by Jane Porter
She couldn’t leave the car. Couldn’t leave Mickey. This was a mistake, she thought. She couldn’t go to St. Barts.
She should be home right now. She needed to keep her routine. Bad things always happened when she changed her schedule, or did things differently. “No. I can’t do this,” she said, drawing back from the door as Mickey came around to open it for them. “It’s not a good idea.”
“There’s no reason to panic—”
“There’s every reason in the world! When I change things, do things differently, everything falls apart. I fall apart. I don’t want that to happen, and neither do you.”
“You’re not getting rid of me, Ava.”
“I know what Jack needs, and it’s not me.”
“What about me?” he demanded, his voice low, terse. “Are you going to speak for my needs as well?”
She stared up into his face, searching his eyes. “I know—”
“Ava, you don’t know. And while I love that you have a mind of your own, and a fierce desire to be independent, in this instance, you are wrong.” His voice dropped, deepening. “I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve tried to let you do things at your pace, but my patience is gone. It’s time to do what I think is right, for you, for Jack, and for me.”
“Which means?”
“That we’re going to figure us out. Once and for all.”
He scooped her into his arms, stepped from the car, and carried her past Mickey, to walk the short distance from the car to the parked jet. The first snowflakes were falling in dizzying whirl of white.
“Put me down!” Ava demanded, pressing against Colm’s thick shoulders and then giving him a shove in the middle of his chest. Snowflakes were sticking to his jacket and dusting their heads. She supposed it was cold but she was too upset to feel it.
Malcolm ignored her, crossing the tarmac in long, determined strides.
Ava glanced back at Mickey who was standing next to the car, arms folded, looking very much like a sentry, except he shouldn’t be standing there frozen. He should be coming to her assistance. “Mickey, help me!” she cried, pounding on Colm’s chest again. “Don’t let him take me. You can’t let him do this—”
“Stop shouting,” Colm cut her short her. “He’s not going to help you. Mickey works for me. He’s always worked for me. Everything you have has been provided by me. Your apartment, your job, your security detail—”
“My security detail?”
“Yes. Your security detail. Robert, your doorman. Mickey, your driver. Peter at the Ballet—”
“Peter, the custodian?”
“He’s not a janitor. He’s a retired Secret Service agent, and he’s there to protect you. So stop shouting and flinging yourself around before you get hurt.”
Her jaw dropped. Her expression was one of shock. “You hired all of those people?”
“Screened them. Hired them. Monitored them.” He shifted her weight in the arms and mounted the stairs, climbing the folding stairs quickly, effortlessly.
“Why?”
“To keep you safe, dammit!”
She stared at him, appalled. “You are out of your mind.”
“Maybe,” he admitted grimly as the crew closed the jet door, securing it. He nodded to the pilots and then the male flight steward even as her put her down in one of the oversized leather chairs in the main galley. “Buckle up,” he said. “We want to get out of here quickly. Conditions are worsening. If we’re going to take off tonight, we need to do it now.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go.” She tried to stand.
He pushed her back down. “You want to go. You’re just being stubborn.”
“Now you’re making me angry,” she snapped as he reached across her lap to buckle the seatbelt.
“And you’re being difficult.” He dropped into the seat across from hers and buckled his belt. “We’re here. We’re going. End of discussion.”
She leaned towards him, spitting mad. “This is why we’re not together! You’re arrogant, and controlling, and overpowering—”
“That’s not why we’re not together. We’re not together because we had a spat in Palm Beach a year ago and you ran away.”
“It wasn’t a spat! It was a catastrophe. And you said as much.”
“I said things I regret,” he agreed. “But I’ve apologized too many times to count.”
“So maybe you should take the hint and leave me alone.”
“I refuse to give up on us.”
“It’s pathetic.”
He shot her a dark, fierce look. “Maybe it’s time we stopped talking and just enjoyed the flight.”
*
For the next thirty minutes all was quiet. Colm was sitting with his head tipped back and his eyes closed. Ava stared out the window until she couldn’t stand it any longer and then turned to focus on Malcolm.
Eventually, he sighed, and without opening his eyes, said, “Jack does the same thing. But he’s three, not twenty-nine.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The staring thing. It’s his favorite game when I’m working.”
“I’m so mad at you.”
“For taking you on a Caribbean holiday when Manhattan is going to be buried under a foot of snow and ice?”
“That’s not the point and you know it. And even if I’d wanted to go with you—”
“You did agree, initially.”
“Initially.” She stressed. “And then I changed my mind. And even if I hadn’t changed my mind, you didn’t even let me pack anything. I’ve no suitcase. I don’t have any clothes.”
“There are clothes for you at the villa.”
“Whose clothes?”
“Yours.” He finally opened his eyes, looked at her. “I ordered them for you thinking you’d be with us this Christmas.”
He’d hoped she’d be there with them for Christmas? A pang shot through her and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. The sharp emotion made her thoughts scatter. It took her a moment to focus. “Don’t try to make me feel guilty.”
