The Tycoon’s Forced Bride

by Jane Porter

  It didn’t help that Colm was wrong.

  He didn’t know what he was saying. He didn’t know what he was asking her to do. It was dangerous, so dangerous. Didn’t he remember how broken she was? Didn’t he realize she’d been cracked in two? Her skull fractured, bones snapped, lungs collapsed. “It’s time to let me go, Colm.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Colm, please.”

  “Ever.”

  For a moment she couldn’t breathe. For a moment everything just spun and her stomach heaved. She drew one short breath after another. “I know you’re trying to do the right thing. But it’s not the right thing, not if it hurts Jack.”

  “Ava, he’s asking questions.”

  “Then answer them,” she said huskily. “Tell him what you’ve always told him—Mommy’s sick. Mommy loves you but she can’t take care of you.”

  The silence was thick and heavy, so heavy that Ava finally looked up at Colm. His blue-green gaze had lost all warmth, the depths now glacier cold.

  “I’m not going to tell Jack that. I’m not going to lie to him.”

  “It’s not a lie!”

  “It is. Because you can take care of him. I know you can, and it’s time you did.”

  She flinched, stung by his tone, but not entirely surprised. This was the tone he’d used with her at the beginning of her recovery. These were the same words, the same voice, the same relentless attitude. He wouldn’t let her quit. Wouldn’t accept her exhaustion or her tears of pain. Ignoring her protests, he crouched in front of her and strapped the braces on her legs, stood her up at the bars, and insisted she walk. I know you, he said, each time, every time, I know you can do this.

  And that was how her rehab went. He coached her, pushed her, encouraged her, one day at a time. One foot in front of the other. Over and over and over.

  Until the day he stopped coming.

  The day he disappeared from her life was nearly as bad as the accident. The loss had hit her so hard, and she’d been so vulnerable, so physically and emotionally fragile.

  “You’re not being practical,” she said lowly. “We have to remember my limitations—”

  “What crap!”

  “It’s true,” she doggedly continued. “The doctors said—”

  “They’re wrong,” he interrupted again, his voice rough with emotion. “They’re wrong on this, Ava. I don’t believe in limitations. And, dammit, neither do you.” His voice dropped. “You can’t, not when Jack needs you so much.”

  Her eyes closed at the shaft of pain. Jack had been her motivation. Jack had been the reason she could endure the grueling months of physical and speech therapy even after Colm stopped coming to see her.

  She was determined she’d get her baby back. She’d be part of his life again. She so badly wanted to be a good mother. But her attempt to reconcile with two year old Jack had been a disaster. First, she’d scared him with her leg braces and walker, and then just when he’d come to terms with her disability, she’d taken him out in the stroller, she’d walked him to a shopping center…

  And left him there.

  Why?

  What kind of woman did such a thing? What was wrong with her? What had she been thinking?

  But in the end, the motivation didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that she’d taken him from his home and abandoned him in a shopping center and then wandered away herself.

  She was not a well woman. She was not to be trusted. Ever.

  “Then find him a good mother,” Ava whispered, her voice flat, devoid of all emotion.

  It’d been over a year since that awful day but she’d had thirteen months to examine her heart and the painful soul-searching had made her realize that Jack deserved better. Jack deserved a mother who could properly care for him. A mother who could run and play and make his life easier, not harder.

  Colm broke the silence. “You don’t mean that.”

  God, he knew her so well. Colm was right, of course. She didn’t want anyone to take her place, didn’t want to be replaced, and while she’d given up her braces and walker, there were still many things she found difficult to do.

  “You can’t give up,” he added, after a moment, his deep voice sliding down her spine.

  She ducked her head.

  “You’ve made great strides, Ava. You’ve come back from the dead.” He turned her chair, forcing her to face him.

  There was something in his eyes and expression that seemed to strip her bare. She felt naked. Frightened. “I am not what I was before. Nor will I ever be her again.”

