Praise for Fiona Lowe

‘Pure Fiona Lowe brilliance … emotional, heartwarming and brought me to tears!’

—Contemporary Romance Reviews on Gold Coast Angels: Bundle of Trouble

‘Fiona Lowe is a genius at writing multilayered storylines that mesh seamlessly with each other to create a beautifully emotional read.’

—HarlequinJunkie on Letting Go with Dr Rodriguez

Raf lay on his back on the leather couch, fast asleep, with his long legs stretched out in front of him and his feet up on the armrest.

His grey cotton sweatpants sat low on his hips and his chest was utterly naked—except for her daughter, who was cuddled up against it, contentedly asleep. Zoe was anchored safely by the width of his broad hand and splayed fingers resting gently against her back. His breathing was full and slow, and as his chest rose and fell it took Zoe up and down with it like the rocking of a boat on a gentle swell.

It was a picture of strength and protection imbued with gentleness and care. A funny sensation wound through her chest before moving down to her stomach and then washing outwards, warming her from head to toe. It was the same sensation she’d experienced a few hours earlier, when Raf had wiped the tears from her cheek. A sensation that wasn’t entirely platonic.

The delicious warmth immediately turned into a brick of guilt, which sat hard in her chest. She’d come so close to touching his thumb with the tip of her tongue and she didn’t understand why. All she knew was that it was wrong on so many levels.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she rocked slowly back and forth on the balls of her feet and firmly put the fleeting zip of something that resembled desire down to exhaustion—physical and emotional. She was so wrung out by being mother and father to Zoe, trying to stay on top of everything, dealing with probate and the daunting task of untangling their messy financial situation, desperately missing Richard—missing being touched and loved—and feeling so very alone that her body was obviously confusing helpful friendship with something else and reacting to it.

It had to be that.

Dear Reader,

The idea for A Daddy for Baby Zoe? came from some TV footage of a pregnant woman at her husband’s funeral. You’re not supposed to lose your beloved husband weeks before the birth of your first child; that is meant to be a time for daydreaming and planning for the happy years ahead spent in each other’s company. The idea of being with someone else is anathema. Throw into this mix society’s unspoken rule that committing to someone new in under a year or two is wrong, and you have a bubbling pot of grief and guilt. This is the mantle I laid over my heroine, Meredith.

Raf Camilleri has always thought he’ll be a father, but the only thing he’s created so far is a very successful business. Home to take care of his grumpy and elderly Italian father, who is recovering from a stroke, Raf finds himself torn between intrigue and self-preservation when he meets his heavily pregnant neighbour. Throw in a large Italian family, Meredith’s in-laws, a dog and the island locals, and you have a messy, complicated and heartfelt story—just like real life!

My inspiration for Shearwater Island is Phillip Island, and you can find photos of it over at fionalowe.com by clicking on the Pinterest icon. Worried you’ll miss new books of mine? Subscribe to my newsletter at fionalowe.com.

I hope you enjoy this story of love and family. No matter the turmoil they face, I promise you a happy ending.

Happy reading!

Fiona x

FIONA LOWE is a RITA® and R*BY award–winning author who started writing romances when she was on holiday and ran out of books. Now writing single title contemporary romance for Carina Press and Medical Romances for Mills & Boon, she lives in a seaside town in southern Australia, where she juggles writing, reading, working and raising two gorgeous sons with the support of her own real-life hero! Readers can visit Fiona at her website: fionalowe.com.

A Daddy for Baby Zoe?
Fiona Lowe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Mónica. We hosted each other’s sons on a French-Australian exchange and became friends in the process. Bisous. x

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise for Fiona Lowe

Excerpt

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

DR MEREDITH DENNISON’S hands were tied behind her back, and her head was deep down in a large bucket, leaving her face millimetres from water as she tried to get her mouth around one of the many bobbing silicone babies’ teats. The laughter of her colleagues filled her ears—she was going to kill them. They’d cheerfully ambushed her with a surprise baby shower, which had been a generous and appreciated idea, although she could have done without the party games.

‘Come on, Merry, just grab one with your teeth,’ Olivia, the receptionist, encouraged, her voice full of glee.

‘I’ve got dinner at Le Goût with Richard’s parents at seven,’ she said rising slightly. ‘I can’t go with wet hair. The snooty maître d’ won’t let me in.’

‘You’ve got plenty of time to restyle your hair,’ Emma, her good friend and fellow GP, said firmly. ‘Besides, you want your presents, don’t you?’

‘This is extortion,’ she replied indignantly, her breath making the water ripple.

‘Sure, but it’s fun.’ Emma’s tinkling laugh rained down on her. ‘Consider it payback for the humiliations you made me suffer at my hens’ night.’

Meredith turned her head sideways to see her friend. ‘Having a hunk of a male stripper making a fuss of you is a lot different from half drowning me.’

Emma rolled her eyes. ‘It may have been different if I hadn’t treated him the week before for a sexually transmitted infection. Instead of admiring his ripped muscles, I kept seeing his path report and going ewww.’

‘Granted, that was unfortunate but, as I’ve said at least one thousand times since, I didn’t know he was a clinic patient.’

Emma crossed her arms, her eyes twinkling. ‘Stop stalling.’

Meredith felt a firm kick under her ribs and sighed. Even her unborn child was telling her to get on with it. Sucking in a deep breath of air, she lined up a bobbing teat, bared her teeth and dived. Two seconds later and with dripping wet hair, she raised her head triumphantly, the teat firmly clenched between her lips.

Her colleagues cheered. The baby kicked again as if to say, Go, Mum. Laughing, Meredith spat out the teat. ‘Wait until I tell Richard I was all tied up and he missed it.’

‘When he gets home from his week of snowboarding in the back country he won’t care,’ Emma said. ‘He’ll just want a hot shower, clean sheets and lovely, waddly you.’

‘Hey, I don’t waddle.’

Emma laughed again. ‘If you say so.’

Meredith accepted the proffered towel from Olivia. ‘I asked Richard if I waddled and he said I’m the sexiest pregnant woman he’s ever seen.’

Lee Ng, the clinic’s physiotherapist, sighed, the sound loaded with experience. ‘If he wants an easy life, he’d be a fool to say anything else.’

‘Damn straight.’ Meredith smiled and hugged Richard’s loving words to herself.

