by Anna Durand
"Give me one more chance," he said, his voice muffled. "I don't deserve it, but I'm begging you, please. I won't bollocks it up this time. I swear to God, I will be the kind of man you need, the kind you deserve."
What I deserved. Presley mentioned that too, and both men seemed convinced they knew what I wanted, what I needed. I had no frigging idea what I wanted. Tears spilled down my cheeks. My breaths came fast and shallow, almost hyperventilating. I covered my mouth with one hand, desperate to stifle my hiccupping noises. He tilted his head back and our eyes met. Electricity zinged between us, but it wasn't desire this time. Pain crackled around us, inside us, between us, through us. I swallowed a sob.
He rose then, pulled me into his embrace, and buried his face in my hair. I sagged into him for a moment, the comfort and safety I'd experienced with him before returning, sweet and welcome and so badly needed. But memories assailed me, of him telling me again and again that he couldn't do relationships. Of that day in my kitchen when he refused to express his true feelings. When he abandoned me.
I wrestled free of him, swiping tears from my face. "No."
He nodded, shoulders drooping, and rubbed the heel of his hand on his chest. Expression remote, he spoke in a monotone. "If you want me, you know where I am."
Lachlan turned to leave, and I shut the door, unwilling to watch him walk away from me again — even though I'd forced him to this time. I sank to the floor, limp against the door, and unleashed the tears. They sluiced out of me like a downpour from the heavens, wetting my cheeks, burning in my eyes, dripping off my chin onto my T-shirt. Salty liquid, hot and tangy, seeped between my lips to taint my tongue.
The back door slammed shut.
I jerked, frozen mid sob.
My parents trundled in from the kitchen, carrying plastic sacks of groceries. I'd forgotten they were still staying here. Seeing Lachlan erased my memory. Mom and Dad had gone out to buy groceries, and I bowed out of the excursion, too exhausted to stomach a public outing.
Plunking her bags on the floor fast enough to make them tip over and spill their contents, my mother raced over to me with worried eyes. She knelt beside me, settling a hand on my shoulder as she examined me with her gaze. "Honey, what's wrong?"
Dad dropped an eighteen-roll pack of toilet paper on the floor by the sofa. His gaze narrowed on me, he asked, "Was that Lachlan we saw leaving just now? Did he make you cry?"
"Yes. No." I shook my head as if that might clear my thoughts. It didn't. "I mean, he was here, yes. Don't really want to talk about it, okay?"
At least I'd stopped crying. But slumped against the door, my hair disheveled and my shirt damp, I must've looked god-awful. Dad, never one to delve into emotions, rocked back on his heels and clasped a hand on the back of his neck, head bowed. Mom helped me up off the floor, then encased me in a suffocating hug.
"Want I should shoot him?" Dad said.
My lips twitched, not quite a smile but as close as I'd get right now. "No, but thanks for the offer."
"Your father's joking," Mom said, casting him an exasperated glance. I took the tissue she produced from her pocket. It was wrinkled but clean, and I blew my nose with an unladylike snort.
Dad huffed. "If he's upsetting her this much, I will shoot him — right where it counts."
He pointed at his groin.
Still surrounded by my mother's arms, I rolled my eyes. "Please don't. Lachlan didn't do anything. He was very sweet, actually."
"That's why you were in a heap on the floor balling your eyes out."
"I'm exhausted, that's all." I shuffled to the sofa to pet Casey, who was watching me with doggie concern. "I think all these months of stress have finally caught up to me. Besides, I thought you guys liked Lachlan. You have been talking to him almost every day."
My parents exchanged a look, one only they understood, then Mom said, "We do like him, but we love you. Do you want to work things out with him? We'll support you, whatever you decide."
"What do I want? Good question." I shrugged. "No fucking idea."
She eyed me up and down, her forehead wrinkling. I suspected this was the first time either of my parents had heard me use the F-word. Dad raised his eyebrows, but Mom gave me a tight smile.
"Well," she said, "you are in a pickle then, aren't you?"
"You could say that."
Mom pursed her lips. "Deep down, you know what you want to do."
