by Maggie Cox
She dropped her gaze to stare down at the matchless white sand beneath her feet. A strong sea breeze gusted in, tossing her hair. Pushing it out of her eyes, she reflected that right now she was confused about a lot of things. All she could do was just take one small step at a time.
She twisted the plain platinum band on her finger. Whether this holiday together would lead to a more permanent arrangement she didn’t know, but one thing she was sure of—her love for Mac hadn’t diminished one jot since their break-up. It was the sole and only reason she hadn’t sought him out for a divorce.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MAC was having a hard time staying awake and it wasn’t just the heat from the fire that was making him drowsy. Years of sleep deprivation due to his work, nights when he’d burned the midnight oil well into the early hours poring over ad campaigns, trying to come up with some original idea that would blow the client away, plus the usual assortment of staff problems and headaches that came with running your own business—it all added up to a constant feeling of being below par. He was only just beginning to realise that he’d been running on empty for such a long time now that he almost believed that drained, tired feeling was normal.
Stifling another yawn, he stretched out his long jean-clad legs towards the fire, then put his hands behind his head and leaned back against the sofa. From somewhere in the house came the comforting strains of a tinkling piano. He didn’t recognise the composer but he knew Tara was using the music as an accompaniment to her ballet exercises. His lips curved into a smile when he thought about how indignant she’d been when he asked if he could stay and watch. They both knew it wasn’t a good idea. The fact that she was wearing tight black leggings and a skimpy little bodice thing that was like a second skin, and would be stretching her beautiful, supple body into all kinds of impossible positions to give those trained muscles of hers a workout, would simply be more temptation than Mac could take. But there wasn’t anything to stop him imagining, was there? They’d whiled the whole morning away making love; ‘making up for lost time,’ as Mac had joked—and yet his body seemed to be in a permanent state of arousal whenever she was around. How he could have been so stupid as to believe that a woman like Amelie Duvall could come close to satisfying raw passion like his—passion that only someone like Tara could equal—he didn’t know. If his father hadn’t passed away so unexpectedly, and Mac had not had a kind of thirty-something panic about not having kids, nothing but nothing would have possessed him to suggest the possibility of marriage to such a woman. True, she’d impressed the hell out of his clients when they’d gone to dinner together, but then some of them had been just as superficial as Amelie herself—valuing status, careers, cars, houses, clothes more than they valued some of the more important things in life. Like a loving partner, a welcoming home and children. Things that Mac now craved with all his heart. Idly, he wondered if Tara would fall pregnant soon. He told himself the chances must be good since they’d both clearly abandoned the whole notion of using contraception.
When the telephone on the heavy oak sideboard purred suddenly into the silence, Mac stared at it in shock as if it were a ticking bomb. Uttering a few choice Anglo-Saxon phrases, he reluctantly got to his feet to answer it.
Glowing after her workout, her skin glistening with a thin sheen of perspiration and her muscles nicely aching, Tara popped her head into the living room on the way to her shower to suggest to Mac they open a bottle of wine when she returned. A fresh white towel thrown casually around her shoulders, she pushed open the door, only to hear his voice raised in conversation. It took a few heart-stopping moments for her to realise he was talking on the phone. He’d told her that no one else knew he was here. Beneath the damp strands of her fringe, Tara’s brow creased into a frown. Perhaps it was simply a wrong number? As she advanced further into the room, Mac turned at her entrance and the slightly pained expression on his handsome features confirmed that it was not.
For a moment after replacing the receiver, Mac said nothing. He simply stood by the sideboard, rubbing the back of his neck as if it was causing him pain. All the muscles in Tara’s stomach clenched with unease.
‘Who was that?’ she asked, her voice sounding too loud in the big, silent room.
‘Mitch Williams.’
‘The chap who owns this house?’
‘That’s right.’
Then of course he would know that Mac was here—would be familiar with the telephone number. Tara’s shoulders dropped with relief.
‘Mitch is my second in command,’ Mac continued, ‘he—’
‘You mean he works with you?’ Immediately suspicious, Tara glared accusingly at her husband. ‘It used to be Graham Radlett…whatever happened to him?’
‘Emigrated. To Spain.’
‘Couldn’t stand the pace, huh?’
‘Something like that.’
‘It’s about work, isn’t it? Do they want you to go back?’
‘There’s a problem.’ Unable to keep the strain from his voice, Mac levelled his troubled blue eyes straight at Tara, trying not to pay too much attention to the fact that she looked tousled and gorgeous in her exercise gear, the tight, stretchy clothing concealing nothing of the lithe, fit shape underneath.
‘One of our biggest clients is screaming “lawsuit” unless I personally show up to placate him. If it were anything else I’d tell Mitch to handle it, I swear. All I need is an afternoon to meet him at his hotel… If I catch a flight in the morning I can be back by tomorrow night.’
‘But we’ve only just got here!’ Duelling with anger and disappointment at their holiday being interrupted as well as her newfound understanding of Mac’s commitment to his job, Tara tugged the towel from around her neck and pressed it against her forehead.