  He held her gaze, the bright blue depths scorching her. “So what do you want us to do? Bury you? Forget you? Act like you’re dead?” He ground the words out, angry, and frustrated.

  Ava could feel his tension, his energy palpable, practically pulsing within her, matching her heartbeat.

  He swore. Violently. “Nothing is more important than our son.”

  “I will hurt him!”

  “You will not. I won’t let that happen.” His gaze locked with hers, his features hard and fierce. “I promise you that, Ava.”

  He was a beautiful man, and angry, he looked intimidating. He was a Celtic warrior and he’d brought her to his kingdom, determined to conquer.

  And he would conquer her, if she wasn’t careful. He’d break her. There’d be nothing left of her when he was done.

  “I love Jack, and yes, I would love to still be part of his life if I knew I wouldn’t hurt him, but you…” She dragged in a breath, as angry with him as he was with her. “You are another story. You have no say over me. I will not allow you to dictate to me or trying to control me. Once, we were lovers, but that was a long, long time ago!”

  Chapter Nine

  ‡

  She pushed away from the table and took a panicked step backwards, bumping her chair hard enough to send pain shooting through her hip. Tears filled her eyes and she whimpered in protest.

  Colm was on his feet, too, and she threw her hands up. “Don’t touch me,” she cried. “Don’t come near me! I’ve had enough of you. I want to go. I want to return to the villa now.”

  “We’re in the middle of the sea, Ava. We won’t back at the villa until later this afternoon.”

  Her hip throbbed and her head had begun to ache. She rubbed at her temple, trying to ease the thumping, trying to calm down. Intense emotions brought on the headaches. She didn’t need a migraine now.

  Colm’s brows pulled. He scrutinized her face. “Your head?”

  “It’ll be okay.” She struggled to smile but couldn’t.

  He stretched a hand out to brush a fine dark tendril of hair back from her brow, his fingers soothing against her temple. “Let’s go find some shade. Get you something cool to drink. Do you need a tablet for the pain?”

  She shook her head. “Let’s just not argue anymore. I hate fighting with you.”

  “And I hate fighting with you. So let’s change into our swim suits and relax, because, in another twenty minutes, we’ll be anchoring at a spot where we’ll swim and snorkel and see the most amazing fish.”

  Swimming and snorkeling proved to be the perfect distraction. Ava loved the water, and today she was the one begging to stay out and swim a little longer, and snorkel a little more. They splashed about for over an hour and then returned to the yacht for lunch, and then jumped back in for a second round of snorkeling.

  Now they were sunbathing on the deck while the yacht ferried them to St. Barts’ Lorient Bay.

  Ava was lying on her back on a lounge chair, eyes closed, straw hat shading her eyes while she soaked up bright, hot rays. She was sleepy and relaxed, the kind of lazy pleasure one felt after exercising and taking in the sun. It’d been a week since she’d really exercised and she felt calmer than she had in days. She so enjoyed swimming. She needed to remember this.

  “I wish I had my notebook,” she said, breaking the companionable silence.

  “What would you write down?” Colm
asked, his deep voice raspy. He, too, was drowsy from the sun.

  She turned her head and peeked at him from beneath the brim of her hat. He was on a lounge chair just a foot away, filling it completely. He had a magnificent body. It all started with his height and those massive shoulders, and then there was that thickly muscled chest, the narrow waist and hips and long, strong legs. A work of art.

  “I’d remind myself to swim more, and play more. I’d say that snorkeling today off your yacht was the most fun I’ve had in….oh, forever.”

  “We should do this more often.”

  “Snorkel?”

  “And visit the villa. There’s no reason we can’t. We have the house. The plane. We just need to make the time.”

  Her lips curved. “Should I put that in the notebook, too?”

  “Yes, please do.” He reached over to her, and stroked her shoulder with a finger. “And write down that Colm loves you in your pale aqua bikini. That he thinks you are seriously sexy—”

  “I’m not going to write that!” But she was laughing as she knocked his hand off her shoulder.

