other things, a scrubbed table and chairs. But already, Milla was stirring.
* * *
‘I’m sorry.’
Milla realised she was being carried in Ed’s arms with her face pressed against the solid wall of his chest. ‘I’m OK, Ed,’ she protested, although she was still feeling dizzy. ‘Put me down, please.’
He was incredibly gentle as he lowered her to a chair. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ It wasn’t completely true. She was still dazed by the news.
Harry couldn’t be dead. It was impossible. She felt sick and faint and she propped her elbows on the table and sank her head in her hands, trying to take the astonishing news in.
Her husband was dead. The man who’d caused her so much initial joy and subsequent pain. Desperately handsome, dangerously charming, hurtful and selfish Harry Cavanaugh. Gone. For ever.
When she’d left America she’d hated him. He’d lied and cheated on her one time too many, and in the worst possible way. In his final act of faithlessness, she’d come home unexpectedly early from an appointment with her obstetrician and found him in bed—their bed—with one of her so-called girlfriends.
It wasn’t the first time and Milla knew she’d been foolish to forgive him in the past. Leaving Harry had been easy after that.
But now...
Death.
No chance for forgiveness either way.
Milla was aware that Ed had moved to the sink and was filling a glass with water.
‘Thanks,’ she said as he offered her the drink. She took a few small sips.
‘Milla, I’m sorry. I should have been more thoughtful—’
‘There’s no thoughtful way to break this kind of news. I made it difficult to be found, so it was good of you to come, Ed, to tell me face to face.’ She took another sip of water and forced herself to ask, ‘What happened? How did Harry—?’ But she couldn’t bring herself to say the dreadful word. ‘How did it happen?’
‘He crashed his plane.’
‘No.’ Milla flinched as she pictured the beautiful sleek and shiny jet—Harry’s pride and joy—crumpled. Burned. Harry inside.
‘It happened over the Mojave Desert,’ Ed said. ‘The funeral was last Thursday.’
It was the same day she’d lost the baby. Remembering, she was so overwhelmed she had to cover her face with her hands. Sinking forward,
