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‘No. You were like this from the very first moment we met.’ She expelled a long, soft breath. ‘Arrogant, rude, almost delighting in being offensive.’

She waited for him to say something, to apologise, but he just held his ground, his expression completely unyielding. Ironbark.

‘You know what?’ Her body throbbed with panic and adrenaline. But she couldn’t do this. Not face to face. When she was back in England, maybe after the baby was born, she’d let him know. A courtesy email or call to inform him of a child, with no further information. She wanted nothing to do with this man. ‘Forget I came here. This was a mistake.’

Still, she hesitated, though, waiting for him to say or do anything that might change her mind. He didn’t. Tate Carrigan just stood there, looking as though the windscreen wipers had almost done their job.

With a small shake of her head, she moved back to the door and pulled it inwards, telling herself she’d never been so glad to leave a place in her life. ‘Good riddance,’ she muttered, under her breath, as she stepped back onto the verandah, the heat of the day slamming into her as she made her way down the stairs to her car.

* * *

Tate hated his weakness, but he couldn’t resist striding to the glass panels on either side of the door and looking out. Watching her. Watching her with a sinking feeling in his gut that had everything to do with regret.

Hell.

He’d never wanted a woman more.

He’d never wanted to reach out and grab someone and draw them to his body more than he had in that moment. The second he’d told her he hadn’t been losing sleep over her, he’d realised how untrue that was.

Sarah Anderson had been tormenting him, night after night. Memories of the way they’d been together had been bearable in the days. He’d kept himself busy and exhausted, focused on rebuilding after the floods, mending fences, working alongside his men until he’d been bone weary. But even then, his dreams had been filled with her, so he’d woken up every day rock hard and reaching for someone who’d long since left the property.

Who’d barely been there at all.

He watched as she walked down the stairs in a pair of white linen shorts and a fitted singlet, her skin such a pale, translucent tone, her every step graceful and elegant. At the car, she paused long enough to pull her hair into a messy bun, to keep the warmth from her neck, he guessed. And then, as she stared out across the horizon, her beautiful face in profile, one hand pressed to her flat stomach, she dropped her head a little, murmuring words he couldn’t hear.

A frown pulled at his lips as something spurred to life in the back of his mind. Something he couldn’t quite catch. He was too bowled over by having seen her again. He watched as she sat behind the wheel and revved the engine to life, and then, as she drove off in a plume of dust, he told himself he was grateful.

* * *

Tate Carrigan had been raised in a constant competition with his older brother, Rex. Their father had pitted them against each other in every way. Physically, emotionally and mentally, they had been driven to their limits, but in the end it had sharpened assets they’d naturally possessed. It wasn’t enough to be smart if you weren’t topping every subject at the prestigious grammar school they’d attended. It wasn’t enough to be fast if you weren’t winning the races. Being a Carrigan meant being better than anyone else—even each other.

Tate was used to his brain serving him. Lightning fast. He’d trained it to work that way, locked in a fierce battle with his brother, for most of his life.

But the sight of Sarah had turned his neurons to mud, so it was minutes later, as he pulled on a pair of faded work jeans, that her tiny gesture replayed in his mind, the way she’d pressed her hand to her stomach and whispered something.

I don’t want you to think I’m here because I want anything from you.

He closed his eyes, and then he was moving, running through the house so the federation floorboards thundered beneath his feet, grabbing the keys from the entrance table and bolting towards his ute. It was covered in dust, and as he started the engine, he revved the windscreen wipers, clearing the glass enough to be able to get better visibility.

He couldn’t see her car, but that didn’t matter. If she was flying out, it meant she was heading to the airport, which meant she’d have turned left. He did likewise, pushing the car to its limits because he knew these roads like the backs of his hands.

Even though his logic was sound, he still didn’t breathe easy until he caught sight of the back of her car, the pale paintwork sticking out against the Outback palette of reds and blues.

The road was long and straight; he had no qualms about speeding up and pulling out, so his window was level with hers. He put down the front passenger window, caught the moment she saw him and startled. Anxiety pounded through Tate as it occurred to him he might have scared her into losing control of the car. Not just for Sarah, but what if he was right and she was pregnant? What if she’d come here to tell him she was having a baby? His baby.

A thousand feelings tore through him, none of them good, all of them inevitable. Because it didn’t matter that he’d never planned on having kids, that this was the last thing he wanted; he knew enough to know he’d never turn his back on a child. No matter the circumstances, Tate knew his obligations, and he wouldn’t fail them. Not after what he’d been through.

‘Pull over,’ he shouted, gesturing to the road ahead.

Her lips parted in obvious surprise, but, to his relief, she started to slow down, then to ease onto a dusty verge on the edge of the road. He pressed the brakes and did the same, stopping right in front of her and jumping out almost before he’d put the car into park.

He walked with long strides towards her door, reaching her as she got out.

‘Are you mad? What the hell are you doing, driving after me like that?’

But now that he was looking at her, he felt the question dry up inside him. He felt the possibility of not asking, because he didn’t want the answer. It was a momentary weakness, a feeling of giving in to panic that he refused to dignify. Tate knew what his responsibilities were, and he would live and die by them.

‘What did you come to tell me?’ He stared down at her, still holding out hope that he was wrong. Holding out hope that history wasn’t about to repeat itself. As the illegitimate, unwanted, unplanned-for son of a Carrigan, he loathed the thought of foisting that responsibility on another soul.