by Avery Aster
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 omelet 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.
In response, Oscar just sent her a big wide smile.
"Then maybe you've heard of An Angel's Tear," she said in a silky voice.
Stunned, his jaw dropped.
Seriously?
"I love that book."
The penny dropped.
His Emma was E.J. Byron?
Her cheeks went hot and he realised she was embarrassed.
Aww, baby.
His heart swelled with pride.
But she still didn't look him in the eye.
Instead, she stared into the wine in the glass.
"Thank you. I needed to write it. My whole life was spiralling out of control. Writing anchored me, gave me something tangible to hang on to."
Again Oscar had the weird feeling he was missing som
ething important.
Then he frowned.
Wait a minute.
Something didn't make sense.
"Do Alexander and Rosie know you're a writer?"
* * *
Now it was Emma's turn to frown as she stared into his face.
She was utterly thrilled to have thrown him, and even more excited to discover he was a fan. The whole experience of having her work enjoyed by so many was still so new to her and something Emma knew she would never take for granted.
"Of course they know. Why?"
He stared right into her eyes with such intensity, she couldn't look away.
"Because although I’m here for a sort of busman’s holiday, for the last three years I've been working for Nico and Alexander. I've been running the restaurants at the Ferranti hotel and spa at Lake Como and Ludlow Hall. And not once have they mentioned you. Now why might that be do you think?"
Emma's heart skipped.
Oscar had no idea that Emma's mother was estranged from her niece and nephew. Catherine Ludlow had made her staunch opposition of the sale of Ludlow Hall to Nico Ferranti crystal clear to Alexander Ludlow. It didn't matter that death duties and estate taxes meant that The Hall would be lost to the family. It didn't matter that Nico Ferranti had saved Ludlow Hall and by marrying Bronte Ludlow had kept it in the family. And of course Richard had sided with her mother and not invited their extended family to her wedding.
After she'd married, Emma had lost touch with her cousins, until Alexander and Rosie had visited her in New York. She was quite certain she knew why her cousins hadn't mentioned her to Oscar, because they were protecting her.
"Don't you read the press or follow the political news in the States?" she asked him now.
His smooth brow creased.
He shook his head.
"Nope. Why?"
Memories of those headlines, the things that had been written about her, the lies and the rumours and how her friends had shunned her, made Emma's skin clammy.
"Because more than once my divorce from Richard hit the headlines, for all the wrong reasons."
Her hand shook as she reached for her wine.
And by the way Oscar's gaze lingered on the move, he'd caught it.
Now those dark eyes rose to study her face, especially the heat scorching her cheeks.
"What happened?"
Oh God, did she truly want to re-hash the whole sordid mess of her disastrous marriage to Oscar?
Really?
The omelet now settled uneasily with the jittery nerves in her stomach.
"As I said, I made the biggest mistake of my life. I paid for it. And now I've moved on."
His eyes locked on hers as he nodded.
"He made you unhappy?"
Unhappy?
More like desperate.
More like frightened.
At first Emma had been bewildered to find herself isolated from her friends, from her extended family in England. She'd been trapped, confused and terrified by Richard's erratic mood swings. And worse, his mercurial temper. Then fearing for her very sanity, she'd fled into the night with nothing but the clothes on her back, her cell phone and the single debit card she'd managed to squirrel away.
She'd escaped from Richard.
But she'd also run from a mother who refused to listen or take her side.
A mother who'd, ultimately, rejected her daughter and what she'd needed most of all... protection.
All of that had been bad enough to handle and the road to recovery had been hard.
But now Emma needed time to absorb today's bombshell, yet another hard truth to be absorbed and dealt with.
The truth that the person who had brought her into this world, a mother she loved even now, had been the catalyst that had sent her daughter's world spiralling wildly out of control.
How was a person supposed to get over something like that?
How?
* * *
Emma wasn't a vengeful person.
Her father had been a successful diplomat. He'd taught his daughter the value of seeing both sides in a disagreement. And she wondered what her father would have her do now? Would he expect her to forgive her mother and carry on? If only he was here, because Emma had never needed her father's support, his wise counsel, more than right now.
She gave a half-laugh, a broken sound that had Oscar's hand reach across the table to cover hers. Oh how easy it would be to throw herself in his strong arms, to ask him for advice, for that shoulder to lean on, but she couldn't do it.
His fingers squeezed hers.
She slid her hand away to hide it in her lap to stop the terrible trembling.
Her heart was beating so fast she was amazed he couldn't hear it.
