by CC MacKenzie
Jeez, the place was a mess, with an inch of dust covering the glass topped tables. Had she always been untidy? Oscar couldn't remember. Surely he should be able to remember? Or had he been too wrapped up in the heat of lust and the flush of true love to see Emma as she really was? Not that it mattered to him if she was messy. Who the hell cared about that?
Then he admitted that three years ago they hadn't had the chance to get to know one another, not really.
Oscar made short work of gathering up papers strewn on the coffee table, the floor, and left them on a tidy pile next to her laptop. He picked up candy wrappers, chip packets, a couple of apple cores and dumped them in the bin in the kitchen. He noticed wine remained untouched and there was hardly a dent in the fruit bowl. He washed his hands before moving to the refrigerator. Oscar ensured the staff placed plenty of fresh and nutritious food in the fridges and the cupboards of all the private apartments. Shaking his head, he pulled out a carton of eggs, cheese, sniffed the milk, and began whipping up an omelet. For a moment he stopped, wondered what the hell he was doing?
He shrugged.
The least he could do was feed her, and then he'd find out what was going on.
Chapter Nine
Emma closed her eyes as steaming water pounded over her head, digging her nails into her scalp as she shampooed her hair until it was squeaky clean. Seeing Oscar again like that, without any warning, and with everything he'd revealed, had badly shaken her.
Then her mind took her on a roller-coaster ride into the past, to the day they'd first met.
Since her mother had caused a rift with the family over the sale of The Hall, Emma had travelled alone for the christening of her cousin Bronte's twins, Luca and Sophia. Oscar had been talking to Nico, then he'd turned and those fabulous eyes had met Emma's. And that was it. She'd always believed love at first sight was a myth, something dreamed up by romance writers. He had a face blessed by the gods. McSteamy-style short hair the colour of jet. Tall, dark and handsome. And dressed in a bespoke suit of pale grey that hugged wide shoulders, those long legs, like a lover. He had the most amazing dark eyes, slashing brows and a pale café au lait skin that made her fingertips tingle just to touch. In her dreams Emma's ideal man of the moment had been the delicious Henry Cavill. But the man who was watching, who couldn't take his eyes from hers, made Henry appear pale in comparison.
Oscar had made a beeline for her, taken her hand.
And just like that, bye bye, Henry.
She'd tipped back her head to look up into his eyes, his face, and remembered now the way her heart had fallen. This man was way, way out of her league. Not that Emma herself was a hideous hag or anything like that, but even in vertiginous heels, she was vertically challenged.
Tiny.
Little.
Small.
Five foot one and three quarter inches.
Her heart had sank a little further.
He was too tall.
Those dark eyes went warm as they looked down into her face.
He said, "Hi, I'm Oscar."
Absolutely thrilled by what that deep voice did to her hormones, Emma's brow creased even as she'd smiled.
"Hi, I'm Emma."
"Where the hell have you been?"
Confused, she blinked up into his marvellous face.
"Sorry, you've lost me."
His smile showcased white teeth.
"And I absolutely adore dimples. Where have you been all my life?"
She couldn't help but smile wider.
"Seriously? Is that the best you can do?"
"Trust me, I've never been more serious in my life. I've waited nearly thirty years for you."
Something like a skittering excitement had run up her spine as his hand had taken hers to his lips and pressed a feather light kiss on her fingertips. A kiss that had weakened her. Now she studied that face. His razor sharp cheekbones. A wide but firm mouth. The strong jaw. And knew she'd never forget it. His hair was sleek, black, and brushed back from his face. The man was gorgeous. He stood, shoulders back, as those eyes burned into hers. And he smelled good enough to eat. Clean, spicy cologne and all male.
For the rest of the day not once did his hand relinquish hers.
Not once.
Emma and Oscar had sat at a table in a quiet corner of the vast ballroom of Ludlow Hall and ignored everyone else in the room. Four hours later, they admitted that they'd fallen madly in love. For ten days and nights they'd been inseparable.
Later, back in the real world and her real life in New York, Emma slowly began to understand that the man she'd tumbled into love with had been deliberately vague about his military career. And that was when she'd had the first stirrings of doubt.
Catherine Ludlow had done nothing to allay her daughter's fears.
Once her mother had realised Emma was serious about her relationship, she'd been vocal in her strong opposition to Oscar. At first, Emma couldn't understand her mother’s issue. The man she loved was from a good family. He was in the military. But it wasn't until her mother had made a comment about his ethnicity that Emma had finally understood. For the first time in her life she'd argued with the mother she adored who, Emma made crystal clear, shamed her.
Then, without a word, Oscar had disappeared.
A few days later she'd received his letter.
A letter that had destroyed her dreams and broken her heart.
Terrified and estranged from her mother, Emma had discovered she was pregnant. However, fate wasn't finished with her quite yet. It had been the loss of her baby at twelve weeks that had truly shattered her soul.
And the memory of reliving that experience was all too much.
