Billionaire on Her Doorstep (10 page)

“It’s dark,” Tom said. “I ought to head off.”

He was right. Some time while they had been talking the sun had set, the rising moon casting very little glow on the ocean.

He turned back to her, his words telling her he was ready to leave, but his eyes and his aura and his tensely bunched muscles telling her the exact opposite.

Thanks for the beer,” he said.

“Any time,” she returned, her voice a throaty whisper.

He was waiting for her to say goodbye. But she couldn’t. She could barely feel her feet, much less order them to move out of his way. The feelings churning inside her were tumbling in too fast, too unexpectedly. She wasn’t even sure what he wanted from her, much less what she wanted from him -

Tom gave in first. He took two bold steps to stand before her, toe to toe. He looked down into her eyes - eyes, she knew, which were wide with disbelief and desire. He lifted a gentle hand, resting the backs of his knuckles against her cheek, and suddenly she couldn’t remember how to breathe.

More to keep her balance than out of any form of invitation, Maggie lifted a hand to rest against his chest. She felt a tremble shudder through Tom’s rock-solid body and only then did she finally recognize the depth of the attraction that had been simmering between them for days.

It had crept up on her, lacing surreptitiously through the back recesses of her mind until the feeling was woven so tight she had the horrible sense she would never be able to fully unravel it.

She’d counted on herself being more careful. More resilient. More uncompromising. After what she’d been through in the last couple of years, that should have been a given. so…

What she hadn’t counted on was Tom Campbell walking through her door…

“Nobody in their right mind ought to go around smelling as good as you do, Maggie Bryce,” Tom said.

He lowered his head and Maggie half-panicked and half-hoped he was about to kiss her, but he changed direction at the last moment and leaned into her neck and inhaled a long luxurious breath. She tilted her head to give him better access.

“You were right about my merlot tastes,” he murmured. “I am rendered hopeless in the presence of a fine perfume.”

“You are?” she asked, now not much caring what he said any more, so long as he kept saying it while breathing against her throat.

“Mmm,” he said, giving over to her wish.

“I’ve always worn it,” she babbled, to cover the smell of the paint. No matter how many showers I take, or how vigorously I wash my hands, it never seems to leave.”

“Just one more reason to love that crazy blue painting of yours,” he said.

Maggie felt herself smiling. Not just with her mouth and her cheeks, but her whole body. She felt herself warming and tingling and opening to him with every passing second.

But she shouldn’t be doing this, feeling this. She wasn’t ready. Or willing. Or able. Mentally. Emotionally. Morally…

Her neck felt cold and she realized he had pulled away. Her eyelids fluttered open to find him looking down at her. His hot hazel eyes were dark in the low light, but there was absolutely no doubt as to what was about to happen. They were going to kiss and it was going to be bone-melting. Earth shattering. Like nothing she had ever experienced in her life before.

And though in that moment she wanted it more than she remembered wanting anything, her conscience and her memory and her reason gave her a much-needed slap to the face. So hard she actually flinched.

Tom,” she whispered, his name all but lodging in her tight throat.

“Yes, Maggie,” he drawled, his deep voice reverberating so close to her lips. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to wait.”

The hand against his chest pressed him away. Barely. Halfheartedly. But it was enough for his momentum to cease.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking so deep inside her she almost forgot what she had been about to say. Almost.

But the worst mistake she could possibly make was to break an old bad habit only by creating a brand-new one.

“Tom, I can’t. I just can’t.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because…I’m married.”

CHAPTER SIX

Tom burst out laughing. It was hardly the reaction either of them would have expected at the announcement of Maggie’s news. But it was either that or kick something.

“Did you just say that you are married?” he asked.

She nodded, a wisp of biscuit-blonde hair escaping her messy ponytail and hanging forlornly along the curve of her cheek. “It wasn’t a joke.”

He knew it wasn’t a joke. That was not why he’d laughed. He’d laughed because there he was, ready to make the first move, to throw caution to the wind, to disregard his usual modus operandi of keeping relationships on a tight leash, and she had to go and say - that.

Maggie blinked up at him, those shining silver eyes swirling with a heady mix of self-reproach and desire, and Tom was shocked to find how much he still wanted to ignore one and give in to the other, despite her recent revelation. She had felt so good melting against him - delicate and warm and willowy and beautiful, like the tragic heroine in some silent movie.

But he was the tragic one. He should have seen it coming - with her abandoned garden, her insomnia, her missing muse and that delicate sadness cloaking her, the way she gravitated towards him even as she kept him at arm’s distance. She wore her guilt like a badge of honour on her chest.

The sidesplitting thing was, he’d seen the signs yet that was why he’d kept on moving in - because the knight in shining armour inside him had thought he’d found his ultimate damsel in distress.

He turned his back on her and ran a hand through his hair. Hard. Tugging the roots as he went. Since he didn’t have a bucket of ice water at hand it was the best he could do.

“So where is this elusive husband of yours?” he asked when she remained silent, feeling suddenly angry at her for making him do all the work.

“Carl still lives in Melbourne.”

Carl still lived in Melbourne, did he?

Tom turned back to find her pink-cheeked, hair a tumble and legs braced shoulder-width apart. Her hands were shaking. Violently. And it took all of his strength not to go to her and haul her into his arms until the shaking stopped.

Now, what the hell was that about? He’d always liked women who were confident. Bold. Forward, even. Those who made the first move and never shed a tear when the time came to move on. Not fragile women with chaotic hair and dirty feet and temperaments so stubborn that they would rather go six months without a couch than admit that they weren’t coping.

“Your husband is in Melbourne,” he repeated. “I assume he’s been there all the time you’ve been here.”