“You can feel guilty if you want. I’m just stating facts.”
Facts. Details. It was a good reminder. She needed to make some notes, write down what was happening, and why. But she couldn’t find the notebook on her, and she patted her coat that she’d draped across her legs but couldn’t find it there.
She turned the coat inside out to check the coat’s lavender silk interior, feeling for the hidden pockets.
“What are you looking for?” Colm asked after a moment.
“My notebook.” She lifted the wool coat, shook it hard, and checked the outside pockets once more. “I could have sworn I put the notebook in this pocket when we were leaving the school. I always put it in this pocket.” She looked at him, trying not to panic but worried. She couldn’t imagine getting through a day without the notebook much less a long weekend. “I need it. I use it for everything.”
“We can get you a new one.”
“I don’t want a new one. I need my book. It has all my information in it. Plans, calendar, descriptions and directions…how to do things…when to do things.”
“I can see why you’d want it in Manhattan, but we’re going to be on holiday. Can you not survive without it for a few days?”
She bit her lip, glanced to the window, but could see nothing but darkness beyond the glass. “I just don’t know where I dropped it. I don’t know if it’s in Mickey’s car or—” She broke off as she turned towards him. “And that reminds me, you deceived me. You’ve been deceiving me for months…maybe even years. Mickey wasn’t my driver. He was yours. He worked for you.”
“Yes.”
“And Robert, my doorman. How is it you could hire him?”
“It’s my building, so I have a say in who works there.”
Your building, she silently repeated, staring at him, torn between shock, awe and horror. Maybe what she felt was a little of all three. “Your building. Your doorman. Your driver. And the
job at the ballet? Was that yours, too?”
“Yes. No.”
“Which is it?”
“I asked them to put together a position for you, but the promotions and increased hours and responsibilities, that was all you.”
“But who paid for my salary, and each of the increases that came with the promotions? From the ballet company? Or from you, funneling it to the company?”
He didn’t say anything but that was answer enough. She knotted her hands in her lap, fingers locking tight. She was heartsick. Embarrassed. All this time she’d felt so independent. She’d thought she was accomplishing something, doing something…
But she wasn’t independent. She was the exact opposite. She was a joke. He’d turned her into a joke—
“Why do you do that to yourself?” he asked, his voice deep, rough. “I know what you’re doing. You’re beating yourself up. Torturing yourself.”
“I left Argentina as a thirteen-year-old because I had a dream for myself, and I was determined to be successful and independent. And after I was hurt, I was again determined to be independent, and I thought I was. Only now I discover everything I thought I achieved is fake. You pulled all these strings and orchestrated all the events so that it would seem like I was successful—”
“That’s not how it was,” he interrupted harshly.
“No?” Her voice cracked and she struggled with her composure. “Because it sure looks that way. It seems I must be hopelessly damaged if my former lover must create an elaborate charade to give me a sense of purpose and identity—”
“Stop it. You’re twisting things, making my support into something ugly.”
“If it’s not ugly, what it is? What do you call your manipulation?”
“Concern. Love. Protection.”
“Love doesn’t hide and deceive. But that’s what you’ve been doing with me.” Her voice broke again, and this time she couldn’t continue, not when she was battling back the tears. She pressed her nails to the tops of her thighs, determined not to cry. Emotion wasn’t her friend. She couldn’t let herself lose it.
“You wanted to return to work, but you weren’t strong enough to get to and from the school and theater, so I made sure you could go, and not tire yourself. And I don’t regret it. I’m glad I did it, and I’d do it all over again because you needed someone to help you, someone to take care of you—”
“Yet you let me believe I’d earned the job and found the apartment.” Her gaze locked with his. “You let me believe I was coping with life again.”
“Because you are. You have been. You are clearly healing. If you weren’t better, I wouldn’t be pushing for you to come home.”
“Your home is not my home, Malcolm. Your home has never been my home. To be honest, I don’t know why we’re even here, doing this.”
He arched a brow. “I know you have memory issues, but Ava, is it that easy to forget you have a son?”
She ground her teeth together. “And I hurt him. I remember that, too.”
“You have forgotten so many things. Why can’t you let yourself forget that one day?”
“Because I can’t afford to forget that I abandoned a two-year-old. I walked away from him without a second thought, and thank God nothing tragic happened that day, but it could have.”
Colm said nothing for a long moment, his lashes lowered, gaze narrowed as he studied her. And then he shook his head. “You’re wrong, Ava. Something tragic did happen that day. We lost you, Jack and I. And this time it sounds like you’re not coming back.”
Chapter Five
‡
Colm watched as she swiftly averted her head, her teeth sinking into her lush lower lip. From the back of her head with the tightly pinned chignon, he couldn’t tell if she was fighting tears or angry words, but either way, he didn’t care.
He was so frustrated right now.
He was so frustrated with the doctors and the therapists and all the experts who told him to give her space. Let her heal in her time. They’d said she’d need to grieve the loss of her old self as she came to terms with her new self.
But they’d never said she’d walk away from them.
