Wanting Mr Wrong

by Avril Tremayne

  How had I ever thought I might send him away? A man who could look at me like that, beg me so earnestly, make me die with passion and swoon with tenderness, and want him so fiercely?

  I kissed him – sweet, soft, light. ‘I’m sure you must be jetlagged, Jack, after such a long flight. Let’s go to bed.’

  Jack smiled, right into my eyes, his own glowing with love. ‘It will work out, Evie. I promise I’ll make it work.’

  It was early evening when I woke, stretching luxuriously. I looked at Jack, sleeping beside me. Beautiful, wonderful Jack.

  I sat up quietly, not wanting to wake my boyfriend.

  Boyfriend.

  I allowed myself a little romantic sigh, then concentrated on easing out of the bed.

  I walked quietly to the window, trying to edge open the curtain to see outside, wondering if the photographers had got sick of waiting for us to emerge and gone home.

  ‘What is it?’ Jack asked.

  I turned my head to smile at him. He was staring at me with that almost frightening intensity, his eyes heavy-lidded and hot.

  My skin tingled and a fresh bloom of desire glittered through me. I had to force myself to think, to manage the breathlessness. ‘Just wondering if the photographers have gone.’

  And it was as though a shutter came down, blocking him off from me, so I instantly wished I hadn’t spoken.

  He got out of bed, walked over to me, pulled me into his arms. There was something almost savage in the way he kissed me then, but when he finished the kiss and looked down at me, that remoteness was still there. It was like he was watching me from behind a wall. Waiting for something. Waiting for … what?

  And then he flashed that fleeting, quicksilver smile, and my heart tripped. He was uncertain of me and that was troubling, because I didn’t know how to change it.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I could make dinner.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t have any food.’

  I grimaced. ‘Oh, yeah. We could order in …?’

  ‘Evie, we have to leave this house eventually. You know that.’

  ‘Yes but – Maybe after dinner …?’

  Down came the shutter.

  ‘Don’t!’ I said, and buried my face against his chest. ‘Don’t look like that. I’m trying, I am.’

  He sighed. Ran his hands over my back. ‘I know it’s scary, Evie. I’m scared, too.’

  I snorted. ‘You’ve never been frightened of paparazzi.’

  Jack smoothed my hair back from my face, tilted my face up. So unbelievably gentle, my eyes filled.

  ‘I am now,’ he said. ‘I’m terrified they’ll keep you from me.’

  I would have promised him anything at that moment. ‘Right, then,’ I said, shaken and decisive and nervous and determined all at once. Time to start filling the new cup. ‘We can’t stay in here all night, can we?’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jack smiled his camera-eating smile as we stepped out of the house. There was a series of quick flashes. Chicken-hearted wuss that I was, I was doing my best to hang behind Jack, but he wasn’t having any of it. He grabbed my hand and dragged me out, pulling me close so the photographers could get a shot of us together. I was smiling gamely, but also clutching his fingers hard enough to snap a bone. It was a mark of his forbearance that he wasn’t squealing like a girl.

  Twenty minutes ago, I’d been in a blind panic, insisting Jack choose what I should wear for this all-important photo. I wouldn’t accept that he didn’t give a damn, so together we’d selected a simple black shift, and gold sandals with a small heel. He’d waited patiently while I applied a little make-up, but when I started fiddling with my unmanageable hair, his brows snapped together. ‘Stop with the delaying tactics, Evie. You hair is perfect as it is.’

  Now, as a young female reporter, her hair pulled into a tamed ponytail, stepped forward and looked at me, my inadequacies hit me like a meteorite.

  ‘How does it feel to have him home, Evie?’ the reporter asked me.

  ‘Oh, great, wonderful,’ I answered too-quickly, too-faintly.

  Another question. ‘Will you be going to Morocco?’

  ‘Oh, I – I hadn’t th– thought –’

  ‘I’ll see if I can persuade her over dinner,’ Jack cut in smoothly. ‘Thanks, guys.’

  ‘What about a kiss before you go?’ a photographer called.

  I gave a high-pitched half-laugh – we’re talking hyena – and Jack, who had decided while we were inside that we would kiss if they asked us to, thought better of it. ‘Another time,’ he said, smiling. ‘My girlfriend needs to eat.’

