“You’re carrying my child, so you can forget any ideas you’ve got about cutting me out of its life.”

Reb continued, “You might not have much of an opinion of me, but you’re way off base if you think I’m going to walk away from my own flesh and blood.”

Amanda-Jayne forced herself to speak calmly and civilly. “Am I to understand that you’re determined to contribute to the baby’s upbringing?”

Reb mentioned a monthly sum he considered reasonable and she nearly staggered with surprise. “I’m afraid there’s a condition to my offer….”

Amanda-Jayne swallowed hard. “What?”

“You have to marry me to get it.”

ALISON KELLY, a self-confessed sports junkie, plays netball, volleyball and touch football, and lives in Australia’s Hunter Valley. She has three children and the type of husband women tell their daughters doesn’t exist in real life! Not only is he a better cook than Alison, but he isn’t afraid of vacuum cleaners, washing machines or supermarkets. Which is just as well—otherwise this book would have been written by a starving woman in a pigsty!

The Baby Deal
Alison Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

My thanks to Bernice for her assistance with the research, and to Bob, for knowing about ’82 Fords.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

TEARS of shame rolled down Amanda-Jayne’s face at the realisation that after years spent endeavouring to be the perfect daughter and then the perfect wife she’d spent the last few hours behaving like a perfect tramp.

She wanted to die on the spot.

No, she didn’t!

She could just imagine how the newspapers would report the circumstances of her death: DIVORCED SOCIALITE FOUND DEAD AFTER A NIGHT OF PASSION WITH HOME-TOWN BAD BOY.

The humiliating implications of that thought had her quickly but silently swinging her feet to the floor as her eyes struggled to adjust to the pitch-blackness of her surroundings. Her tears weren’t helping the situation, but unfortunately her instinctive recognition of lush, quality carpet beneath her as she lowered herself onto her hands and knees was as much another source of despair as it was a relief. The possibility that this was a hotel where she’d previously stayed and might be recognised by staff—or, worse, one of the guests—was almost as disturbing as her original fear that, in keeping with her appalling behaviour, once she orientated herself she’d find herself in some two-bit flea trap.

Seconds later, though, her night vision sharpened enough to reveal that while the hotel was obviously a five-star one it wasn’t, thank goodness, one she patronised. Now all she had to do was try and find her clothes and escape before the naked man adorning the mattress she’d just vacated woke up.

Trying to keep one eye on his prone form as she crawled on hands and knees, following the trail of her clothes, wasn’t easy. Especially not when her outraged conscience was screaming loud enough to wake the dead. Oh, dear Lord, who’d have thought giving in to her married friends’ demands that she celebrate her divorce with a ‘girls night out’ would end up like this? Certainly not anyone who knew her. At least she fervently hoped not.

Spying her bra peeking out from beneath a pair of floor-strewn black boxers, Amanda-Jayne felt her face flame in the darkness. Snatching it up, she hastily slipped it on but, rather than reassuring her, the recovery of the garment somehow made what she was doing seem even more tawdry than what she’d already done. On the verge of screaming that it was shame, not excitement generated from the memory of how she and the garment had become separated, that was causing the disturbing heat within her, she caught herself. Oh, Lord, she couldn’t afford for what modicum of sanity she still possessed to abandon her now. She had to get out of here before he woke up; now wasn’t the time for tears or self-recrimination.

Several moments of head-swivelling perusal of the nearby area revealed no sign of her panties. Where the devil were her pa—? Her belly clenched even before her eyes strayed to the tangle of sheets. Oh, no! Uh-uh. There was no way that she was going to climb back in there looking for them.

What on earth had possessed her? How could she have acted so out of character; done something so…so rash? Rash? Rash? Ha! Who was she trying to kid? Cheap was the only word to describe her actions. She must have been drunk, despite the fact she’d only had a couple of drinks… Perhaps the stress of the last year had caused some sort of abnormal biophysical reaction. That could happen…couldn’t it? Of course it could! It must have. After all, she wasn’t a big drinker, so surely if she’d drunk so much that tonight had been solely the result of alcohol consumption then by rights she should be in the last stages of alcoholic poisoning or clinically dead by now.

It wasn’t just what she’d done, but with whom she’d done it. This was a thousand times worse than waking up and finding she’d gone to bed with a well-respected businessman or even a famous celebrity or noted lawyer. Apparently she’d been so drunk she’d gone to bed with…with— No! It didn’t bear thinking about. Although she supposed she should take some comfort from the fact that by committing this act of lunacy outside the perimeters of her usual social circle she’d spared herself the risk of ever having to face him again. Unless, of course, she took complete leave of her senses, bought a Harley and started running with a group of bikers!

If only she’d declined to go ‘celebrating’ with her friends. If only she hadn’t refused to go home when Rachel and Penelope had left. ‘If only I could find my stupid dress,’ she muttered, flinging aside the male shirt she’d mistaken for her clothing.

A throaty male growl suddenly rumbled through the darkness, momentarily stopping her heart.

Then the bed base emitted several soft whimpers, suggesting movement from its occupant. Holding her breath, Amanda-Jayne remained on her hands and knees, face buried in the carpet, praying devoutly that her naked derrière wasn’t visible from the bed. Not that it hadn’t already been closely scrutinised, stroked and admired by the man in question, she mused miserably, not daring to move. If he thought she’d already left he’d probably roll over and go back to sleep. Of course it was possible he was still asleep, in which case she was wasting valuable time remaining here face down, butt up doing nothing!

Still not game to risk breathing, she furtively raised her head enough to peek over the foot of the bed at the sheet-draped nude male, only to quickly shut her eyes in a bid to discourage reminders of how intimately acquainted she and the still dozing Adonis had recently become. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep back what she would have liked to believe was a moan of despair, but the sad truth was it was more likely generated by lust—and lack of oxygen. Much as she might be feeling ashamed enough to die, there was no denying the man who’d managed to get her to abandon the morals of a lifetime had a body to die for. Not that that was any excuse for her wanton behaviour.

But what she really wanted to know was how a motorbike-riding rebel from her home town had gained entry into the fashionably chic, members-only Sydney nightclub anyway. Even she’d been on a waiting list for two years before her membership had been sanctioned. Well, she’d certainly be having something to say to the management about the lax security—

Oh, God! What was she thinking?

She wasn’t going to mention this incident, or what led up to it, to anyone! Ever. In fact…she lit the face of her watch…as of 4:51 a.m. October the twentieth, October the nineteenth had not existed this year!

CHAPTER ONE

LETHAL’S barking drew Reb’s attention to the car pulling alongside the petrol bowsers. Positioned flat on his back below the underbelly of old Mrs Kelly’s classic FJ Holden, his view was somewhat restricted, but he could see enough of the new arrival’s sporty wheels and hubcaps to know the driver wasn’t a regular customer.

Good. At 5:40 p.m. on New Year’s Eve the last thing he needed was another hard-luck story and a plea for a mechanical miracle. He should’ve closed up forty minutes ago, but he’d been a soft touch for Mrs K’s desperate appeal that he fix her exhaust so she could drive to the cemetery to picnic with her two-decades-dead husband for their anniversary tomorrow. Still, while he might have a soft spot for zany elderly locals, he didn’t feel any obligation to humour impatient tourists who kept their hand clamped on the horn, inciting Lethal to vocal mania.

‘Shut up, Leth!’ he bellowed, turning his head to view the bottom of the staircase leading to the upper-level apartment and willing his cousin to respond to the ongoing racket from dog and horn.

After several seconds of the continued ear-splitting duet and no sign of the presumably still sulking Savannah, Reb let out a frustrated curse. At this rate he’d be lucky to get out of here in time to have one beer by midnight, much less make it to Gunna’s party. Shoving the trolley out from under the car, he jackknifed to his feet.

‘Can it, Lethal! You brainless mutt!’ The barking stopped, but the dog continued to jump around on its hind legs like a demented giant rabbit then plunked his paws on Reb’s shoulders to eyeball him with a play-with-me grin.

‘Lord save me from slobbering canines and moody, petulant females,’ he grumbled, before saying, ‘Down, Lethal.’

The firmness of the command brought an immediate response, and one finger pointed in the direction of the canine trampoline sent the dog scampering there. Of course the cessation of the dog’s antics made the ongoing blaring of the horn that much more obvious and grating to Reb’s day-worn temper.