‘You’d better get on the phone to the airline, then,’ she said airily, pretending a nonchalance she clearly didn’t feel. It wasn’t fair! she cried inside. Already she was missing him. Already work was sabotaging any chance they might have at a future together. ‘I need a shower. Excuse me.’
‘Tara, wait!’
Ignoring him, she hurried from the room.
Huddled into her ivory sheepskin jacket the following morning, Tara watched Mac collect his boarding pass from the airline desk, willing herself not to let her guard down. She was expecting to be disappointed, and her personal defence mechanism was kicking in big time. For all she knew he might be gone more than just a day as he so confidently assured her. For all she knew he might not come back at all.
‘I’ve got ten minutes before I have to go to the boarding gate. Let’s sit down.’
Tara could hardly bring herself to look at him as they sat—instead her gaze fluttered back and forth to the flickering television screens announcing flight departures.
‘Tara.’
‘What?’ Giving him an impatient glance, she felt her heart turn over at those chiselled Scandinavian features of his, those direct cobalt-blue eyes that left her with nowhere to go. Why did she have to notice the long, lavish lashes that fringed those beautiful eyes at this stage in the game? Why did those powerful, broad shoulders beneath his black double-breasted jacket give her goose pimples just because they had inadvertently brushed against her as they sat?
‘Everything’s going to be all right. Trust me.’
‘Is it?’ Tears perilously close, Tara quickly averted her gaze. ‘Do you think that someone up there doesn’t like us?’
‘I think that someone up there is giving us every chance to put things right.’ Drawing her hand into his lap, he smiled. ‘What happened to that famous optimism of yours?’
Her expression raw, Tara stared at him hard. ‘I lost it the night you left. Didn’t you know?’
It took Mac a moment or two to absorb the sudden pain in his chest. His fingers curled tightly around her small, pale hand. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was probably one of the worst decisions I’ve ever made. I know that now.’
‘Just come back soon…please.’ A s
ingle tear tracked down her face and she impatiently wiped it away lest anyone should see.
‘That’s something I’m only too happy to promise. I’ll meet with the client, get things straightened out then jump on a plane back just as soon as I can. I’ve got Mitch’s number so I’ll ring you as soon as I know when. Will you come and meet me at the airport?’
She nodded as she pulled the hire-car keys out of her pocket, jangling them in front of him. ‘You’ll have to walk if I don’t. Twenty-five miles in the dark—you might just make it back to the house by Christmas.’
He grinned and Tara felt the force of his smile like a physical blow to her solar plexus. God, the things that man could do to her with just a smile…
She spent most of the day around the house. Tuning in to the local radio for company, she listened with pleasure to an assortment of Irish chat and song, feeling somehow comforted by the famously lyrical notes of the voices and the music. Of course, Mac was on her mind most of the time but Tara tried to intersperse her desperate longing to see him with a whirl of activity and house-cleaning. Once she’d vacuumed every room, polished every surface and had the kitchen gleaming like the proverbial new pin, she turned her attentions to some cooking. Concocting her own improvised version of Irish stew, she left the huge pot simmering on the stove while she baked a batch of fruit scones. By the time her culinary pursuits were completed, the washing-up done and the kitchen floor swept for the second time that day, it was still only three in the afternoon and she still hadn’t heard from Mac.
Moving across to the huge window in the living room, Tara stared edgily past the expanse of rolling green to the crystal-white waves lapping onto the shore in the distance. Folding her arms across her chest, she turned briefly to consider the silent telephone. Mind made up, she located her waterproof in the utility room, stuck her feet determinedly into her walking boots then made her way down to the beach. As soon as the fresh, gusty air hit her lungs, she felt the day’s tension ease out of her body. She’d only be gone about an hour, she promised herself, her feet sinking slightly in the soft, impacted sand as she walked. Mac would be sure to ring by then.
But by eight o’clock that evening Tara still hadn’t heard from him. Her heart heavy, she forced herself to eat a small bowl of the stew she’d made, then switched on the small television in a bid to distract herself from thoughts that dragged her along a road of gloom she didn’t want to travel down. Finally, losing patience with the programme she had selected to watch—a very dull, too intellectual discussion on the arts—and weary of her own company, she picked up the phone and dialled her aunt’s number back home.
‘I was wondering when I’d hear from you,’ Beth ventured cautiously after her niece had greeted her. ‘How’s it all going? You and Mac getting along all right?’
Recalling their morning of impromptu passion yesterday followed by more of the same last night, Tara couldn’t help but blush profusely.
‘We’re getting along just fine, thank you very much. It’s just the most beautiful country; so green it hurts your eyes. And the house we’re in has the most amazing view of the sea.’
‘I know, darling. Your grandparents came from County Cork, remember? I still have cousins in the village where they grew up. But, that aside, I’m really much more interested in you and Mac. I’m not sure how I feel about you being out there alone with him. Right now the jury is out as far as I’m concerned.’
Tara didn’t see the point in adding to her aunt’s concerns by sharing the news that Mac had had to rush back to London to see to business. She didn’t pause to consider why she suddenly felt so protective of him either. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she sighed wistfully into the receiver.
‘You were the one who said we needed to talk, remember? Well, we’re talking.’ Amongst other things.