  ‘So,’ Jack said, once we were safely in his car. ‘Easy, huh?’

  I shook my head, feeling miserably inadequate. ‘I’m sorry. About the kiss thing.’

  ‘I don’t care about the kiss, Evie.’

  I kept my eyes trained on the front windscreen, but I could feel the frequent glances Jack kept darting at me.

  ‘There’s something else bothering you,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘What that reporter said. About you leaving.’

  ‘I’ve given you the solution to that before: come with me.’

  ‘I have a job, Jack.’

  ‘You don’t like that job.’

  ‘You know, I’ve decided that I do like it. If I land my dream job some day, great. If not, there’s still a lot I can do exactly where I am. And volunteer work, too, where I can make a difference. And I can help people like my mother, and Lachlan.’

  ‘Not him.’

  ‘Yes, him. The way you helped him. Because the cause is good.’

  Jack was looking increasingly tense. ‘You could help them from Morocco,’ he said at last.

  ‘I’m not following you around the world like a groupie, Jack.’

  ‘Then at least move into my apartment.’

  I snorted.

  ‘Don’t snort, Evie. Why not move in? Tomorrow, in fact.’

  ‘What – you mean you leave and the same day I move in like I own it? Um – no. How would that look?’

  ‘Look to whom?’ he asked.

  ‘Look to anyone, on the strength of a one-month romance!’ I said. ‘Just because of the baby? Insane.’

  ‘It’s not just because of the baby. And it’s not a one-month romance. By my reckoning, it’s getting towards five months. You’ve just been playing catch-up.’

  Back to looking at the windscreen.

  ‘Evie, I want you living with me.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Think quickly, will you?’

  ‘Why? You’ll be in Morocco for months. Plenty of time to think about it while you’re away, and I can move in when you’re back.’

  ‘I just … It just … It’s more … secure.’ Pause, then, ‘Shit.’

  Alarm bells were starting to ring, nice and loud. ‘Why do I need security?’

  No answer.

  ‘Jack!’

  ‘Look, it’s for your own comfort, that’s all. My building has security. An underground car park so you can enter that way, not off the street where anyone could … anyone could … could see you, approach you.’

  I took that in, processed it. ‘I get it. Even without you, they’ll follow me around. And you won’t be able to fix it because you won’t be here. They’ll want more photos. There will be rumours about affairs, and they’ll want to see my reaction. Especially when they learn about the baby. And then they’ll want photos of my stomach.’

  His only response was to tighten his hands on the steering wheel.

  ‘And you’re telling me to go into hiding at your apartment rather than face it,’ I said slowly. ‘Are you going to hire me a bodyguard for the office, too?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have to if you’d be rational about –’ He broke off. Another ‘Shit’ followed.

  ‘Rational?’ I asked, incredulous. ‘You know, Jack, I said I’d try. And I will try. I am trying – I’m here, aren’t I? Going out for dinner with you
two nights after the story broke? You talk about me trusting you, but you don’t trust me. You know I’m going to embarrass you, stuff it up, say something stupid, have a panic attack – and you won’t risk it.’

  He screeched over to the side of the road, jerked the car to a halt, turned to me. ‘You are not fucking leaving me, Evie, over what a journalist might say, got it?’ he asked furiously. ‘That’s what I’m trying to avoid. If I have to lock you in a goddamn tower while I’m away, that’s what I’ll do.’

  I stared at him in a state of semi-shock. I’d never seen Jack angry before.

  He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, calmed down with a visible effort. ‘Okay. If you won’t move in, I’ll find another way to fix it,’ he said, sounding so grim it frightened me.

  ‘But I want to fix it myself. I can do this, Jack. I can.’

  It was as though he wasn’t listening. ‘I’ll speak to Jacinta. Get Chloe on the case with her media contacts. My friends will look after you, protect you. They can talk to media on my behalf. Do all the talking so you’re not bothered.’ He shot another look at me. ‘And, Evie, I’ll live like a saint. The most interesting photo anyone is going to get will be of me walking alone to and from the set. No decoys. No gossip. Right? Are we square? You are not leaving me.’

