ABBY stared at the list of things to do before leaving,
and let out a long, slow breath, her brows drawing
together as another feather of unease ghosted down her
spine. Every item had a slash through it, so her
unconscious wasn't trying to warn her she'd forgotten
something.
It had started โ oh, a couple of months ago, at first just
a light tug of tension, a sensation as though she'd lost
the top layer of skin, that had slowly intensified into a
genuinely worrying conviction that she was being watched.
Was this how Gemma's premonitions had felt? Or had she
herself finally succumbed to paranoia?
Whatever, she couldn't take any risks. Driven into action
by the nameless fear, she'd resigned from her part-time
job at the doctor's surgery and made plans to disappear
from the small town hard against New Zealand's Southern
Alps โ the town that had been her and Michael's refuge for
the past three years.
The same creepy sensation tightened her already-taut
nerves another notch. She put the list down on the
scrubbed wooden table in the kitchen and prowled once more
through the cottage, switching lights on and off as she
examined each room.
Back in the inconvenient little living room, chilly now
that the fire had collapsed into sullen embers, she
stopped beside the bag on the sofa that held necessities
for tomorrow's journey. Everything else she and Michael
owned โ clothes, toys, books โ was already stuffed into
the boot of her elderly car. Not even a scrap of paper
hinted at their three years' residence.
Yet that persistent foreboding still nagged at her. All
her life she'd loved to lie in bed and listen to the more-
pork call, but tonight she shivered at the little owl's
haunting, plaintive cry from the patch of bush on the farm
next door. And when she caught herself flinching at the
soft wail of the wind under the eaves, she dragged in a
deep breath and glanced at her watch.
"Stop it right now!" she said sturdily. "Nothing's going
to happen."
But the crawling, baseless unease had kept her wired and
wide-eyed three hours past her normal bedtime. At this
rate she wouldn't sleep a wink.
So why not leave now? Although she'd planned to start
early in the morning, Michael would sleep as well in his
child seat as he did in bed. He probably wouldn't even
wake when she picked him up. No one would see them go, and
at this time of night the roads were empty.
The decision made, she moved quickly to collect and pack
her night attire and sponge bag and the clothes she'd put
out for Michael in the morning. She picked up her handbag,
opened it and groped for the car keys.
Only to freeze at a faint sound โ the merest scrabble, the
sort of sound a small animal might make as it scuttled
across the gravel outside.
A typical night noise, nothing to worry about. Yet she
strained to hear, the keys cutting into her palm as her
hand clenched around them. Unfortunately her heart thudded
so heavily in her ears it blocked out everything but the
bleating of a sheep from the next paddock. The maternal,
familiar sound should have been reassuring; instead, it
held a note of warning.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, stop being so melodramatic," she
muttered, willing her pulse to settle back into a more
even rhythm. "No one cares a bit that you're leaving
Nukuroa."
Very few people would miss her, and if they knew that
she'd been driven away from their remote village by a
persistent, irrational foreboding they'd think she was
going mad. After all, she'd scoffed at Gemma.
But if she was heading for a breakdown, who would look
after Michael โ ?
"No!" she said firmly.
If she were losing her mind, she'd deal with it once she
and Michael were safely away.
She yanked the car keys from her handbag, swearing under
her breath when she accidentally dislodged an envelope
onto the sofa. It gaped open, light from the centre bulb
transforming the fine wavy strands of hair inside to a
tawny-gold glory.
Abby's lips tightened. She glanced at the dying fire, but
before the thought had time to surface she'd pushed the
envelope back into her bag and closed the catch on it.
Shivering, she took in three or four deep, grounding
breaths. As soon as she got settled again she'd burn that
lock of hair. It was a sentimental fetter to a past long
dead; her future was devoted to Michael, which was why the
miracle of modern hair colouring now dimmed her bright
crown to a dull mouse-brown. A further disguise was the
way she wore it, scraped back from her face in a pony-tail
that straightened the naturally loose, casual waves.
She endured the change, just as she endured the cheap
clothes in unflattering shades that concealed her slender
body. She'd even bought spectacles of plain glass, tinted
to mute her tilted, almond-shaped eyes and green-gold
irises.
Nothing could hide her mouth, wide and full and far too
obvious, even when she'd toned it down with lipstick just
the wrong colour. In spite of that, and the cleft in her
chin, the camouflage worked.
She'd turned being inconspicuous into an art form. Anyone
who took a second glance saw a single mother with no
clothes sense and no money, working hard to bring up her
child, refusing dates, content to lurk on the edge of
life. In a year's time no one in Nukuroa would remember
her.
If that thought stung, she had only to recall Michael's
laughing, open face when he came running towards her each
evening in the child-care centre, the warmth of his hug
and kiss when she tucked him into bed, his confidence and
exuberant enjoyment of life.
Nothing and nobody was more important than Michael.
And if she was going to take him away tonight, she'd
better get going!
Keys dangling from her fingers, she lifted the pack and
set off for the front door, only to stop, heart hammering
again, when her ears picked up the faint murmur of a car
on the road. After a second's hesitation, she dropped the
pack and paced noiselessly across to the window. Slowly
she drew back the curtain a fraction and peered into the
darkness. Headlights flashed on and off like alarm beacons
in the heavy darkness as the car moved past the line of
trees separating the farm paddock from the road.