‘Yeah, right-oh, mate!’ he bellowed, wiping the grease from his hands down his overalls as he strode from the workshop. ‘Keep your shirt on! Just ’cos you drive a sports car doesn’t make you—’ His outburst was stalled by the same shocked disbelief that brought his legs to a standstill.

To say he was stunned would have been the greatest understatement since Creation. In fact the only other person he’d have been more surprised to find sitting behind the wheel of the sleek midnight-blue imported convertible gracing the driveway of the Browne Bike and Auto Emporium was Elvis. Presumably, though, Elvis was dead, which explained his absence, but not the beautiful, spoilt and extremely wealthy Ms Amanda-Jayne Vaughan’s presence.

In the minuscule fraction of time between her swinging her Titian-haired head in his direction and the almost electrifying effect of her gaze touching him, the horn was suddenly defeated by a silence so loud Reb could have sworn his body vibrated from it. He told himself the sudden increase in his body temperature was the result of leaving the semi-coolness of the workshop and the fact he was wearing heavy cotton drill overalls in the peak of the Australian summer. His brain, however, immediately dismissed that explanation as the load of bunk it was, because as usual Amanda-Jayne Vaughan looked like every man’s fantasy and Reb was unfortunately male.

Her hair was loose, restrained from her face only by the undoubtedly designer-brand sunglasses pushed onto her head, and the copper-red tresses complemented her exquisite classical beauty as Reb could imagine no other colour doing. A faint flush tinted her fair, creamy skin, but whether it was caused by irritation, the heat or self-consciousness Reb couldn’t guess—although the notion that it might be the latter was downright ridiculous. As if the Vaughans had ever been averse to being the centre of attention! More likely Amanda-Jayne was peeved because she’d had to wait for service and was embarrassed by the events and her behaviour the last time they’d met.

Unbidden, memories of that encounter drew his gaze to the subtle swell of her breasts beneath her knit vest top and sent his arousal meter soaring. There wasn’t a real lot of Amanda-Jayne Vaughan compared to the women he was usually attracted to, but for all her understated physical attributes, her highfalutin’ ways and her stuck-up attitude he had to admit that she had the hottest mouth and the smoothest skin he’d ever encountered. Just the notion of exploring them both again sent his taste buds and fingers into flashback mode.

Amanda-Jayne scrambled to remember what opening line she’d used when she’d been rehearsing this moment on the drive over, but it eluded her. So too did every other bit of the calm, businesslike request she’d come here to make. She swallowed, trying to pacify both her mind and a nervous stomach that wasn’t helping the situation. She also tried to ignore the fact that the convertible offered her no protection from the eyes of the man towering beside it on the passenger side. It didn’t work. His insultingly slow perusal of her body ignited inner sparks which had her squirming in her seat. It was only after endless seconds of his scrutiny, when she managed to pull her own gaze from him, that she noticed her sarong skirt had fallen open and was exposing the full length of her left leg.

‘Oh, my God!’ She jerked the ends of the fabric together.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Don’t sweat it. Truth is, A.J., I could stand here all day looking at you.’ His smirk was pure lust.

‘Well, I can assure you I didn’t come here to be leered at by you!’

‘I can’t leer, huh? Damn,’ he murmured, his expression rueful as he brought it back to her face. ‘Guess that probably eliminates us having hot, torrid sex from your agenda too, huh?’

It was all Reb could do not to laugh as thick-lashed brown eyes widened in a now almost beetroot face, her sexy mouth opening and closing without emitting a word. In one respect it was a disappointment because the husky timbre of her cultured voice and precise diction fascinated him—especially since he’d discovered that years of elocution hadn’t limited her conversation to giving orders and civilised put-downs. Ah, no, the publicly polite Ms Vaughan’s vocabulary could get real earthy in the heat of passion. However, since he was about as likely to get a second exposure to that passion as he was to be nominated as the next Prime Minister, Reb would take his fun when and where he could get it. Right now that was in the driveway of his garage and it was obvious from his unexpected customer’s two-handed grip on the steering wheel and rigid posture that she wasn’t comfortable, or happy about being there.

Well, all joking aside, nor was Reb.

It irked him all ends up that the stuck-up little snob, who’d first caught his attention back in the days when she’d spent vacations from her posh boarding-school toting spoilt rich boys around town and driving poor local guys like him out of their lusting minds, could still get him all hot and bothered. Oh, sure, she was even more beautiful and sexy than she had been at fifteen, but Reb figured that, having recently received a shot of her charms, he should have been immune to her. That he wasn’t didn’t sit well with him.

Especially not when she was sitting in his driveway, in her expensive car, and looking as if she’d been thrust into her worst nightmare. Then again, having to pass through, let alone stop in this part of town was probably enough to send a Vaughan into months of psychiatric counselling.

‘Gotta say this is a surprise, A.J.—’

‘My name is not A.J.’

‘So what’s the deal? Your family just heard a bridge got put in in the twenties and curiosity had you itching to see how the other half of Vaughan’s Landing lived?’

‘No, I—’

‘Nah,’ he cut in. ‘I didn’t think so. Your lot can’t even bring themselves to acknowledge there is another half. I reckon the last time any of the illustrious Vaughans crossed into this part of town must’ve been on horseback in the 1890s, when old Walter Vaughan founded the place.’

Her expression was a combination of impatience, condescension and definite discomfort as she flicked her gaze from the deserted road around the equally deserted petrol station. He could tell she was mentally calculating how many rungs her social status would slide if anyone happened to see her here. The urge to delay her for as long as possible in the hope that Mrs Kelly, the root of the town grapevine, would arrive to pick up the FJ while she was here was strong. But so too was the desire to get rid of her as soon as possible and once again relegate her to the deep recesses of his memory. The women at Gunna’s party might lack the cool, elegant class of Amanda-Jayne Vaughan, but they would also lack her icy, superior attitude.

‘So what do you want?’ he asked, blocking out an egotistical voice reminding him he’d once managed to very thoroughly thaw A.J. ‘Petrol or water?’

‘Neither. I’m here because—’

‘Never mind,’ he said, now spying the worn offside rear tyre on the car. ‘I can see why you’re here.’

She seemed so comically astounded by his statement, Reb was more amused than insulted by her reaction. After all, in her social circle it was automatically accepted that people of his ilk uniformly had double-digit incomes and single-digit IQs and nothing he said would ever change that opinion. Not, he reminded himself, moving to inspect the tread wear on the front tyres, that he gave a stuff about changing that opinion.

Bracing the driver’s-side front wheel in his hands, he gave it a solid shake. The action brought a female yelp of, ‘Reb!’

The sound of his name froze him rigid, all interest in the wheel’s stability instantly fleeing. His reaction was partially due to the fact that she’d finally used his name, but also because the bemused, startled tone was a blood-stopping reminder of another occasion when she’d gasped his name.

‘Reb…wh-wh-what are you doing?’

He straightened, wondering if he’d imagined the faint uncertainty in her tone. The tight-lipped glare she shot him down with when he chanced a wink and said, ‘Why? Shaking you up a bit, am I?’ pretty much labelled his imagination as uncontrollable even before she snapped,

‘Don’t try and be smart!’

‘Gosh darn,’ he drawled facetiously, more angry with himself than her. ‘There I go forgettin’ my lowly station in life again. I sure am sorry, ma’am.’

Her chest rose on a long, exaggerated indrawn breath and Reb couldn’t pull his gaze from it until it lowered on an exasperated exhale. ‘If you’re quite through acting the comic,’ she chided, ‘you might be ready to hear why I’m here.’

More like I was acting the fool! he berated himself, before saying aloud, ‘Like I said, I can see why you’re here.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re paying your regular mechanic to maintain this baby, but, sweetheart, he’s ripping you off. Your two rear tyres are as bald as bowling balls and the front ones are barely legal. You’re in desperate need of a wheel alignment and balance—’

‘What?’

‘I don’t have the time to do that now, but swing the car into the workshop and I’ll fit the new tyres.’

‘But…but I don’t want new—’

‘Look, sweetheart, I know you wouldn’t be familiar with the saying beggars can’t be choosers, but the fact is it’s after closing time on New Year’s Eve and there’s nowhere else round here you’re going to get tyres fitted before Monday.’