  I was as freaked out as I could be, but I reached over and took his hand, because he seemed to need more comfort than I did. ‘I’m not leaving you, Jack. And all right, I’ll move into your apartment tomorrow – as long as you realise it’s not because I’m scared, but because you are.’

  Jack’s low-voiced request had us led to a table in a secluded corner of the restaurant. But despite the relatively private position, sporadic autograph-seekers still interrupted us.

  I’d always admired the easy grace with which Jack handled such intrusions. But tonight, every time a dewy-eyed fan approached, I was reminded of the unending attention a relationship with him entailed.

  Was I always going to have to drum up courage to go out for dinner with my boyfriend? Probably.

  Would I always sound like a monosyllabic idiot when I answered questions from the media? Likely.

  Would Jack, happily posing for photos in Morocco while I was floundering in the public eye in Sydney, cringe every time my gauche responses were reported? My money was on ‘yes’.

  But I was going to find a way to make it work. Even if I had to go around Jack to do it.

  Jack was laughing with a middle-aged woman while her husband took a photo of the two of them, and when he caught me smiling at him, he winked at me, his eyes glittering a little too brightly. The shuttered look hadn’t budged since we’d left the house.

  And I pictured my new cup, teetering on the edge, trying not to fall.

  The weather changed during dinner. It was raining. Hard.

  Jack paused under the restaurant awning and took my hand. ‘It’s probably best if I get the car and come back for you.’ He raised my hand to his mouth and kissed my palm.

  There was a flash – a camera catching the gesture – and I jerked my hand away before I could stop myself.

  ‘On second thoughts, come with me,’ Jack said, re-grabbing my hand and leading me out into the rain.

  The photographer, umbrella at the ready, followed us. Jack ignored him, striding along the footpath with me running a couple of steps to each one of his.

  As we approached the car, I stumbled. ‘Sorry,’ I said a little breathlessly. ‘The insides of my sandals are slippery.’

  ‘I’m going too fast.’

  ‘So slow down.’

  ‘No.’

  Because of me, I realised. He wanted me away from the photographer. Safe, secure.

  We reached the car and I let go of Jack while he dug into his pocket for his keys. ‘Hamish, can you give Evie a little room?’ he asked the photographer curtly. ‘She’s not used to all the fuss and I’m pretty sure a photograph of the two of us looking like drowned rats isn’t going to help my cause.’

  Hamish came closer. He was grinning. ‘Oh, you look fine.’ He fiddled, one-handed, with the camera. ‘Here – get under the umbrella and I’ll show you.’

  As I sidestepped to make way for Jack, my foot slid in the slippery leather of my sodden sandal and I felt myself start to fall. Hamish dropped his umbrella and made a grab for me as I threw out a hand to brace myself against Jack’s car.

  Another slip, and Hamish and I were smacking into each other. Hamish’s umbrella somehow got blown under my feet and the two of us stumbled onto the road.

  I let out a muffled grunt, but then it suddenly seemed funny, so I started laughing. Hamish looked at me and started laughing, too. But as we clutched at each other in cathartic, uncontrolled hysteria, we started falling.

  I can’t remember with great clarity what happened next, because it was like a series of snapshots, run together in microseconds. Headlights. Jack leaping onto the road, looking crazed. Tyres squealing. There was a thump. Hamish and I were on the ground. He rolled towards me. The umbrella crunched. A tinkle of glass – the camera, smashing. Another thump – Jack’s hands on the hood of the car.

  A car door opening. Cries. Curses. A man, a stranger, peering down at me. And Jack, on his knees, white-faced, holding out his hands.

  A groan. I turned, saw Hamish. His arm was at an odd angle. Broken.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ I heard Jack scream at the driver.

  And then Hamish rolled onto his back, groaning again.

  But Jack was interested only in me. He took my hand. ‘Evie, darling, are you hurt?’

  I closed my eyes. Something wasn’t right. Something …

  I felt the moisture – warm – between my legs. Not rain. And then the cramp, low in my belly. The baby. A scream exploded. In my head? Out of my mouth? I didn’t know which. Another agonising cramp. I turned on my side, pulling my hand free and curling in on myself, crossing my arms over my abdomen. Useless.

