Last Heartbreak (A Nolan Brothers Novel Book 5)

by Amy Olle

  Now.

  Chapter Seven

  Ten minutes later, Isobel stifled a sneeze as she dug the formfitting red dress from the back of her closest. She brushed the dust bunnies away from the stretchy fabric and eyeballed the dress she had made for her twelfth wedding anniversary but never got the chance to wear.

  Since she’d last tried on the dress, both Maisie and Connor had been born, and the reality of having two young children less than a year apart had disrupted her life in the same way a tornado might. Chaotic days followed by sleepless nights had hindered her attempts to get into a routine workout schedule or develop sensible eating habits. Then Shea left her, and the desperate wish to crawl into a hole and sleep her life away had obliterated any last traces of her willpower.

  With a few unbecoming tugs and grunts, she managed to shimmy into the red dress. Then she stepped in front of the full-length mirror and inspected the image reflected back at her. The fabric had enough stretch to forgive her most severe flaws and enough structure to conceal the rest of her imperfections. After some adjustments, including the addition of a pushup bra and the removal of her panties to eliminate the lines visible through the figure-hugging material, a sly smile curved her lips.

  She might not have the revenge body, but she had the next-best thing—the revenge dress.

  Sophie once referred to Isobel’s ability to erase flaws with well-cut, tailor-made clothing as a superpower, and in that moment, Isobel was inclined to agree with her. She added a pair of four-inch red heels and, since she’d used the flat-iron to straighten her hair that morning, as she did every morning, she applied some product to the roots of her hair to give the dark, heavy mass a sexy boost of volume.

  Before the mirror, she added a touch more color to her cheeks and redrew the perfect sweep of her eyeliner before daubing cherry-red lipstick onto her mouth. Then, though her makeup wasn’t quite done to the level of perfection she preferred, she turned toward the bedroom door and the task of hunting down her obstinate husband.

  The setting sun cast a golden glow over the island when she steered her sedan into the marina’s gravel parking lot and eased into a vacant spot. When she climbed from the car, a warm breeze kicked off the lake to rustle her hair and a flicker of apprehension disturbed her determined stride. She tripped onto the dock and inched out over the water, past the row of boats bobbing gently in the rolling waves.

  A little more than midway down the dock, she picked out Shea’s forty-foot sailboat at the edge of the marina, The Fiona Mae, which he’d named after his mother.

  As she drew closer, she spotted the man himself on the rear deck. Shirtless, the sun kissed his wide shoulders with a warm bronze caress. He’d pulled the baseball cap on his head low to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare, and his black boardshorts hung loose on his narrow hips. Her steps slowed as her courage abandoned her.

  Holding some small object in his hand, he moved to sit on one of the storage benches flanking the deck. With his movements, the muscles on his back and arms and beneath the flat plane of his stomach flexed and rippled. An appreciative sigh slipped between her lips. Unlike her, she couldn’t recall him ever skipping a workout.

  Once, years ago, she’d asked him where he found the discipline and willpower to remain so dedicated to his workout routine. He’d surprised her by confessing, rather matter-of-factly, that his dad, Daniel, had often hit him and his brothers, but that the first time Shea had overpowered the older man physically, when he was only sixteen years old, the beatings had stopped. In a low voice, he’d told her he had no plans to stop working out and risk a return to that place of powerlessness. Not ever.

  Now, with his attention riveted by the thing in his hands, she approached undetected, until only two boats remained before she reached him.

  Then his head snapped up, and his bright eyes crashed into her with enough force to knock the air from her lungs. She caught the slight slackening of his jaw before he clenched it tightly shut.

  Satisfaction surged and, sucking in a sharp breath, she pressed her shoulders back and added a little extra sway to her hips.

  He reclined on the bench, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Feet crossed at the ankles, he watched her with naked interest.

  Heat prickled across her skin and it took all her concentration not to plunge the point of her stiletto heel into a gap between the deck boards.

  At the foot of his boat, she drew to a stop. She planted a hand on her hip to create the illusion of a deeper inward curve to her waist and fixed him with what she hoped came off as a bored stare.

  From beneath the brim of his ball cap, his glittering gaze raked down the length of her body. “New dress?”

  She smoothed a hand down her side. “What, this old thing?”

  “I’ve not seen you wear it before.” His gravelly brogue rumbled unevenly in his chest.

  “I wore it to dinner on our twelfth wedding anniversary. Oh, that’s right, you weren’t there. You stood me up.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled, as though he experienced a twinge of pain. “I’m sorry.”

  Momentarily stunned by his earnest apology, her hand slipped off her hip, but she quickly re-anchored it. “I don’t want your apologies.”

  She’d wanted her husband, the longing so fierce and full that it’d caused her heart to ache, and for every step that he took farther away from her, the pain became more agonizing and raw. Until she could no longer bear it.

  “I remember that night. I stayed too late at the office and missed the last ferry out.” The softness in his voice might’ve been nostalgia, or regret.

  A clang of warning sounded in her mind. He was not himself tonight.

  “You were working a Very Important Case, I’m sure.” Emotion squeezed her throat. “No doubt it was more important than having dinner with me.”