  “Then I’m going to find your notebook and write it down. Or maybe I’ll just start my own and then every day we can compare notes.”

  “Well, now I know what to get you for Christmas.”

  “Christmas is a long way off. Can we make it Valentine’s Day? That’s coming up in just a couple weeks.”

  “If you remind me.” She smiled impishly. “Every day.” Snickering, she dragged the hat down low, shielding her eyes and stretched out, thinking it’d be nice to just doze off for a bit. But this time she couldn’t relax. She couldn’t get comfortable, now, when she was so aware of Colm lying on the lounge chair next to her, within reach.

  He’d been so good with her today, such great company. He’d been engaging and charming, and attentive in the water, making sure she was always safe. And while she appreciated his concern, she enjoyed him most when he wasn’t fussing over her, but focusing on her as a woman. Making her feel like a woman. A real woman. Whole, capable, attractive.

  She understood that there were times they had to talk about her injury, but she didn’t want every conversation to be about it. She had to be more than all the broken parts. Otherwise, what was the point?

  She sensed Colm felt the same way, too. There were moments when they were together today where she just felt like Ava. Not the old Ava, or the new Ava, just Ava Galvan, and it felt good. It gave her hope.

  Hope. She flexed her feet, then pointed, arching high in the instep, surreptitiously stretching her legs and toes, imagining herself on the dance floor, on pointe. Lovely, long taut muscles. Beautiful extension. A deep controlled breath—

  And then in the next breath, she imagined herself beneath Colm, their skin warm and damp, his hands stroking her, making her wet. She missed him. She missed the way he could make her feel, and with her eyes closed, she could also imagine them together, his hips between her thighs, his body filling her, stretching her, making her feel good, making her feel beautiful.

  She drew a shallow breath, in and out, so very conscious of him lying close to her now.

  If she focused, she could remember how it had felt earlier today when he’d sat behind her, reapplying the sunscreen to her back. She’d felt almost delirious with pleasure as he swept the warm lotion into her skin, up and down in long luxurious strokes, working her shoulders and then down her back to where her spine dipped and a thousand nerves screamed for more.

  He always made her feel so sensitive. Her body responded to him. It had been his way from the start.

  She shifted on the lounge, trying to get comfortable but tension coiled low in her belly, an aching knot that ran straight up to her tender breasts, the nipples peaked inside her flimsy bikini top.

  It was funny how sometimes conversation seemed to push them apart. All the words could leave her feeling confused and empty…dis­connected…but the moment he touched her, the distance collapsed and all she wanted was him.

  She wanted him now.

  She’d been aware of him all afternoon, conscious of each gesture he made, each wry twist of his lips. She might forget what they talked about but she couldn’t forget his kiss, or the pleasure of his touch and lying so close to him had made her almost dizzy with longing.

  Colm turned over on his chair, looked at her. “You’re getting restless.”

  “Yes.”

  “Bored?”

  She didn’t know how to tell him what she wanted. They weren’t lovers anymore. Nor a couple. She couldn’t just ask him to put his hands on her breasts and massage her ass and slide his fingers—

  “Not bored,” she choked, squeezing her legs together, feet flexing. She was hot and bothered in all the wrong ways and wanting relief, and he knew how to give her that release. He was shockingly talented in bed. He could make her climax a dozen different ways. And then there were his hands.

  His mouth.

  His long, hard, thick shaft…

  And that tongue…soft, pointed, lapping, flicking…

  She’d been convent educated the first eight years of her life and the nuns had been strict, teaching the girls that sex before marriage was a sin, and equally forbidden were sexual acts that didn’t that permit procreation.

  But there was nothing like Colm’s mouth between her thighs, his tongue on her most sensitive flesh, licking. Sucking.

  “So what are you thinking about?” he asked, rolling onto his side.

