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’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
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