A Miracle for His Secret Son / Proud Rancher, Precious Bundle: A Miracle for His Secret Son / Proud Rancher, Precious Bundle. Barbara Hannay
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hear quite soon.’
‘That’s good news, at least.’
Gus glanced at his wristwatch. ‘It won’t be too long before school’s out and I thought Nick might like to come swimming with me this afternoon.’
‘Oh?’
‘I won’t keep him too long. I know he has homework.’ He frowned at Freya. ‘Nick does swim, doesn’t he?’
‘Of course. He’s like me. He loves the water.’
Out of nowhere, something about the soft, vulnerable droop of her lower lip triggered a memory for Gus. Damn it. He was recalling a folk song he’d heard years ago, a song about a forsaken mermaid.
He’d only heard it a couple of times—once at an outdoor folk festival and once on the radio—but each time the lament about a lost and heartsick mermaid had drenched him with memories of Freya.
For days afterwards, the memories had haunted him. He’d only shaken them off, eventually, by convincing himself that Freya Jones had moved on with her life just as he had. But how could he have guessed that she hadn’t settled down with some lucky man? How could he have dreamed there was a child, a living connection that would link him to her for ever?
Perhaps it was because of the memory that he said, ‘Freya, you’re welcome to come swimming with us, if you like.’
‘I…I can’t go. I’ve got a gallery to look after.’
Gus looked about him at the empty rooms and the walls filled with artwork. He lifted an eyebrow in a silent question.
‘I know it doesn’t look very busy at the moment,’ she said, reading his thoughts. ‘But you never know who might drop in. I can’t close on a whim.’
‘Pity.’ He let his gaze travel over the colourful walls. ‘You have some great paintings here.’
‘Yes, I’ve been lucky.’ Freya moved into the centre of the room, looking about her with evident satisfaction. ‘I’ve managed to capture quite a bit of interest in this little gallery. It’s developed a reputation and people are starting to come here from all over Australia. Now I have top artists asking me if they can hang their work here. It used to be the other way round.’
‘That’s quite an achievement,’ Gus said, genuinely impressed.
She nodded, smiling, unable to hide her satisfaction.
‘So are any of these paintings yours?’
‘Yes.’ Freya lifted a hand, about to point out her work.
‘Hang on,’ Gus said. ‘Let’s see if I can find yours.’ After finding Nick in a tribe of similarly dressed footballers, he was feeling a tad smug.
Now, with vague memories of the sketches that Freya had drawn twelve years ago, Gus began to wander the rooms checking out the landscapes, seascapes, vibrant arrangements of tropical flowers and fruit, portraits, abstracts…
Freya stood watching him with her lips curled in a small smile and her eyes sparkling with an I dare you gleam.
It wasn’t long before Gus was forced to admit defeat. He sent her an apologetic grin. ‘I give up. These all look really good to me, but none of them screams you.’ He made a circling gesture to the paintings all around him. ‘I have to say, if you’ve painted any of these, you’ve improved a hell of a lot since high school.’
‘I should jolly well hope so.’ Smiling archly, she came and stood beside him, arms folded over her front. ‘Just out of interest, which paintings do you like? Which ones appeal to you most?’
He must have looked anxious because Freya laughed. ‘This isn’t a trick question, Gus. I’m not going to slash my wrists if you don’t pick mine. I’m just curious.’
‘I’m no expert.’
‘I know that.’
His gaze flickered over the fruit and flowers, paused briefly on a bright, daring landscape with sand and palm trees, then on to a realistic seascape with waves crashing onto rocks. He stopped at a piece that seemed to be a collage of watercolours and paper of varying textures. It was beautiful and incredibly clever—the sort of thing he would buy for a woman, the sort of thing he should have bought for Monique, perhaps.
He moved onto an abstract with stripes in browns and ochres overlaid with splashes of charcoal and crimson. ‘If I was buying something for myself, I would probably choose this one,’ he said, pointing.
Freya nodded. ‘That’s a Carl Barrow.’ She smiled. ‘You have good taste. It’s probably the most expensive painting here.’
‘Really?’ He pointed to the collage. ‘What about that one? It’s beautiful.’
‘That’s one of mine,’ she said, turning pink.
‘Wow.’ Genuinely excited, he moved closer. ‘I really like the way you’ve grouped everything and the combination of colours. It’s incredibly pleasing to the eye. Intricate without being cluttered.’ He turned to her, beaming. ‘Floss, you’re brilliant.’
‘Well, thank you, sir.’
She was blushing prettily and her eyes were glowing with pleasure and he wanted to kiss her so badly he couldn’t breathe.
Instead, he found himself saying, ‘Why don’t
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