A Southern Star by Anya Forest Read Free Book Online

at his watch. “I’ll probably be back at the main hut between five and six; are you going to look around?” Christie nodded mutely. “Well I’ll leave you in peace then,” he said, his piercing gaze reminding Christie of her angry words on the water taxi.  
    “Hopefully I will have stopped sulking by dinnertime,” she said, meeting his gaze.
    Blake burst out laughing, surprising her. “Christie, let’s just declare a truce for one evening.” He smiled disarmingly. “You can try to relax for one meal and I’ll try to keep the conversation on safe topics.”  
    “Like statistics?” Christie said before she could stop herself, stung by his perceptiveness.  
    “Maybe not quite that safe,” Blake said, giving her a quick grin. “So, truce?” Christie nodded, her heart pounding. “Good,” Blake said. “Now that that’s settled, I’ll head off.” He turned away, continuing down the sandy slope, walking along the beach purposefully. She watched him go, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, her senses still clamouring as she walked down on to the beach. Christie looked out across the beach at the wild sea, the waves churning as they broke on the sand, spraying flecks of foam.
    She acknowledged wryly that she and Blake would be having dinner together, whatever she said about it, given the communal, basic layout of the hut. She walked along the beach for a time, following the tideline, her boots crunching on layers of shells. The breeze had become brisk, cool, and with a final glance down the beach, Christie put her jacket on and turned back towards the hut.

    — # —

    Blake stood in the doorway silently, watching Christie. She was curled up in an old armchair, holding an old magazine but talking to other tourists, her face animated, alive. She looked up, her expression smoothing out to a hesitant smile. His eyes narrowed as he registered her abrupt change in demeanour. He noticed the hut was almost full now; conscious of his rifle he looked for somewhere to put his pack so he could ensure the ammunition and bolt of the rifle were secure.
    “Blake.” He looked around abruptly, realising Christie had got up from the armchair and come over to the doorway. “What about your gun?” she asked.  
    “You read my mind,” Blake replied easily. “It’s safe with the bolt and ammo kept separate but I’d rather keep it out of sight.” Christie fell silent, seeming to weigh something up. He realised she was looking up at him, her face slightly flushed.  
    “Is it a problem to have the gun in the main room?” she asked.  
    Blake looked at her, frowning. He shrugged. “It’s not ideal; hunters are discouraged from using this hut. But it’ll be fine; I’ll check the other rooms. And I can disable the rifle.”  
    He could not understand her concern, wondered where her pack was, unable to see it in the room. “I’ll just check the other rooms,” he repeated. Christie followed him around the veranda, her heart pounding. She had thought herself lucky to get one of the smaller rooms but now realised there was every chance Blake would want… Indecision, apprehension and desire mingled as Christie tried to think logically.
    Like anything could happen in separate sleeping bags on bunks in a shared room, she told herself roundly, ignoring the sense of disappointment threading its way up her spine. What if I have another nightmare, Christie thought, what if… She realised Blake had opened the door to the room, would surely recognise her pack leaning against the bunk in the otherwise empty room. He stilled for a moment; Christie tensed, wondering what he would say. He turned away, glancing at her, his dark eyes shadowed.
    “That tramper might want to be left in peace.” Speechless, Christie watched him stride along the veranda to the other smaller rooms. As he opened each door he could see tramping gear strewn around; the rooms seemed full. Unbidden, she recalled tramping with the club at university; she