The agony of her lost child, merged with the nightmare of her marriage and the truth she'd learned today. Now, slumped against the shower wall as water stung her face, the harsh reality of the terrible thing her mother had done to Oscar, to her, burst the heaving dam of Emma's emotions wide open.
Beyond pain, she cried out loud.
A year of therapy had taught her that dealing with the bad stuff as it happened was very important if a person wanted to heal and move on. And Emma let it all out. If there was one thing she'd learned after living with Richard, she'd learned to accept pain. That was the thing about pain, it's a part of life. Pain demanded to be felt because the person who suffered either grew as a human being, became more, or chose to remain broken.
The choice, Emma knew, was up to her.
No way would she break.
No way.
But why on earth had mother done such a thing?
Because, the relentless voice of truth whispered in her ear, Oscar was mixed race. A stunningly beautiful example of mixed race it was true, but an example her mother was determined would never be a part of her family.
And Emma knew, deep in her heart, that she would never, ever forgive her mother for this.
Never.
Now she buried her face in her hands.
Why was it every time she thought she was moving forward, something happened to kick her legs out from under her like this?
Why was life so bloody hard?
Her legs wouldn't hold her upright as she slid down the wall of the shower to the floor, to curl up in a tight little ball. In her relentless ambition for her daughter, and for herself, her mother had done terrible, terrible things. Now Emma wondered why she hadn't questioned the validity of the letter right from the very beginning? But now she admitted she'd been too hurt by losing Oscar, too bewildered by the loss of their child, to think logically never mind clearly.
What daughter could ever imagine a mother so determined to get her own way, she'd commit a criminal act of forgery?
Emma couldn't get her head around it.
And what of Oscar himself?
He was a sensible man, which meant there was no way he'd ever want a future with Emma. A future that would tie him irrevocably to a woman like Emma's mother. A woman who by her appalling behaviour proved she could never b
e trusted.
The man who'd stood before her, just minutes ago, looked nothing like the Oscar she remembered. And she wondered how on earth he'd ended up in Eden?
The timing for all this, Emma knew, could not have been worse, she had the book to write!
She was too busy to have memories and thoughts of Oscar Zamani crowding her thinking. Emma decided that once she had the answer to why he was here, she'd try to put him out of her mind. It was time to put the heartache of the past behind her and move on.
However, she made a firm promise to herself to confront her mother.
The woman needed a rude awakening.
The time was long overdue for straight talking.
Catherine Ludlow either changed her behaviour or she'd lose her daughter, for good.
Emma was shivering with reaction now.
It wasn't until her teeth were chattering that she realised the shower had gone cold.
Her stiff muscles protested as she struggled to her feet, slapped off the water, and grabbed a towel.
Like an automaton Emma wandered through the bedroom, winding her towel-dried hair in a plait before pulling on jeans and a black tank. She couldn't look in the mirror because she didn't want to see eyes heavy and swollen from her crying jag.
As she opened the bedroom door, she could hear someone moving about in the sitting room. She'd left the place in a mess. After living with a man who had an obsessive compulsive disorder for towels to be folded just so, for everything in his closet lined up and regimented by colour, these days Emma loved having the freedom to toss things on the floor.
Who the hell cared if she didn't pick up a dirty cup?
Then she remembered that Oscar was incredibly tidy, too.
And knowing him, he'd probably alerted the cleaning crew.
Then the scent of hot food and fresh coffee hit her.
Stunned, Emma wandered into the sitting room to discover the dining nook set for two with candles lit and a bottle of red wine uncorked to breathe.
Taking a deep breath, she crossed the room in bare feet to find Oscar in the kitchen.
His big body filled the small space.
On the counter top two plates held a beautifully presented green salad.
A dish towel was tucked into the waist of his chef's trousers.
It appeared he was preparing the ingredients for an omelet.
"Don't you cook?" he asked without turning around.
The man had ninja hearing.
"Sometimes," she said. She'd never had a man cook for her before. The scene was so domesticated, intimate, Emma wondered if she was dreaming. "Badly," she added since there was no point in lying.
He turned his head to shoot her an incomprehensible look.
His dark eyes searching her face, questioning.
"You haven't even opened the carton of eggs," he said in a rough voice. "What have you been eating since you arrived, apart from M&M's and potato chips?"
Annoyed at the tone Emma didn't answer, since she considered what she ate and when she ate it none of his damned business.
But she didn't want to fight with him either.
What was the point?
Oscar knew she was watching him.
She was standing utterly still, wary, too wary, of him.
Those lovely eyes looked so desperately sad, all teary and swollen.
And it killed him that she'd been crying.
Maybe he'd been too hard on her?
Maybe he'd scared her?
Then he told himself he didn't give a damn one way or the other. And that decision shocked him. As well as stir up things he didn't want stirred. He could feel lust tighten, but it was the overwhelming love for her that drained him.
To give himself a moment to calm down, Oscar chopped an onion, grated cheese. Then he turned to her, noticed how her eyes were nervous.
He moved to wash his hands, dried them on a towel.
Without warning, he crossed to her, framed her face in his hands, watching those vivid green eyes go wide just before his mouth captured hers.
