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could serve him the swordfish meant for Tate.

    The colours on her plate stained crimson and blurred. There was so much blood.
    Sweat broke across her forehead. She heard Bram’s voice but it was like listening to a scratched CD.
    Just like the blood on her legs, running down the shower. With Bram right here, she couldn’t push the memories back.

    “A fibroid,” Dr Busby said, tapping the arm of his glasses as he faced her over his oak desk. “Four centimetres—it’s a big one. We don’t know for certain that’s what caused the miscarriage, but it wouldn’t have helped.”
    He recommended removing it. Keyhole surgery. “It should make things easier. I wouldn’t give it too long though, not if you want to start a family, Christina. Six months recovery after the surgery and then I wouldn’t wait.”
    And her clock started ticking. It never stopped.

    “CC?”
    Her fingers flew to the corduroy lines of her herringbone cap. She shivered. “ What ?”
    “I said: I heard you’re running the winery these days. It’s Saffah and Richard off saving the world. That makes a change. Where’ve they been anyway, Haiti?”
    Her lips parted on a careful breath so she wouldn’t smell the raw rust of blood.
    “Saffah’s on this pottery program that make pots and crockery to replace what the Haitians lost in the earthquake.”
    Bram’s eyes roved. When they returned they dropped to the name card in front of his seat. “Tate Newell. He sounds familiar. Is he anyone special?”
    The stem of her glass twitched. “I promised Lacy I wouldn’t throw it, Bram, don’t tempt me.”
    He slapped the table hard enough to make Lacy’s cousin flinch. “So dramatic, CC. I thought running the family business might have leached that out of you. God I miss your passion.”
    His eyes flicked over her shoulder again.
    Smooth fingers brushed the nape of her neck, igniting an adrenalin‐infused warmth that spread through her body like she’d swallowed a steaming espresso. She didn’t need an awkward glance to verify the touch, every bone in her body told her it wasn’t any hand but Tate’s that caressed her skin. Relief spread through her.
    “Am I in your chair, mate?” Bram eased himself up, hand outstretched in greeting.
    He was shorter than Tate in stature but made up for it with his stocky build. “We haven’t met. Abraham Lewis.”
    She heard the space he left behind his name for the initials, MP.
    “Tate Newell.” It was a one‐pump handshake.
    The two men sniffed each other like a pair of rival dogs in an alley. They didn’t so much relax as decide not to bristle and it was Bram who looked away first.
    “Well it’s always a pleasure, CC. We should have a dance later.” He bent to brush a kiss on her cheek, stayed long enough that she heard the intake of air as he breathed the scent of her neck. Then he stood, beamed a farewell to the table, eyeballed Tate and added:
    “CC loves dancing.”
    “I didn’t know.” Tate’s murmur held steel, and high above her head she sensed something pass between the two men.

    Lily Malone
    A waiter, swooping with a plate of swordfish, dodged to let the politician pass.
    Coriander‐scented steam curled from the thick wedge of white flesh he set on the table.
    Tate folded his suit jacket over the back of the chair and sat. Beneath the table, his shoe bunted her boot. It didn’t move away.
    “You are in so much trouble,” she began, but her voice lacked venom. It was hard to remember why she was annoyed when a rough chunk of biscuit‐brown hair fell across his eyebrow like that.
    “Didn’t you get my text?”
    “I don’t mean you’re in trouble for being late .”
    His cobalt eyes danced. “Hey I’m not gate crashing. I was personally invited by the bride.”
    “I’m not talking about gate crashing. And don’t worry. I’ll deal with my new sister‐in-law later.”
    “Well, don’t think you’re in the clear,” he countered, leaning forward and splaying his