If I did, the knowledge was submerged far under the waters of my mind. Lachlan had been so sincere, so anxious and worried. But if I forgave him and let him back into my life, I had no guarantees he wouldn't have another freak-out attack. I understood the reasons for his behavior, but understanding gave me no security. I trusted Presley, he used and betrayed me. I trusted Lachlan, he threw me away. Of course, he'd told me he'd leave, and I stupidly fell in love with him anyway. What was I supposed to do now? He paid for my legal defense, he called every day to check on me, he flew here from Scotland for the sole purpose of winning me back. And still, I couldn't shake the memory of that day in my kitchen.
His final words that day stung worse now than ever before. I've nothing left to give, except money. Minutes ago, he'd claimed he wanted more, implied he could give me more than his bank account. What did I want? What did I need?
My head hurt, my stomach too. I clutched my gut as a wave of nausea broke over me. Groaning, I leaned against the sofa.
"Still feeling sick?" Mom asked.
"Just the flu."
"Hmm. That's what you said two weeks ago, but it's not getting any better, is it?"
"I'm fine." I scuffled in a half circle to head for my bedroom. "Need a nap, then I'll feel better."
Without waiting for a response, I shambled into my room with Casey in tow. I shut the door and collapsed onto the bed, on top of the covers. Casey whumped onto the foot of the bed, resting his head on my ankles. As I spiraled down into a restless sleep, one thought bounced around in my brain like a pinball.
What do I want? What do I want?
Chapter Thirty
Two days later, a powerful impulse possessed me, as if an alien entity took over my body and compelled me to act. I'd wasted countless hours chewing my nails, guzzling pop, and chowing down on chocolate — all in a futile attempt to avoid thinking about Lachlan. In Chicago. Ensconced in a luxury hotel. Waiting for me.
Sleep? No, not for me, not since the nap I took right after he threw himself at my feet begging me to forgive him. Tossing and turning, interspersed with crying jags, consumed my nighttime hours. I still didn't trust Lachlan not to toss me aside again, but I couldn't go on this way. With no other recourse than to confront my ex-lover, I gave in to the impulse.
Which was how I wound up standing inside the most opulent hotel room imaginable — the Infinity Suite at The Langham. Of course he was staying in the Infinity Suite. Presidential suite wouldn't be good enough. He just had to find something called an Infinity Suite. I'd heard The Langham was ritzy, but holy mackerel. The living room spread out around me, cavernous and yet bright with sunshine pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, beyond which the skyscrapers of Chicago towered. Here on the twelfth floor, the view was spectacular. I scuffled past two glossy black tables, one nested under the other, and between the plush, curved sofas. A baby grand piano nestled in one corner of the room. I halted, staring up at the chandelier above the sofas and tables. It glimmered gold in the light of its own bulbs.
When I'd marched into The Langham and told the desk clerk I was here to see Lachlan MacTaggart, the young man had summoned the concierge who promptly ushered me up the elevator and straight to the twelfth floor. Taking me into the luxurious suite, the concierge had led me through the grand foyer and into the living room. Lachlan had left instructions, the concierge told me, that if I showed up someone should bring me right to his suite. Whether he was overconfident or desperately hopeful, I didn't know yet. But after his performance the other day, I leaned toward the l
atter.
Performance? No, it hadn't been an act. He'd begged me to give him another chance. Got down on his knees and begged. Lachlan. The man who exuded masculine confidence. My self-assured, wickedly creative lover. Oh, but he wasn't mine, not anymore. Unless I…
Bile rose in my throat and I dug out the bottle of Tums I'd stuffed in my purse, chewing up two of the tablets. I must've caught a bug, because my stomach had turned into my worst enemy for the past two weeks.
I leaned against one sofa, too weirded out to sit. The concierge swore Lachlan was here, somewhere inside this mansion-size suite. I glanced around, catching sight of the dining room, past the doorway to the foyer.
"Lachlan?" I called out, my voice echoing faintly off glass and marble. "Are you in here?"
