family.
The second he'd laid eyes on their new neighbour, Jane O'Reilly, that plan had crashed and burned.
He'd toyed with the idea of selling up and moving else-where with Clare, but he'd known instantly that that wouldn't work. Normally, he was disciplined and focused—a real pain in the ass to most people. He was used to controlling every area of his life, including his libido, but no matter how hard he'd tried he'd found he couldn't make himself want Clare.
He'd wanted Jane, it had been that simple.
He hadn't wanted to hurt Clare, but as hard as he'd tried not to, he had hurt her, although from all accounts, she hadn't taken too long to get over him, and was now happily married to a barrister in Auckland.
Eyes narrowed, Michael surveyed the sky, which had turned leaden; the clouds churned and clotted, and were struck through with molten shafts of light as the sun dipped into the west. The air was thick with moisture and tasted like brim-stone. After weeks of drought, there was going to be an unholy bitch of a storm, and the bad weather suited his mood.
Michael went down on his haunches beside the guns, picked up the Ruger and examined the walnut stock. There was no evidence of a scratch, which meant Zane could live, although he wasn't making any promises about Tucker. If he ever turned up on his property again in an official capacity, 198
FIONA BRAND
Michael was likely to put a hot round in his butt and the jail term be damned.
Jaw tight, he began carting the guns and ammunition into the house and securing them in his gun safe. When he was finished, he took a shower, changed into fresh jeans and a T-shirt, and grabbed the keys to his truck. Jane's driveway was situated a kilometre north on the main road, although as the crow flies her house was a lot closer, the walking distance from his house to hers, less than half that.
He could walk over there now, but it was ingrained in him not to take that casual an approach. He'd always taken pains to keep his distance and preserve a certain formality in his dealings with both Jane and Patrick, unwilling to hurt a dying man, because he couldn't keep his hands off Patrick O'Reilly's wife, but right now he was too steamed to walk anywhere.
When he drew up next to the O'Reilly cottage, the long extended twilight had condensed into early dusk, helped along by the thick mantle of cloud. All the lights were off in the house, and Jess was barking.
Michael knocked on the front door. When there was no reply, he walked around the side of the house, his gaze brooding as he knocked on the kitchen door, then scanned the smoothly mown lawns, the neatly weeded vegetable garden, and the lush shrubbery. Jess was tied up, which meant Jane was out.
He strolled over to the kennel and went down on his haunches beside the little dog. She whined and shoved her muzzle at his hand. He rubbed behind her ears. "At least you're not afraid of me."
He had a strong suspicion that Jane was frightened out of her skin of him, and the way he felt right now, she should be.
He did a quick circuit of the outbuildings, automatically testing the locks, the urge to check the security of the buildings ingrained. The O'Reilly place was, in stark contrast to his, as neat and tidy as a new pin. A small herd of southdown sheep grazed in the paddock adjacent to the house, their wool recently clipped. The fences and the stockyard were in good repair, and the barn had just had a fresh coat of paint. He checked her garage and saw that it was empty.
Cursing beneath his breath, he thumped the side of the small weatherboard building. Damned if he'd leave without After Midnight
199
letting her know he'd been here. Jane had been avoiding him for days. The blank stare she'd given him in the car park outside the police station was the sum total of their interaction , since he'd come back.
He strode back to his truck, reached into the glove box, pulled out a pen, and ripped a sheet from his diary. Scribbling a note, he
The second he'd laid eyes on their new neighbour, Jane O'Reilly, that plan had crashed and burned.
He'd toyed with the idea of selling up and moving else-where with Clare, but he'd known instantly that that wouldn't work. Normally, he was disciplined and focused—a real pain in the ass to most people. He was used to controlling every area of his life, including his libido, but no matter how hard he'd tried he'd found he couldn't make himself want Clare.
He'd wanted Jane, it had been that simple.
He hadn't wanted to hurt Clare, but as hard as he'd tried not to, he had hurt her, although from all accounts, she hadn't taken too long to get over him, and was now happily married to a barrister in Auckland.
Eyes narrowed, Michael surveyed the sky, which had turned leaden; the clouds churned and clotted, and were struck through with molten shafts of light as the sun dipped into the west. The air was thick with moisture and tasted like brim-stone. After weeks of drought, there was going to be an unholy bitch of a storm, and the bad weather suited his mood.
Michael went down on his haunches beside the guns, picked up the Ruger and examined the walnut stock. There was no evidence of a scratch, which meant Zane could live, although he wasn't making any promises about Tucker. If he ever turned up on his property again in an official capacity, 198
FIONA BRAND
Michael was likely to put a hot round in his butt and the jail term be damned.
Jaw tight, he began carting the guns and ammunition into the house and securing them in his gun safe. When he was finished, he took a shower, changed into fresh jeans and a T-shirt, and grabbed the keys to his truck. Jane's driveway was situated a kilometre north on the main road, although as the crow flies her house was a lot closer, the walking distance from his house to hers, less than half that.
He could walk over there now, but it was ingrained in him not to take that casual an approach. He'd always taken pains to keep his distance and preserve a certain formality in his dealings with both Jane and Patrick, unwilling to hurt a dying man, because he couldn't keep his hands off Patrick O'Reilly's wife, but right now he was too steamed to walk anywhere.
When he drew up next to the O'Reilly cottage, the long extended twilight had condensed into early dusk, helped along by the thick mantle of cloud. All the lights were off in the house, and Jess was barking.
Michael knocked on the front door. When there was no reply, he walked around the side of the house, his gaze brooding as he knocked on the kitchen door, then scanned the smoothly mown lawns, the neatly weeded vegetable garden, and the lush shrubbery. Jess was tied up, which meant Jane was out.
He strolled over to the kennel and went down on his haunches beside the little dog. She whined and shoved her muzzle at his hand. He rubbed behind her ears. "At least you're not afraid of me."
He had a strong suspicion that Jane was frightened out of her skin of him, and the way he felt right now, she should be.
He did a quick circuit of the outbuildings, automatically testing the locks, the urge to check the security of the buildings ingrained. The O'Reilly place was, in stark contrast to his, as neat and tidy as a new pin. A small herd of southdown sheep grazed in the paddock adjacent to the house, their wool recently clipped. The fences and the stockyard were in good repair, and the barn had just had a fresh coat of paint. He checked her garage and saw that it was empty.
Cursing beneath his breath, he thumped the side of the small weatherboard building. Damned if he'd leave without After Midnight
199
letting her know he'd been here. Jane had been avoiding him for days. The blank stare she'd given him in the car park outside the police station was the sum total of their interaction , since he'd come back.
He strode back to his truck, reached into the glove box, pulled out a pen, and ripped a sheet from his diary. Scribbling a note, he
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