‘Would you please not interrupt me and listen? I don’t need any tyres!’

‘Ha, don’t kid yourself! Sweetheart, I’ve seen erasers with more rubber on them than this car! Now, I don’t doubt you can afford the price of a defect fine, but the bottom line is those wheels are going to cause you a serious braking problem, or worse, real soon.’

He grinned. ‘But lucky for you I have this thing about protecting fools from themselves, so I’m going to help you out. Now, swing your car over there and—’

‘I will do no such thing,’ she said hotly. ‘I already know that what meets your standards of protection don’t meet mine!’

‘Oh, right, like your knowledge of tyres extends beyond knowing they’re made of rubber and should be kept round,’ Reb said dryly, resenting having his mechanical reputation and skills called into question.

‘For your information, Ms Vaughan,’ he continued, wondering why he simply didn’t just tell her to take a hike, ‘I never use anything but top-of-the-line tyres on my vehicles! The only reason I don’t stock your brand of choice is there’s no point me carrying expensive brands that none of my regulars can afford to buy. I do, however, ensure that those I stock offer excellent protection under emergency braking conditions. Something yours won’t—’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! I don’t care a whit about what sort of budget tyres you use! It’s your choice of inferior personal protection that’s a problem!’

Reb felt himself stagger. ‘My what?’

‘You heard me!’

‘Yeah, but I’ve having a rough time keeping up with your conversational leaps.’

‘Yeah? Well, if you think that’s tough, try this—I’m having a baby!’

She delivered the words with a ferocity that not only stunned him, but seemed to have shocked even her for she sagged back against her seat, shaking, then buried her face in her hands.

‘You’re pregnant?’ Reb wasn’t so much questioning her as trying to come to terms with the idea. Amanda-Jayne Vaughan was pregnant? Of all the women he knew in this town Amanda-Jayne Vaughan was the last one he’d have picked to end up a single mother. It was a joke in this part of Vaughan’s Landing that if a girl wasn’t pregnant by the time she was eighteen her parents usually threw a party or started questioning her fertility. Sadly, the low socioeconomic situation seemed to continually foster kids who repeated their parents’ mistakes. But Amanda-Jayne Vaughan…

For starters she was in her late twenties and from one of the richest families in the state, which meant she should have been smart enough to avoid slip-ups and wealthy enough to cover them up if she didn’t. Reb, therefore, could only assume she’d chosen to go the ‘fashionable’ solo mother route. He personally didn’t approve of the trend, but it was nothing to him what the up-market Ms Vaughan did. Why she’d imagine he’d be the least bit interest—

Suddenly his brain began putting two and two together, arriving at an answer that brought pure panic. Oh, hell!

‘Are…are…?’ He gripped the door of her car, barely able to get the words out. ‘Are you say…? You’re pregnant, to me?’

At the minuscule nod of her head, Reb felt every drop of blood rush to his feet.

‘You’re having my baby?’

‘Please keep your voice down,’ she hissed. ‘I have no intention—’

‘You can’t be!’

‘That’s what I said. But we’re both wrong.’

This couldn’t be happening to him. Nah, it was a joke! he told himself. Except the face of the woman in front of him wasn’t smiling.

‘Are…are you sure about this?’ he heard himself ask. ‘I mean, maybe you’re just late. Have you seen a doctor?’

‘Of course I’ve seen a doctor! Why else would I be here? A social visit?’

He ignored her sarcasm. ‘But…. but you can’t mean I’m the father?’ he protested. ‘I can’t be. I used protection. I always use protection. Religiously. Someone else must be the father.’

‘I beg your pardon? Do you seriously believe I’d be desperate enough to nominate you as the father of my child if there was the remotest chance it could be somebody else? Anybody else,’ she said snootily. ‘And, furthermore, while I’ve absolutely no doubt you are a practising disciple of casual sex, I am not.’

That she was acting like indignation personified had Reb seeing every shade of red. ‘Well, I’m sorry all ends up to offend your sensibilities, sweetheart. But I just assumed since it was so easy to get you in the sack that night that I wouldn’t be the only guy who’d managed it.’

As much as Amanda-Jayne hated him for the comment she could well understand why he’d think as much. ‘I…I was drunk that night,’ she muttered, desperate to regain her dignity in her own eyes if not his.

The laugh that broke from him was scathing. ‘Now there’s an ironic defence for one’s morals if ever I’ve heard one. But in my defence I have to say that you didn’t seem all that drunk when you darted out of bed and adroitly rounded up your clothes in the dark.’

‘What would you know?’ she challenged. ‘You were sound asleep.’

‘Was I?’ He smirked as the realisation dawned on her face that he’d been awake the whole time she’d been executing her soundless escape. ‘If you’d asked me,’ he said, ‘I could’ve told you where your knickers and left shoe were.’

The announcement initially threw her, making her feel an even bigger fool than she obviously was, but the smug amusement on Reb Browne’s face quickly prompted her to go back on the offensive. ‘Really? Then why pretend to be asleep? Why didn’t you say something?’

‘Like what? Suggest you stay? Was that what you were hoping I’d do?’

‘No!’ she gasped. ‘I was mortified by what I’d done! I’d never done anything like that in my life!’

‘No?’ He grinned. ‘Then, honey, you must be a real quick study ’cos your inexperience sure didn’t show.’

‘You… I… How…?’

Amanda-Jayne would have liked to believe her stuttering incoherence was due entirely to outrage at the insult, but her mutilated feminine ego insisted on seizing upon the implication that, unlike her philandering ex-husband, Reb Browne hadn’t found her lacking in bed. And he should know! For, while Anthony had taken great delight in telling her she’d not possessed a tenth of the sexual prowess of the dozen or so lovers he’d taken during their seven-year marriage, it was common knowledge that Reb Browne probably slept with more women than that in a fortnight. There—

Oh, Lord, what was she thinking? Browne’s reputation wasn’t a bonus, it was a serious cause for concern. Hell, it was the only reason she’d decided to advise him of the pregnancy.

When her obstetrician had asked if she knew of any genetic medical problems on the baby’s father’s side of the family, she’d almost passed out from dread. Not even his assurances that it was only a routine question and that even at this early stage of her pregnancy everything was progressing normally could alleviate her fears. Given that her own medical history put this pregnancy in the realms of a miracle even before one took into account the malfunctioning condom, the idea of her losing this baby was something she couldn’t contemplate. No matter how embarrassing the circumstances of the conception were or how humiliating it was to have to confront this man again, she had to know of any and all possible conditions that might put her pregnancy at risk.

‘Look,’ she said, grateful for an upbringing which allowed her to summon poise, confidence and decorum even when her mind and emotions were reeling out of control. ‘I’m not going to deny that I’m ashamed of my part in creating this situation. I am. Mortified, in fact. However, you have to assume some responsibility and—’

‘I’m not going to marry you if that’s what you’re—’

A horrified shriek was the only way Reb could have described the noise that erupted from her.

‘Never!’ she spat. ‘Not if I had to kill myself to stop it happening.’

He grinned. ‘My sentiments exactly. But since I’ve never dodged my responsibilities in the past I’m not going to start now. So you prove I’m the father and naturally I’ll pay child support.’

‘I’ve never dodged my responsibilities in the past…’ Amanda-Jayne’s heart ceased beating as the words echoed in her head.

Dear Lord, was it possible her child would have a half-sibling living in Vaughan’s Landing? Of course it was! Given Reb Browne’s popularity with women it was entirely feasible he’d sired more than one other child. It was something which hadn’t occurred to her. But it should have because the Brownes’ history in this part of the state was almost as long as the Vaughans’. Her grandmother had once told her that in just eighty years the Browne men had probably sired more children outside marriage than the Vaughans had had hot dinners.

‘Y-you’ve fathered other children?’

‘No!’

‘You haven’t?’

‘No. Like I told you, I always wear a condom. So if the reason you’ve turned chalk-white is because you’re worrying about something besides being pregnant, you don’t have to.’

‘What? Oh! Oh, no. No, I wasn’t worried about that.’ At least she hadn’t been since the doctor had given her the all-clear a week ago.

‘Should I be?’

‘What?’

‘Worried about—’

‘Of course not! I’ve only ever slept with my husband…er, ex-husband.’

