Take a Chance on Me (9 page)

So full of the backchat, so lacking in confidence in her post-baby body. Yuk – tragically funny all right. That's why it had been easy to set up a five-year exclusion zone. Then when her business was sorted and the kids were grown up enough not to need so much of her time – then she'd hit the gym and find a man. She blamed sister Helen for what had happened in Tuscany, and anyway, that wasn't real life. And neither was this.

But looking up at Mac, she saw how different tonight had been – how easy she was in his company, for one thing. And for another, how much she fancied him – totally unlike a one-night stand guy. Or Damian the big kid. Or Stuart the domineering ex-husband. Mac was gorgeous and she could tell he was totally attracted to her too. She surprised herself – suddenly she was imagining the look on Stuart's face if she turned up with Mac by her side – and it was too much. A pang of longing passed through her and she knew in a heartbeat there could only be one possible answer.

Ten minutes later Mac closed the stateroom door, not quite sure how he'd ended up there – alone.

Alone.

He took a deep breath. What was he doing?
Messed that one up completely.
And what was this alien feeling? Fretting? Disappointment? Failure?
Surely not …

It had all seemed so promising.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening,' she'd said. Then she'd kissed him with all the passion and promise he usually received at the end of a successful night out, usually followed by a successful night in. But that was it – she'd gone off in a taxi, and he'd gone off to consult with his old friend Mr Jack Daniel's. Mac swigged the whisky he'd poured himself and grimaced at it –
nope not working
. Then he started undressing, removing his belt, and throwing it onto the floor in frustration.

‘You certainly didn't see that one coming, Mac my boy,' he said to his reflection in the mirror.
First time for everything,
he thought.

Still hot from his earlier encounters, he relived the scintillating kisses over and over again. She'd certainly left him shaken – and stirred. He thrilled at the memory of her curves. Real curves.

But something was niggling him. And it wasn't just being turned down for the first time in years. It was his own behaviour, that's what.

Mac sat himself down on his bed and started untying his shoes. The more he thought about it, the more he became wracked with guilt.

Why did he let her think he was a deckhand?

He paused and rasped his fingers across the stubble on his face. Because she joked about being into rich men? Because that's when his alarm bell had rung, an alarm bell that chimed with the clang of ancient history?

He clinked more ice into his glass and it too, gave a clang.
He downed it in one.
Go on, punish yourself and ruin your training tomorrow, yeh, good move, loser.

Whatever, it wouldn't make any difference 'cos now she was gone. And whether he'd intentionally lied or not, now he'd never be able to tell her the truth.

Which was what? Exactly?

He held his head in his hands and rubbed his temples.
Think.

Point one,
‘Mac the deckhand' wasn't likely to be rich, but she'd agreed to meet him anyway.

Point two
, even
she
had suggested it was going to be just a brief liaison, so don't stress about it.

Point three
, she seemed keen on him too – she hadn't pushed him away when he'd kissed her. In fact, she'd kissed him back, hard and full.

But even that had particular significance. For most men, that would be quite normal. But for Mac, a billionaire, it was rare to know for sure whether a woman wanted him for himself – or for his wallet. No wonder he'd been too easily tempted to play along. The way she'd reacted to him, even though she thought he was mere crew, meant more to him than any of his usual encounters.

No, there had been something altogether more … primal … about this voluptuous woman called Sam. And he'd been curious, that's all, to see what would happen if he stayed incognito. Yes, that was it. Curiosity. That was all it was.

Then he realised
point four
– the most reassuring thought of all – a killer fact: telling her he was rich at the end of the night – specifically to find out if it would make her act differently, to even stoop as low as to see if it would change her mind about coming on board, that would have been far, far worse.

Lose lose.

It didn't matter now, she'd gone. But he couldn't get her out of his mind.

He rubbed his scarred face.
She didn't even say anything about this.

What a woman.

He remembered the feel of her luscious lips and the press of her hips, and felt the familiar stirring. Again. God she was sexy. He adjusted himself and picked up his shoes.