  ‘Oh no, please God, no.’ Jack’s voice again. Anguished.

  I didn’t move. An awful numbness was stealing over me.

  I felt Jack’s hand on my back. Heard someone – the driver? – say something about the ambulance. Something about Jack being Jackson J Stevens.

  A stroke, down my spine. A sob – not mine.

  Sirens. The police. Ambulance. Being lifted onto the trolley, wheeled, slid into the ambulance. Someone yelling to keep those TV crews away. Then, ‘She’s bleeding.’ Not said to me – to … Jack?

  ‘Can I speak to her for a moment?’ That was Jack.

  And then he was there, beside me, kissing my forehead.

  I wanted to say something, offer some comfort, but the numbness wouldn’t leave me.

  ‘Evie, I’m sorry. So sorry. So –’ The words were choked off, and his head came down, onto my chest.

  I raised a hand, touched his hair, stroked.

  ‘I’ll get hold of your mother – let her know before she sees this on the news. Then I’ll come to the hospital,’ Jack said.

  ‘What about Hamish. Is Hamish all right?’ My voice, and yet not mine.

  ‘I don’t care about Hamish. Only you, Evie. Only you.’

  ‘My fault. Mine.’ I closed my eyes for a moment.

  ‘Evie, I love you. I love you, Evie. I love you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. Never again. I promise. Never, ever again.’

  But I couldn’t answer. Because the numbness was gone. And as sorrow drowned everything else inside me, the tears began.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was amazing, how quickly life could return to normal, despite your own internal upheaval.

  One night, lose your baby.

  Next morning, whisked off for an ultrasound. Anesthetised. Womb scraped clean.

  That afternoon, sitting in your hospital room, dressed in the clothes your mother brought in for you, waiting for your boyfriend to pick you up.

  Jack had stayed with me until I’d sobbed myself to a splotchy, exhausted sleep the night before. Looking absolu
tely devastated, but being strong for me when I had no strength of my own. Promising over and over that he would protect me, that he wouldn’t let anything ruin my life.

  But I knew it was my turn, now, to be strong for him. My turn to absorb his grief, to try and protect him.

  The door to my room opened, and I got quickly to my feet. But it was Drew and Chloe.

  I looked past them. ‘Where’s Jack?’

  Chloe started wandering around the room, touching the flowers.

  Drew started doing a similar floral examination, starting at the other end of the room. ‘Looks like Jacinta emptied every florist in the Sydney metropolitan area,’ he said.

  Huh? ‘Jacinta?’

  ‘On Jack’s orders,’ Drew added quickly.

  Chloe plucked out a random card. ‘Not these. They’re from Lachlan.’

  ‘There are some from Rowan, too,’ I said.

  Drew made a huffing sound. ‘Rowan!’

  ‘And Sam sent some,’ I said.

  Chloe snarled. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Donated to the nurses. And those ones –’ as Drew touched a bunch of cheerful gerberas ‘– are from Hamish.’

  Chloe looked puzzled. ‘Hamish?’

  ‘The photographer,’ I explained. ‘Poor guy. His arm was broken, you know. And his camera. He came to see me earlier. He’s so sweet.’

  ‘Sweet?’ Chloe asked incredulously. ‘After what he did?’

  I shook my head. ‘It wasn’t his fault. It was mine – not that he’s blaming me. He just said “shit happens” – and usually to him, apparently!’ I laughed – feeble in the extreme but at least it was an attempt.

  Chloe and Drew just looked at me.

  I turned to adjust a bunch of pale pink roses on the table beside my bed. Something didn’t feel right. ‘I thought – I mean –’ I fiddled with the petals of one flower. ‘When is Jack coming?’

  Drew came up beside me. ‘Evie, Jack had to go back to Morocco. We’re taking you home.’

  I stared blankly at the roses. ‘I thought maybe he’d postpone it.’

  ‘He couldn’t.’

  It took me a moment to process that, over the roar and rush of despair that swooped through me. ‘I see. That’s why the flowers are from Jacinta. Did he … Did he leave me a note? A message?’