‘And me.’ His smirk was smug, suggestive and sexy, creating a heat in Amanda-Jayne’s belly which had her loins tingling even as she hovered on the verge of tears. According to the books she’d read she could expect her emotions to be at the mercy of her hormones throughout her pregnancy and possibly beyond, but there was no way on earth she was going to start crying in front of the like of Reb Browne.

‘Hey, are you all right? What’s wrong? Are you in pain or something?’ There was genuine, almost panicked concern in the male face and voice as he crouched beside her seat. ‘A.J.?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Yeah, right. You look even more shell-shocked than I feel—which means you’re nowhere near fine.’ He studied her face for moment, muttered a string of profanities under his breath, then he pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘You’re fair dinkum about this, aren’t you?’

He gave her no time to answer the grimly voiced question. ‘Look, I mean what I said. If it’s my child—’

‘It is.’

‘—I’ll meet my financial responsibilities and everything else a father is supposed to…to— Aw, hell!’ He looked skyward for several seconds, raking both hands through his hair, then sighed heavily and turned back to her.

‘You know, I’d have an easier time grasping things if you’d come here to tell me World War Three had just started, Vaughan’s Landing was at the centre of it and I had to do maintenance on the tanks. At least there’s a chance I’d have been half expecting that,’ he said dryly.

Amanda-Jayne was expecting World War Three—immediately once her stepmother learned she was pregnant. Not that she was ever going to admit to anyone who had sired her child. Belatedly it occurred to her that the man responsible was staring at her in the way people did when they were expecting a response. She frowned. ‘What?’

‘Look,’ he said wearily, ‘I understand we need to talk this through and obviously you’re here because you’re anxious to discuss the situation, but I can’t. Not now. I need time to get my head around this. I asked if we could meet somewhere tomorrow night, to talk things through. Work out where we go from here.’

He sounded so sincere, so caring, it took Amanda-Jayne several seconds to comprehend what he was driving at. When she did waves of panic began crashing through her.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not here because I want to discuss anything with you,’ she told him. ‘I’ve made my decisions and your opinion on the subject isn’t and never was an issue for me. I certainly don’t need your financial support.’

Reb didn’t mind her disregarding his financial assistance—heck, her family could buy and sell most people ten times over—but if she was carrying his child he’d be damned if he’d have her ride roughshod over his right to express an opinion of how to deal with the situation!

‘Now just a—’ he started.

‘This is my address, in Sydney,’ she said, holding out a business card to him.

Reb took the peach business card and scanned it. Apart from her name, embossed in a delicate gold script, it revealed nothing other than her box number at an Eastern Suburbs post office.

‘You live at a post office?’

She ignored his facetiousness. ‘My doctor wants details of any medical problems the baby might inherit from you. I need to know if there’s a history of things like asthma or diabetes or…er…congenital birth defects.’ Her voice cracked a fraction, but she quickly recovered herself. ‘When you get the relevant information you can mail it to me at that address. And that will be the end of it.’

At the sight of a huge motorbike speeding into the driveway Amanda-Jayne’s heart almost lurched out of her chest. Desperate to avoid being seen here and starting any possible rumours which might hint at Reb Browne and herself having had a relationship, she instantly reached for the ignition key. The noise of the bike interrupted whatever Reb had been saying and when he stepped back to shoot an annoyed look at the rider Amanda-Jayne snapped off the parking brake and flattened the accelerator. The car gave a tricky little slide as she hit the loose gravel at the side of the road at speed, but mercifully, despite her supposed bald tyres, once onto the bitumen she again found traction. A quick look in the rear-view mirror revealed an angry-looking Reb Browne staring after her as a black-clad biker stopped alongside him.

The image was a graphic reminder of exactly who and what the father of her child was, and reassured her she was doing the right thing in excluding him from her child’s future. It might have been different if he’d been a lawyer or an accountant or…even just an ordinary mechanic. But Bad Boy Browne was a hellraiser from the tips of his biker boots to his unruly raven hair and no child should have to pay for one act of bad judgment on the part of its mother.

CHAPTER TWO

THOUGH the coolness of the marble entrance foyer provided respite from the early evening’s heat, it did little to stem the nausea, which had hit Amanda-Jayne at the garage. Feeling that at any moment she might join the ranks of the generations of deceased Vaughans, who peered down at her from the walls, she hurried towards the staircase, desperately swallowing back the acid bile rising in her throat and hoping to reach her bedroom without throwing up.

‘There you are!’ Amanda-Jayne stifled a groan as her stepmother’s gleeful disapproval caught her at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Where on earth have you been?’

‘Out,’ she responded, continuing up the stairs without turning.

‘Don’t be smart with me, Amanda-Jayne. Have you forgotten we’re expected at the mayoral ball in a little over an hour?’

Amanda-Jayne had, but it was a moot point now since it was eminently feasible that within the hour she’d be dead from terminal morning sickness. ‘I’m not going, Patricia. I’ll call Mayor Bur—’

‘What do you mean, you won’t be going? You most certainly will be!’

Since dealing with her stepmother could turn her stomach even on its good days Amanda-Jayne had no intention of lingering for a lecture now, so with her mouth firmly shut she continued on up the stairs, dogged by dizziness, nausea and, worst of all, Patricia.

‘I expect you to be ready in forty-five minutes. I also expect that you’ll show more style in your choice of evening wear than you did when you chose your current attire.’

‘Patricia,’ she said wearily. ‘The only evening wear I’ll be putting on are my pyjamas.’

‘Now you listen here, Amanda-Jayne… This family has a tradition of being guests of honour at the New Year’s ball and I will not tolerate you snubbing your nose at it. You hear me? You always attended when your father was head of this family so don’t think you can embarrass me by not going now I hold that position.’

‘I don’t need to embarrass you, Patricia; Joshua is managing to do that on his own.’

‘You leave my son out of this. He’s only a child.’

The sheer absurdity of that remark couldn’t go unchallenged. ‘He’s eighteen—hardly a child. Although given the way he almost ploughed down an elderly couple outside the post office a few minutes ago then hurled four-letter words at them, the term juvenile delinquent would be pretty accurate.’

‘Telling tales again, sis?’ Her half-brother’s amused voice rose from the foyer.

‘Darling, you’re home!’

Patricia’s singsong delight at her son’s appearance was the last straw for Amanda-Jayne’s stomach. With one hand sealing her mouth she sprinted down the hall to her room, where she used the other to defy Patricia’s, ‘Don’t you dare lock that door, Amanda-Jayne! I want to speak with you.’ Then, with the bedroom swirling around her, she dashed to her private bathroom.

She was dimly aware of her stepmother thumping on the bedroom door, but she had no idea what she was shouting at her. Considering Patricia’s vocal-amplification abilities, she could only assume that hearing impairment was a side effect of heaving one’s heart out.

Dear God, how much longer would this last?

For over a week now she’d been getting up close and personal with the commode at varying and multiple times each day. Morning sickness? Ha! She hoped whatever idiot had named it that had been exiled in disgrace from the world of medical science and was at this minute eyeballing Satan!

‘My doctor wants details of any medical problems the baby might inherit from you… When you get the relevant information you can mail it to me… And that will be the end of it.’

For the thousandth time, Reb’s mind replayed the scene at the garage.

‘Like hell that’ll be the end of it,’ he said, rolling the beer bottle he’d emptied nearly an hour ago between his palms. ‘If I’ve fathered a kid, Ms I-didn’t-need-your-financial-assistance Vaughan, I’m sure as hell going to contribute more than just a medical report to its future.’

Reb wasn’t yet sure what exactly he was going to say or precisely what demands he was going to lay on Amanda-Jayne when he fronted up at the Vaughan house tomorrow morning, but one thing was sure: she wouldn’t want to count on her New Year getting off to the start she’d planned. He might have been too shell-shocked to entirely comprehend what she’d said prior to speeding out of the garage earlier this evening, but he wasn’t giving her the satisfaction of thinking she was calling all the shots for much longer. First thing tomorrow morning he was going to be on her doorstep ready to set a few ground rules of his own and she’d better be ready to listen.

‘Hoy, Reb! Since when have you got so antisocial?’

