Finding Zoe (Atlantic Divide) (6 page)

“Put me down. Now.” Quiet and unquestionably in command, she stared back at him. This wasn’t what she wanted. What she wanted was distance between them, right now.

She watched as his hot, black eyes turned cold. He allowed her body to slide down his so she felt every ripple and muscle along the way, leaving no doubt he still wanted her. He allowed her feet to touch the ground, and then he spread his arms wide and stepped back.

“My apologies.” He dipped his head in a small bow, his hard eyes still holding hers as he took another step back. “Don’t take it personally, just put it down to the adrenaline rush. It always affects me that way. Most women are a little more accommodating and a lot less…” He circled his hand in the air. “Reluctant.” He dropped his arms to his side and gave her a tight smile as her heart wrenched at his cruel jab.

She brought her hand to her mouth, and his gaze flickered over her face. His eyebrows twitched down, and she found she couldn’t even speak past the uncomfortable lump in her throat. “Never let it be said I forced myself on an unwilling woman…strange, you never used to be.”

His eyes ran the length of her body, detached and cool now. “You might want to clean up. Send me the bill.” She glanced down at herself. She was covered in his body print, dirt and oil slathered all over her pristine white shirt.

He was already striding away when she looked up. Her heart ached; her knees trembled. She’d almost made the biggest mistake of her life and slept with movie star Cormack Blunt. It would have been easy. It would have been good. She knew with certainty she had made the right decision. So why did she feel so miserable?

She glanced around; no one appeared to have taken any notice, except perhaps Flynn, whose sharp blue eyes watched from where he was packing away the safety equipment.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. His hands tapped impatiently on the steering wheel of the Lamborghini Urus off-roader. He’d ruined the suspension on the Mercedes. Well, not so much ruined it, but had ripped the undercarriage off last time he hightailed it from her house.

He was annoyed with himself. Irritated beyond belief. The goddamned red-haired woman still got to him. When he’d seen her on the jetty the other day, looking not much different from the last time he’d seen her eleven years ago, lust had raged through his veins like wildfire, and he’d thought maybe they could pick up where they’d left off. Not quite where they had left off because it would have meant he’d have to be head over heels in youthful lust and she…well, she would be ruthlessly breaking his heart.

A quick roll in the sack to chase away the demons of the past from his soul would have been ideal, leaving him free to move on. Find a decent woman, one he didn’t keep comparing to the English witch.

Unfortunately for him, it hadn’t worked out the way he wanted. He rubbed his chest where it ached, probably because he kept breathing in and holding his breath, and then puffing it out when he remembered to. He’d tried his relaxation techniques, but his mind was whirling in a frenzy of activity that wouldn’t allow him to relax long enough to concentrate on relaxing. Ironic. Just when he needed the technique the most, he found he was too distracted to be able to use it.

He scrubbed his fingers across his scalp.

He’d almost exploded yesterday. Adrenaline had surged through him, and he’d honestly believed from the instant, passionate response she’d given, he was going to get lucky. Her mouth had been as hot and keen as his for a moment. Lucky for them both, she’d shot him down in flames because God only knew where it would have led them, apart from his trailer. His blood heated as he tried desperately not to let his mind wander there. It was a dangerous place to go when he was just about to visit her house.

So he redirected himself to concentrate on his anger.

His biggest problem was every crew member on hand had been witness to his disgrace. Not a word had been said, but he’d never had a female decline sex with him in his life. Ever.

Except her. Twice now. The crew didn’t know about the first time. Yet. But it was only a matter of time before the press started sniffing around. The sudden appearance of a beautiful and unusual-looking woman around the set, when normally he never allowed any girlfriends to hang around, had already attracted some attention. Rumors were bound to cause curiosity, and the woman who had rejected him twice was definitely going to rake up some interest.

The first time, years ago, she’d kept him hankering after her for six weeks until he almost begged. It had been worth the wait, though. She’d just finished her exams with nothing to do but wait to go to the university in the fall, and he’d spent that long, lovely summer with her. He fidgeted as he remembered they’d virtually lived in each other’s pockets, or rather each other’s skin. He’d been her first.