When the vehicle continued out of sight she let out a
long, relieved breath. Her wide mouth sketched a curve at
the familiar fusillade of barks from the dogs at the
homestead next door, but the smile soon faded. Odd that a
car should be on the road this late; in this farming
district most people went to bed early.
Taut and wary, she stayed at the window for several more
minutes, listening to the encompassing silence, her mind
racing over her plans. First the long trip to
Christchurch, where she'd sell the car for what little she
could get. Tomorrow evening she and Michael would take
flight to New Plymouth in the North Island โ with tickets
bought under a false name, of course.
And then a new safe haven, a different refuge โ but the
same life, she thought wearily, always checking over her
shoulder, waiting for Caelan Bagaton โ referred to by the
media as Prince Caelan Bagaton, although he didn't use the
title โ to track her down.
Yet it was a life she'd willingly accepted. Straightening
her shoulders, she drew the scanty curtain across and went
into the narrow, old-fashioned kitchen, where her gaze
fell on the list of things to do. Oh, hell! She'd have to
get rid of that before she left. Still listening alertly,
she screwed up the sheet of paper and dropped it into the
waste-paper bin.
Only to give a short, silent laugh at her stupidity,
snatch it out and hurry back to the living room to toss it
onto the dying embers. It didn't catch immediately; some
of the words stood out boldly as the paper curled and
blackened, so she bent down and blew hard, and a brief
spurt of flame reduced the list to dark flakes that
settled anonymously onto the grate.
"Nobody," she said on a note of steely satisfaction, "is
going to learn anything from those ashes."
She stood up and had taken one step across the room when
she heard another unknown sound. Where?
Twanging nerves drove her to move swiftly, noiselessly,
into the narrow hall and head for the door. Two steps away
from it, she heard the snick of a key in the lock.
Fear kicked her in the stomach, locking every muscle. For
a few, irretrievable seconds she couldn't obey the
mindless, adrenalin-charged instinct to snatch up Michael
and race wildly out of the back door.
I must be dreaming, she thought desperately. Oh God,
please let me be dreaming!
But the door flew back at the noiseless thrust of an
impatient hand, and every nightmare that had haunted her
sleep, every fear she'd repressed, coalesced into stark
panic.
Every magnificent inch an avenging prince, Caelan Bagaton
came into the house in a silent, powerful rush, closing
the door behind him with a deliberation that dried her
mouth and sent her blood racing through her veins. He
looked like some dark phantom out of her worst nightmare โ
tall, broad-shouldered, his hard, handsome features
clamped in a mask of arrogant authority. The weak light
emphasised the ruthless angle of his jaw and the hard male
beauty of his mouth, picked out an autocratic sweep of
cheekbones and black lashes that contrasted shockingly
with cold blue eyes.
Beneath the panic, a treacherous wildfire memory stirred.
Horrified, Abby swallowed. Oh, she remembered that mouth โ
remembered the feel of it possessing hersโฆ
"You know you should always have a chain on the door," he
said, voice cool with mockery, gaze narrowed and glinting
as he scanned her white face.
Shaking but defiantly stubborn, she said, "Get out," only
to realise that no sound came from her closed throat.
She swallowed and repeated the words in a croaking
monotone. "Get out of here."
Even though she mightn't be able to master her body's
primitive response to his vital potency, she'd stand her
ground.
"Did you really think you'd get away with stealing my
nephew?" Contempt blazed through every word. He advanced
on her, the dominant framework of his face as implacable
as the anger that beat against her.
The metallic taste of fear nauseated her; determined not
to be intimidated, she fought it with every scrap of will-
power. Although she knew it was futile, desperation forced
her to try and sidetrack him.
"How did you get the door key?" she demanded, heart
banging so noisily she was certain he could hear it.
"I'm the new tenant." He surveyed her pinched face in a
survey as cold as the lethal sheen on a knife-blade. "And
you are Abigail Moore, whose real name is Abigail
Metcalfe, shortened by her friends and lovers โ and my
sister โ to Abby." His tone converted the sentence to an
insult. "Drab clothes and dyed hair are a pathetic attempt
at disguise. You must have been desperate to be found."
"If so, I'd have kept both my hair colour and my name,"
she said through her teeth, temper flaring enough to hold
the fear at bay.
His wide shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug. "Why
didn't you move to Australia?"
"Because I couldn't afford the fare." The words snapped
out before she realised she'd been goaded into losing
control. Just after she'd returned to New Zealand she'd
read an article about him; he'd said that anger and fear
made fools of people, and now she was proving it.
Dragging in a shallow breath, she tried again to divert
him away from the child sleeping in the back bedroom. "If
you're the new tenant, you're not legally allowed in here
until tomorrow. Get out before I call the police."
He glanced ostentatiously at the sleek silver โ no,
probably platinum โ watch on his lean wrist. "It is
tomorrow, and we both know you won't call the police. The
local constable would laugh at you as he tossed you into
the cells; kidnappers are despised, especially those who
steal babies."
Panic paralysed her mind until a will-power she hadn't
known she possessed forced it into action again; for
Michael's sake she had to keep a clear head. She said
raggedly, "I don't know what you're talking about."
In a drawl as insulting as it was menacing, he said, "You
barely waited to bury Gemma after the cyclone before you
stole her child and ran away."
"We were air-lifted out to New Zealand." She hid the
panicky flutter in her stomach with a snap.
© 2003-2026