She’d been waiting a long time for this baby—waiting while she and Richard completed their fellowships, waiting while Richard established himself as one of the top trauma surgeons in Melbourne and now, finally, her long-held dream to be a mother was almost here. In a few weeks they’d welcome their baby into the world and as far as she was concerned it couldn’t come fast enough. They were going to be parents—a team at last—and she couldn’t wait to see Richard as a father.

There had been a few worrying months a year and a half ago when she’d despaired that Richard was never going to be ready for fatherhood. He worked long hours as a surgeon and he’d told her he didn’t want to have any more demands put on his time. Any precious spare time he had he spent in the great outdoors, unwinding and re-energising. As much as she loved joining him in his outdoor adventures, she’d craved motherhood more. Just when she had really started to worry he would never change his mind, he’d surprised her. Last year, on his return from trekking in Nepal, he’d swept her into his arms and told her he was ready. The ease with which she’d got pregnant had delighted them both.

With the physical demands of pregnancy on her body, her life had instantly changed with the nausea and cloying fatigue in the early weeks, thankfully followed by the energy and wonder of feeling the baby move. Richard’s life had stayed much the same and he’d continued to work hard and play hard. She’d buried any niggling concerns she had that he wouldn’t be the hands-on father she hoped for because right now there was no need for him to change a thing. After all, the baby wasn’t here yet so why shouldn’t he go hiking and kayaking and do all the things he loved just because she was too big now to join him?

There was no rational reason at all but that didn’t stop irrational reasons booming in her head. All she wanted was one free weekend so they could paint the nursery together. Perhaps he’d sensed her disquiet or finally the reason behind her burgeoning belly had registered in his brain as baby coming. Either way, last week as he’d packed his gear for his alpine snowboarding trip, he’d tucked her hair behind her ears, kissed her on the forehead and told her this was his last recreational trip away until the baby was a few months old. Next weekend—medical emergencies excepted—they were painting the nursery together. She felt dizzy with excitement.

Having towelled her hair dry, she grinned and tossed the damp towel into the hamper. ‘So, Emma, did I hear you say presents?’

Raf Camilleri stood in the kitchen, immune to the lulling sound of foaming waves rolling rhythmically onto the beach. With his chest heaving, he was trying to gulp down water and quench his ragged thirst while he waited for his blood to pump out of his legs and back to his brain. Running along the white, sandy beaches of Shearwater Island was completely different from pounding the concrete pavements of Melbourne and his calves reminded him of that every day. After draining the water bottle, he pressed the palms of his hands against the island bench and lowered his heels to the floor, welcoming the burning stretch of his Achilles tendons. It was a case of the pleasure of the pain—without it he’d end up a lot sorer.

‘You’re back.’

‘I am.’ Raf swung his head sideways, glancing under his arm towards the familiar male voice. He caught sight of his father’s orthotic shoes—shoes Mario Camilleri hated, shoes Raf laced up for him each morning—and he was reminded, not just by his burning calves, that both his and his father’s lives had changed.

‘So,’ Mario said, his voice tinged with a hint of an Italian accent, ‘now you can drive me to the club.’

It wasn’t a question—more of a demand, really. Mario didn’t do questions when it came to him wanting or needing something. He just issued instructions as if he was still the captain of his fishing boat. Still the captain of his life.

Raf tensed, the rush of relaxation from his run taking a solid hit, but he stayed stretching. ‘I thought we’d have dinner first. I bought some calamari straight off the boat at the co-op.’ He stopped short of saying, because it’s your favourite.

‘I’ll eat at the club.’ The terse words chopped through the air.

I’ll eat at the club, not we’ll eat at the club. Okay, then. No ambiguity there. It wasn’t an out-and-out surprise to Raf that he wasn’t invited and part of him recognised that his father wished to spend time with his buddies like he’d always done, but just one night, an invitation to join him at the fishermen’s club, might be nice.

Really? You’ve got as much in common with your father’s mates as a steak at a vegetarian’s picnic.

Raf straightened up and glanced at his father but Mario ducked his gaze. Once father and son had been the same height, but since Mario’s stroke, Raf was now the taller. ‘It would have been helpful if you’d mentioned your plans to me this morning,’ he said, pitching for a light tone.

Mario shrugged. ‘Freeze the calamari.’

His temper sparked. ‘Jeez, Dad, you’ve never eaten frozen seafood in your life.’

Mario’s brown eyes flashed in his jowly face. ‘Maybe I want to start. You’re not my keeper, Rafael.’

‘No.’ He deliberately closed his mouth hard to prevent himself from saying anything more. He wasn’t his father’s keeper but right now he was his carer. A job fraught with more unexploded mines than the fields of Cambodia. It made the taking of his medical IT company public and its subsequent sale look like a walk in the park. ‘Do I get to take a shower first?’ he asked, hating that he sounded like the petulant teenager he’d been twenty-three years ago.

‘Suit yourself. I told them I’d be there at six.’ Mario’s four-pronged cane thumped against the faded linoleum as he turned towards the door that led to the living room.

As Raf made his way to the bathroom, he heard the blare of the television and the sounds of a soccer game. Situation normal. It was just another happy day at Casa Camilleri.

Meredith checked her watch. Damn it, she was going to be late. Again. It had taken longer than anticipated to open all the lovely presents her colleagues had showered her with, including the cutest selection of baby clothes and the generous gift of a baby car seat. Lee and Emma had helped her load everything into the car and she’d raced home in an attempt to rescue her hair. It had been a bad move because now there was no way she was going to be able to fight her way down Brunswick Street with its heavy traffic and trams, and arrive at Le Goût on time.

Although Richard had carte blanche with his parents to arrive late, that courtesy wasn’t as easily afforded to Meredith. As her mother-in-law, Linda, often said, surely, as a GP in an inner-city practice with six large hospitals in a five-kilometre radius, most emergency patients bypassed the clinic.

They did and, truth be told, most days Meredith ran late at the clinic because she didn’t want to rush her patients. At home she ran late because even though she and Richard had a cleaner come in once a week, the bulk of the domestic tasks fell to her. Raised on a dairy farm, where either the cows or the farm machinery had the uncanny knack of causing chaos at inopportune moments, she’d come to believe that being ten minutes late was considered on time. Linda wasn’t of the same opinion. Meredith knew the look that would dart across the restaurant at her as she walked in late—the one that said Richard could have done better.

