by Maggie Cox
‘Good morning. How did you sleep?’
Smiling at the surprising formality of her greeting, Mac stood back from the lapping surf, an odd little burst of pleasure in his chest at the sight of Tara barefooted in the water, her bright hair an eye-catching halo round her pretty face as she turned to face him.
‘I slept well.’ Apart from the dream… ‘How about you?’
‘After a fashion. Strange house and all—it takes a while to settle in. But this is fantastic, isn’t it? It’s so clear, like crystal!’ She kicked at the water, laughing joyfully with childlike pleasure when it splashed up her legs, risking vulnerability because she momentarily forgot that Mac and she weren’t close any more. Catching the sudden darkening of his deeply blue eyes, she stopped splashing, then turned back onto the sand to put some distance between them.
‘What’s the matter?’ His voice rough with concern, Mac followed, digging his hands deep into his jean pockets.
‘Nothing.’
‘Tell me.’
‘All right, then. I feel—I feel awkward with you.’
‘Why? We were together for three years. We shared an apartment, a home…a life together. We did all the intimate everyday things that married people do.’
‘And what about the five intervening years when we weren’t together, Mac?’ Impatiently shoving her hair back where the wind had whipped it into her eyes, Tara stared back at him, a small frown between her pale brows. ‘Are we supposed to forget about that so easily?’
‘No.’ His expression was sombre. ‘Isn’t that why we’re here now?’
‘I don’t know why I’m here. Put it down to a moment of madness. We’ve got nothing left to resolve, Mac. This is just a pretty distraction when what we really need to do is sign the divorce papers and get on with our respective lives.’
‘No.’ Something inside him baulked at her cynicism. He refused to countenance it and didn’t like it one little bit. Especially not when he thought he might be responsible for its existence. Once upon a time she’d been the hopeful one. The one who’d always insisted the glass was half full and not half empty.
‘No?’ There was a little catch in her throat and Tara thought she might cry. Instead of giving vent to her resentment all she really wanted to do was beg him to hold her. To just once more give herself permission to experience the magic of being in his arms, to lay her head on his hard, warm chest and feel his heart beat. Oh, Mac, how did things get so bad with us?
‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I don’t want a divorce. I want to show you that we can be good together again.’
‘Of course. You have a reputation to keep, don’t you? Mac Simmonsen, “the Magician”. The man who can turn a lost cause into a going concern. Forgive me if I think you’ve got your work cut out on this particular “lost cause”.’ She jogged to where she’d left her sandals, slipped them on her feet, then started to jog away from him across the sand.
Mac swore softly beneath his breath. ‘Where are you going?’ he called after her.
‘I’m starving!’ she shouted back. ‘I’m going back to the house to see if I can find some food.’
Tension easing out of his shoulders, Mac turned back to the ocean to stare broodingly out at the horizon. At least she hadn’t said she was catching the next plane home…
‘Hmm…generous friend.’ Her green eyes wide at the stacked contents of the ample fridge, Tara withdrew a packet of bacon and a box of eggs. Rolling up her sleeves, she washed her hands beneath the hot tap, dried them on a handy tea towel, then dropped down onto her haunches to search the cupboards below for a frying pan.
Pausing in the doorway to the big family kitchen with its red checked curtains and gleaming stone-flagged floor, Mac stood and watched as she clattered about with pots and pans until she found what she was looking for. As she stood up—for the moment unaware of his gaze—Mac concluded it was certainly no hardship watching her slender yet shapely little body bustling round the cooker. And when she reached across to the window sill to grab a box of matches to light the stove, he saw the soft swell of her creamy breast press against the rough denim of her shirt and the heat in his body suddenly shifted urgently to his groin.
‘Mitch said he’d have the fridge stocked for us. How about we cook breakfast together?’