She nodded.

“And is this some sort of open marriage? He has his floozies in the city, while you like yours beach combed?” he said and her head jolted back as though she had been slapped.

Tom ground his teeth. Spitting venom wasn’t going to help the situation, not if they were going to come out the other side and still be able to look one another in the eye. When everything was said and done, neither of them had done anything worse than finally admit the fact that until about thirty seconds before they had both been hugely in-like with one another.

He took a step back towards her, ready to say so, but her hands moved, just enough to halt him in his tracks.

“He has just the one floozy in the city,” she said, her voice as cold as chipped ice. That I’m aware of.”

Tom’s lungs pressed hard against his ribs as he sucked in a great mouthful of oxygen. He was glad Carl was in Melbourne and not in the next room, or in that moment Carl might have been in a lick of trouble-.

“Carl is an entertainment lawyer,” Maggie continued. “He was my lawyer. And it turns out he has been…seeing another lawyer from his firm for over two years.”

She didn’t blink. Not once. But he could see the turmoil behind the glassy stare. The aloofness was a defense mechanism. He could see that now. Rather than sending him bolting out the door once and for all, it only made the impulse to protect her more tangible.

“She represents footballers, mainly.’She shook her head, as though somehow that only made it worse. “She is currently pregnant with his child. And the day I left Melbourne to move here I served him with divorce papers.”

Maggie leant on to the railing, as though she couldn’t trust her own strength to keep her upright any more. Her hands gripped the balustrade as he had seen her grip the steering wheel of her Jeep, as though needing the support to keep herself upright. Tom’s fists clenched so hard at his sides that his fingers began to feel nerveless.

“So what am I? Some sort of payback?” he asked. But he had to know. Before they could go on, forward or backward, he had to know what was going on in that complicated head of hers.

“No,” she said, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “I haven’t seen Carl in six months. I’ve only talked to him through our lawyers since the day I left. So he has no reason to be hurt by your presence.”

Touche. But it wasn’t what he thought that was important. It was what she thought. She was the wronged party in her relationship with her husband. Who knew what she would do to make herself no longer feel like the victim? Or who she would do.

Either way, now was not the time to put that question to the test. It was still too raw, even though every desire to kiss her had now fled his body. Okay, not every desire, but his head now had the upper hand. Tom figured his best option was to give both of them some space. Some distance and a cold shower. He was downright grateful the weekend stretched out before them.

“I think I should go, Maggie.”

“Probably a good idea.”

He made a move to leave, but he knew he’d only kick himself all weekend if he left her feeling guilty. He’d made the first move and she’d put a stop to it. Bar being beautiful and fascinating, she’d done nothing wrong.

“You did the right thing telling me about Carl.”

It took longer than he would have liked for her to nod. Then, without another word, he ran down the last of the steps and to his truck.

He could only hope his weekend would not now be shot through by images of that neck, those eyes and that scent. Of the package that was Maggie Bryce. Painter. Fighter.

And married woman.

* * *

For Maggie, Saturday was a complete bust.

The Big Blue was still big, still blue and she could barely concentrate, much less begin to decipher what it was she was meant to be painting. She threw her dry paintbrush into a jar of clean water and jogged upstairs to the fourth floor master bedroom.

The white sheets and light blanket were twisted and hanging off the end of the bed in tumbled abandon, evidence of an interrupted night’s sleep. Two pillows were scrunched together on one side of the bed. Her side. Where she had slept alone. Where she’d been sleeping alone for six months.

Heck, if she was honest with herself, she’d been sleeping alone for years. Even on those few nights in which Carl had fallen into bed before two in the morning, he may as well have been sleeping in another room for all the affection he’d shown towards her. But still she’d hung on, hoping this time she could love a man enough to keep him from abandoning her.

She ignored the mess and headed into the shower. Nothing like water to get her thoughts in order. Though so far the six months of staring at the curved horizon of Port Phillip Bay hadn’t produced any wonders, but it was doing it’s job just fine. The lack of progress was her fault, her woolly-headedness, her too tight grip, her craving for distractions.

Maggie grabbed a loofah and a cake of cinnamon scented soap and lathered herself vigorously from head to toe in an effort to dismiss the biggest distraction of all.

Tom.

Was he out there somewhere, fishing, and thinking awful things about her? She couldn’t blame him if he was, for she wasn’t entirely blameless in allowing him to think he’d had a chance with her. He had had a chance.

She scrubbed her hair clean, running her fingernails ferociously over her scalp.

One thing for sure - she couldn’t stand to be cooped up in the house any more. The thought of standing in the one comer of the one room and looking at that one bloody painting all afternoon made her itch. She had to get out. To get her mind off…things. And the best way she knew how to do that? Shopping. Maggie was going to buy herself a stereo. And on her travels she’d keep clear of the Rye Pier, just in case.

Dressed in neat jeans, a pretty three-quarter-sleeved cardigan she’d found at the back of her wardrobe and flat canvas shoes that felt strange on feet which had been bare for so long, she drove out of her bumpy front drive, overhanging branches scratching at the roof of her Jeep, then down the lightly graded Portsea Hill and into Sorrento, grabbing the last angled parking space overlooking the beach.

Sorrento was busy with Melbourne families in town for the weekend to get a taste of the summer that was buzzing on the horizon. She would loathe missing summer in the seaside town, especially after she had made it through the long, cold, lonely winter.

Shoving that thought aside, Maggie headed into the picturesque town, where she spent the afternoon browsing through the quaint local shops, running her hands over piles of Freya’s beautiful pots, falling madly in love at first sight with a lounge suite the color of her favorite coffee, which thankfully was on hold for somebody else so she could put it out of her mind.