At the wry question, Reb lowered his gaze from the inky sky and watched the approach of the woman who’d delivered it. Wearing ratty sneakers, cut-off jeans and a skimpy midriff top, the pint-size blonde looked barely old enough to be in high school, much less the mother of his two-year-old goddaughter. It was an illusion that vanished the moment she was close enough for anyone to see her eyes. At a glance they were a startling green…on closer inspection they were more jaded than green, making Debbie Jenkins seem decades older than the twenty-one Reb knew her to be.

It occurred to him that Deb’s background was the complete antithesis to Amanda-Jayne Vaughan’s. A runaway from a home life that was all too familiar to most of Reb’s friends, she’d spent a year in a juvenile detention centre before hooking up with a group of bikers that even he’d regarded as bad news. But in the best traditions of irony she’d got ‘lucky’ just over three years ago when her loser boyfriend had put her up as collateral in a pub card game and Reb had ‘won’ her. If she’d been surprised when he’d said he wasn’t interested in having her warm his bed, she’d near died of shock when he’d offered her a ride to Vaughan’s Landing and a full-time job working in the garage.

Reb had given her a chance and his mate Gunna had given her his heart. Neither man had ever been sorry.

‘So how come you’re sittin’ out here all by your lonesome?’ she asked. ‘Not like you to be on the fringes of a party.’

‘Just needed a bit of time to consider my New Year resolutions.’

She laughed. ‘Let me guess, you’re givin’ up smokin’…again.’

Reb grimaced, regretting that the best he could claim in his latest campaign to quit was having cut back and switched to an ultra low tar/nicotine brand.

‘Yeah, that too,’ he said. ‘Maybe this year I’ll manage to give them right away, huh?’

‘Well, I’m givin’ ’em away,’ Debbie asserted proudly. ‘And I’m doin’ it cold turkey. It’s time I set Alanna a good example.’

‘I wish I could’ve managed that. Good luck, Deb; take it from me, you’re in for a tough time.’

‘Mentionin’ tough… What’s this I hear about Savvy givin’ you the slip?’

Reb paused as a means of checking the anger the question reignited. His fifteen-year-old cousin was going to be lucky if he didn’t wring her neck first chance he got.

‘We had a disagreement about her going to some party tonight,’ he said finally. ‘As usual she holed up in her bedroom sulking. Then, while I was talking to Aman—er—a customer,’ he amended quickly, ‘she bolted. I didn’t know she wasn’t upstairs until about an hour later, after I finished working on Mrs Kelly’s FJ.’

‘Bolted? You mean ran away?’

‘No, no,’ Reb said quickly, responding to the alarm in Debbie’s expression. ‘She hasn’t taken any of her stuff. Just snuck off for the night. The brat left a note saying “Gone to party. Don’t wait up.” I’ll kick her butt into the middle of next month when I get hold of her,’ he promised.

‘I’m surprised you just didn’t go right out an’ haul her butt home.’

‘I would’ve if I’d had the slightest clue where the party was,’ Reb said curtly. ‘It’s because she wouldn’t give me any details in the first place that I said she couldn’t go. And her friends were predictably close-mouthed when I rang around trying to find out where it was. Her life won’t be worth living when I get my hands on her.’

‘Can’t be too tough on her, Reb,’ she said. ‘I mean, she’s a kid. Didn’t you do the same thing at fifteen?’

Reb hadn’t. There had been no point in sneaking out or even asking permission to do something or go somewhere when his old man had let him run his own race from the time he’d been able to walk. He hadn’t even started school the first time the cops had brought him home after finding him wandering along the highway. When his old man had died, he’d moved in with his uncle, but the then toddling Savannah was such a handful that Bill had relied on Reb’s self-sufficiency to extend to taking care of her as well. Trouble was, the teenage Savvy was proving more of a handful than the hyperactive two-year-old version had ever been.

‘Fairness isn’t high on my priority list right now,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ve got more than enough problems on my plate without all the stunts she’s been pulling these last few months.’

‘Problems?’ Immediate concern wrinkled Debbie’s features. ‘With the business?’

‘No, thank God! That’s the one part of my life that’s not currently causing me headaches. Although I’ll probably jinx myself sayin—’ Reb broke off at the sound of Joe Cocker’s voice cranked to a volume loud enough to shatter ice at both poles.

Debbie cursed. ‘I just told Gunna not to connect those other two amps! We’ll have the cops out here shortly.’

‘I don’t think you have to worry about breaking any noise acts tonight, Deb. Apart from it being New Year’s Eve there’s not another house for miles.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ she muttered. ‘There’s at least a dozen guys here who could get busted just on sight.’ She grimaced ruefully. ‘But then what else is new, right?

‘Now c’mon,’ she urged, grabbing his arm. ‘It’s almost time to count in the New Year and I reckon you and me are the only two still sober enough to manage it!’

It was dark when Amanda-Jayne awoke with a stomach that was mercifully settled and now craving food. Rolling over, she looked at the clock and smiled; at 11:50 p.m. on New Year’s Eve even the domestic staff wouldn’t be around, but more importantly neither would Patricia. Once again she wondered why she’d been cursed with the Cinderella version of a stepmother when other girls she’d known had got ones who would have crawled over crushed glass for them.

She’d been very young when her father married Patricia and any hopes she’d held that, after being motherless for two years, the quality of her life would only be improved by the marriage had been dashed long before its first anniversary. By then she’d been whole-heartedly entrenched in competition with her stepmother for every scrap of her father’s affection. Yet youthful enthusiasm was no match for experienced scheming and Patricia had been so adept at concealing her dislike of her stepdaughter from her husband that it was Amanda-Jayne who’d invariably come out looking bad. For all her late father’s famed all-seeing business vision, when it came to seeing through his second wife’s charade of ‘loving stepmother’ Andrew Vaughan had been pathetically myopic and insensitive to how lonely and excluded his daughter had come to feel in her own home. The situation had only worsened when Patricia had given birth to Joshua.

On the rare occasions it was deemed convenient for Amanda-Jayne to spend a weekend home from boarding-school, Patricia had made her feel like an outsider. Therefore, as soon as she’d turned eighteen Amanda-Jayne had chosen to move permanently to Sydney, returning to Vaughan’s Landing for only brief command visits to please her father. Since his death, she only returned to meet the terms of his will, but all that would change in forty-four months’ time. Come her thirtieth birthday, she’d have full legal title and control over the house.

Making her way down the small staff staircase leading from the upper floor to the kitchen, she couldn’t suppress the satisfaction she felt at knowing that Patricia knew she was on borrowed time as head of the house. Thanks to Amanda-Jayne’s great-grandfather’s very un-Victorian sense of equality, his will stated that in all future generations the Vaughan Hill house must pass to the eldest child regardless of sex. So, although the income from the Vaughans’ prosperous, century-old horse and cattle stud was to be equally divided between Joshua and herself, Amanda-Jayne was the heir to the family home. A situation which peeved Patricia no end since it granted her stepdaughter the power to exile her to the small cottage at the other side of the property once she assumed full control of her inheritance. In fact if her father hadn’t unreasonably stipulated that Amanda-Jayne couldn’t take full control until her thirtieth birthday, Patricia would have been ‘slumming it’ in the much smaller four-bedroom residence right now instead of still playing lady of the manor.

Some people might think it was mean to force Patricia to move to the smaller house, but Amanda-Jayne refused to acknowledge any guilt about what she intended to do. Considering the way she kicked me into boarding-school, she thought, why should I? By her father’s own admission the decision to send her away to school at age ten had been entirely her stepmother’s.

‘Patricia feels your mother and I were being extremely short-sighted and selfish in deciding to keep you in day school until senior high,’ he’d told her the day before she’d been shipped off to Sydney. ‘Patricia did two years of an education degree at university so she’s better qualified to make this decision than I am. You’ll thank her in the end.’

Well, ‘the end’ was still out of sight in any direction Amanda-Jayne looked, especially since whatever arguments her stepmother had used to convince her husband that she was an ‘education expert’ must have exceeded their use-by date when it had come time for her son’s education. Joshua hadn’t started boarding-school until this past year and already Patricia was dropping hints—the largest being the Ferrari Josh had got the day he’d gained his licence—that he wouldn’t be returning for his final year and silently daring Amanda-Jayne to challenge her on the subject.