She sighed. Stop it. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t gone to one of Melbourne’s elite private schools or that she hadn’t studied medicine at Melbourne University. It was Linda’s issue, not hers, and to keep the peace she hadn’t objected when Linda had mentioned she already had the enrolment forms for Melbourne Grammar on her desk and that Derek, Meredith’s father-in-law, had the application form for the Melbourne Cricket Club on his. Both were ready to be lodged the moment the sex and the name of the baby were announced.

As far as Meredith was concerned, she and Richard had years ahead of them before they had to worry about schools. The baby kicked again and she put her hand on the foot that kept digging her in the ribs. ‘You telling me you’re starting to feel squished in there, Sprocket? Sorry, but I need you to stay put for another six weeks.’

Feeling the cloying tendrils of fatigue starting to pull at her, she didn’t dare sit down to put on her shoes in case she gave in and didn’t stand up again. As much as she appreciated Linda and Derek insisting that Richard’s absence was no reason for them to cancel dinner plans, the idea of slumping on the couch and eating a green curry from the Thai takeaway down the road was very appealing. ‘Come on, Merry, you can do this,’ she told herself as she took one final glance in the mirror—lipstick on, hair mostly under control, clean black dress. ‘You’ll do.’

She picked her keys up from the key dish and then remembered her phone was resting on the charger. She doubled back to the kitchen to retrieve it and as she picked it up, the doorbell rang. Her heart skipped in delight. Despite Richard being adamant he couldn’t cut a day off the snow trip and that he’d be home tomorrow night, he’d known that she and his parents had been disappointed he was missing this long-anticipated dinner at the popular restaurant. Turning up unannounced and making it to dinner after all was just the sort of surprise Richard would pull.

She slipped her phone into her handbag and rushed back to the front door, letting her excitement take control. Oh, how she wanted to find Richard on the other side and not a power company or a cable television salesperson. Turning the deadlock and the door handle in tandem, she opened the door. Neither Richard nor a sales person stood on the tiny veranda of her inner-city terrace house. Disappointment sank through her like a stone.

‘Dr Dennison?’ a young police officer asked quietly, her expression serious.

‘Yes.’ She was used to the police ringing her doorbell, given that out of all her colleagues she lived the closest to the clinic and the police station. If there were any out-of-hours problems with the clinic security system or if there was a break-in, the police knocked on her door. She instantly thought that Olivia had probably drunk one glass of champagne too many at the baby shower. ‘Did Olivia set off the alarm system when she was locking up?’

The policewoman shot a confused glance at her male partner. His shoulders rose almost imperceptibly. The policewoman looked back at her. ‘May we come in?’

Come in? She checked her watch again. ‘I’m already running really late for dinner so how about we go straight to the clinic and I’ll override the security, okay?’

The policewoman shook her head slowly. ‘We’re not here about a security system, Dr Dennison.’

‘Oh?’ She stared at the officers in their distinctive blue uniforms with all the necessary accoutrements from holstered guns to radios. Her brain snagged on the motto, Tenez le droit. Why French? With a shake of her head she marshalled her thoughts. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Please, may we come in?’

Had she forgotten to pay her speeding fine last month? Did they send the police to your door for that sort of thing? She automatically stood back from the doorway to allow the officers access and they crossed the threshold before standing uneasily in her living room. She was struck by how their black heavy-duty work boots seemed glued to her polished Baltic pine floorboards.

‘Is this going to take long because if it is I really should call my in-laws and let them know I’ll be even later for dinner than I already am.’

The officers sat down. ‘Can you please sit down?’

For the first time, confusion gave way to something akin to fear and like an obedient child she sat. ‘What’s going on?’

The policewoman set her cap on the coffee table. ‘Dr Dennison, is Richard Nichols your husband?’

‘He is.’ Merry’s breath hitched in her throat as her hand gripped the arm of the couch. ‘Why?’

The policewoman swallowed and her tongue moistened her lips. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident and your husband—’

‘What sort of an accident?’ She heard her voice loud and strident bouncing off the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, only it didn’t sound like hers. ‘What hospital is he in?’ Her head spun with the logistics of getting Richard transferred out of a small country hospital and into Melbourne City where they were assured of the best medical care in the country.

The male officer moved his head back and forth very slowly. ‘This year there was a lot more snow than there’s been for many years.’

The policewoman leaned forward, her official expression now full of compassion and empathy. ‘According to your husband’s friends, they’d hiked to Mount Feathertop and enjoyed two days of back-country activities. It snowed heavily last night and Mr Nichols went out early this morning for a last snowboard before he returned home this evening.’

Meredith nodded. ‘He lives for fresh powder.’

The officer didn’t respond to her comment but continued talking. ‘Your husband was caught by an avalanche.’

‘No.’ Merry shook her head so hard her brain hurt. ‘No, that’s not possible. Avalanches don’t happen in Australia, they happen in places with real mountains, like Switzerland.’

Sympathy glowed in the policewoman’s eyes. ‘By the time his friends found him it was too late and there was nothing they could do to revive him.’

Nooooooooo! Merry stared at the two of them as a slow and insidious shake started at her feet, vibrating up her legs until it consumed her entire body. ‘No! He can’t be dead. I won’t let him be dead.’ Her pitch rose sharply as hysteria took hold of her with a tenacious grip. Her throat narrowed and her eyes burned. ‘We’re having a baby in six weeks. We’ve got a nursery to paint.’

‘We’re so very sorry, Dr Dennison.’ The male police officer proffered a box of tissues. ‘Is there someone we can call for you? You shouldn’t be alone.’

The baby chose that moment to kick and a ragged sound left her mouth. Her dream of a family—of her and Richard as parents—shattered into tiny, jagged pieces. She was going to have a baby but now she’d be facing parenthood alone.

CHAPTER TWO

Three weeks later

AFTERNOON SPRING SUNSHINE poured through the window, setting up a glare on Raf’s laptop screen and making it hard to see. He was working on his current project—designing an app for cardiologists to use to explain conditions and procedures to patients. So much had changed in health care since his mother’s sudden and unexpected death from a heart attack it made that time look like the Dark Ages.

After an overcast and drizzly morning, he took the warm rays as a sign and closed the computer. His father was dozing in his recliner—weary after his hydrotherapy session earlier—and his ageing schnauzer and extremely elderly cat were both curled up on his lap, snoring louder than their master.

