One-Night Pregnancy by Lindsay Armstrong

my own helicopter.’
    He not only had his own helicopter, he piloted it himself. And the speed with which he organised the day almost took Bridget’s breath away.
    He called his bright young assistant, Trent, and they went through all his appointments for the day and rescheduled them.
    ‘Uh, by the way,’ Adam added, when his diary had been sorted out, ‘I forgot to tell you, but I’m having dinner with my great-uncle Julius—let me see—tomorrow night. Ring up his housekeeper and tell him I’m bringinga guest. Thanks, Trent.’ He clicked off his phone and turned to her. ‘Ready, Bridget?’
    She was only able to nod dazedly.
    He piloted her towards his property in the Rathdowney Beaudesert area, over the Great Dividing Range from the Gold Coast. They flew over rugged country and he actually circled the creek they’d followed that tempestuous night, and the grassy plateau that had been their saving.
    The shed looked smaller than she remembered. The tree had been removed, but the scar where it had uprooted itself on the hillside was still a raw gash.
    ‘I never did get around to replacing those pyjamas,’ she said ruefully into her mike, above the noise of the rotors.
    ‘Don’t worry. I compensated the owners. They’re a youngish couple, and they do use the shed on weekends while they build their house. See the foundations there?’
    She nodded as she followed the line of his finger, then was struck by an unanswered question she had.
    ‘What were you doing driving around the Numinbah Valley in that elderly Land Rover that night? Especially if you can fly in this?’
    He patted the control panel. ‘This bird had mechanical problems, but I needed to get back to the Coast so I took one of the property vehicles and took a back road. It’s hard to imagine being worse off that night, but if I’d flown into those storms I might have been.’
    Bridget shivered.
    Half an hour later he landed the helicopter on a concrete pad and said, ‘Welcome to Mount Grace, Mrs Smith.’
    Bridget stared around with parted lips. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Thank you. It’s—so beautiful.’
    She was even more impressed after a guided tour.
    Being over the Range was like being in a different world from the sub-tropical coastal plain. Here there were great golden, grassy paddocks, and there was little humidity in the air. It was still hot, but it was a different kind of heat, and you could imagine cold, frosty winters and roaring fires.
    Nor did the vegetation resemble the tropical profusion of the Coast. There wasn’t a palm tree in sight, but the gardens were magnificent all the same—even if not tropical—and the homestead, sheltered in the lee of a wooded hill, was a delight.
    White walls, steep thatched roofs, French doors leading onto a paved terrace, and an unusual design of circular rooms. And the whole length of the terrace was dotted with terracotta tubs holding every coloured flowering bougainvillaea you could imagine.
    The occupants of the great grassy paddocks were mostly horses, mares and foals, although deep rich red cattle were to be seen too.
    ‘So—you breed horses?’ she turned to ask Adam.
    ‘It’s my hobby. My uncle Julius—he’s my great-uncle, actually—is my partner. He lives for horses. It’s his greatest ambition to breed a Melbourne Cup winner. He used to go down for the race every year. He’s notwell enough these days, but he’s a mine of information on the Cup.’
    Bridget smiled to herself, but didn’t explain why. Instead she turned back to the house. ‘It’s—it’s very unusual.’
    ‘It’s a South African design. Thatched roofs and ron-davels—round rooms—are traditional and common over there. My mother was South African. Her name was Grace.’
    ‘So she’s no longer alive?’ Bridget queried.
    ‘No. She and my father were killed in a car accident.’ He paused, then decided not to tell Bridget that his father had been drunk at the time. ‘Come inside and have a look, then