Amanda-Jayne had refused to rise to the bait by demanding to know how much driving a kid could do with only one weekend away from school every four weeks. She’d outgrown playing Patricia’s little games; they took more enthusiasm than she could muster for the woman. As for Josh…well, for all that he was spoilt and arrogant, deep down Amanda-Jayne actually liked him, and there had been occasions in the past when she’d suspected he felt the same way about her, despite the fact Patricia had made it her life’s work to prevent any sibling affection developing between them.

While she wanted to think maturity was the reason she was now able to handle her stepmother’s obvious manipulation and open antagonism without immediately becoming defensive or losing her temper, it was more likely her tolerance stemmed from knowing her visits home were irregular and blissfully short. The exception being this dumb, annual two-week Christmas/New Year family reunion, which her father had so embraced he’d actually made it a condition of his will that the remaining members of his ‘loving family’ maintain the tradition. Amanda-Jayne might have laughed at the irony of that had she been able to understand anything of what her father had been thinking when he’d drawn up his last will and testament.

While she’d fight anyone who said her father hadn’t been of sound mind when he’d drawn up the document, her own opinion was that he must have been at least midway through a crate of imported cognac when he’d insisted the family solicitor couldn’t pay her monthly allowance until Patricia had verified she’d fulfilled their family obligations. She wondered if her father would be surprised to learn his precious wife had conveniently forgotten to instruct the solicitors to transfer Amanda-Jayne’s allowance every month since his death?

In the past it had taken no more than a couple of curt phone calls to rectify the problem, but Amanda-Jayne hadn’t seen a cent of her trust money for three months. If it wasn’t in her account when she got back to Sydney her father and every soul in both heaven and hell would hear the commotion she was going to kick up. Her ex-husband had already cost her the money she’d taken into their marriage; she wasn’t about to placidly sit around showing ‘good faith’ while she got financially routed a second time.

For the life of her she had no idea why her father had tied up her inheritance the way he had. Sometimes she thought it was because he’d had his own doubts on the success of her marriage and had wanted to safeguard her income, but that didn’t really make sense since he’d practically hand-picked his son-in-law. Which just went to prove, she thought ruefully, that his judgment in son-in-laws had been every bit as appalling as his taste in second wives.

Opening the refrigerator, Amanda-Jayne studied its contents for several moments before deciding that strawberries and cream along with some non-alcoholic wine from the cellar was as good a way as any to celebrate the New Year solo. No sooner had the self-pitying thought flashed into her head than an inner warmth and the recollection of precisely why she was spending the night at home ousted it.

‘Sorry, sweetie,’ she whispered, looking down and placing a hand on her still flat belly. ‘You’re a wonderful surprise… It’s just that I’m still getting used to you.’

‘You tart! You cheap, good-for-nothing tramp! How dare you humiliate—?’

Amanda-Jayne’s first, sleep-clouded thought was that she’d forgotten to switch off her TV. It wasn’t until her arm was almost reefed from its socket that it registered the diatribe of abuse was being directed at her!

Instantly awake, a startled scream burst from her as her eyes fought the sudden intrusion of light and her body resisted Patricia, who for some reason was trying to drag her from her bed.

‘Patricia, stop it!’ she demanded.

‘Get out!’ Patricia shouted. ‘Get out now!’

‘Let me go! Let—’

Though her stepmother released her arm, it was only to snatch the doona and pillows from the bed and hurl them to the floor. ‘Get out!’ she screeched again. ‘Out of bed! And out of this house!’

Amanda-Jayne was only too willing to concede that Patricia had a lot of vices, but drinking wasn’t one of them, so she could only conclude that the teetotalling witch had rabies. Except rabies didn’t exist in Australia, which meant—

‘Mum! Stop!’

As Josh grabbed his mother’s wildly flaying arms, survival instincts sent Amanda-Jayne scampering off the far side of the mattress.

On the other side of the bed a worried-looking Joshua was restraining his vermilion-faced mother, but shock was making it hard for Amanda-Jayne’s sleep-hazed brain to get any handle on what was going on. In all the years of their mutual animosity Patricia had never done anything this…this bizarre. But then again Amanda-Jayne had never imagined so much anger and contempt could radiate from a person’s eyes as was being directed at her now.

It was a hatred so intense Patricia was physically shaking from it and it didn’t require too much mental effort to work out what had triggered it; somehow her stepmother had discovered she was pregnant.

‘How dare you humiliate Joshua and me like this?’ she berated her. ‘How are we supposed to maintain our dignity in this town when you’ve disgraced the family by…by bedding common scum? A loutish, barbaric hoodlum!’

Amanda-Jayne reeled at her words. It was one thing for her to have found out about the baby, but the baby’s father…! Dear God, how had that got out? Yet even as she asked the question she knew. Why should she have thought that Reb Browne was above recounting his sexual conquests and the consequences thereof? Yet the irrational sense of betrayal she felt was a thousand times worse than that which her philandering ex-husband had ever caused her.

Anger at her own naivety, her stepmother and men in general rose up until she tasted its bile. Until—

Hand across her mouth, she flew to the bathroom, slamming the door against Patricia’s judgmental words. She wanted to cry. And at the same time wanted to punch something—or better yet someone who wasn’t female and was responsible for getting her into this condition!

When she re-entered the bedroom fifteen minutes later with an empty but still queasy stomach and a thumping headache Joshua had left, but her stepmother was still there and had obviously managed to keep herself busy; all the wardrobe doors were wide-open and dresser drawers pulled out and emptied. What clothes weren’t tossed on the bed lay in hateful disarray on the floor.

‘I want you packed and out of here within the hour.’

‘Fine,’ she stated coolly, refusing, absolutely refusing, to give Patricia the satisfaction of seeing her buckle under. ‘I assure you I’ve no more desire to be here than you have for me to stay, but…’ she paused, more in a bid to maintain her composure than for emphasis ‘…I’ll leave with a cheque for the three months’ allowance I’m owed.’

‘Oh, no, you won’t! Your father left me with the responsibility of seeing the high standard of dignity the Vaughan family has preserved for generations was maintained by—’

‘Well, then, Patricia, considering your display tonight, you’ve let him down badly, haven’t you?’

‘How dare you accuse me of such a thing, after the way you’ve disgraced yourself? You’ve sullied the family name and reputation—my name and reputation!’ she added. ‘I’m not going to give you one cent!’

‘My father left me that money and—’

‘And he gave me the power to decide whether you fill the requirements to receive it!’ Patricia shrieked, whatever control she might have regained while Amanda-Jayne was in the bathroom fast dwindling. ‘Now I want you out of my house, immediately. Do you hear me? Immediately! How dare you desecrate my reputation like this, you…you…?’

‘Obviously, your memory is failing since you consider this your house, so I’ll be helpful and remind you that tart and tramp were your nouns of choice earlier. But your opinion means less than nothing to me and—’

‘My opinion reflects what any decent person’s will be now it’s known you’re…you’re…having a relationship with a common criminal!’

As much as she hated to defend the man whose bragging mouth had put her in this situation, she wasn’t in the mood to concede her stepmother anything. ‘Reb Browne might’ve had a few juvenile crosses against his name, but he’s earning an honest living now. What’s more, we aren’t “having a relationship”.’

All colour drained from Patricia’s face. ‘Dear Lord! Have you no shame? No morals at all?’

Since it was a question Amanda-Jayne’s own conscience had berated her with all too often of late it was a struggle to keep her voice flippant and cool. ‘According to you, apparently not. However, neither do I have my last three months’ trust fund allowance. Since that is my immediate concern, and I won’t leave until I have it, I think it should also be yours.’

It took all of Amanda-Jayne’s willpower to remain stony-faced as she crossed the room and opened the door for her stepmother. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Patricia, I have packing to do and you have a very large cheque to write…’

Patricia fled the room muttering unintelligibly; in the wake of her exit, Amanda-Jayne locked the door and then dissolved into tears, uncertain of precisely why she was crying, but not able to stop.

Thirteen days later, surrounded by the white-on-white luxury of her harbourside penthouse, she was again fighting tears, but on this occasion she knew they had nothing to do with her pregnancy-erratic hormones and everything to do with her impossibly desperate situation and her inability to find any solution to it.

When she’d driven away from the family home in the pre-dawn hours on January the first, she’d allowed herself to believe that not only was she starting a fresh year but a fresh phase in her life. There had been enormous satisfaction in taking Patricia’s cheque and stating that she wouldn’t be returning until the day she turned thirty and assumed control of the house.