Itchy, he rubbed the back of his neck; he really didn’t need the memory snaking its way into his thoughts, either.

Yesterday, she’d turned him down flat.

He smacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. It wasn’t just pride. The woman had his emotions tangled. He wanted her. He’d clung to her memory for too long, almost worshipped her, and it had done him nothing but harm. It had kept him from establishing a meaningful relationship with any woman. It had been the end of his marriage before it had begun. Heartbroken, he’d married Emilia on the rebound four weeks after Zoe had left him. Not simply left him, but dumped him through a conversation with his agent and disappeared so he couldn’t even chase after her and beg. And he would have begged.

He’d been on location for the next two weeks, unable to get away, and when he’d had time to go after her, plead with her, she’d gone. Her family had gone, lock, stock, and barrel. In his hurt and confusion he’d charged back to London and agreed to marry Emilia.

Emilia, who had chased him unrelentingly, courting the press, encouraging them to print things about a relationship which had been nonexistent before then. He might have felt sorry for the woman except he had been her third marriage, and she was now on her eighth. As her age climbed, the age of her husbands seem to stay the same. Plastic surgery was a close friend.

Plastic surgery hadn’t been required by Zoe with her perfect, alabaster-toned skin.

Grinding his teeth, he wished he could erase her from his mind.

He hadn’t expected her to be there when he’d wandered down memory lane. That’s what it was supposed to be—a sweet, goddamned memory. Now she had his feelings wrangled.

She’d barely changed in eleven years. She might be a little curvier—nothing wrong with that—in fact, a nice improvement, but her red-gold hair still hung down to her waist in a braid. He guessed it was supposed to keep it from flaming wildly around her face. He’d always preferred her to wear it loose and tousled as if she’d just gotten out of his bed.

Her strange, big green eyes with the hazel flecks and darker ring around the edge still drew him in. Her smooth, pale complexion made him want to stroke his fingers across her cheeks to feel if it was as soft as it looked. He knew it was; he’d felt it yesterday when he’d scraped his rough, unshaven face across hers, leaving her delicate skin flushed and whisker-burned.

He really didn’t need to think of her. He was supposed to be annoyed as hell with her, not filled with raging lust.

He pulled the vehicle up outside the gate, stepped out, breathed deep, and wondered how the hell he was going to face her today.

He didn’t need to worry. She’d stuck to her word and she wasn’t there.

The kid was staring at him. He’d said his mother had been called out on an emergency and Granddad was in the garden. Then he’d sat at the kitchen table and stared at him ever since. Like he was waiting to be entertained. Mac searched his brain to think of something to do.

His own mother had died when he was nine, and his father died when Mac was just seventeen, leaving him in charge of his five siblings, the youngest of whom, Bill, had been eight. He had no recollection of entertaining her. He used to just scrub her on the head every so often to let her know he was there.

He didn’t think scrubbing this kid on the head would go down too well. Not yet.

Mac gazed back at the kid, a little in awe of his close resemblance to his sister, and waited for him to look away. Ryan blinked and carried on staring, his sweet face deadly serious.

“What?” Mac asked.

“Mum said we have lasagna for dinner, but she won’t be home for a couple of hours probably.”

Jesus, she expected him to stay that long? Maybe she didn’t, but she was giving him the chance to escape before she arrived home by letting the kid know when she would be back. Again, keeping to her word. Seemed she was trying to be honest and fair and letting him decide whether he wanted to see her or not. If he left before dinner, he wouldn’t need to see her. If he stayed for dinner, it was his choice. Clever woman.

The kid carried on staring, making him uncomfortable.

“What?”

“What should I call you?”

Mac’s heart suddenly beat fast and erratic. “What the hell do you want to call me?” He knew he shouldn’t let his frustration show, but honestly, he had no idea what he was doing there.

“You shouldn’t curse. Mum won’t like it.”

Mac glowered at him and ground his teeth a little. If he thought “hell” was a curse, just wait until the kid got a load of Flynn.

“Do I have to call you Dad? I don’t want to. It doesn’t feel right.”