Obviously she had a good brain on her to match her generous curves, if she was here on business. And he'd always had a weakness for intelligent women with curves. Sadly, that combination was rare amongst the lettuce munching Barbie dolls everyone expected a billionaire like him to have on his arm.

Mac stopped what he was doing and paused for one second to think about that description. He stared into space like a statue, contemplating. Then threw his shoes into the corner.

Billionaire.
On paper at least.

It brought him happiness, it brought him trouble. He'd earned every penny of it and nowadays he'd found ways of spending that resonated with who he'd become.

This yacht had brought him the best kind of happiness – it had been a hard-won prize – unique, admired. It made him feel part of the select group of people rich enough to not only afford to buy it, but to maintain it, crew and all. A carefully chosen crew, genial and full of camaraderie – some of whom had known him since he was a rookie property developer and began taking weekend sailing courses. It meant a lot that they treated him with no airs and graces – at least when no outsiders were around.

Yes, he could totally be himself here, cocooned away from the glare of publicity and other people's expectations, when it wasn't being rented out. Which was of course partly why he'd bought it.

Mac took out his smartphone and checked through the calendar – hired out to capacity and paid for months in advance – no more nights for him here till the end of the summer.
Dammit.
Sucks for him, but it'd be a busy season for the crew. This year, at least. A pang of concern about the lack of bookings for next year sprang up but he parked that thought in the same silo as ‘check-up on Philip Tremain'.

Mac picked up the only photo frame on show now in his elegant VIP stateroom. Mac and Captain James Wiltshire, plus financial advisor and old friend, Simon Leadbetter, all standing at the helm of the
Nomad
, on the day he bought it, early the previous year. No BJ McKowski money needed for this venture. And Tremain outbid. Hence it had meant so much to Mac. He smiled, remembering the look on his old adversary's face when he discovered he'd been beaten to the post by Mac.

Touching the photo frame, he saw the Captain's burly chest puffed out so far you almost couldn't see the slight, suited, serious figure of distinguished gent Simon, raising a glass beside him. And Mac with his usual slicked back hair and designer shades.

Almost as rewarding as owning the craft was seeing the Captain's beaming face taking the helm of the vessel that day – his new ‘baby' was twice the size of Mac's previous yacht.

Mac's mouth quirked into a wry smile, remembering the satisfaction he'd felt to be placed at the top of the wait-list, despite, or rather because of, Tremain's foolish attempts to bribe the selling agent.
Stupid man,
thought Mac.

A great photograph. A great day. It had made him very, very happy.

Then Mac frowned when he thought about what was kept safely behind the yacht photo, inside the frame.

Sure, that had been a good day. But sometimes a day starts off well, but ends badly. He felt a pang of regret. He'd certainly had his fill of bad days too. And the biggest reminder of one of his worst mistakes was millimetres away from his fingers inside the back cover. He turned it over, hesitated, but then went ahead and flipped open the back of the frame and pulled out a small snapshot hidden inside. He held it up and blinked at it.

He was looking at himself, a few years ago, holding the hand of a small child.
Yes, it still hurt.
He looked at it blankly. Pain coursed through his heart as it always did. A great photograph, a nice moment, but the day had ended up really, really bad.

But it provided a watershed. From then on he obeyed a very important business rule. One that he now lived his life by, and based every decision on, one he was renowned for amongst his colleagues and competitors.

‘Never mix business with pleasure – or children.'

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Mac's brow creased. How old would the boy be now? The whole experience had been alien. He'd spent most of his life getting as far away from children as he could. And then that debacle had happened, and reminded him why. But it wasn't the kid's fault.

He moved it towards the rubbish bin in the corner of his room, then changed his mind and slid the small photo back into the rear of the frame, and put it back on the shelf.

End of another era.

Still, onwards and upwards. Suddenly he felt very weary. Time for a change – time for a new chapter.