The brightness of the light cast Raf’s childhood home in an unforgiving glow. What had once been one of Shearwater Island’s state-of-the-art homes was now looking very tired and dated with its 1970’s arches, the faded and worn Berber carpet, and the wood-panelled feature wall with its geometric clock. The only things that had stood the test of time were the beautiful, clean lines of the Scandinavian furniture. His mother had decorated the house as a bride and twenty years later, when she probably would have redecorated, she’d died. That had been nineteen years ago and apart from the addition of a big-screen TV, his father hadn’t changed a thing.

The pounding surf combined with the warbling and happy song of the magpies and the sounds slipped under the open window, calling to Raf. He stood, stretched and walked over to the glass, leaning his hands against the sill and fingering the bubbled paint. He didn’t know why he often stared out this window—it wasn’t like he could see the sea. All he got was a view of the modern house next door. Perhaps that was the reason. Something about it reminded him of his new home in Melbourne—a house he’d designed and spent all of two nights in before his sister had telephoned with what he’d assumed was the daily Mario poststroke update.

‘The rehabilitation centre wants to discharge Dad,’ Bianca had said briskly.

‘I guess he’ll be happier at home,’ he’d replied, wondering if he’d really notice a change in his father’s mood. Happiness and Mario were two mutually exclusive things.

‘They won’t send him home alone.’

‘Can’t he live with you for a while?’ he’d suggested, as he’d ripped open another moving box.

Bianca’s sharp intake of breath hissed down the line. ‘I’ve got a business, Raf, a husband and two teenagers, all of whom are driving me crazy. I can’t add Dad into the mix or I’ll go under.’

He ran his hand through his hair, running options through his mind. ‘What about live-in help?’

She snorted. ‘He can’t afford that.’

He unwrapped a beautiful piece of glass art he’d bought from the Wathaurong in Geelong. ‘I can.’

‘It wouldn’t work. You know how difficult he can be and, besides, down here on the island in winter we’re not exactly overflowing with candidates for the job.’ He heard her click her tongue. ‘You’ve been a volunteer with St John Ambulance since Mum died.’

‘That’s first aid and emergency work. It doesn’t qualify me as a carer.’

‘Well, I’ve never done first aid but I’ve been looking out for Dad for years and now, little brother, it’s time for you to step up. Besides, it will give you something to do now you’ve sold your company.’

‘I’m designing an app and I’ve got plenty of things to do.’ Things that didn’t involve living on Shearwater Island with Mario.

‘I’m sure you do but for now you’re going to be the good Italian son you haven’t been in years and come home.’

Anger meshed with guilt and then, reluctantly, resignation followed. When Bianca got an idea in her head she didn’t let it go until it was a done deal, and he grudgingly conceded that she did have a point. He’d stayed away a very long time. ‘Exactly how long do I need to be there?’

‘For as long as it takes.’ Her snappish tone immediately softened. ‘His rehab coordinator said they’d review his independence in three months. Look at it this way, winter’s on the run and spring on the island is always pretty. Bring your computer and think of it as a working holiday.’

The thought of him and his father sharing a house was so far removed from his idea of a holiday that it made his gut churn. ‘Exactly when did you add being a stand-up comedian to your many skills?’

She gave a hoarse laugh. ‘You never know, Raf, Dad might surprise you.’

Over the last six weeks, Mario hadn’t surprised Raf in the least.

As he gazed at the house next door, he admired the soaring timber beams and the floor-to-ceiling windows. Every inch of it had been built to maximise the view of the Southern Ocean. It was a view his father had seen from his fishing boat all his life right up until four months ago. Now the only time Mario saw the sea was when he left the property—an event he was dependent on Raf and others to provide. He probably missed the glorious vista that on a sunny day promised the world. No wonder the old bastard was grumpy a lot of the time.

His father cleared his throat—his sign that he was now awake. ‘What are you doing?’

Raf turned from the window, an idea suddenly taking hold of him with a zip of excitement. ‘I’m thinking you should extend this house upwards and get the same view as your neighbours.’

His father jerked the lever on his easy chair, snapping the leg rest back with a bang. The animals scattered. ‘And I can climb stairs so easily now, Rafael.’

His father’s sarcasm swirled around him. ‘There’s a thing called a lift, Dad.’

‘And there’s that thing called money.’ Mario thumped his cane to emphasise his point that he could no longer work.

Raf closed his eyes and counted to five before opening them again. ‘I’d be happy to finance it.’

‘Why would you want to do that? You hate living on the island.’

He sighed. ‘I don’t hate it.’

His father’s mouth flattened into a hard line. ‘Could have fooled me. You stayed away long enough.’

And just like that, they were back to the circular argument that had dogged them for eighteen years. He could have said, I’m here now, but that would only remind his father of the reason why, which was like throwing a lit match onto a petrol spill. He changed the subject to something neutral. ‘Who lives next door?’

Mario grunted, the sound derogatory. ‘Weekenders.’

The locals had a love/hate relationship with the holidaymakers who flooded the island each year from December until Easter. There was no doubt the money the tourists poured into the economy helped keep the island’s businesses alive but that money came with city attitudes, which frequently scraped up against country sensibilities. A community needed more than money to thrive and apart from the surf lifesaving club, the holiday home owners didn’t usually get involved.

‘They’re not doing a very good job at being weekenders, then,’ Raf said wryly. ‘I’ve been here a few weeks and I haven’t seen them once.’

‘Probably too busy working to pay for that house. You know your cousin Rocco made a pile of cash building and selling it.’

His father rose laboriously and Raf held himself back from rushing forward to help. The staff at the rehabilitation centre had been firm that he should wait for Mario to ask if he needed assistance. It was logical on paper but in reality it meant by the time Mario asked for help he was furious at himself for failing and, by default, furious at Raf for being the one there to help. The role of a carer was a catch-22 situation, no matter which angle he viewed it from.

His father walked slowly to the kitchen. Although Mario no longer skippered his boat, the habits of a lifetime were hard to shake. At three o’clock each afternoon he made coffee and listened to the detailed coastal weather report as if he still had to make the decision about whether or not to navigate across the treacherous bar and enter Bass Strait.

With Mario occupied, Raf usually took this time to go for a run and as he turned away from the window the soft drone of an engine snagged his attention. He looked back. A silver BMW four-wheel drive was pulling into the neighbours’ driveway. The tinted windows made it impossible to see how many occupants were in the vehicle but given the style and make of the car he thought it a pretty safe bet there’d be two adults and at least two children. The perfect nuclear family to match the beautiful house.