Turning with the frying pan gripped firmly in her hand, Tara blinked at the arresting picture he made. Leaning against the door jamb, his tight jeans riding low on his masculine hips, the sleeves of his white T-shirt hugging his lean, hard biceps, his blond hair in sexy disarray, he was a million miles away from the impeccably tailored, successful boss of a leading advertising agency, which was the picture he generally presented to the world. And with a little pang of regret, Tara wished she had seen him look so at ease and at home when they’d lived together.
‘It’s all right. I can do it myself. And we must pay your friend for the food. If you tell me how much, I’ll make sure and give you my half.’
Mac checked his anger. She was so damn set on being so fiercely independent it was beginning to seriously bother him.
‘It’s all been taken care of. And you’re not paying for a damn thing! I wanted you to come with me so don’t even think about it. How do you like your eggs? Poached, fried or scrambled?’ He came up beside her at the cooker, his blue eyes challenging her to come back at him with an argument.
Pathetically overwhelmed by his nearness, his sexy, musky cologne undoing her in every sense, Tara shoved the frying pan into his surprised hand and quickly moved away to the other side of the kitchen.
‘You’re the one with the incredible powers of deduction. Work it out, why don’t you?’
They endured an uneasy truce as they ate breakfast together but at least Tara ate, and Mac felt as relieved about that as a mother fussing over a recalcitrant child who didn’t eat properly. After they’d vacated the table and stacked the dishwasher together, Mac caught Tara’s hand as she folded the tea towel over a wooden rail and turned to exit the kitchen.
‘Why don’t we go for a drive?’
Staring down at his big hand covering her small, paler one, she felt as if a hundred volts of electricity had just shot up her arm.
‘My preference is for a walk,’ she replied croakily, disconcerted to see his lips form a smile. A very sexy ‘I’m still hungry’ kind of a smile, and she stared at the deep little groove in the centre of his chin and hoped she didn’t look as terrified as she felt.
‘Well…if that’s your preference,’ he drawled, evidently amused at something.
‘But you hate walking!’ she burst out, trembling when he didn’t immediately let go of her hand. ‘What’s the point, you used to say—when you can take the car and get there so much quicker?’
‘I said that?’ Mac’s brows drew together in mock horror. ‘Clearly I wasn’t in my right mind. I must have been in work mode. Hurrying to get somewhere.’
‘A big meeting on the other side of town,’ Tara recalled, blood roaring in her ears when Mac still didn’t release her hand. ‘You always had “big” meetings. Never little ones or medium-sized ones, and everything, but everything was “urgent”. You led a crazy life, Mac.’
‘I guess I can’t deny it.’ Scowling, he dropped her hand as if it were a hot potato.
Tara sighed. ‘If you really want to go walking you’ll need some proper footwear. Did you bring anything?’
‘What? You think I’m incapable of organising the proper equipment for a stay in the country?’
‘And I don’t want to look at the time or have to hurry back. You haven’t arranged to go anywhere else, have you? Or meet someone?’ Flushed, because his smile hadn’t yet returned, Tara had to force herself to stand her ground. Mac might not like what she was saying but, as far as she was concerned, he needed to hear it. She still wasn’t convinced he wasn’t the same work-obsessed man he’d been all those years ago, when he’d driven her to such despair.
‘Look.’ Without further preamble
he removed his watch and set it on the table. ‘I’ll even leave this here. We’ll walk all day if you want to and I won’t complain. And in answer to your questions, no, I don’t have to be anywhere else and neither have I arranged to meet anybody. No one else even knows I’m here, Tara. We can do what the hell we like, when we like.’
Wishing he could prove the validity of his statement and make mad, passionate love to her where she stood, Mac swept past her out of the room before sexual frustration drove him crazy.
‘Mac?’ Concerned that she might have offended him, Tara’s heart thudded inside her chest.
‘I’m going to get my walking boots!’ he shouted back and she couldn’t prevent the smile of joy that bubbled up inside her and made her bite her lip in secret delight.