  She glanced at him, grateful he couldn’t read her mind, and yet, she couldn’t read his either, not with the dark pair of sunglasses hiding his piercing gaze. “Argentina,” she said huskily.

  “Before the accident you rarely talked about your life back home. It’s good to hear you talk about your childhood in Argentina. I know so little about your past.”

  She crossed her feet at her ankles, trying to ignore the hot ache within her.

  “I’ve been in America since I was thirteen. New York is home. Buenos Aires feels like a dream.”

  “You don’t miss it?”

  “I miss my family, but we were not a close family. Over time, the ballet school became home and the dance company became my family.”

  “And you weren’t ever homesick?”

  “Oh, I was in the beginning. Terribly homesick. But I didn’t tell anyone back home. I was afraid that if my parents knew how lonely I was, they would have brought me back to Buenos Aires, and yet dance was my passion. I knew that if I’d hoped to make it, to become one of the great ones, I had to train seriously, and properly. I got that training in New York, with the Manhattan Ballet, and I was determined to stay there, even after they’d summoned me home.”

  “What do you mean, summoned?”

  Her shoulders lifted and fell. “My father arranged a marriage for me when I was twenty. I refused to return home to marry Senor Carlito. My father was furious.”

  He barked a laugh. “An arranged marriage? For you?”

  “Yes, obviously my father did not know me well. He hadn’t anticipated my refusal, either, confident he’d overcome my objections.” She shot him a rueful glance as she struggled to sit up. “Confident enough that the wedding invitations were mailed, and the dress ordered. Imagine his fury and shame when my mother had to send a second set of cards in the mail informing the five hundred guests that there would be no wedding.”

  “I have a feeling he might be the type to hold a grudge.”

  “Oh, most definitely. My father stopped communicating with me. He may have disowned me. It’s just as well if he did, he wouldn’t want me the way I am now.”

  Colm sat up swiftly. “And how are you now?”

  She shrugged, grimaced. “Let’s not play this game.”

  “It’s not a game.”

  “Then you know how I am. I’m damaged. A woman with half a brain.”

  He took his sunglasses off, tossing them onto the foot of the lounger. “Your brain is all there.”

  “But I’m slower.
You know I am.”

  “You’re also alive. And I think you’re amazing. You’re the one who is hard on you. Not me.”

  “I know the kind of woman you like—”

  “You’re the woman I like, and you are the only woman I want.” He reached over and lifted her from her chair to settle her onto his lap. “The only one,” he repeated, cupping the back of her head, bringing her face to his. He kissed her slowly, deeply, his tongue probing her mouth, making her squirm.

  The kiss was good but not enough. She wanted more heat, wanted fire. Wanted tension and passion and the feel of him driving into her, filling her, blocking every thought and sensation.

  His hand tangled in her hair, twining the strands around his palm. He pulled hard enough to make her gasp and he bit into her soft lip. She gasped again, shifting forward on his lap, needing friction.

  “Mine,” he ground out, nipping again at her lip even as his fingers found one taut nipple. He played with the tip, rolling it, palming it, before pinching. She saw stars, and rocked against him, hot, wet. He soothed where he’d inflicted pain, rubbing, strumming before pinching the tender nipple again. “You are mine.”

  His hands were now at her waist, and then sliding over her hips, pushing away the flimsy sarong to run his hands up her thighs, and down again to her knees and then trailing them back up the inside of her thighs.

  She shivered as he parted her legs, widening them and pushing her more firmly onto his lap, making her aware of his erection. He was very hard and very warm and she could feel the thick rounded head of his shaft against her, pressing right where she was most sensitive.

  Holding her hips he rocked her over his shaft, dragging her back and forth until she was grabbing at his shoulders, fighting to stay put, wanting the head of his shaft in her, not against her.

  Colm wasn’t having it. He was in charge, he was controlling this and he caught her hands in one of his, locking them behind her back. She felt fully exposed, her breasts thrusting out, her legs parted, her body his to touch, to tease, to claim.