A door shut elsewhere in the suite. Footsteps clapped, drawing nearer. I tried to straighten my blouse, but it refused to do anything except be wrinkled. At last, Lachlan emerged from the foyer, dressed in gray slacks and a crisp white shirt, long-sleeved with gold cuff links. The top button of his shirt hung open. His hair looked damp as if he'd just showered.
Oh great. My mind went straight to envisioning him in the shower, naked and wet, steam billowing around him. Of course, that image segued into a memory of our time in the shower together, a different shower, one far less luxurious than the one here must be, but no less erotic. Oh, come on. I was angry and nauseous. I should not be fantasizing. Steeling my resolve, I pushed away from the sofa. Angry. Hurt. That's what I should project. I barred my arms over my chest, lifting my chin.
He smiled. The brilliant, heart-melting smile that made everything inside me go all gooey. Why did he have to go and do that?
"Erica," he said, imbuing my name with so much emotion it set off a pang in my chest. "I'm so glad you're here."
He took a step toward me.
I stumbled backward, holding up a hand, palm out. "No. You stay over there."
And of course, his brow crinkled. The spot between his brows dimpled, making him look so adorably confused and needy, like a puppy in a rainstorm. Hugging myself, backing up another step, I swallowed against a swell of nausea in my throat. My hands were freezing, so I stuffed them under my arms.
Lachlan fastened his gaze on me, his mouth tight. "Are you ill?"
"No." Lightheaded, yes, but not ill. It must've been the altitude. Way up here on the twelfth floor? My legs quivered. "I'm f —"
He started to move toward me, but halted with one hand outstretched, suspended in midair between us. "Erica?"
Regaining my balance, I locked my knees and tried for a breezy tone as I waved at the surroundings. "Thought you had simple tastes."
"I do." He lowered his hand slowly, in fits and starts. "There are two conventions in town and baseball games too. This was the only room I could get."
"Poor you, stuck in this hovel."
His lips curved up at the corners and the sun glittered in his eyes. "You almost smiled. Teasing me is a good sign, I hope."
I hunched my shoulders, focusing on the buttons in his shirt instead of his face, certain I'd never get through this conversation if I kept gazing into his eyes. Change of subject. Pronto. "I saw Presley a few days ago."
He locked his thick arms over his chest and frowned at me. "Why the bloody hell would you do that? After what he did to you."
My mind traveled back to the day two months ago when he'd told me all about his ex-wife. The explanation clarified why he hated bullies and why he made the comment about bullies bending others to their will for the sake of control. But now, with the suddenness of a spark flaring into a bonfire, I grasped why he despised Presley so much.
My scalp tingled, my eyes went dry from lack of blinking. I fluttered my lids, unable to shake the certainty of my revelation. "You thought Presley was doing to me what your wife did to you. That's why you attacked him repeatedly, why you would never speak his name, and why you're so upset I went to see him."
"Aye." He gave me an exasperated look. "Wasn't it obvious months ago?"
I flapped my arms once, huffing. "No, not to me. If you wanted me to understand that, you should've told me, for heaven's sake. I'm not telepathic."
He bit into his upper lip as his shoulders flagged. "Aye, you're right. My fault."
"Good. We agree on one thing, anyway."
Shoulders bunched, he said, "I would like to know why you went to him. If you'll tell me. Please."
I swung my arms, trying to figure out what to do with them besides scratching my face or picking at my hair. I opted for stuffing my hands in my jeans pockets. "He asked to see me, and I decided I should put that demon to rest." I kicked the floor with the toe of my sneaker, pretending to study the weave of the beige carpeting. "He's out on bond and his parents have taken away all his toys. He's broke." I hauled in a long breath, releasing it slowly as I raised my gaze to Lachlan. "He apologized for framing me. Says he always loved me and he hopes I have a good life."
Lachlan's lips thinned, his body tensing. "Does he."
"Yep." I rubbed my arms, suddenly cold. "Men are apologizing to me right and left these days."
He parked his taut ass on the opposite end of the sofa from me, slouching forward to brace his elbows on his knees, but he never broke eye contact. "You must think I'm just like him. Insincere, lying, uncaring."
"Actually, I think Presley was being genuine."
