Zoe and the Tormented Tycoon by Kate Hewitt

held you in my arms. It felt like so much more. It meant so much more…to me.
    She was so very, very stupid.
    â€˜Fine.’
    In a whirl of satin she stalked from the terrace, and it was a testament to her rage that she didn’t even care when the sheet caught in the door and came undone, leaving her utterly bare.
    Naked she strode through the rooms, too angry to care—or at least to acknowledge she cared—and found her clothes in the bedroom. She jerked them on, reaching for her wrap and handbag by the door before she stabbed viciously at the lift button.
    It seemed an age before the elevator finally arrived, and she stood there, taut, her chest heaving with the effort of containing her emotion, unable to turn and look at—for—Max, to see the scorn that would undoubtedly be twisting his features. Finally the doors opened, signalling her freedom, her exile. She could feel Max behind her, even though she hadn’t looked at him once since he’d told her to go.
    Now as she stepped into the lift she whirled around, determined to give him one parting shot.
    â€˜Go to he—’ The words, ripped from her, were cut off as she gazed at him still standing by the door to the terrace, the sheet she’d worn pressed to his face, his eyes closed.
    He didn’t seem aware of her at all, and before she could say—or think—anything more, the doors whooshed closed and she was speeding down, away from Max Monroe forever.
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    The sheet smelled ever so faintly of rose water. Max breathed it in, his eyes still closed, trying to reconstruct her face, the feel of her body, in his mind. A memory.
    Everything was becoming a memory.
    Sighing, the sound harsh with regret, he dropped the sheet. He’d almost tripped over the blasted thing, and he’d only meant to kick it away, but when he’d smelled that faint, lingering scent…
    He sighed again, and then he cursed.
    It was over. He’d never see Zoe again. He let out a sharp laugh at the irony of his words. Of course he’d never see Zoe again. That was why he’d sent her away as callously as he had. Admittedly he’d never spent more than a few days—sometimes weeks—with a woman, but he favoured them with more dignity and respect than he’d just treated Zoe.
    He’d had no choice. The cut had to be clean. Sharp.
    Final.
    Everything felt so final.
    Cursing again, Max walked with careful steps to the study. At least he had his work…for now. When would that be taken from him? How could he consult or invest when he couldn’t even read a newspaper or a computer screen? Already those tasks were proving difficult, near impossible, and it was only a matter of time before everything went blank. Black.
    Forever.
    And he was left powerless, as helpless as a child once more. He couldn’t bear to feel that again, and he certainly couldn’t bear for anyone to see him like that.
    That was why he’d sent Zoe away.
    Bastard.
    Yes, he was a bastard, and she was a shallow socialite, and they’d forget each other in a fortnight. For his own sake, Max prayed that were true.
    Go to hell.
    Max smiled grimly. He was already there.
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    Zoe took a taxi back to the Balfour apartment, barely conscious of the blocks speeding by, a blur of traffic lights. Her body and mind both ached, and she felt utterly exhausted. Spent.
    Used.
    She gritted her teeth, trying to keep Max’s words—his sneer—at bay. Some men might sugarcoat it a bit more than I do…
    That was an understatement.
    Sighing she leant her head against the windowpane of the cab. The morning sunshine had given way to grey, and outside a light drizzle fell, misting over Grand Central Station. The weather matched her mood perfectly.
    Why had she gone with Max last night? What had she been hoping to achieve? Even though she liked a party, she was choosy with her partners. She didn’t hop into bed with just anyone, and yet last