‘So what exactly are you talking about? Does the subject of divorce still feature in the frame?’
‘You would have made a good recruit to the Gestapo, you know that?’
‘Darling, the fact that you’re being so close-mouthed about the whole thing makes me think you’re still confused. Don’t let Mac railroad you into making any decisions you’re not ready for, you hear me?’
‘I hear you, Aunt.’ Tara rolled her eyes heaven-wards.
‘And don’t call me “Aunt” like that. It makes me feel like some crusty old thing well past her sell-by date!’
‘When are you going to get it through your thick head that you’re not old!’ Smiling affectionately, Tara turned her attention to the still flickering television screen, where the tedious discussion she’d grown impatient with was coming to a thankful close. Feeling increasingly on edge in case Mac was trying to get through to her, she was suddenly anxious to bring the call to an end. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go now; I only wanted a brief chat and I think I can hear Mac calling,’ she fibbed, crossing her fingers.
‘Well, ring me as soon as you know when you’re coming home. I miss not having you around.’
‘If you need company, why don’t you ask Peter Trent over the road to come over for coffee? I know he has a soft spot for you and you might just find you have more in common than you think.’
‘Antique books and antique furniture—we’d make a great pair, wouldn’t we? Darling, when I get that desperate it’ll be time for me to go into a home! Anyway, give me your number just in case I feel like a chat.’
Willingly, Tara did so.
‘Take care, now,’ her aunt instructed, ‘speak soon…and if you’re in the area don’t forget to kiss the blarney stone for me!’
Two hours later there’d been no phone call from Mac and Tara had to resign herself to the stark fact that there probably wasn’t going to be. Not tonight, anyway. Her emotions veering from anger to desperation, she switched off all the lamps in the living room and glumly made her way to bed.
Was she a fool to trust him again after he had let her down so badly? It was the last thought she forlornly remembered thinking before her eyelids drooped helplessly and she fell off into a deep, troubled sleep.
Never again! Never again would Mac put himself through such hoops for the sake of smoothing a petulant rich client’s ruffled feathers—no matter how important that particular client deemed himself. He was only glad that at the end of an aggravating, completely tiresome day—apart from the fact that he’d managed to rescue the account and avert a lawsuit—he was now back at the house where he should have been all along with Tara. At least he’d had the gratification of telling his client that next time he should take his business elsewhere because Mac really couldn’t be doing with the hassle. To his surprise, his client had quickly back-pedalled, assuring him he wouldn’t even consider using another agency because he had always been very satisfied in the past.
Seeing the loquacious cab-driver off with a more than generous tip, Mac lifted the small navy-blue hold-all he had taken with him then wearily climbed the steps to the house. All the lights were off save for the porch light and, searching for the spare house key—which Mitch had assured him would be under the mat outside the door—Mac quietly let himself inside.
Anxious to return, he hadn’t bothered to telephone Tara first. Besides, it was just after three in the morning and he hadn’t wanted to wake her. Most of all he hadn’t wanted her to make that long, lonely drive to the airport in the dark to meet him. Getting a cab had been the most sensible move, after all.
Dropping his jacket onto a hall chair, Mac left his bag there too, then, kicking off his shoes, made his way along the long, dim corridor to Tara’s bedroom. The heavy drapes in her room hadn’t been drawn and moonlight drifted in, making everything in the room appear in soft focus. She was lying on her front, her long, slim arms stretched out on the plump white pillow beneath her head. Mac felt a hitch in his heart at the sight of all that tousled blonde hair.
Bending down to her level on the bed, he brushed back her hair, feeling the warm, whispery softness of her breath trail across his wrist. He didn’t in
tend to wake her, only indulge himself in the sight of her for a little while. Although he’d only been gone less than twenty-four hours, he’d had plenty of time to miss her.
‘Mac?’ Stirring, she turned over then wriggled into a semi-sitting position—sleepy green eyes squinting then focusing on his face.
‘I’m back, sweetheart.’
‘You bastard!’
For a moment Mac was so taken aback by the blow to his shoulder that he didn’t bother to defend himself. But when Tara aimed another blow, then another, he grabbed her wrists to deflect any further attack, then stared in stunned bewilderment at her angry, flushed face. ‘What the hell was that for?’ he demanded, furious.
‘You lied to me!’
‘I didn’t lie to you, I—’
‘It doesn’t matter how you dress it up, Mac. You didn’t even have the courtesy to ring me and let me know you’d be late!’ She yanked at her wrists but Mac held on to them with fingers of steel, his expression grim.
‘Listen to me! The meeting took longer than I thought and the client was a couple of hours late. I had to wine and dine the guy then put him in a cab home. By the time I did all that, caught up with Mitch then rang the airline to book a flight back, it was getting on for nine in the evening. The earliest flight I could get on wasn’t till after midnight. I didn’t ring you because I didn’t want you driving out to the airport late at night to meet me. I thought it would be easier to just jump in a cab and arrive…sort of surprise you,’ he added wryly, thinking that he’d certainly achieved that—but not in the way he’d intended. The unwanted realisation that he had become just a little too absorbed in his work sent a wave of guilt eddying through him and he shoved it impatiently away to the back of his mind.