He'd meant the kiss to be hard and fast. A quickie to relieve the ache in his heart. But as his lips tasted the sudden tremble in hers, that ache shifted, rose too fast, threatening to rip his control apart as the kiss changed, quickened.
Emma stiffened, and in an involuntary action pressed her palms to his wide chest in an attempt to push him back. Oscar realised he didn't want her to struggle or to fight him. Instead he wanted the gentleness that came with intimacy. An intimacy he'd had with very few. And he desperately wanted it, craved it, with her again.
"Emma, don't." His fingers slid into hair damp from the shower. His voice hoarse with a desire that was tying him in knots. "Please... don't fight me... please."
Maybe it was something in the tone of his voice, the whisper of need, that had her hands slide over strong shoulders. She submitted, and in submitting to his mouth, to his touch, found herself plunged into an ocean of unimagined pleasure.
His mouth savoured hers, gentled, as the kiss took her down, down.
Her hands slid into his hair, her head angled back so that his mouth might roam free over her jaw, her neck, the delicate skin of her shoulder. Emma floated in a pool of liquid delight, a joy she'd never known was even possible.
With a deep sigh, she submitted utterly and let him take her.
After everything her mother had done to them, and what Emma had done to him by marrying another man, Oscar couldn't believe he was capable of the overwhelming need to protect, to handle this woman, with such tender care. No other woman had released it from him. And all the while the unrelenting ache in his loins grew. But instead of desperation he felt a soft flow of something like contentment. A contentment and a rightness that shook him to the core.
Stunned, Oscar very carefully released her.
He took a step back to focus on her flushed face.
And felt like a man who had experienced something he didn't quite understand.
He wanted her, Emma, but perhaps not at any price to himself, to his heart.
She'd hurt him, badly, before.
Leaving him with a broken and battered heart.
Could he run the risk of her hurting him again?
Or was he prepared to take a chance?
In truth, he didn't know.
Now he turned away from her to continue to prepare the ingredients set out before him.
Oscar just hoped to hell she didn't notice his hands were shaking.
Emma wasn't sure what had just happened. She'd given him everything, again, and he'd stepped back.
"What are you doing, Oscar?" she asked in a soft voice.
"At the moment? Looking after you, apparently."
His voice was hoarse now, and he cleared his throat.
Stung, her chin lifted. "I don't need looking after."
His eyes went dark as they lingered on her puffy eyes, her mouth swollen from his.
Then those eyes went soft in a way that made the nerves low in her belly do a jittery dance.
"Babe, you need a keeper." His voice was a low growl that made her whole body tremble. He turned his attention to the fluffy concoction in the pan. "Grab a coffee and sit down."
Too surprised by the gruff tone in his voice to do anything else, Emma moved to the coffee pot, poured herself a cup and did as she was told.
As she sat at the table in the dining nook, staring unseeing over a black ocean lit by a silvery moon, she remembered when Oscar had used that gruff tone with her before, usually before they made love.
Now she was confused, upset.
She didn't understand him.
She certainly didn't understand herself these days.
The ocean and the night sky went misty before her eyes.
Emma blinked fiercely to clear her vision.
Enough!
She'd done enough crying to last a frigging lifetime.
Chapter Ten
Oscar placed a plate containing a piping-hot omele
t and fresh green salad in front of Emma, then slid a plate for himself opposite her. He poured them both a very large glass of wine, then settled in, picked up his fork and waited until she'd tasted a sliver of omelet and swallowed before he asked her the question.
"Good?"
Swimming green eyes stared into his.
It was obvious she'd been crying again and, even now, battled back emotions.
The fact that he'd upset her fucking killed him, but Oscar wanted answers and he intended to get them.
She nodded.
"It's delicious. Thank you."
Her tone was terribly polite.
Like a good little girl eating her food and for some reason it tickled him.
"You're very welcome. So, what brings you to Eden?"
He watched her dip her head, focus on her plate for a couple of mouthfuls.
Then her gaze rose to meet his as she reached for her wine, took a careful sip.
"I'm here to work." She turned her head to check out her desk, her laptop, and the tidy pile of paper. Now those green eyes narrowed. He didn't miss the flash of annoyance. And he was very pleased to see it. Annoyance was much better than that smacked-puppy look in her eyes. "It might look like one big mess to you, but I happen to have a system."
Ignoring the snark, he stuck to the point.
"Work?"
"I'm a writer."
His brows winged into his hairline.
"What sort of writer?"
"Fiction."
"Good for you. Published?"
"Yep."
His mouth twitched at the one word responses.
It was like trying to get blood from a stone.
"So what do you write? Girly stuff? Romance?"
He wiggled his eyebrows.
Her eyes stared into his, slitted.
"There is nothing wrong with romance," she said in a tone that would melt steel.
"Never said there was."
She huffed out a breath and wolfed down more food, he was delighted to see.
"I write thrillers."
"Yeah? I love thrillers."
The dark look she shot him out of those green eyes might have shrivelled the balls of a lesser man.
