And without another word he turned his attention back to construction, leaving Molly to react as she would.

After all, it had nothing to do with him.

Only it did.

Molly left him alone, thumping back to her bedroom and slamming the door behind her. Left to his own devices, Jackson manoeuvred the froghouse legs into position and started tightening screws. It was a fiddly job and required concentration.

And concentration was what he didn’t have.

Had he started a relationship by kissing Molly?

The question didn’t arise, he thought. Or it hadn’t until now.

So what had happened?

Very little, he told himself. Molly was a beautiful and desirable woman. They’d shared a wonderful day. It had seemed right at the time so he’d kissed her. As simple as that.

Only it wasn’t.

Damn, it was how she made him feel…

He’d never felt this way before, he thought suddenly. He’d kissed many women but he hadn’t known he could feel like this.

Like what?

As if she needed defending and he wanted to be the one who did the defending. As if he wanted to share in watching these crazy frogs jump around their tank-as long as Molly was by his side to share in the watching.

As if he wanted to kiss her again…

That was the nub of the matter.

But since Diane relationships were off the cards. Except for Cara. And the relationship he had with his half-sister was, of course, completely different. She of all people understood why he’d vowed never to fall in love with anyone again-but Cara was in Switzerland now, living her own life. She wouldn’t appreciate him interfering in her affairs-playing the protective brother.

But if someone touched Molly…

The thought brought him up with a jolt. If he thought anyone was likely to lay a finger on Molly… Hurt her…

No. Not just hurt her.

It wasn’t only a feeling of protectiveness that was consuming him. It was the thought of anyone else…any man…looking at her with desire. Because she was…

Whew! Where were his thoughts taking him?

The stupid froghouse leg wouldn’t fit and he swore.

Get this tank up, get this lunch over and get out of here, he told himself harshly. You need to clear your head, and being around this woman-

You want to be around this woman, the other half of him argued.

You don’t.

He was so confused. All he knew was that he made a very bad liar. He couldn’t even lie to himself.


And Molly?

She was dressing herself in the most severe outfit she owned. Black, black and more black. And no make-up. Not a scrap.

What was she doing? She dressed and then stared into the mirror for a very long time.

‘Anyone would think you were scared of Jackson Baird,’ she told her reflection, and stared for a while longer.

Finally she gave a little nod and the corners of her mouth twitched into a grimace.

‘Anyone would be exactly right.’


There was the small matter of completing the froghouse, but they’d run out of time.

‘I think I must need a different sort of screwdriver,’ Jackson confessed. ‘These plans look like they’re written in Swahili.’ Then he checked out Molly’s black trousers, black jacket and black shoes and his frown deepened in disapproval. ‘Plus I was hoping for someone to help me lift it into place, but the only thing you look like lifting is a coffin.’ His eyes raked her from head to toe, disapproval growing by the minute. ‘I’ve seen pallbearers look more cheerful than you.’

She hmmphed at that. ‘I’m dressed for business.’

‘And the fact that I need a lift to get this tank on its legs…’

‘Your four legs aren’t together yet,’ she pointed out. ‘Plus I need time to think about where to put it. It can’t stay in front of the television.’

‘What about in front of the bar? Will that be a problem?’

She managed a sort-of smile. Her head was aching from the night before, she was confused and tired, and the last thing she wanted to be thinking about was the bar. Or its contents. ‘Only if Angela breaks up with another fiancé,’ she said ruefully, and he smiled in sympathy.

‘Not a big drinker, then, Miss Farr?’

‘The bar’s hardly been touched since my brother-in-law’s death,’ she told him, and then wished she hadn’t as his eyes warmed with still more sympathy. The last thing she needed from this man was sympathy.

She didn’t need anything from him at all.

But he was still in sympathy mode. ‘You haven’t thought of ripping the bar out? Of changing the apartment so it’s more yours and Sam’s rather than Sam’s parents’?’

She thought that through but didn’t understand. ‘The froghouse is doing that.’

‘No.’ He considered, but he knew he was right. ‘Sam’s belongings may well have arrived when his parents were alive.’ He let his gaze drift around the place, taking it in. ‘All the photos here are of his parents and of Sam’s life before their death. All the personal stuff. There’s not a lot of Molly Farr in this place at all.’