A ripple of sadness and disappointment rolled through him and he immediately threw it off. He had more than enough money to live his life as he pleased. He had nothing to be sad about.

He glimpsed a flash of blond hair as the driver’s door opened. ‘Yes!’ His prediction was on the money—make that a blond-haired, blue-eyed family.

‘What?’ Mario yelled from the kitchen.

‘Your neighbours have arrived.’

Mario didn’t bother to reply—the weather report took precedence over weekenders—but Raf stayed at the window to see if the rest of his conjectures would be accurate.

The driver stepped out from around the door and surprise shot through him. It wasn’t a blond man but a woman. A very pregnant woman wearing large, dark sunglasses that hid half her face. She arched her back as if she’d been driving for a long time without a break and the clingy top she wore stretched over her full, round breasts and fecund belly.

Lush. So lush, so beautiful. The words pinged unbidden into Raf’s mind and he gave himself a shake. Hell, what was wrong with him? It was one thing for a bloke to think a woman pregnant with his own child was sexy. He was certain that thinking that about a pregnant stranger was totally wrong.

No one else had alighted from the car. Had she just come with the kids? He waited for her to open the rear passenger doors but instead she turned so her back faced him. With her left arm akimbo, he assumed she was stroking her pregnant belly. Her head tilted back and her hair swung against her shoulders as she stared up at the house, looking at it as if it was a tall mountain she had to climb.

Why would you think that? More to the point, why are you even watching her? You’re not that creepy guy who stares out of windows at people.

He rubbed his face with his hands. Exactly how small had his world become over the last few weeks if he was looking out a window and imagining things about a pregnant woman he’d never met. He really needed to get out of the house and talk to someone other than his father.

He dropped his hands from his face and saw she was still standing and staring at the door. Suddenly her shoulders rolled back, forming a rigid, determined line, and she marched up to the door and inserted the key. The door swung open and a moment later it closed behind her.

Raf had the ridiculous urge to follow her inside.

‘Hello.’

The deep, male voice pulled Meredith’s attention away from the horizon. She had no clue how long she’d been standing in the dunes, staring out to sea, but it had probably been a while.

In the three weeks since Richard’s death she’d lurched from focused, rapid decision-making to being lost in a miasma of grief. Four days ago she’d escaped Melbourne, coming to the island for a much-needed change of scenery. Each day she walked along the beach early in the morning and again in the afternoon, welcoming the whip and sting of the salt-laden wind. The exercise was supposed to help her sleep but the baby and her grief had other ideas.

She turned her head towards the source of the voice. A tall, dark-haired man with tight, curly hair peppered with grey stood jogging on the spot on the beach just below her. She’d seen him from a distance every afternoon. Like her, he seemed to come to the beach at this time every day, no matter the weather. She felt her cheeks stretch minutely as she tried to muster a smile. ‘Hello.’

In contrast, his wide, full mouth curved upwards into a friendly grin, sending dimples swirling into his dark stubble-covered cheeks. ‘Everything okay?’

Not even close. But she wasn’t going there. She’d spent days contacting everyone from the internet service provider to the bank, requesting that Richard’s name be removed from the account. There were still organisations that needed to be told but she wanted a whole day off from saying, My husband died. She was worn out with having to deal with the sympathy of the person on the other end of the line or, in one situation, counselling the call-centre woman who was also recently bereaved.

‘There’s something hypnotic about the waves,’ she said. ‘I lose hours, watching them.’

He nodded as if he understood and ran his hand across his forehead, preventing a trickle of sweat from running into his chestnut-brown eyes. ‘You could do it from the windfree comfort of your home.’

A spike of unease washed through her. How did he know where she lived?

‘We’re neighbours,’ he said quickly, as if realising he needed to reassure her that he hadn’t been stalking her. ‘I’m Raf Camilleri.’

‘Oh,’ she said, her sluggish brain trying to make connections. ‘Is the street named after you?’

‘No. It’s named after my nonno, who paid for the road to be sealed. He was very proud that it was the first sealed road on the island.’ His smile became wry. ‘I think he took it as a tangible sign that he’d made good in his adopted country after the war.’

She extended her arm out behind her to encompass the row of houses further along the beach. ‘So the Camilleris own a lot of this land?’

‘Once, but not any more. Over the years it’s been sold or gifted to family. Today it’s prime real estate and my cousins are busy selling lots to holidaymakers so they can build their dream holiday homes.’

She remembered exactly when she and Richard had driven past number six Camilleri Drive and had recognised it as their dream home. Sadly, Richard had barely used it.

Raf’s kind eyes continued to gaze at her and she realised she hadn’t introduced herself. ‘I’m Meredith Dennison.’

‘Good to meet you, Meredith.’

His eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled at her again. She braced herself for the obvious and inevitable questions the Shearwater Island locals always asked her—when was the baby due and when was her husband joining her or how long did she plan to visit.

‘If you ever need anything, Meredith, don’t hesitate to call out over the fence.’

Before she could reply he’d pushed the ear buds into his ears, waved, turned and run off along the beach.

Meredith stood watching him run—his athleticism obvious as his long, strong legs strode out, quickly eating up the distance. Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she fished it out, checking the caller ID. She sighed before pressing accept call. ‘Hi, Linda.’

‘Meredith, thank goodness.’ Her mother-in-law’s voice combined worry with reproof. ‘I’ve left three messages.’ She’d received each message but she’d been waiting until she could cope with talking to her utterly bereft mother-in-law. It often took more strength than she had. ‘Sometimes the reception’s a little dodgy down at the beach.’

‘When are you coming back, dear?’

I don’t know. ‘I’m just taking it one day at a time.’

Linda’s sigh sounded ominous, like the squalling wind that was chopping at the waves. ‘Derek and I don’t think you should be down there alone, especially not in the off season. Remember last year when they arrested that horrible man who’d been stealing underwear from clotheslines? And what if you went into labour and there’s no one around to help. We thought we’d drive down on the weekend.’

Oh, God, please, no. After the emotional maelstrom of the funeral and the following days when a parade of well-meaning friends and Richard’s grieving family had refused to let her be on her own, she’d almost gone crazy. She’d appreciated their concern but at the same time it had been suffocating her. Coming to the island was all about gaining some much-needed time so she could hear her own thoughts.