  “No. Not more important than you.” A teardrop of sorrow mingled with his words. “But important, yes. Someday I’ll tell you about it, if you want me to.”

  “I do.” The confession slipped out.

  His eyes glittered in the fading sunlight. “Okay.”

  Flustered by the gentleness in his tone, she flipped her hair over one shoulder. “Did you receive the papers?”

  After a beat, he bent his head and turned over the small piece of wood cradled in his fingers. “Yep.”

  “Did you sign them?”

  “Not yet.”

  She shot an angry glower across the bow. His head down, it went unnoticed.

  “Well,” she bit out. “Are you going to?”

  In his palm, he clutched the handle of a pocket knife, and the metal blade glinted in the sunlight as he silently inspected the miniature wedge of wood.

  Why wasn’t he saying anything? Or yelling at her? He was so calm. So serenely composed. The hairs lifted on her arms. When she’d filed for divorce, never in a million years would she have predicted this reaction from him.

  It utterly terrified her.

  She shifted her stance, only barely resisting the urge to tap her foot. “Shea?”

  When he lifted his head, his eyes blazed with blue fire. “If you want me to sign those papers, you’ll have to bring them to me yourself.” With the knife blade, he pointed at the cabin door. “They’re right there on the table.”

  Icy fear slid through her. It was absurd, really, that she, the daughter of a ship captain, the not-yet-ex-wife of an avid seafarer, and a lifelong resident of a remote island in one of the largest lakes in the world, was afraid of boats.

  And the water.

  She especially hated boats that were on the water. Where anything might happen. Where a wind might kick up to tear up the mast or knock the vessel off course. Where heavy seas might throw the craft around as though it were an inconsequential buoy.

  Where a sudden storm squall might breach the port bow, overwhelming the bilge pump and capsizing the boat, killing all onboard when it sank to the lakebed.

  A complex tangle of desire and apprehension
lived inside her. Though drawn to the water, experience had taught her to fear its power.

  Not unlike her husband.

  She looked down at the toes of her red pumps, inches from the deck flooring that bobbed gently in the rippling waves. Her mouth suddenly parched, she licked her dry lips and placed one heeled foot onto the boat.

  Then the floor dipped and she promptly withdrew it.

  With a huff of annoyance, she glared at Shea from the dock. “I don’t have time for this. Can you just bring them to me?”

  He used the knife to slice away a tiny fragment of wood. “You can’t possibly believe I’d make it that easy for you, mo chuisle.”

  My love.

  His use of the endearment, spoken in the native language of his homeland, pulled a deeper frown from her. Or maybe it was the way her heart wanted to trill at its usage that darkened the scowl.

  “You know what,” she said. “Sign them or don’t. I don’t care.”

  More scraps of wood fell away with soft little thwacks of his knife blade.

  “Since when do you whittle?”

  A soft smile touched his puffy lips. “I’m trying something new.”

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  “You can’t stop this divorce.”

  “I can delay it.”

  “For how long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Long enough for what?” Her voice climbed with her frustration. “For one of us to kill to the other one?”

  “Not that long,” he said easily.

  Thwack. Thwack.

  Her gaze darted from him to the cabin door, to the lurching vessel floor at her feet.

  Desperation goaded her into recklessness. “If you fuck Amber Jessop before we’re divorced, I can claim emotional damages.”

  While Miles Sinclair had explained emotional damages to her when he’d asked if she wished to claim any, she was a little fuzzy on the details since none of the examples he’d listed had applied to her and Shea. Something to do with impacting division of property and custody determinations.

  As a lawyer himself, she figured Shea would understand the meaning of the threat, and by the way he’d gone unnaturally still, she gathered it wasn’t good.

  She braced for his fury, but he only gave his head a soft shake and a smile curved his mouth, bringing to mind a fat cat, its belly full of milk. She’d given something away, though she had no idea what.

  With the knife, he pared away more slivers of wood.

  No matter how she might try to provoke him, it proved an impossible feat. She’d never seen him so calm. So “chill.” So maddeningly, damnably restrained.

  “Shea, stop this. Please.”

  “I’ve told you what you have to do, Isobel. After eighteen years of marriage, I deserve to hear you say the words to my face.”

  The sharp taste of fear flooded her mouth. Her gaze darted from his insolent expression to the cabin door to the boat deck inches from her feet. She swallowed back the terror with a painful gulp.

  Her heart fluttering with furious beats, she scampered across the stern and ducked inside the cabin. Twisting her body sideways, she clutched the handrail and picked her way down the steep, narrow stairs. Below deck, she rounded the kitchen counter, snatched the papers off the table, and whirled, ready to flee to safety.

  But Shea’s big body blocked her retreat. He skipped the stairs altogether and landed with a thud before her. The floor swayed beneath her feet.

  “Here.” She slapped the documents against his bare chest. “Sign them.”

  He took the papers and tossed them onto the counter. “Tell me why you want to end our marriage.”

  In the cramped space, he overwhelmed her senses. “You know why.”

  “I don’t.”

  “All we do is fight.” The delicious smell of his skin wrenched a pang of longing from her.

  “What if I promise we’ll never fight again?”