"What about me?"
"I'm sure you mean everything you've said."
"But?"
I swiveled on my heels to face the wall of windows, the action setting off a tilting sensation that had me sucking in a breath until it settled down. Hands shoved in my jeans pockets, I regarded the cityscape before me. "I've never thought you were like Presley. He abused my trust and didn't see the error of his ways until he got caught. You figured out you'd screwed up without needing to be arrested. Plus, you told me from the start you couldn't give me more than a fling."
His footsteps shooshed on the carpeting as he approached behind me. I caught his ghostly reflection in the window but couldn't make out his expression. His voice sounded close behind me. "From the moment I saw you in the club, I wanted to give you more, give you everything. The second I left your house that day, I realized what a terrible mistake I'd made, but I hurt you too badly to run back inside and beg your forgiveness. Giving you time seemed like the best choice, the only choice."
The sincerity in his voice made me long to lean back into him, let his arms close around me, let his strength and kindness wash away all my fears. I couldn't do it.
"Erica, you are mo leannan."
I turned around — and came face to chest with his massive body, no more than an arm's length away. The man exuded sensuality, even while engaged in a serious conversation. He couldn't help it. My line of sight fell directly on the swathe of skin exposed by his open collar. Skin I'd touched, kissed, licked. I'd memorized every inch of him, from his firm pecs to the sinuous lines of his muscular thighs, all the way down to his long toes and back up to the lush, dark lashes framing his eyes. I'd kissed those too. Hell, I'd run my lips over most every part of him.
My cheeks heated. The fire spread out, rushing through my entire body, sensitizing my skin until the barest draft from the ventilation system excited my nerves and stiffened the tiny hairs all over me.
I coughed, backed up, smacked into the glass. Fumbling for anything to say, I laid a hand over my collarbone. "You never told me what mo leannan means."
He reached out, his fingers hovering near my cheek, but withdrew his hand, curling his fingers into his palm. "It means my sweetheart."
A tingling swept through me, part chill from the cold glass at my back, part thrill from the realization of what he'd just confessed. My gaze swung up to his instinctively. The raw emotion there, his rapt attention glued to me, it had my heart pounding and my body softening. My voice came out higher pitched than usual. "All this time you've been calling me your sweetheart? Why wouldn
't you tell me?"
He lifted a hand to my face, trailing his fingertips down the line of my jaw. "Didn't intend to call you mo leannan, or gràidh. Those words came out before I realized what I'd said. By then it was too late, and I couldn't keep from saying them over and over." His fingertips feathered over my lips for a heartbeat before he pulled them away. "I want to give you more than sweet words, though. I want to give you everything."
My ears had begun to ring, and I realized I'd stopped breathing. Still, I couldn't catch my breath. "I just… not sure…"
The room whirled around me. My knees buckled.
Lachlan caught me in his brawny arms before I hit the floor. My purse tumbled off my shoulder to plop onto the carpeting. Blackness spotted my vision as I spun down, down, down. He swept me up in his arms, carrying me out of the living room. I let my eyes drift shut, since they insisted on doing it anyway, and the gentle swaying of his movements lulled me into a trance. Warm, he was so warm and strong and soft in the right places, like where my head rested against his shoulder. The scent of his cologne wafted over me, redolent with musk and spice and a hint of the outdoors.
When he laid me down on a plush surface, I was too far gone to care. Sleep, yes, that's what I needed. Dimly, I heard him walk away, then return a moment later. The bed — oh yeah, this was a bed — jostled as he settled onto the mattress. I sensed him leaning over me, his scent all around me, and he placed a hand on my forehead as if checking for a fever. Apparently satisfied, he replaced his hand with a cool cloth. The chill of it roused my mind. Peeling my eyelids apart, I gazed up at eyes as pale and incandescent as blue topaz. Concern tempered their brilliance, though, and strained his features.
Lachlan brushed the back of his hand across my cheek. "Erica, sweet, how do you feel? I should call for a doctor."
"Uh-uh." I pulled in a long, cleansing breath. "I'm fine. Besides, doctors don't come running when you call."