She saw a little dog suddenly shoot out of the dunes and race towards Raf, dancing around his running feet. Raf dodged and weaved and eventually bent down, scooping the dog up with one hand and tucking it under one very solid arm. She smiled. A man who tolerated little yappy dogs was probably not a stalker. Or a horrible man.

If you ever need anything, Meredith, don’t hesitate to call out over the fence.

‘That’s very kind, Linda, but I’m not alone,’ she said, her voice more firm and resolved than it had sounded in days. ‘I have a neighbour and I can call over the fence if I need anything so I’ll be fine. I’ll ring you in a couple of days, promise.’

She cut the call, turned off her phone and returned it to the pocket of her coat, suddenly reminded of the many times she’d been the one to telephone Linda.

Can you call Mum for me?

Richard, she wants to hear from you, not me.

Please, Merry. I’ve got back-to-back surgeries.

‘Richard,’ she screamed into the wind. ‘You bloody went and left me with your mother.’

The baby kicked and she pressed her hand against the busy foot. ‘I know. She cares for us in her own way but right now, if I’m going to survive this, I have to do it my way.’

She wished she had a map to guide her.

CHAPTER THREE

RAF SURVEYED THE GARDEN, which was strewn with debris courtesy of last night’s storm. The wind had raged, rattling the windows, snapping limbs off trees and redistributing the garden furniture all around the yard.

Mario stood at the front door, his expression glum as he gazed at a tree that had been sheared in half. ‘Your mother planted that bottlebrush. The lorikeets love it.’

Raf had always hated how sad his father got whenever he talked about his mother. Hated that after all these years his memory of his wife was still clouded in throat-choking grief as if he was the only person to have suffered when she’d died.

‘It’s survived this long in the salt and the wind, I’m sure it’s still got a lot of life left.’

Mario grunted. ‘Get the chainsaw and cut it down,’ he said authoritatively, as if Raf was still fifteen and under his instructions. Orders issued, he turned and shuffled back inside.

‘Yeah, so not doing that,’ Raf muttered, as he made his way down the drive and into the workshop.

Lifting the bush saw from its hook, he placed it in the wheelbarrow along with the shovel and returned to the front garden, and on the way he automatically glanced next door. He immediately cringed, remembering his conversation two days ago with Meredith on the beach. It hadn’t been the first time he’d seen her in the dunes, standing and staring out to sea. Wan and drawn, and with misery and a quiet desperation rolling off her in great hulking waves, she’d made the dismal weather look positively cheery in comparison.

The sight of her had activated his first-aid training and experience—he really didn’t want her walking fully clothed into the water. Before he’d even been conscious of making the decision, he’d found himself asking her if she was okay. That question had been the professional talking. There was something else about Meredith, though, that had kicked his three-year rule of not getting involved with women to the kerb, and a moment later he’d totally stuffed things up by mentioning he knew where she lived.

The look she’d given him had been a cross between horror that they’d been alone on the beach and her calculating how close she was to the road for a quick getaway. He hadn’t meant to scare her and he’d overcompensated by rabbiting on about his grandfather and the Camilleri mob, before suggesting she yell out if she ever needed anything.

Oh, yeah, like she’d ever do that. Even if she’d sustained some house damage last night he doubted she’d have reached out. It was far more likely she’d call her husband ahead of him, even though chances were he was two hundred and fifty kilometres away in Melbourne.

And there was the thing. Since she’d arrived, no one had visited her. Now it was Sunday so if there had been weekend guests making the trek from Melbourne, surely they would have arrived on Friday night or Saturday lunchtime at the latest. A pregnant woman alone and staring out to sea bothered him more than it should. Although there was no rule to say a woman couldn’t be on her own, being alone, pregnant and down on the island out of season seemed all wrong.

Not your problem, mate. If you want a problem to solve, you’ve always got Mario. He shook off the thought. Some things couldn’t be solved. The tree, however, was something he could rescue. Picking up the bush saw, he started work, welcoming the push and the pull as his arm and leg muscles tensed and relaxed.

Half an hour later he was covered in the fine red filaments that gave the tree its common name and he was sneezing from pollen overload. On the flip side, he did have a growing pile of wood in the wheelbarrow. Studying his handiwork, he decided he’d take two more branches off the left side and then the job would be done. Pulling back on the saw with one hand and steadying the large branch with the other, he set to work. The weight of the wood bore down on the saw, impeding the slide of the blade, so he moved his left hand closer to apply counter-pressure.

He heard the sound of a door closing and he glanced up to see Meredith getting out of her car. Unlike at the beach where she’d been huddled in a bulky coat that hid her body from neck to knees, today she wore a long-sleeved grey-and-white jumper that fell to the tops of her thighs. Her legs, which were longer than he’d realised, were clad in black leggings that hid nothing and did everything to emphasise their toned shape. The knee-high riding boots helped as well.

She held a carton of milk in one hand while her other tried to prevent her hair from blowing around her face like a golden scarf. Despite the Melbourne Black clothing, which made her pale face and distinct lack of pregnancy glow more obvious, there was still something about her—something that called out to him—and it kept his gaze fixed firmly on her.

Jagged pain ripped through him.

He swore loudly, the expletive carrying on the wind as the blade of the bush saw became embedded deep in his hand. Bright red blood bubbled up like a geyser and he dropped the saw, ripped off his shirt and wound it tightly around his hand to staunch the flow. His green T-shirt turned purple.

‘Are you hurt?’

He spun around to see Meredith’s baby-blue eyes—eyes with unexpected variations of light and dark, like the sea on a cloudy day—fixed on him and filled with consternation. I couldn’t stop staring at you. He felt ridiculously foolish. ‘I cut myself.’

She glanced at the saw that now lay on the thick and bouncy couch grass. ‘With that tetanus-waiting-to-happen blade?’

He nodded, suddenly feeling light-headed from the throbbing pain in his hand.

She pressed her hand on his shoulder, the pressure firm. ‘You’ve gone a bit green. Sit down before you fall down. I’ll just go grab my bag.’

Bag? He really was dizzy because that made no sense at all. He wanted to say he was fine but his legs felt decidedly wobbly so he sat and automatically dropped his head between his knees in the way he’d told so many of his patients to do in his role as a volunteer ambulance officer.