They’d never said she’d give up.
What happened to her fire? Her conviction? Where was her backbone?
Ava Galvan was the strongest, most passionate woman he’d ever known. She was fierce and funny and so very loving. He understood she’d been hurt—terribly, terribly hurt—but she was making huge strides in her recovery and then that day in Florida had turned it inside out.
Turned all of them inside out.
“What has happened to you?” he demanded lowly. “Where’s your courage? Your fire? Where is the Ava I know? You aren’t a quitter and yet you’ve quit. You’ve quit on all of us—”
“I was hurt.” Her head jerked up and her dark gaze clashed with his. “I would think you’d remember. Your memory is supposed to be intact.”
“Yes, it is, and I remember how even after the accident you wanted to dance again and live again and love again but that’s all gone. You’re a shell of yourself, and brittle as hell.”
She jerked her chin higher even as her dark eyes turned liquid. “I’m sorry I can’t be the woman you want me to be. But there was an accident. I was hurt. End of story.”
But that wasn’t the end of story, he thought, barely hanging onto his temper. It wasn’t close to end of story. He didn’t want to be angry with her. God knows, the accident hadn’t been her fault. She’d suffered, terribly. He’d vowed to stick by her side and he had, until the doctors demanded that Colm step back and give Ava space. They’d said he was starting to do more harm than good by pushing her so much. The doctors thought she needed peace and quiet…a chance to heal.
And so he’d backed away during the first year of her rehabilitation, focusing on the baby, but when she’d reached out to him at the end of a year, he turned his world upside down to accommodate Ava. He bought a house in Palm Beach that was all one level so she wouldn’t have to deal with stairs. He’d turned one of the garages into a special gym so she could continue her rehab work. For a year, they tried to make it work, and he’d been hopeful that she was doing better, but it was always a struggle for her. She would get upset and her tears frightened Jack. Sometimes she’d look at Jack and not know what to say or do, treating him as if he were a stranger, but still, Colm hoped.
He refused to give up on her, and to show his commitment, he married her. It had been a small private service at Thanksgiving, just the three of them, plus the necessary witnesses, and he’d married her to cement their relationship.
Ten days later, Ava took Jack out and walked away from him, and just kept walking.
She was found five miles from the shopping center, lost, disoriented, unable to provide the police any information. For twelve hours she didn’t even remember her name, and then when she did remember, she wasn’t Ava McKenzie, but Ava Galvan.
She didn’t remember marrying Colm. Didn’t remember taking Jack out. Didn’t remember the year in Palm Beach at all.
In her mind, she was still living in New York. Still hoping to return to the ballet.
And so he did what the doctors and specialists told him to do. He let her return to New York, and the ballet, and the life she wanted.
But, all the while, he was raising a little boy who didn’t understand where his mother had gone, and Colm didn’t know how to put all the pieces together.
What was the right thing to do? What was the smart thing to do?
He didn’t even know if he loved Ava anymore. But he still felt responsible for her. He was loyal. He was determined to do what he had to do. It’s how he was raised. It was who he was.
But it was confusing. For all of them.
“It’s not too late to tell your flight crew to turn the plane around,” she said softly. Her gaze met his and her expression was painfully grave. “We could probably still land in Teterboro.”
For a moment, he didn’t speak, too b
usy trying to process his wildly conflicting feelings. He wanted her. He didn’t want her. He missed her. He was exhausted by the struggle to get close to her. He’d never give up on her. He didn’t know if he should give up on her.
Just looking at her, he felt connected to her. When near her, he knew they were still meant to be together.
But if she didn’t feel it? If she didn’t believe it?
Was it time to let her go? Or was it time to break through this wall and reserve she’d constructed around her following that incident last December?
He didn’t know. He needed to know. He needed clarity, as well as peace.
As if reading his mind, her lips curved sadly. “Someday you have to accept facts.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then shrugged. “I’m not there yet.”
“But what if I am?”
His chest tightened, a pinch that made him hold his breath and count to ten.
“Then you have to be patient with me,” he said lowly. “Because I still want to try.”
Emotion flickered in her eyes and her full lips quivered then compressed. She was fighting to hold back tears and it was like a blow to his heart. He clamped his jaw, bottled the emotion tighter.
They’d been through so much.
They’d been through hell and back.
The fight couldn’t have been for naught. There had to be hope. A future. A happy ending.
“You’re a miracle.” His deep voice was pitched so low it was nearly inaudible. “And you need to remember you’re a miracle. I do.”
Again, her lips quivered and tears filled her beautiful dark eyes. “You’re going to make me cry. I don’t want to cry.”
“Don’t cry. You’re too pretty to cry,” he said, struggling to keep his tone light.
And it was true. She looked like an exquisite butterfly perched on the butterscotch leather seat across from him—slender, delicate, mysterious.
The accident hadn’t marred her beauty. She still turned heads wherever she went. How could you not want to look at her? With her a perfect, oval face, full pink lips, high cheekbones, and wide intelligent eyes, she attracted attention and interest.
