“Did I hear Ross tell you that the nice woman in the next room lost her baby?”
The midwife hesitated. “You weren’t supposed to hear that. Her baby’s cord prolapsed, causing oxygen starvation. There was nothing Ross or anyone could do.”
Jenny’s arm automatically tightened around her baby. “How terrible. She told me her name is Tara, and she’s so beautiful. A model, I think. We checked in almost at the same time. Her partner couldn’t be with her, either, so I hope he gets here soon. She’ll need him to comfort her. After I lost Josh, they told me it was crib death and nobody’s fault, but I kept asking myself how I could have made a difference. Tara’s probably doing the same right now.”
Rosemary brushed her sister-in-law’s hair out of her eyes. “You mustn’t distress yourself about it.”
Jenny sighed. “You’re right. But I couldn’t face Ross if anything went wrong this time. He wants a son so much. How much longer is he going to be tied up? Except for a few minutes here and there, I’ve hardly seen him since I arrived.”
“You’ve been married to a midwife long enough to know that nothing ever goes to plan. He’ll stop in as soon as he can, but like me, he’s had to extend his shift until more staff can get here,” Rosemary said. “Apparently half the city’s still at a standstill. They’re swamped in emergency.”
The new mother peeled back the cover swaddling the baby. “Hi, Vaughan. Your daddy’s going to be so proud of you.” She lifted her head, her eyes bright. “I’ll have a word with poor Tara later. She must feel devastated.”
Rosemary shook her head. “It’s not a good idea. She’s best left to deal with her grief in her own way. We’ll see she gets professional help when she’s ready.”
Jenny looked uncertain. “If you think so.”
“Trust me, I do. Ross is arranging to move her to a ward away from the other mothers and babies, so you’re unlikely to meet her again. You concentrate on getting your strength back and taking Vaughan home. Let Ross and me look after Tara. There’s nothing for you to concern yourself about, nothing at all.”
Chapter 1
As soon as she walked into the meeting and saw who was sitting in the front row, Tara McNiven felt tension coil inside her like a snake waiting to strike. What was Zeke Blaxland doing here? He could be here for the same reason as the rest of the audience, to hear about the children’s charity she represented, she told herself shakily, but somehow she sensed he had another agenda. Zeke always had another agenda.
She had heard that he was back in Australia, and his column had been carried by the Australian papers while he was living in America so she was used to seeing his photograph on the editorial page three times a week. She had managed to convince herself that she was immune to the sight of his ruggedly handsome features but being confronted by him again in the flesh made her all too aware of the reality. She would never be immune to Zeke, no matter how much time they spent apart.
Other members of the audience, all executives from the city’s fashion retailers, were casting him curious glances. As Australia’s best-known newspaperman, he was instantly recognizable by sight as well as by reputation. His mane of collar-length black hair was as much a trademark as the challenging spark in those pewter-grey eyes.
He was taller than most other men but managed to look relaxed even coiled into a chair a size too small for his impressive frame. It was a wary kind of relaxation, she couldn’t help noticing. He was probably assessing every detail of her appearance and demeanor.
Well, let him. She schooled herself to not show that his unexpected presence had unsettled her. She had changed since they’d been together, but knew she looked good. She weighed a few pounds more these days but it suited her. Her hair was straighter, curling under onto her shoulders where it had once tumbled midway down her back in a torrent of curls. Zeke had liked to run his fingers through it, she recalled, a shiver of memory rippling over her scalp and down her spine.
She was glad she was wearing her best power-dressing cerise jacket and navy skirt, the colors flattering her honey-gold complexion. Business-like but still feminine, she had decided as she’d checked the mirror before leaving home.
The shorter hairstyle emphasized the features that had made her a successful model before she became spokesperson for Model Children, the foundation she and a group of fashion designers had established to help children in need.
She sighed inwardly. Try as she might to play down her model looks and focus attention on the work of the charity, it didn’t help. Like Zeke Blaxland, she was recognizable wherever she went.
She could hardly complain. Her background had helped her to recruit some of the biggest designers in the industry to support the cause, and her fame ensured the charity got the publicity it needed to help as many children as possible. Now she wanted to broaden the foundation’s base to include other arms of the fashion industry.
She felt her brows arrow into a frown. Zeke Blaxland’s name hadn’t been on tonight’s guest list, she would swear to it. But demanding to know what he was doing here would only show how much his presence disconcerted her and she had no intention of giving him such an advantage. She had given Zeke far too much already.
Just thinking of how much sent a pang through her so sharp it was almost physical, but she fought the sensation. Deliberately she pulled herself together, for once thankful that she stood five-ten even without the slender heels she wore for speaking engagements. Zeke used to say she was one of the few women who could meet him eye-to-eye—almost.
He liked the almost part, she recalled with a surge of bitterness. Near equality wasn’t the same as true equality, something he had never wanted from a woman, or not from her, anyway. He liked to kid himself that he was a New Age man when truthfully, he hadn’t a New Age bone in his magnificent body.
Tara’s heart picked up speed. Once his caveman approach had thrilled her. She had enjoyed the feeling of being protected and, yes, loved by him. She swallowed hard, remembering the feel of his arms around her, so strong and dependable, as his sensuous mouth shaped hers to his will, while his clever hands manipulated her body with a skill worthy of a virtuoso violinist. She had been a willing instrument and Zeke the bow. Lord, what magnificent music they had made together.
Her heart thundered and her palms moistened as she thought of the end result of their lovemaking she had carefully kept from him. Once she wouldn’t have dreamed of keeping anything from him, especially something as important as the child they had conceived together, but his decision to work in America had made it impossible for her to tell him the truth without looking as if she were trying to manipulate him.
Their baby had been stillborn so there had been no need for him to find out. No need for them to both endure the nagging sense of loss she’d lived with for so long. There was nothing he could have done, and she couldn’t have borne forcing him to give up his dream to remain with her, only to have their life together end so disastrously.
A choking sensation gripped her. So much had happened in a year. A year, seven months and a handful of days, she amended inwardly. She hadn’t been aware of counting the days but now she found that part of her had logged every minute since he had left.
She made herself take deep breaths, conquering wire-taut nerves with an effort of will. She owed it to herself and the children not to reveal how much Zeke’s presence bothered her. “Fake it,” the photographers used to tell her during her modeling days. Why were these things invariably easier said