A minute later, Meredith’s black leather boots appeared in his line of vision and a blanket slid across his shoulders. ‘Pull that around you. I don’t want you getting cold.’

‘Thanks.’ He raised his head to see her drop a backpack from her shoulder and he instantly recognised the medical logo. ‘You’re a doctor?’

‘GP.’ She moved as if she was going to kneel down next to him on the wet grass.

‘Stop.’

‘Excuse me?’ Her tone was both bemused and commanding at the same time, as if she wasn’t used to taking instructions.

‘The grass is sopping. I’ll stand up and we’ll go inside.’

Her light brown brows pulled down. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah.’ He wasn’t sure at all but, he wasn’t about to let a heavily pregnant woman kneel in wet grass.

She gave him a scrutinising look and her lips pursed into a perfect bow like those painted on dolls. ‘Pull up on my hand.’

‘I don’t need—’

‘Just do it.’ Her hand hovered in front of him. ‘I’m not going to break and, believe me, you don’t want concussion from falling over.’

With her baby-blue eyes, dark brown lashes, pale complexion and that mouth, she looked like a fragile china doll but her firm tone said otherwise. He extended his hand. ‘I think I’m too scared to say no.’

The edges of that very beautiful mouth tweaked up slightly—not quite a smile but as close as he’d ever seen her come to one. Her warm hand closed around his wrist with a surprisingly strong grip and he pushed against his injured hand to help them both. Red-hot pain ripped through him and he swayed on his feet.

‘Steady.’ Meredith pressed her shoulder under his and put her arm around his waist. ‘Just stand still for a second and wait for everything to catch up.’

Her warmth flowed into him and he had the craziest sensation that she fitted in against him as if she was his matching piece in a puzzle.

What the hell? The pain was making him hallucinate. ‘I’m good to go.’ He started to walk, fighting the silver dots that danced in front of his eyes.

He thought he heard her mutter something about men taking stupid risks and then her fingers were digging into his forearm and stalling his progress. ‘This isn’t a race walk, okay?’

With one hand holding her bag and the other on his arm, they made their way slowly through the front doorway and into the house. ‘Where’s the kitchen?’

Right now it seemed a million miles away. ‘Down the hall and to the left.’

A minute later Raf gratefully slid into the chrome and vinyl kitchen chair and rested his arms on the green Laminex-topped table. Meredith blinked twice as if she was clearing her vision and then she pulled up a chair and opened her medical bag.

He gave a wry smile. ‘Yes, you have stepped back in time to 1975.’

She didn’t say anything, just pumped hand sanitiser onto her hand before deftly rubbing it into her skin. After she’d snapped on gloves, she finally spoke. ‘Let’s see how much damage you’ve inflicted on yourself.’ She gingerly unwrapped the blood-soaked shirt and more oozed from a deep and uneven cut. ‘You did a good job.’

‘I only ever do my best,’ he joked feebly as he forced himself to look at his hand. His gut flipped as a wave of nausea washed through him. Being objective about a cut was much easier when it wasn’t his hand that was bleeding.

‘Wriggle your fingers for me,’ she said, not taking her gaze off his hand.’

‘One, two, three, four, five,’ he said as he moved each one individually. ‘No tendon damage.’

Surprise crossed her face as she pressed a wad of gauze against the wound and then she picked up his other hand and placed it over the top to apply pressure. ‘That’s right. Are you in the medical profession too?’

‘Not exactly, but I’ve been a volunteer ambo for years. I work the big events in Melbourne like the tennis and the footy grand final.’

He heard the combined noises of shuffle and thump echoing down the hall—the new sound of his father’s gait that had replaced his previously brisk and determined thwack of work boots.

A few seconds later, Mario appeared in the doorway. ‘Rafael.’ His voice was coolly censorious. ‘You didn’t mention we have a visitor.’ He turned his attention to Meredith with a smile. ‘Hello, I’m Mario Camilleri.’

‘I’m Meredith,’ she said crisply in a doctor’s voice. ‘I’m your neighbour but I’m not here on a social call.’

Before Raf could open his mouth she added, ‘I’m a doctor and Raf’s injured himself with the saw.’

Mario’s gaze moved to the blood-soaked shirt and gauze and then flicked to Raf’s face, his expression critical. ‘I taught you better than that. Just as well you didn’t use the chainsaw.’

‘Meredith,’ Raf said, trying to stay calm, ‘meet my father.’

Meredith thought she saw Raf’s jaw clench and had the almost palpable tension that ran between father and son been an object, it would have been a big, solid brick wall. Mario’s hand gripped the handle of his cane and despite the fact his face hadn’t blanched at the sight of the blood, she really didn’t need two men down. ‘I’m going to stitch Raf’s hand so if that makes you feel queasy …’

‘I’ve been a professional fisherman all my life,’ Mario said. ‘It takes more than some blood to upset me.’ He flicked a disapproving glance at Raf. ‘My wife had a rule about wearing a shirt in the house. I’ll get Raf a clean one.’ He turned and walked away, his left leg dragging every few steps.

As a doctor, Meredith had seen a lot of bodies in her day and she could understand how some men’s torsos—especially lily-white-skinned ones with flabby abdomens—could be off-putting and a definite appetite suppressant in a kitchen. Raf’s, on the other hand, was olive skinned, muscular with a hint of a six pack and not at all unappealing.

Eye candy for you, Merry. Richard’s teasing voice sliced into her.

She quickly snapped open an ampoule of local anaesthetic and concentrated on drawing the clear liquid into the syringe, desperate not to think about Richard. Whenever she thought about his unnecessary death, she never knew if she was going to start screaming at him, start sobbing, or both. She’d learned in the last weeks that there was a minute distance between anger and despair.

She shot the clear anaesthetic liquid out of the needle until it measured the correct amount. ‘Let’s get this hand stitched up.’

Raf grimaced. ‘That stuff stings.’

‘Sorry.’

He shrugged. ‘There are worse things.’

‘Yes,’ she said savagely. ‘There are.’

‘That was heartfelt.’ His large, kind chestnut eyes—the same deep, rich colour as the eyes of the Jersey cows she’d grown up surrounded by—studied her intently, as if he was searching for something.

She dropped his gaze. ‘This might hurt.’ She jabbed the needle into the back of his hand and injected the local.

He flinched. ‘You’re not wrong.’