Her exit line had been intended to remind Patricia that ultimately it would be she who’d be calling all the shots—except the reality was that she’d shot herself in the foot and was rapidly bleeding to death.

‘Oh, God,’ she whispered, tears dropping onto the letter she held in her hand. ‘What am I going to do?’

She was a fool. An arrogant, useless, unemployable, nearly three months pregnant fool.

She should have anticipated that Patricia would stop payment on the cheque. Just as she should have known that the fuddy-duddy family solicitors would side with Patricia when she claimed that Amanda-Jayne’s pregnancy violated the clause in her father’s will stating, ‘…if in the opinion of my wife either of my children act in a manner which invites scandal, or in any way damages the good name of the family, their trust allowance is to be suspended for whatever length of time my wife sees fit, up to but not beyond the age where they are eligible to gain full control of their individual trusts.’

Amanda-Jayne tried to muffle the half sob, half laugh which broke from her as she gazed out at her multi-million-dollar view of the Opera House and Sydney Harbour Bridge. She was the heir to a fortune, with one of the most expensive roofs imaginable over her head, and she’d be lucky to be able to pay her next electricity bill, much less pay the sum overdue on the lease agreement for her car. Her credit cards were already maxed out and unless she could find a way to keep up the cost of her private health insurance she was going to be facing an enormous medical bill in just over six months’ time.

The idea of having her baby under the public heath scheme terrified her, not because she didn’t believe it was more than adequate, but because she wanted her own ob-gyn. Dr Geermaine knew her complicated medical history, he knew how important this pregnancy was to her. He was the one who’d said it may well be her only chance at motherhood. Maybe if she explained her predicament when she went to deliver the medical records Reb Browne had sent he’d agree to keep her on as a private patient.

After all, it’s not as if I’m a welfare case, she thought with bitter irony, tossing the letter of demand onto the desk already scattered with a host of other bills with ‘URGENT ATTENTION REQUIRED’ stamped in red. Oh, no! I’m too ‘asset-rich’ to qualify for any social security!

After days of hanging out at the unemployment office and attending countless interviews, which had only highlighted her total lack of employment skills, she’d today swallowed every last vestige of her pride and made an appointment at the local social security office. It had turned out to be the most humiliating and humbling experience of her entire life. It had never occurred to her not to dress well for what in her mind was a business appointment, but the way her expensive clothes had contrasted against those of most of the other welfare applicants had consumed her with guilt. Had she been able to think of any other way to solve her immediate cash problem, she’d have walked straight back out of the office the moment she arrived. Which would have at least saved her two and a half wasted hours and achieved the same results.

After presenting the required copy of her tax return from the previous year, bank statements and evidence of all stock and property in her name, they had been shoved back at her by a teenage clerk with too much make-up and no manners.

‘Ms Vaughan, I can understand how someone like you would be ignorant of the social security system,’ she’d said, making little effort to hide her amusement. ‘But the Government isn’t in the habit of giving money to people who clearly don’t need it.’

‘But I do need it,’ Amanda-Jayne had protested, swallowing even more pride by admitting, ‘I’ve got bills coming out of my ears—’

‘Then I suggest you do what the rest of us do—get a job.’

‘I’ve tried! For your information there’s an unemployment problem in this country.’

‘I can assure you, Ms Vaughan, I’m in a better position than you are to know about that. However, government assistance is only granted on the basis of a means test. It’s not given out to wealthy women with more assets than brains.’

‘Excuse me!’

‘Gladly,’ the girl quipped. ‘Next, please!’

When Amanda-Jayne had demanded to see a supervisor, she’d had to wait twenty minutes for a harried-looking man in his late thirties. After complaining firstly about his junior clerk’s attitude and then pleading her case, the man had quickly scanned the documents she’d brought, then slid them back in the folder and grinned at her. ‘Lucky you, Ms Vaughan. Stop wasting both our time.’

It had taken every bit of her resolve not to dissolve into tears on the spot, but in the wake of the letter of demand from the car dealership they now flowed freely, blurring her scenic view until the harbour seemed to swallow up everything—everything except her fears. What was—?

She jumped as her front door reverberated from a series of loud thumps. Followed by an incessant ring on her doorbell.

‘Let me in, A.J.! I know you’re there!’

Reb Browne.

Her heart had dropped into her shoes, but all her brain could assimilate was that after the day from hell she really should have been expecting that the devil himself would pay her a visit.

CHAPTER THREE

REB hastily ‘pulled his punch’ when the door, towards which his fist was again heading, was reefed open and Amanda-Jayne stepped into its path.

‘How on earth did you get in here?’

Her tone implied people wearing jeans and carrying leather jackets and bike helmets were usually shot on sight by the doorman, but what gave Reb pause was her face. There was no question she was every bit as beautiful as he remembered, but despite her cool, controlled expression and regal poise there was also no question she’d been crying. A lot.

For some reason the notion of Amanda-Jayne Vaughan crying was as incongruous as it was disturbing and it took him several seconds to refocus on what she was saying.

‘…security block. Now how did you get my address and who let you in?’

‘The guy on the door seemed to think this qualified as a pass key.’ Grinning, he handed her the business card she’d previously given him. ‘It was the back that impressed him most,’ he added as she frowned at the card.

“‘Hoping to hear from you soon,’” she read, the pitch and disbelief in her voice rising with each word. “‘Drop in and surprise me. A.J.!” This isn’t my writing!’

‘Lucky for me, the doorman didn’t know that,’ Reb said, stepping around her to stroll into the centre of her living room.

‘Mmm, nice view you’ve got here. Although I don’t go much on this bleached decor—’

‘How did you get my address?’ she demanded. ‘I didn’t give it to you.’

‘No, and neither would your mother, so—’

‘Stepmother.’

The force of her correction was telling. ‘Ah,’ he said sagely, ‘so that’s the way the wind blows. Well, that’s something we have in common; I wasn’t real taken with the woman either.’

‘I’m not interested in your opinion of Patricia,’ she said, her eyes flashing with rage. ‘I asked how you found out where I lived.’

‘Just a matter of posting off those medical records you wanted and waiting until you went to the post office to pick them up.’

‘You’ve been following me?’

‘Not personally. But if you ever need a good P.I. let me know.’

‘How dare you? You have no right to invade my privacy that way.’

‘Sweetheart, you’re carrying my child, which as far as I’m concerned gives me a whole heap of rights. So as of right now you can forget any ideas you’ve got about cutting me out of its life. You mightn’t have much of an opinion of me or my gene pool, but you’re way off base if you think I’m going to walk away from my own flesh and blood.’

Amanda-Jayne felt herself teetering on the brink of hysteria and immediately her stomach started acting up again. Taking a steadying breath, she tried to assimilate the fact that Reb Browne had tracked her down and was actually in her living room. Nothing was working out as she’d envisaged; all her hopes of an uncomplicated pregnancy were going from bad to disastrous. Her morning sickness was never-ending, all the money she’d expected to have she didn’t and the father she’d counted on fading into the background hadn’t. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go! It was just supposed to be her, her baby and a future filled with happiness. Instead…instead… Oh, God, she prayed, please don’t let me start crying in front of him.

Reb watched as a dozen emotions rushed across her pale face, but he couldn’t guess at what she was thinking. Still, there was no doubt his announcement had shaken her up, but since that had been his intention it irked him that he was now feeling guilty about it. He’d meant what he said; no way was he going to be shut out of his kid’s life.

Unnerved by her ongoing silence and suspecting she was hoping it would either force him to speak first or simply give up and walk out, he made a production of tossing his jacket and helmet onto her well-stuffed sofa then dropping down beside them.

Amanda-Jayne opened her mouth to demand that he leave, but before she could form the words her common sense suddenly started jumping up and down and yelling, Think, you idiot! He’s here because he wants to contribute to the baby’s upkeep… And right now you need money. Even if it is his!

That the man who was currently draped over her sofa like a model in a jeans commercial was the answer to her prayers didn’t sit at all well with her; in fact it further agitated her already distressed stomach. However, the reality was she wasn’t in any position to pander to her pride. She was up to her eyeballs in bills and facing countless more in the next few months. Swallowing the taste of bile along with a chunk of her self-esteem, Amanda-Jayne forced herself to speak calmly and civilly.

