CHAPTER NINE

      RUBY WATCHED AS Ethan lit the fire, his movements deft, the tug of denim against the muscles of his thighs holding her gaze as he squatted by the flames.

       Stop with the ogling.

      She forced herself to lay out the silver paper patterned with snowflakes and the list of gifts on the table. A sip of the deep red wine Ethan had poured for them both and then she waited until he sat opposite her.

      ‘Here,’ she said, and handed over the first present. ‘This one is for Max: he’s one of the boys in residential care and he’s really into music—specifically rap, which I have to admit I know nothing about. So I did some research, conferred with his key worker at the home, and we came up with this T-shirt. It’s the right size, and it’s a cool label, so...’

      Ethan shook the T-shirt out and nodded approval at the slogan. Folding it up again, he kept his eyes on her. ‘It must have taken a fair amount of time to research each and every one of them and then find what you wanted. You should have told me. I’d have lightened your workload.’

      ‘No way. I was happy to do it on my own time. Plus, you’ve hardly been idle yourself. You’ve briefed the surf instructors, sourced the caterers, the billiards table, co-ordinated all the paperwork—and you’re also running a global business.’

      Ruby frowned, wondering why he never seemed to realise just how much he did.

      He broke off a piece of tape with a deft snap. ‘What I’ve done is generic—I could have set this up for any group of teenagers in care. You’ve made it personal.’

      ‘Yes, I have. But I couldn’t have done that if you hadn’t set it up in the first place. Plus...’ She hesitated. ‘What you’ve done is personal too. You’re giving them what helped you. The opportunity to surf, to do other water sport, to expend energy and vent frustration in a positive way. So what you’ve done isn’t generic, and I won’t let you believe it is. You care about these kids.’ With a sudden flash of insight she blurted, ‘Did you grow up on an estate? Like the one some of these kids are from?’ The one he’d described as ‘notorious’.

      For a second she thought he wouldn’t answer; the only sound was the crackle of the logs. Then he dropped the wrapped T-shirt into a bag and lifted his broad shoulders in an I-suppose-there’s-no-harm-in-answering shrug.

      ‘Yes, I did. So I relate to where these kids have come from—a tough background, maybe abuse, neglect, parents on drugs and alcohol or in prison. It’s easy for them to get into trouble, join a gang, because there’s nothing else to do and no one to stop them. And then they do what their parents did—steal, deal...whatever it takes. All these kids are in that cycle, and I’d like to show them there are other choices. Not just by giving them Christmas, but by giving them incentive. If they can go away from here and stay clean for a few months they can come back and take other opportunities if they want to. I want to give them a chance to get off the wheel.’

      ‘Like you did?’

      ‘No.’

      His voice was harsh now, and the dark pain that etched his features made her yearn to reach out.

      ‘I didn’t have their excuse. My dad was a lowlife—apparently he yo-yoed in and out of prison—but my mum tossed him out when I was tiny. The time he went down for armed robbery she said enough was enough. Mum didn’t drink or do drugs, and any neglect was because she was out at work all day so she could put food on the table. God knows, she did her best—but it wasn’t enough. I jumped onto the wheel all by myself. Like father, like son.’

      The words sounded like a quote, the derision in them painful, and Ruby tried to gather her scrambled thoughts. ‘I’m guessing you got into trouble—but it’s like you said yourself. In an environment like a troubled estate that’s understandable. The point is you got off that wheel and out of trouble. Look at you now—your mum must be proud.’

      It was the wrong thing to have said; his face was padlocked and his eyes flecked with ice. Surely his mother hadn’t been the one to make the father-son comparison?

      Disbelief morphed into anger as she saw his expression. ‘You are not a lowlife.’

      ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’ His eyes were dark now, his voice vibrating with mockery, though she wasn’t sure if he was mocking her, himself or the world.

      ‘I don’t care. Opinion doesn’t make you into your father. It doesn’t work like that. I know that because I am not my parents. Not either of them. And I never will be.’

      Her fingers clenched around the edges of the table as she faced him.

      ‘My parents were addicts. Booze, heroin—whatever they could get their hands on, whenever they could get their hands on it. At whatever cost. Food and paying bills and shoes were all irrelevant.’

      She gestured down to the reams of Christmas wrapping paper.

      ‘For them the festive period was an excuse to justify extra excess—which led to extra verbal violence or extra apathy. Turkey, decorations and presents didn’t feature.’

      For a moment she was back there—in the past. Feeling the tingle of childish anticipation that scratched her eyelids as she lay on the verge of sleep. The twist of hope that Santa was real...that she’d open her eyes and see four stuffed stockings for her siblings and herself. More importantly her parents, groomed and sober, would watch them opening them with love. Then reality would touch her with the cold fingers of dawn. The smell of stale cigarettes and worse would invade her nostrils and she’d know it would be another Christmas of playing avoid-the-abuse and hide-from-notice, ensuring her siblings stayed out of the line of fire.

      The memory gave steel to her voice. ‘I am not like them. I won’t ever let addiction become more important than my children. Ever.’

      His hands clenched on his thighs and his whole body vibrated with tension. His foot jumped on the wooden floor. As if he wanted to somehow change her past for her.

      ‘Ruby. I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say—except that it sucks that you had to go through that.’

      She gave an impatient shake of her head. ‘It did suck, but that’s not the point. The point is I am not my parents and you are not your father.’ His jaw was set and she could almost see her statement slide off him unheeded. ‘I mean, do you even know where he is now?’

      ‘No. My guess would be in a prison cell.’

      ‘Well, you aren’t. You are here, trying to make a difference and do good.’

      ‘In which case I’d better get on with it.’ His tone was light, but with an edge that emphasised the end of the subject. ‘But first...’ and now his gaze was filled with warmth and compassion ‘... I can’t imagine what you went