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She frowned. Had he said ‘mate’?

‘My name. Tate.’

Tate. She turned back to face him, hoping her cheeks weren’t as pink as they felt warm. ‘It suits you.’

A quirk of his lips showed—briefly—amusement. ‘I’m glad you think so, because I’m stuck with it.’

Her own mouth shifted into a small smile. He turned the car once more, and when she glanced up, through the haze of rain, she just made out the writing on a sign as they sped past.

Ironbark Ridge Station.

Something flicked in her mind—a memory from a country museum she’d visited when she’d first arrived from the UK. Ironbark gums were different to other gums. Where most shed their bark each year, changing the colours of the tree completely, ironbarks kept theirs, layer on layer, building up to create an unbreakable gnarled hardness. They were tough, as though armour-coated, reminding her of strength and resilience.

Like the man beside you? a voice sing-songed in her mind.

She dismissed the thought, even when she couldn’t help it. Now that the link was forged, she knew it would be there for ever. Tate was Ironbark.

It was raining too heavily to see the house until they were almost at it, but after a few more minutes of the deafening sound of hammering water against the roof of his car, warm lights glowed like a beacon, earning another soft sigh of relief. It was impossible to see much of the detail, like the size of the place, though it seemed expansive, making her wonder how many people lived here. It was timber, pale in colour; there was a verandah running around it, and bushes out the front had pretty white flowers, though they were being steadily flattened by the rain.

It was also elevated, not only placed on a natural hill, but also raised on stumps.

Tate cut the engine, then turned to look at her, lips quirking in that sardonic half-smile again. ‘You waiting for a written invitation, Your Highness?’

She ignored the quip about her accent. She knew her tones were the more formal British often associated with the upper echelons of society, but that was more a reflection of her mother than anything else.

Even as she was processing what to say, he was moving, pushing open his car door, so she did likewise. The rain was a rude shock. She’d forgotten how much it hurt when it fell like this—hard and determined against her skin.

She squealed, then ran towards the house, up the ten or so stairs and onto the verandah. Tate was right there with her, even though he’d only walked, his long legs carrying him with speed. ‘Let’s get you inside,’ he said, gruffly, and in a way that made something inside her tremble in response. Warmth. That feeling that he was protecting her—looking out for her—when the truth was, no one was. Sarah Anderson was all alone now, and the ice that spread through her veins had nothing to do with the weather.

He pushed open the front door, and they stepped inside, a puddle immediately forming on the hardwood floors. Sarah looked around, taking in the details of a house that was both classically Australian and also unmistakably well appointed. She could tell that much purely from the furnishings in this entranceway, the height of the ceilings, the discreet lighting.

‘You live here?’ she asked, aware that there should probably have been more pressing considerations, such as where he kept his towels.

Unlike Sarah, Tate was laser-focused. ‘Stay here.’

Inside the house, his voice was louder, darker, richer. More booming and intense, it seemed to find purchase in the very blood of her veins. She wished it didn’t. She wished she weren’t feeling as though he’d started taking up space inside her. She wished loneliness hadn’t made her crave connection like this, but the truth was, ever since her mother’s death, Sarah had been completely untethered from life. Humanity. Connection. She was adrift.

She knew what everyone had said was probably accurate: time would help. Day by day, she would start to feel like her old self again, but the truth was, her mother had been her constant support, her best friend, all her life: Sarah didn’t know how to live without her.

He returned a moment later with two thick, dark towels, one of which he handed to her. She did her best to dry off, then slipped out of her almost-ruined sandals.

‘Right.’ His voice now was slightly different. There was an edge to it, an apprehension that made her aware of every tiny detail. ‘We need to get you out of those clothes before you pass out. I’ll have something somewhere that will fit you. More or less.’

She stared at him, aghast, hooked on the first part of his statement. ‘We?’

He grimaced, held his hands up placatingly. ‘Turn of phrase. The “we” part of that involves me showing you to a bathroom and leaving clothes for you at the door.’

Her gut twisted; disappointment was impossible to miss.

She was craving connection, that was all. She’d spent the last six months running away, trying to find herself on the other side of the world. Now here was impossibly gorgeous Tate, all big and buff, gruff and fascinating, and her body was developing a mind of its own—run completely by her libido.

‘Follow me.’

She did, but she couldn’t help but notice things she wished she didn’t, like the snug fit of his jeans, the strength of his back, the muscular thickness of his neck.

She had the general impression of discreet wealth as they moved through the house. It was the artwork on the walls—all originals—the sheen of the floorboards, the glimpses of furnishings she caught as they passed each room. He pushed open a door, then stepped well backwards. ‘Here.’ He jerked his head towards the palatial, tiled space.

She stepped inside, then turned around to face him. Her heart was in her throat, and a sense of abandon had overtaken her, as wild and unpredictable as the storm that raged outside. ‘What about you?’