he swapped to the speed ball before his knuckles could numb. Jab. Jab. Jab. Rebound. Jab.
Had Christina gone home alone? Had that politician consoled her? Claimed his dance? Claimed something more?
That last punch felt like it should cannon the ball from its tether.
Tate slumped to his workbench. Behind him the speed ball raged, strappy twang at odds with his heaving breath.
He was out of practice. In the year after Jolie died he’d hit the heavy bag every day, Ian Callinan’s arrogant smirk floating behind his eyes. How many times had he stood here with the redgum planks rough under his palms, feet cold on the concrete, nostrils filled with the smell of his own sweat? He thumped his fist on the bench, felt the sting where the workout had broken the skin.
Tate scooped up his shirt. On the bottom step, his tie and vest lay where they’d landed. He grabbed them without breaking stride; retrieved shoes, socks. He didn’t have to worry about the suit jacket. It hadn’t made it out of the reception venue. The cleaners could have it.
At the top step he flicked a switch on the wall panel, stepped through and let the garage plunge into darkness.
The house pressed around him like it always did. Like a four‐walled morgue.
He felt his way along the corridor to the bathroom, dropped his clothes to grey Dubai slate, turned the shower nozzle to jet and let needles rain abuse across his back and shoulders, edging the temperature down until in the ten seconds before he turned the water off and stepped out he could barely volunteer breath.
Wrapping a towel around his hips, he headed for the study, moving silently along the black corridor, not bothering with the lights until he pushed through the study door. This was the only room outside the garage where he felt remotely at home. It had sketch pads, Lily Malone
sharp pencils, Sakura pens of varying points and an unopened bottle of single‐malt Scotch.
Clean clothes.
He pushed his arms into a sweater, pulled on the first pair of tracksuit pants on the pile and sat in the cold leather chair staring at his pens. He didn’t like drawing here, nothing inspired him, but he had to work. Had to do something to get the evening out of his head.
The pen was a welcome weight. The sound of its scratch filled the room.
He’d come so close tonight. Christina soft in his arms, the curve of her cheek like a peach in the lamplight. So close . Damn‐near undone by Rubens and running and Robin Hood. By her plea on sweet lips: That’s why I need you .
For a few seconds there he’d dared to dream she was different. That maybe, he had her all wrong.
Then poison. Alcohol profits to help Aboriginals.
The sketchpad tore.
He threw the pen to the desk, balled the sheet of paper into a clump the size of his fist and hurled it at the bin. Then he leaned back and flexed the fingers of his right hand.
Both biceps ached.
Amber‐coloured liquid glinted in the bottle on his filing cabinet. He’d hit that too after Jolie died. He could almost smell the peat, feel the fire coat his throat.
Something Australian , she’d said—and he heard her buttery voice so clear she could have been right there in the room— Outdoorsy. Fresh. Wild.
The wisp of an idea ghosted through his mind.
He reached for the pen then stopped with his hand outstretched. “She wouldn’t know wild if it landed in her lap.”
A brand that turns Australian wine upside‐down.
He stared out the window, at the solar lights twinkling in the garden he loathed; at the Adelaide city skyline hemming him in. He couldn’t see any stars. At Binara, they’d carpet the sky on a night like this.
The more he tried not to think of it, the more the threads wove together.
There was one sure way to get Christina out of his head. He could let her in. Show her some of the wild Australia he loved. See how much she’d hate it.
Two hours later he slapped the pen on his desk and pushed his chair back. The bin at his feet overflowed with
Had Christina gone home alone? Had that politician consoled her? Claimed his dance? Claimed something more?
That last punch felt like it should cannon the ball from its tether.
Tate slumped to his workbench. Behind him the speed ball raged, strappy twang at odds with his heaving breath.
He was out of practice. In the year after Jolie died he’d hit the heavy bag every day, Ian Callinan’s arrogant smirk floating behind his eyes. How many times had he stood here with the redgum planks rough under his palms, feet cold on the concrete, nostrils filled with the smell of his own sweat? He thumped his fist on the bench, felt the sting where the workout had broken the skin.
Tate scooped up his shirt. On the bottom step, his tie and vest lay where they’d landed. He grabbed them without breaking stride; retrieved shoes, socks. He didn’t have to worry about the suit jacket. It hadn’t made it out of the reception venue. The cleaners could have it.
At the top step he flicked a switch on the wall panel, stepped through and let the garage plunge into darkness.
The house pressed around him like it always did. Like a four‐walled morgue.
He felt his way along the corridor to the bathroom, dropped his clothes to grey Dubai slate, turned the shower nozzle to jet and let needles rain abuse across his back and shoulders, edging the temperature down until in the ten seconds before he turned the water off and stepped out he could barely volunteer breath.
Wrapping a towel around his hips, he headed for the study, moving silently along the black corridor, not bothering with the lights until he pushed through the study door. This was the only room outside the garage where he felt remotely at home. It had sketch pads, Lily Malone
sharp pencils, Sakura pens of varying points and an unopened bottle of single‐malt Scotch.
Clean clothes.
He pushed his arms into a sweater, pulled on the first pair of tracksuit pants on the pile and sat in the cold leather chair staring at his pens. He didn’t like drawing here, nothing inspired him, but he had to work. Had to do something to get the evening out of his head.
The pen was a welcome weight. The sound of its scratch filled the room.
He’d come so close tonight. Christina soft in his arms, the curve of her cheek like a peach in the lamplight. So close . Damn‐near undone by Rubens and running and Robin Hood. By her plea on sweet lips: That’s why I need you .
For a few seconds there he’d dared to dream she was different. That maybe, he had her all wrong.
Then poison. Alcohol profits to help Aboriginals.
The sketchpad tore.
He threw the pen to the desk, balled the sheet of paper into a clump the size of his fist and hurled it at the bin. Then he leaned back and flexed the fingers of his right hand.
Both biceps ached.
Amber‐coloured liquid glinted in the bottle on his filing cabinet. He’d hit that too after Jolie died. He could almost smell the peat, feel the fire coat his throat.
Something Australian , she’d said—and he heard her buttery voice so clear she could have been right there in the room— Outdoorsy. Fresh. Wild.
The wisp of an idea ghosted through his mind.
He reached for the pen then stopped with his hand outstretched. “She wouldn’t know wild if it landed in her lap.”
A brand that turns Australian wine upside‐down.
He stared out the window, at the solar lights twinkling in the garden he loathed; at the Adelaide city skyline hemming him in. He couldn’t see any stars. At Binara, they’d carpet the sky on a night like this.
The more he tried not to think of it, the more the threads wove together.
There was one sure way to get Christina out of his head. He could let her in. Show her some of the wild Australia he loved. See how much she’d hate it.
Two hours later he slapped the pen on his desk and pushed his chair back. The bin at his feet overflowed with
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