If she opened up to Oscar right here and right now, she'd break apart.
Well, she didn't have time to break apart.
She had a book to write and a deadline to meet.
Going over old ground, past hurts, bad choices and their consequences, even talking about her mother's behaviour would achieve absolutely nothing.
It would change nothing.
So what was the point?
"I don't want to talk about it. There's nothing to be gained by living in the past. And nothing to be gained by discussing something that can never be changed."
Silence.
* * *
"Did you love him?" Oscar asked softly, in a tone she knew all too well meant he wanted the truth.
Emma raised her eyes to his.
Something broke inside her.
"No, I didn't love him. In the beginning I respected him and had a lot of affection for him. But I was so hurt. I was living in a big black hole. I didn't know where to turn. When Richard offered me tenderness, intimacy. I didn't question it. I didn't care because I just wanted to be wanted again."
She was weeping.
God, what was happening to her?
It felt as if her soul was breaking apart.
All the hurt was pouring out of her. A tsunami of misery.
He rose, moved to touch her.
But Emma shook her head.
And he stood utterly still.
She couldn't look away from his eyes, from what she saw there for her.
It was important to tell him the whole truth.
"I shouldn't have married him. At the time I was in a very bad place and not thinking clearly. And...I believed in him... trusted him."
"What sort of very bad place?"
She blinked.
Dear God, had she really said that?
"You'd gone. Forever." Her voice seemed trapped in her throat as something hot and hard squeezed her lungs. His face swam. "And... I lost our baby," she ended on a sob.
His face went white.
And then she was in his arms.
"Oh, sweetheart. I am so terribly sorry. Some men don't know how to show emotion when they hurt. I'm sure Richard was as devastated by the loss of his child as you were."
She went rigid in his arms.
What?
Emma eased back to look in his face.
Saw the pity.
Saw the sympathy.
He thought she'd lost Richard's baby?
Blinking desperately, she tried to think through their conversation, work out where the misunderstanding had happened.
"No. It happened before I met Richard. It was our baby... your baby," she whispered.
The blow hit him hard.
She saw it.
Emma watched shock turn to hurt and then his eyes filled and she was being held too tight.
Only this time, she was the one doing the comforting.
His words muffled against her neck, "Oh God, Emma. God."
The flat of her hand rubbed circles against his strong back.
"It happened at twelve weeks. My mother, needless to say, was very relieved."
Oscar moved back and she stared up into his ravaged face.
"She doesn't like me."
"My mother d
oesn't like me very much either these days. She hasn't spoken to me for over a year."
He stared into her eyes for the longest moment.
"But... why?"
She took a shaky breath.
"Because by divorcing Richard, I let her down."
"Emma, he hurt you. I know he did."
There was no point in lying, but that didn't mean she was going to tell him everything, either.
She nodded. "Yes, but she took his side against me."
"That is seriously fucked up, Emma."
The ghost of a laugh, she couldn't help it, escaped from her throat.
"I think we can both agree that those words describe my mother perfectly."
* * *
Now he towed her to a sofa, gently pushed her down.
Then he retrieved their wine, returned to hand her a glass.
He sat next to her on the sofa, turned to face her.
"We need to talk about your mother, Emma. You're hurting."
She took a sip of wine, placed the glass on the coffee table.
The man just did not know when to quit.
"I just can't deal with talking about it right now." Emma closed her eyes. "Please."
"Emma..."
Her head whipped around.
"What the hell is the matter with you? Of course I'm hurting. I'm broken. And I don't know if I'll ever be whole again." A trembling hand pressed against her mouth. He reached for her but she shook her head. "Don't... My own mother... I just cannot get my head around her behaviour. This is the woman who used to braid my hair, who sang me to sleep when I was sick, who taught me to bake cookies..." Her voice broke. "And in spite of everything she's done, even though I feel that I can never forgive her, I still love her. She's my mother."
Again she found herself in his arms and just clung on for dear life.
"Of course you do."
His cheek rubbed the top of her head.
His hand shook as he brushed a stray lock of hair back from her face, behind her ear, with a tenderness that made her heart ache.
Emma stared up into his face.
* * *
"What do you want from me?" she voiced the thought.
"I want us to be together, where we belong."
Not going to happen.
Her emotional health was still too fragile.
There were too many wounds yet to heal.
She was damaged goods.
The man who stood before her with his heart in his eyes deserved more, deserved better.
Emma's heart was breaking at the thought of hurting this beautiful, beautiful man.