Well, hell, it wouldn’t feel right to him, either. Mac felt a quiver of relief run through him. He wasn’t sure he was quite ready for parenthood, especially to a ten-year-old, but he had to admire the kid’s directness.

“Okay, how about you call me Mac?”

The kid scratched his nose, his sharp black eyes still never leaving Mac’s face.

“I’ve always called you Cormack Blunt. ’Cos it’s your name.”

“Yeah, well, it’s what they call a screen name. Folks who know me call me Mac.”

Ryan was silent for a minute, his eyes still boring a hole into Mac, who was starting to wonder if he was ever going to survive until Ryan’s mother got home. Jeez, but it was hard work being with a kid.

“Now what?”

“Mac…” The kid tilted his head as he tested his name out. Waited. Mac wanted to drum his fingers on the table to move the kid along. He wanted to get up and go back to his hotel and rest in a cool, dark room until his brain stopped throbbing. But he waited.

“Mac…” the little guy repeated. “Do we have Native American in us?”

Surprised, Mac sat back and realized the kid wouldn’t have a clue about his side of the family. He took great care to keep it very private from the press.

“Sure we do.” He studied Ryan for a moment and then gave a wry smile. It sure as hell must have burned Zoe to realize the kid had no resemblance to her whatsoever. A little lick of pleasure trickled through his veins at the thought. He wondered how she’d reacted when she’d given birth to a black-haired, black-eyed baby. “Our genes are really strong. It’s why we look like we do.”

“I haven’t got jeans on, they’re school uniform trousers. They’re not as strong as jeans.”

Mac snorted and, despite himself, leaned over and scrubbed the kid’s head. He thought they might just get along.

“Let me explain. Give me some paper.”

*

She hoped he’d be gone by the time she got back, but her heart stuttered when she saw the enormous, bright red Lamborghini parked outside the gate. She sat in her battered old Land Rover and wondered how she was going to face him. She had told Ryan there was lasagna for dinner just to be polite, so Ryan wouldn’t think there was any friction between them. She hadn’t really expected Mac to stay; she’d hoped he’d take the initiative and leave before she arrived. She’d agreed to keep out of his way, but she had to come home sometime. She’d let Ryan know about dinner so Mac could make himself scarce before she arrived home. Seemed like either he hadn’t understood or he’d changed his mind about seeing her.

Dread filled her at the thought of facing him. Her pride was still in tatters.

She dragged her feet through the gate and then realized if anyone was watching, they would think she was just like her son, so she straightened her spine, pushed back her shoulders, and lifted her feet.

Male laughter greeted her as she walked into the warm, cozy kitchen and there they were, the three men who meant the most in her life—her son, her father, and the man she’d loved forever. She felt the pull on her heart as she mustered up a smile and caught her father’s eye.

“I’ve just served. Sit down, you’re late.” His voice was gruff as he glanced up at the clock.

“I know. We had to amputate a Labrador’s front leg.” She sat, weary and hungry as her dad put a plate of lasagna and salad in front of her. Her gaze flickered to the amount he had placed in front of Mac. She wondered if he’d get through it and then remembered how much he used to eat.

“Cool…” Ryan filled his mouth and spoke round the food. “Did you have to use a saw?”

“Yeah, he was quite a mess. A car had hit him, caught his leg under the back wheel, and mangled it. We had no option but to remove it.”

She heard a strangled moan and glanced at Mac.

Curious, she took a closer look as he turned an unattractive shade of green. He was good at turning green, but it didn’t suit him. She grinned; she knew it was cruel, but she couldn’t help the wicked thrill that shot up her spine as she spotted another chink in the tough guy’s armor.

She smiled and obligingly filled her son in on the gory details. Her dad had always come home with bloody tales from surgery to relate over the dinner table. It had never occurred to her it might upset someone. Ryan’s ten-year-old friends seem to revel in listening to surgical stories.

It only slowed Mac down for a short while, and then she caught the look in his eye that said he was on to her as he picked his fork up again and started filling his mouth, his normal color returning. It had been fun for a moment. She wondered if she should relate the morning’s work of lamb castration, but as she glanced back up from her food, Ryan was watching her intently.