‘We just have to give it a minute to work.’ She laid out her scissors and the suture thread on the sterile paper towel from the dressing pack before swabbing the wound with antiseptic.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth. ‘Okay, Meredith, you need to talk to me to take my mind off this burning pain.’

She opened her mouth to mention the weather when Raf asked, ‘When’s the baby due?’

‘Three weeks.’ She pressed the tip of a needle onto his hand, testing if the local had taken effect. ‘Can you feel that?’

He shook his head. ‘So really the baby could arrive any day now.’

‘No,’ she said emphatically, and started stitching, pushing the curved needle into the skin layers and twirling the thread around the forceps before tying the knot. ‘Three weeks is the minimum and I could have up to five.’

Raf laughed. ‘You’ve told the baby that, have you? It’s my experience they come when they’re ready.’

‘You have kids?’ she asked, wanting to turn the attention away from herself.

For a brief moment his nostrils flared and she felt sure she saw a flash of emotion. Whether it was regret or relief, it was impossible to tell.

‘No. My sister has twins and they came early.’

‘Multiple pregnancies always do but I’ve only got one baby on board.’ A baby I’m not ready to have on my own.

A thread of panic scuttled through her and she heard herself saying, ‘He or she is not allowed to come early.’ He looked at her with astonishment clear on his face and she didn’t blame him because she knew she sounded crazy, and, in a way, she was probably slowly going mad. Having a husband die weeks before the birth of their first child could do that to a woman. She immediately braced herself for the expected, ‘Do you think you should talk to a professional?’ She already had.

‘You have to be the only pregnant woman I’ve met in the last three years who doesn’t know the baby’s sex. It seems to be the thing to do these days,’ he said in a tone that hinted at disapproval. ‘Goes along with the designer nursery and matching stroller.’

Come on, Merry, of course we need to know if it’s a boy or a girl so we can plan. She kept her eyes down on the stitching as the memory of her and Richard arguing over her refusal to find out the baby’s sex came back to her. ‘Call me old-fashioned,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t want to know ahead of time.’

‘I guess you’re going to be doing a lot of hard work during labour so you deserve a surprise at the end.’

The unexpected words made her glance up from his hand. ‘Thank you.’

He frowned. ‘What for?’

‘You’re the only person who gets that. My husband, Richard …’ The words slipped out as naturally as breathing. The bolt of pain that followed almost winded her. She cleared her throat. ‘My in-laws really wanted to know so they could fill out school enrolment forms.’

His brows rose. ‘That’s a new one. I thought grandmothers wanted to know so they could knit pink or blue.’ His tone was light but his eyes were doing that searching thing again as if he knew she was hiding something from him.

Talk about the stitches. ‘This is the fifth and final stitch,’ she said, snipping the excess thread and then picking up a low-adherent dressing and taping it in place. ‘You need to keep this clean and dry for a week. Are you up to date with your tetanus shots?’

He nodded, his curls bouncing and brushing his intelligent forehead. ‘Yes and I know the drill. I’ll see my doctor to have the stitches removed.’

She stripped off her gloves. ‘I can do it for you.’

‘Won’t you be back in Melbourne by then? You are from Melbourne, right?’

‘Yes, I’m from Melbourne,’ she said briskly as she bundled up the rubbish. ‘And I’ll still be here.’

‘But that’s only two weeks before the baby’s due.’ Deep concentration lines carved into the skin between his eyes as he took a quick look at her wedding band before saying gently, ‘You and your husband do know that the nearest hospital is on the mainland at Wongarri. That’s seventy kilometres away.’

‘We do.’ It was both the truth and, in a way, a lie. Richard had known the distance to the hospital but he wasn’t here to drive her.

‘So your husband’s planning on coming to the island very soon to be with you, right?’

The question froze the breath in her lungs.

Raf Camilleri’s concern for her pulsed between them, reflected in the creases in his high forehead, in the depths of his rich, warm eyes and in the deep brackets around his mouth. She knew she should tell him that Richard wasn’t coming but she also knew that the moment she did, everything would change.

People’s reactions to death were never uniform but as she and Raf barely knew each other, she was pretty certain he’d feel embarrassed and that could play out in one of two ways—mortified and choking silence or prattling pity. Men usually went silent.

Thankfully, Mario chose that moment to return to the kitchen holding one of Raf’s shirts in his hand. He draped it over a chair. ‘Meredith, can I make you an espresso, latte, cappuccino?’

‘Dad,’ Raf said with resignation ringing in his tone, ‘pregnant women shouldn’t drink coffee.’

Mario muttered something that sounded both Italian and empathetic before saying, ‘Meredith, can I offer you tea or hot chocolate?’

‘Thank you, but there’s really no need,’ she said, zipping up her medical bag. The noise sliced through the frosty air that surrounded the two men.

‘I insist.’

Two male voices—both deep, one slightly accented—collided, tumbling over each other as Mario and Raf spoke simultaneously. Mario continued, ‘Indulge an old man and a foolish one.’

Raf shot his father a dark look. ‘I think Dad is trying to say we’re grateful for your help.’

‘As you can tell, Meredith,’ Mario said, ‘we’re sick of each other’s company and we’d welcome your delightful presence a little longer.’

‘You may also prevent me from committing patricide,’ Raf muttered under his breath.

Mario slapped the top of a very expensive, stainless-steel Italian espresso machine. ‘I can make you whatever you want and milk is good for the bambino.’

Meredith had a similar machine sitting on her kitchen bench next door and she’d been returning from the small corner shop with the milk to make herself a drink when she’d heard Raf’s pained and loud swearing.

During the first week after Richard’s death a lot of people had made her drinks, because they hadn’t known what else to do for her and it had made them feel better. But right now, with Mario’s coal-black eyes twinkling at her and Raf giving her a wry smile that held an element of save me from my father, this offer of a drink was completely different. Suddenly the idea of someone without pity or sympathy in their eyes making her a hot beverage was very tempting. ‘Hot chocolate would be great, thank you.’

‘And chocolate and hazelnut biscotti,’ Mario said firmly, opening the fridge and lifting out the bottle of milk.

‘I don’t need—’

‘Don’t even think about fighting Italian hospitality, Meredith,’ Raf said, rolling his eyes. ‘You’ll never win. Dad will feed you until you waddle.’

She grimaced. ‘I’m eight months pregnant so I already waddle.’

‘Do you?’ The words were laden with query and utterly devoid of sarcasm. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

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