CHAPTER SIX
‘DON’T you just feel so much better being out in the open like this?’ Pausing with one leg hoisted onto a stile, her cheeks glowing a healthy pink and her eyes as enthusiastic as a child’s on a treasure hunt, Tara grinned happily at Mac, who’d been following her trail up hill and down dale—silently now for the past forty minutes at least.
Wiping away the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand, he halted in the thick, tussocky grass with the sun warming his back and just looked at her. If there existed a sexier, sweeter, more desirable woman in all the land you wouldn’t be able to prove it by him, he thought longingly. Talk about a honey trap. He’d been watching the swaying of her hips and that sexy rear end of hers encased in figure-hugging denim for miles now and he still wasn’t tiring of the view. Even if his brand-new walking boots were giving him hell and he had a blister to end all blisters on the back of one heel.
‘Give me a new pair of feet and I’d be on top of the world.’
‘Is it your new boots?’ Letting go of the stile, Tara tramped towards him, her expression concerned.
Things are looking up, Mac mused hopefully. This was the first time on the whole trip she was actually looking at him and not the scenery. He’d never had to compete with grass or trees before for a woman’s attention and his male pride was taking just a little bit of a battering. ‘Perhaps we could stop here and rest a while?’
‘Don’t you know better than to wear new boots on a long hike before breaking them in?’
‘Hey,’ he replied in protest, ‘I’m a city guy. It’s me who needs breaking in, not my boots.’
Trying not to display her frustration at having to stop when she was so enjoying herself, Tara considered Mac’s plight and nodded slowly. This was a whole new experience for her, she realised—being the one in charge of a situation—and something in her heart twanged at the idea of a fit male specimen like Mac being in distress, even if it was only his feet!
‘You’d better take them off and let me have a look how bad it is.’
Mac took a wary step away from her. ‘No way! No way am I going to let you loose on my sore feet. I remember once when you tried to remove a splinter for me—you damn near killed me! As gentle as you might look, Tara—when it comes to tending to the sick and the wounded, you’re more King Kong than Florence Nightingale!’
Mortified at first by his less than complimentary reference to a giant gorilla, Tara nevertheless suddenly saw the funny side of the situation. Mac looked genuinely horrified at the idea that she might tend to his wounds and, knowing that she did have a propensity for being a little heavy-handed at times, she clutched her stomach and let the laughter that was bubbling up inside her have free rein.
And suddenly Mac was joining in, their mingled hilarity piercing the haunting stillness of the beautiful autumn day. Then, as their laughter died, Tara was suddenly conscious of a new kind of stillness surrounding them; a stillness threaded with a more profound, elemental meaning. Endeavouring to keep her eyes on the khaki buttons of his flak jacket and failing almost immediately, she knew she ought to break the spell and move, put some distance between them before she did something she might regret. Something that could only bring her pain afterwards when she had time to consider such foolishness. But their shared laughter had made her drop her guard and now Mac was standing there looking like the answer to a needy woman’s prayer with his gorgeous blond hair, stunning blue eyes and to-die-for physique. Not to mention a look on his face that was promising to give her anything she asked for…anything. Her gaze didn’t stay on the buttons—it couldn’t. When it drifted back up to his mouth then fell into that mesmerising sea of blue, her stomach felt as if it was tied in tight little intricate knots that she had no hope of unravelling any time soon and she ached in a way she hadn’t ached since they’d last made love, all that long time ago.
‘It’s probably best not to take your boots off anyway.’ Forcing herself to turn away, Tara tramped determinedly back to the stile, regret in every step and beset by a delicious kind of shivering she couldn’t seem to still. ‘It will be too hard to get them back on again. Best just make tracks.’
‘Anyone ever suggest you join the SAS for commando training?’ Mac quipped behind her.
‘I really don’t think the uniform would flatter me,’ she bandied back then vaulted the stile into the field on the other side.
‘It’s such beautiful countryside…breathtaking.’ Tara was musing out loud as she continued to walk at a fair pace across a bright meadow, Mac trailing after her, his handsome face intensely concentrated on the task in hand—getting back to Mitch’s house with some skin left on his feet. ‘No wonder it inspired so many writers and poets.’
‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it.’ Stopping to draw breath, Mac watched Tara continue to walk and knew that he could summon up a sonnet or two after observing the graceful rhythm of her body for five or six miles. He was a fit man—regular use of the mini-gym he’d set up at home took care of that, plus a couple of long swims a week at his local health club when he could find the time—but Tara had stamina that had to be seen to be believed. Idly, he wondered if her ballet training had been responsible. He knew she used to do her exercises religiously before leaving for work each day. Her amazing suppleness had always turned him on—especially in bed… He uttered a quiet but passionate expletive and stared down at the tussocky grass, gathering his thoughts, trying to compose himself.
‘Why have you stopped? Feet hurting?’ she called across to him, absently lifting the weight of her soft blonde hair off the back of her neck.
‘How much further is it?’ he shouted back crossly.
‘Time-wise I calculate about another twenty minutes.’ Drawing the crumpled map of the area out of her jacket pocket, Tara peered at it, oblivious to the fact that Mac was having some considerable trouble in keeping his frustrations at bay. She appreciated that he was suffering some discomfort from his new walking boots, but other than that she was hoping he was getting some pleasure out of their long hike. At any rate, being outdoors certainly helped her cope with the astonishing reality of her being alone with Mac—on holiday together after such a long time apart—like a real husband and wife.
‘Twenty minutes, hmm? Every one’s going to feel more like ten.’ Muttering irritably to himself, Mac rubbed his hand round a chiselled jaw he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning, an occurrence that happened rarely, if ever, and flexed his toes inside the confining boots as if to test his agony.
‘You can do it! Don’t tell me a man who can quell a whole boardroom of advertising executives with just one withering glance from those icy blue eyes can’t cope with a couple of little blisters?’ Giggling out loud, Tara shoved the map back into her pocket and was just about to move off again when, ignoring the hot burst of pain from the back of his heel, Mac put on a sprint and headed right for her, like a runner springing from the starting block.
Too astounded to react swiftly enough, Tara just stared at him in disbelief, all the air punching from her lungs when Mac barrelled into her then, catching her firmly before she fell, urged her down carefully onto her back on the soft, sweet-smelling grass.
Straddling her with
his long, muscular legs, his warm breath drifting across her face, he pinned her arms high above her head and smiled wickedly, the sort of smile that a pirate might deliver to his female captive…before ravishing her. Her face burning with a mixture of indignation and desire at such caveman antics, Tara lifted her knee and tried to retaliate in a most sensitive place, but Mac was too agile and too quick for her and merely tightened his grip with his own strong thighs.
‘So…you take delight in torturing me, do you?’
‘I did not torture anybody! Is it my fault that you were stupid enough to wear brand-new walking boots?’ Green eyes shooting out little shards of emerald fury, Tara tried to buck but her attempts to free herself were ineffectual at best and, she quickly realised, futile. Mac was wall-to-wall muscle and the sheer physical strength of the man overwhelmed her. Overwhelmed her and drew her, despite her vows never to let this man play with her heart—or her body—again. ‘All that desk work must be making you soft, Mac,’ she taunted and wondered at her own surprising ability to be such a masochist because suddenly the smile had gone from Mac’s compelling features and that tell-tale muscle in the side of his shadowed cheek jerked warningly.
‘No, baby,’ he said quietly, so quietly she thought she might have imagined the old endearment—an endearment he saved specifically for when they made love. Goosebumps ran riot over her body. ‘You’re the one who’s soft. Soft like satin.’ When he laid his hand gently on her breast beneath her denim shirt, desire jackknifed like a rope of fire from her breast to her womb. The violence of it made her catch her breath. He hadn’t touched her in so long, so long…and now she thought she might die if he stopped.
Easing out a button from its opening, he smoothed the rough denim aside and slid his hand seductively onto her perfect pale breast with its exact pink tip.
‘Don’t.’
