Free A Southern Star by Anya Forest Page A

“Christie, the hunters’ hut has a fire too. Hunters usually return there every night. Why do you want to know?”  
    Christie hesitated. “A friend left something with me,” she said. “Accidentally. And I think they’ll need it,” she added, blushing in the subdued light of the hut. Mark watched her, politely not asking for details.
    “Blake should be fine,” he said eventually, surprising her. “I’m sure he’s got all the gear he needs.” Too late, Christie realised that Mark seemed to know Blake, that the small island community would have instantly paired her with him on the basis of one dinner.
    She looked at Mark, embarrassed but determined. “It’s his sleeping bag,” she said after a pause. Mark raised his eyebrows slightly as a smile tugged at his mouth. “I won’t ask,” he said dryly.  
    He was silent for a moment, then spoke. “I’m heading down the beach tomorrow,” he said quietly. Christie nodded, realising he was referring to the tragic story he had told her earlier. “If you walk down the beach with me I’ll point you in the direction of the hut.” He named the time they should leave, smiled at the look on Christie’s face. “It is early,” he said. “But then you’ve got to backtrack, come back through here to the jetty.”  
    Christie shrugged. “I want to get the sleeping bag to Blake. An early start doesn’t worry me.” She went back to her bunk, her heart pounding unreasonably as she burrowed into Blake’s sleeping bag, her senses a whirlpool of mixed emotions. She choked back a half laugh, realising that not only was her sleeping bag a basic model it could not possibly be the right size for Blake’s towering height. Her ungracious and rude words from the morning played on her mind; she eventually fell asleep, woke in the early dawn, determined to follow through with her plan.
    Christie struck up an easy conversation with Mark as they walked down the beach; thanking him as he directed her to the path which would lead to the hunters’ hut, repeated the directions he had given her earlier. Determined to find Blake, Christie followed the path, stepping on some dry driftwood that snapped under her weight. She heard a rustle in the undergrowth as though an animal was running away followed by a blunt oath. Christie turned quickly, unnerved. Two hunters stood there; she swallowed at their grim expressions.
    “I’m looking for Blake,” she said firmly.  
    “Who else?” she heard one of the hunters mutter sarcastically.  
    “Blake Ryan,” she added, remembering his last name.  
    “And we’re looking for deer,” the same hunter said tersely. “Nearly had one, too.”  
    The second hunter smiled at Christie, making a slight dismissive motion with the flat of his hand. “I’m sure there’ll be more,” he said easily, stepping forward. “Scott,” he said, introducing himself. “You want Blake, he should be—”
    “Here,” Blake said, coming down the path with such stealth Christie was amazed. Feeling awkward, realising she had ruined the hunters’ shot, Christie looked at him silently, her face flaming. Why can’t this be easy, she thought. “How did you get here?” Blake asked, shocked at Christie’s arrival and aware of how early she must have left the main hut.
    “Walked,” Christie said, not answering his question. She heard Scott’s quiet laugh, saw the slow burn in Blake’s expression.  
    “That tells me a lot,” he said tersely.
    “That was the intention,” Christie retorted with mock sweetness. “I met Mark yesterday, he gave me directions,” she said eventually.  
    “You have been busy,” he responded, his voice deceptively pleasant.  
    Christie took a deep breath, suddenly desperate to talk to Blake rather than trade barbs. “I wasn’t cold at all last night,” she said, ignoring a low whistle from the direction of Blake’s companions.  
    “And who’s to thank for that?” Blake asked coolly.  
    Christie glared at