‘It’s Sam’s home.’

‘It’s your home, too.’

‘Sam needs memories of his parents.’ She bit her lip. ‘Heaven knows they’ll fade soon enough.’

‘It’s natural that they should,’ he said gently. He crossed to a shelf where a row of trophies stood. Golf trophies and netball trophies and sailing trophies and junior chess tournament certificates. ‘There’s a whole family’s achievements here-but where are yours?’

‘I don’t count.’

‘You do count.’ He frowned. ‘For Sam, you count very much. When you were a kid what were you winning?’

‘Not much.’

‘Cow-riding competitions?’

That brought a reluctant chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t think so.’

‘Then what?’

‘Nothing.’ She met his gaze and held it, but still his eyes probed. ‘We’re going to be late for lunch.’

‘No. We have time. What?’

‘I didn’t…’

‘There must be something. Some memory of childhood that means a lot to you? Something you achieved?’

She sighed and let herself think about it. ‘I guess-knots?’

‘Knots?’ Whatever he’d been expecting it wasn’t that.

‘I talked my way into joining the boy scouts,’ she told him. ‘My first merit certificate was in knots and I caught the bug.’ Her voice tailed off. Surely he couldn’t be interested.

But it seemed he was. He was fascinated. A junior Molly as a Boy Scout. The idea was fascinating. He could see her now… ‘So then what happened?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Try me.’

She hesitated, and then shrugged. Why not? It was ridiculous, but the man was a client, she told herself. So she should treat him as a client. It was her job to keep him happy. Up to a point.

‘Just a minute, then.’ And a moment later she was scrambling around the back of her wardrobe. Her personal stuff was shoved behind suitcases, abandoned to neglect-as she’d abandoned her old life.

If he was really interested… Frame after frame was stacked neatly in the dark. She lifted the top three and carried them out.

Here were her knots.

Every knot she knew was represented in these frames. She’d tied them with care, with love and with increasing skill. Here were farm knots, shipping knots, plainly functional knots and fancy decorative ones. Every conceivable way to join two pieces of rope was displayed in these frames. They were labelled with names and often had a tiny history written underneath. She’d started her frames when she was nine years old and the last knot had been tied two weeks before her sister died.

They were part of the Molly that was.

She carried them out and handed them over to Jackson in silence-and why it felt as if she was handing over a piece of herself she didn’t know. He took them from her and stared down at them for a long, long time. His eyes took in the care, the love and the knowledge.

‘These are fantastic,’ he told her, and she flushed.

‘Yes, but they’re part of a past life.’

‘They’re part of you, and Sam should see that.’ He lifted the top one and set it up carefully behind the netball trophies. ‘They should be hung. You should have a feature wall of them.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to make Sam’s life different.’

‘Sam’s life is different.’

‘Not any more than I can help.’

He stood looking down at her for a moment, and then the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile that was almost self-mocking.

‘You’re quite a woman.’

That was a good one. ‘Yeah. And you’re quite a man. But now we need to go to lunch.’

‘So we do,’ he said slowly, but the way he was speaking made her think it wasn’t just lunch he was thinking of. ‘So we do.’


Hannah Copeland was a bright little sparrow of a woman. She was knotted with age and arthritis but her eyes were still alive with intelligence. She met them in one of Sydney’s most exclusive restaurants and proceeded to treat the place-and the staff-as if she owned it.

‘We’re in my usual alcove,’ she told them. ‘I come here every Monday, regardless. It’s my personal contribution to improving the world’s economy.’

‘Very generous,’ Molly said, and she chuckled.

‘That’s what I think, dear.’ She peered up at Jackson. ‘And you? You’re as wealthy as Croesus. What do you do to contribute to the world’s fast lane?’

‘Buy expensive farms?’ he said, and her lined face lit with laughter.

‘Very good.’ Her keen eyes narrowed. ‘But I don’t believe in sleeping money. Will you keep my farm running as it should be run? You don’t just want it as a tax dodge, I hope?’

‘It’d be a very expensive tax dodge,’ Jackson told her, helping her into her seat with care.

‘You never know these days.’ She settled herself down and surveyed her guest with complacency. ‘Isn’t this nice?’ Then she peered more closely at Molly and at her dour outfit. ‘You’re not in mourning are you, dear?’