Mac picked up his belt and sneakers and entered his walk-in closet full of expensive designer clothes, row after row of pristine jackets and trousers, plus shoes, belts, ties, and cufflinks. At the end there were a dozen expensive suit bags containing whole outfits – complete with little Polaroids stuck to the front of each. Easier for Mac to choose the outfits for a valet to pack when he was in a rush. The final photo made him stop in his tracks and laugh out loud. Instead of a slick suit ensemble, someone had put a picture of some shabby old tramp, and stuck Mac's face on it.
Banter, there was always banter.

He reached below that suit bag to his favourite chest of old clothing and replaced his worn belt inside it. He also replaced the shabby pair of loafers – his first pair of Tod's – a natural choice for tonight as they were a super-expensive brand but with no obvious designer label on show. Tidying up the fifteen-year-old frayed laces, he felt the frisson of
first-date
excitement again – the one she'd rekindled. The one he hadn't felt in years. He stared at the shoes, remembering.

Until tonight, he'd forgotten what his life used to be like out of the spotlight. To go out for an evening on shore and just be treated like a normal man.

Not to be kowtowed to.

Not to be surrounded by sycophants.

Not to be treated like royalty wherever he went. Just to be ordinary. To be Mac. Well, tonight, thanks to this gorgeous woman, he'd had a trip down memory lane, and loved every minute. For the right reasons, or wrong ones, money hadn't even got a mention.

So often, having so much of it made it meaningless. He ran his fingers along the row of handmade suits – navies, blacks, charcoals. Each silk tie cost more than the average family's weekly shopping basket. He shrugged. Reaching the end of the row, he walked back out and closed the closet door behind him. Sure, wealth was a blessing, but it was also, undeniably, a curse.

And anyway, lately, just lately, there'd been that gaping hole – something missing, something important, something money couldn't buy.

And if it
could
buy it, it couldn't keep it.

Deep down, Mac knew exactly what that something was, but tried hard to ignore it. He had everything else, everything he'd ever wanted to own and that would have to do, right?

Sadly the answer was as clear as day – to anyone else. To Mac, it was a gnawing feeling that crept over him when he closed his eyes at night, and opened them in the morning. He shook himself often to chase it away. But no matter – he was certain the brand new venture he was planning would help take the edge off the emptiness, and take him in a new direction. Yes,
a change was as good as a rest.

But some things never change, he realised as he topped up his drink. Even though this lady had reached parts of him none of the others had, lately, it had still been his plan to let her walk away. And maybe Sam deserved better than that, so perhaps it was a good thing he'd not got his way tonight.

It was so hard to learn new tricks – he truly was an old dog.

Taking one final look in the mirror, he shrugged.
An old dog, that's for sure.
She'd probably say he looked ‘weathered'. Too much time in bright sunshine. His private trainer, private doctor and his personal health expert all told him to use factor 50 whenever he went skiing or mountain climbing, but in truth he knew he wouldn't bother. He still scrubbed up pretty well. He'd never give George Clooney a run for his money, but hell, George Hamilton better watch out.

And the scars … well, he'd deserved them. One day maybe he'd succumb to the Captain's suggestion of laser surgery, but for now he used the camouflage creams. Except tonight. The disguise – the covering up who he really was – was for other nights, to provide the mask, to complete the shroud of formality, the uniform of a billionaire. But tonight he'd been free of it all.

Yes, tonight had been a good night.

Mac took his drink and made his way back up to the deck, barefoot on the smooth polished wood once more. He felt the cool boards beneath his feet – that'd help take some of the heat away. He gazed out over the bay into the distance at the sea wall and the dark sky, a vague smell from an on board barbecue floating somewhere in the breeze. The gentle night air cooled his heated body, and beckoned him to his new life beyond. Ironic that having made his first fortune in property, big executive penthouses and sprawling ranches all over the US, he would be moving into the next phase of his career on a glorified mobile home. A home that didn't have a woman. Any woman. Even a woman like Sam. Especially a woman like Sam.