  “You can’t promise that.”

  “I can. I am.” He crept closer. “I’ll make you any promise, give you anything you want, just name it.”

  She tried to back away, but the edge of the table immediately jabbed into her bottom. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “You want to sell the house? Move off the island? Go to the moon?” His fingers toyed with the tendrils of hair on either side of her face. “Tell me and I’ll find a way to make it happen.”

  “Shea—”

  “Do you love me?” The hitch in his voice notched a wound on her heart.

  Color rode high on his cheekbones, and in his eyes, emotion swirled like the churning waters of a stormy sea. She felt slightly seasick.

  Though it’d be a lie, she wanted to deny her love for him, if only to end the pain. But the naked fear, the heartrending vulnerability visible on his face, stole her words.

  The column of his throat worked when he swallowed. “If you tell me you don’t love me anymore, I’ll sign those damn papers. But if not…” His fingertips brushed her cheek.

  At the touch, she jolted, realizing suddenly the danger she was in.

  She’d never been able to resist him. Not when she gave him her virginity at sixteen. Not a year later, when he’d wanted to make love to her the night after her mom’s funeral and they forgot the condom. Not when they found out she was pregnant and he asked her to marry him. She’d never been able to say no to him. Not even when she should have.

  “Sign them,” she said, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

  Disappointment shadowed his features, but his expression closed, as if he guarded a sudden secret. “Fine. But before I do, I want something from you.”

  Wariness stole over her. “Wh-what do you want?”

  “A kiss.”

  In an instant, her pounding pulse had nothing to do with the hazard of being trapped on a boat and everything to do with the very real danger posed by the man standing before her.

  “It won’t change anything.”

  Her gaze had riveted to his mouth, and so she watched the playful tilt form at one corner. “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

  A nervous laugh leapt from her throat and quickly died away.

  “Just one last kiss, Isobel. It’s a simple request, and you can end this right here, right now.” He eased his big body close to hers. “That is what you want, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Eight

  The small confines of the boat closed in around her and her chest rose and fell with the ragged pull of air into her lungs.

  He slipped a hand beneath her hair. He kneaded the base of her neck. “You’re shaking, mo chroí.”

  My heart.

  She squeezed her eyes shut with the slash of pain. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why not?”

  Because every time she let him in, even a little, it ended badly for her.

  “It hurts,” she said.

  “No more hurting. No more fighting.” His warm mouth brushed across her forehead.

  The sensation shattered her. When was the last time he’d touched her? His fingers danced across her skin. With the pads of his thumbs, he tilted her chin up, cradling her face while he explored her mouth with tiny nips and nibbles. She couldn’t keep up with her own heartbeat.

  He’d never kissed her this way before. Fierce, fresh, tumbling kisses. Emotion whipped inside her, sinking and sliding darkly.

  Tears prickled behind her eyes. How she’d longed for his warm, solid touch. A jagged sob snagged in her throat and her lips parted. His tongue licked swiftly inside her mouth, stealing her secrets.

  Her troubled thoughts burst into flames and smoldered to ash as his hot mouth conspired with his clever fingers to seek out all the most susceptible places on her body—the center of her palm, the hollow beneath her earlobe, the notch of her clavicle.

  Though she shouldn’t, she reached for him. She caressed his face, his neck, his bare shoulders. Her palms smoothed over the rounded swells of his pecs and along the hard plane of his
abdomen. He was familiar yet foreign to her, like coming home after a long, agonizing journey.

  He cupped her through the tight dress while he tugged at the low-cut neckline. She arched her back, offering herself up to him, because even when she wanted to hate him, she wanted his touch more. She craved it. He freed her breast from the confining material and gave her nipple a firm, wet tug with his mouth.

  Heat flushed her skin. Hunger coiled in her heart and belly. She whimpered like a woman willing to do anything for this man’s touch because that was exactly what she was.

  He tugged the dress lower and his hungry gaze clamped onto her flesh. His heavy lashes lowered until sharp shadows scored down his lean cheeks. A part of her, the part that fell instantly and completely in love with him in high school, delighted in his naked appreciation of her body.

  He gripped her waist and his teeth scraped the sensitive skin where her neck and shoulder met.

  “Shea.” His name slipped out as a desperate plea, though, truly, there was nothing she wanted from him.

  Then the long shaft of his erection brushed her stomach and the lie washed away with the flood of her desire.

  Fine. She did want something from him. She wanted him to sign their divorce papers. And she wanted him to fuck her.

  God, she was so messed up.

  His name kept falling from her lips and he urgently rucked up the hem of her skirt, clenching the fabric in his tight fists. Cool air rushed across her hot flesh and she gasped.

  Discovering her panty-less, Shea stiffened, and then a savage growl vibrated in his chest.

  “Holy fuck, Isobel.” Shock and arousal shook his voice.

  He delved his fingers tenderly between her thighs to the patch of her curls. Questing, he found her humid flesh open to the invasion of his fingers. He nuzzled the side of her neck while he rubbed tension into her belly.

  Delicious coils spiraled dizzyingly through her body. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself before she fell against him. More than anything, she wanted to lean into him, but he wasn’t her safe place anymore.