‘Am I to understand it,’ she said, ‘that you hired a private investigator to follow me simply because you’re determined to contribute to the baby’s upbringing?’

‘I think I made that more than clear to you when you came to see me. And you,’ he said, ‘made a point of throwing the offer back in my face then skipping town.’

‘I…er…didn’t want to be responsible for placing you under a financial strain.’ It was a lie and the smile on his handsome face told her he knew it.

‘Very considerate of you, but I think it’s best if you let me worry about my finances and you take care of your own.’

If she hadn’t felt so ill she’d have laughed at the irony of his comment, but all she wanted to do was get rid of him before she humiliated herself and lost the contents of her stomach.

‘Very well, then,’ she said briskly. ‘Since you’re so insistent and have gone to such extreme lengths to find me and pursue the matter, I’m prepared to accept your financial assistance. I’ll speak to my solicitor tomorrow and have him draw up the necessary paperwork.’

‘Oh, that won’t be necessary; I’ve already got my solicitor taking care of that,’ he said.

The one-upmanship in his voice tempted her to say she hadn’t realised criminal lawyers handled maintenance cases, but she decided to quit while she was ahead for the first time in weeks. ‘In that case, I’ll give you the address of mine.’

She’d just started to cross to her desk when he mentioned the monthly sum he considered reasonable and she nearly staggered with surprise. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was far more than she’d have been getting even if she’d qualified for social security. While she had no idea what garage proprietors made, she doubted Reb would have very much left for himself once he’d paid out that large a sum to her. Given her own recent experience of being cash-poor, she didn’t feel comfortable putting anyone else in that position; not even him.

‘Er…that’s very generous,’ she said, almost choking on the desire to say, I’ll take it! ‘But are you sure you can afford that much?’

‘I thought we agreed I’d worry about my finances and you’d worry about yours?’

Well, so much for trying to be considerate and reasonable! Stung by his cavalier attitude, she sent him her frostiest glare then hurriedly scribbled down the details of her solicitor. Returning to where he lounged on her sofa, she held the piece of paper out to him at arm’s length. ‘Here. I don’t think we have anything more to discuss. I’ll accept your offer as it stands.’

‘I’m afraid there’s a condition to my offer…’

Amanda-Jayne swallowed hard. ‘What?’

‘You have to marry me to get it.’

At his deadly serious expression Amanda-Jayne’s heart lurched into her throat. ‘Marr—oh, God, I’m going to be sick!’

By the time Reb recovered from the shock of her words and the sight of her racing across the room with a hand clamped over her mouth, Amanda-Jayne had locked herself in what he presumed was the bathroom. Her initial responses to his enquiries as to whether there was anything he could do were merely a series of worrying retches, gags and heart-wrenching whimpers and he was considerably relieved when these eventually progressed to curses, demands that he get out and accusations of, ‘This is all your fault!’

It was almost an hour before she re-emerged wearing what Savvy referred to as a slip-dress—a plain spaghetti-strapped navy shift that brushed her ankles above feet that were bare and sporting cherry-coloured toenails.

She shot Reb a lethal glare. ‘I thought I told you to get out?’

‘You did. Several times. But I never walk away from a card game when I have all the trumps.’

‘The only thing you have,’ she fired back, ‘are delusions of grandeur or a serious drug problem! Why on earth would I want to marry you for a measly monthly sum like you offered? Potentially I’m worth more than you can even dream about.’

‘That might be so. But right now,’ he said, strolling to her desk and picking up a fistful of the bills littering it, ‘your potential worth is about as useful to you as last week’s TV guide.’

She raced to snatch the papers from his hand. ‘How dare you snoop through my personal papers? Just because I’m a bit behind—’

‘Cut the act, A.J.,’ he said tersely. ‘We both know you’re in debt up to your pretty little ears and that your trust fund has been frozen.’

Even as embarrassment warred with anger in her face, Reb could practically hear the gears in her head rotating as she fought to engage her brain. He knew the instant she had by the flash of triumph in her whisky-brown eyes.

‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ she said haughtily, ‘but I happen to be in the process of negotiating the sale of this penthouse. I can assure you that once that’s finalised money will be the least of my problems.’

Reb grinned. ‘Rubbish. The money for this place was advanced to you from your trust after your divorce, but with the condition that you can’t sell it and gain the use of the funds until such time as your inheritance is released to you. According to my sources that’s three years down the track.’

Amanda-Jayne clenched her fists and concentrated on not punching him. Never in her entire life had she wanted to hit someone as much as she did Reb Browne. The problem was he was absolutely right. She’d weighed up all her money-raising options and every one was terminally anorexic. Any way she looked, this odious, arrogant hellraiser was her and her baby’s only immediate source of income.

‘Well?’ he prompted, making no attempt to conceal a smart-alec grin. ‘What’s your answer?’

‘I hate you.’

‘I’m not looking for a love match.’

‘What exactly are you looking for?’

‘Stability for my child.’

It was a noble sentiment, but Reb Browne didn’t strike her as the noble type. Then again, she’d recently discovered neither was she… When she’d first realised the extent of her money problems she’d intended filing a lawsuit against Patricia as a means of forcing her to release the money she was owed; all that had stopped her was learning the family solicitors would side with Patricia and that such an action by her would be deemed as bringing the Vaughan name into disrepute, thus contravening her father’s wishes anyway. She was in a position where she was going to be damned if she did, damned if she didn’t and, Lord help her, damned well going to have to marry Reb Browne!

Surely a person was supposed to be dead before having to endure hell? Then again, hadn’t she’d already experienced it once in this lifetime? She’d managed to survive seven years in one bad marriage; what was a further measly three in another one? she reasoned.

Besides, in a few months the baby would provide her with all the happiness she’d ever need. It was the baby she had to think of; even though the very idea of being Mrs Browne filled her with an almost electric dread there was simply no other solution. Unless, of course, I hyphenate my name to Vaughan-Browne! Finding a glimmer of light in her black humour, she turned to the man whose presence seemed to shrink her spacious apartment to phone-booth proportions. She breathed deeply before saying, ‘I’ll accept your condition, but I have one of my own… If we marry I want to keep my maiden name.’

Reb told himself the sigh he expelled came from impatience, not relief, but he knew he was lying. His biggest concern had been that she’d refuse to marry him, leaving him next to no legal rights over the baby, and with his family history and her wealthy background he needed as much legal leverage as he could get. Traditionally the women who bore children to the Browne men invariably lacked maternal instincts; his own mother had shot through when he was only ten and Savvy’s hadn’t stuck around even that long. Neither woman had cared enough to take her kids with her, but if they had, in the absence of a marriage certificate in both cases, there would have been little chance of either his father or uncle getting custody.

Reb might well be the first male Browne to produce a child in wedlock for three generations, but his proposal wasn’t motivated from a moral or social angle, purely a legal one. He knew that when Amanda-Jayne decided to call it quits, unlike his mother and aunt, she’d be the type to take her child with her, if only because she had the money to do it. He also knew that he couldn’t match it with the Vaughans in an expensive, drawn-out custody battle. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to be shoved entirely from his child’s life and marriage would prevent that happening.

‘You can call yourself anything you like,’ he said, snatching up his helmet and jacket. ‘I’ll be here at nine tomorrow morning so we can go get a marriage licence. Once we’ve done that we’ll be heading for Vaughan’s Landing; I’ve only got the bike so pack light. You can arrange to have the rest of your stuff sent—’

‘What do you mean we’ll be heading to Vaughan’s Landing? I’m not going back there! Why would I?’

‘We’re getting married, remember?’

‘As if I could forget! But there’s no reason we can’t live here.’

‘In case it’s slipped your mind, I have a business there and I’m not about to commute three plus hours twice a day.’

As insane as it seemed, it wasn’t until that moment that Amanda-Jayne’s brain actually grasped what being married to Reb Browne would mean. Unlike Anthony he wouldn’t be gone for months at a time on business trips; this man would be in her life every day and, God forbid, possibly her bed every night! The realisation threw her breathing pattern into complete disarray, but desperation kept her mind ticking over for a solution. She almost cheered with glee as inspiration struck. ‘I know!’ she said. ‘You could stay in Vaughan’s Landing during the week and just come here on weekends.’

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