Delicious and Deadly (10 page)

Again she found herself in his arms and just clung on for dear life.

"Of course you do."

His cheek rubbed the top of her head.

His hand shook as he brushed a stray lock of hair back from her face, behind her ear, with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

Emma stared up into his face.

"What do you want from me?" she voiced the thought.

"I want us to be together, where we belong."

Not going to happen.

Her emotional health was still too fragile.

There were too many wounds yet to heal.

She was damaged goods.

The man who stood before her with his heart in his eyes deserved more, deserved better.

Emma's heart was breaking at the thought of hurting this beautiful, beautiful man.

But the lying was over.

"Just because we found each other again and slept together, doesn't mean this is our happy ever after. There's no going back, Oscar, because I'm not the same person you fell in love with anymore. I'm broken. I find trusting people hard, too hard. I can't..." she shook her head, battled on. "I can't do this."

Dark eyes that saw too much stared into hers for an unremitting moment.

"You are not broken. Look at what you've done with your life, with the gift you have?"

Emma closed her eyes so she could think.

"You don't understand. I use my writing to escape. To escape from reality. It's the one thing that's helped me through everything."

"We need to talk about us, Emma."

Her head whipped up to stare at the uncompromising look on his wonderful face.

She shook her head.

"There is no us," she whispered.

His eyes stayed on hers as he stood.

"I don't agree. We need to talk about what happened to us in the past and today. But more importantly we need to talk about what might be."

He
didn't agree?

Tough.

Boy, when Oscar wanted something, he was one stubborn son-of-a-bitch, just like Richard.

The thought made her frown.

There were definite similarities in their personalities; the insistence that they were right at all times, the propensity for order in their lives, in their surroundings.

Why was it the men in her life thought that her opinion didn't matter, that they could call all the shots?

Emma Ludlow controlled her own life, thank you very much.

Temper was a red haze in front of her eyes.

She stood and threw the wine glass against the wall.

The sound of breaking glass rang out, a gun-shot, in the sudden stillness of the night.

Wine dripped like blood down the white wall to pool on the floor.

Her heart was beating too fast against her ribs.

Shit, shit, shit.

When had she ever thrown anything in her life?

Never.

She'd really lost it this time.

"No we don't," she stated through gritted teeth. "We've nothing to talk about. I have work to do. I'd like you to leave."

For a moment she thought he was going to argue.

Instead, he skirted broken glass and the splashes of wine on the floor, moved towards the door. Emma's hand actually shook because she wanted to call him back, to touch him, to say she was sorry.

When his hand rested on the door handle, she called out,

"Oscar." He turned to look at her, his dark eyes cool now. "Thank you for the meal."

His mouth kicked.

"You're welcome."

And with that he left.

An hour later, Emma lay on her back on the sofa to gaze unseeing at the candlelight dancing on the ceiling. The momentous events of the evening had left her thoughts in chaos and her heart reeling.

Why was it that when a person was down, past hurts and negative voices seemed to over-fill their consciousness?

Why was it that the people you loved the most hurt you the most?

Again her mind took her on another relentless spin into the past. To the day she'd walked out on the tattered remains of her marriage. To the day she'd left Richard standing in the entrance hall of their Manhattan apartment, his face purple with anger, his hands fisted at his sides.

She'd asked for a divorce and for the first time he'd hit her, hard.

He'd stood over her, shaking with a fury she knew was out of control, the words spoken through clenched teeth.

"Walk out that door, Emma and I
will
destroy you. I am a Murray. Without me you are nothing. You are no one."

She'd run.

Well, she had to admit her husband had done his level best to destroy her.

Emma could still hear his voice, the words clear as a bell, in her head.

Now, heart beating too fast against her ribs, those words had her jump to her feet.

No way was she going to think of that time.

Abruptly, even though all the French doors were thrown open, the room felt too small, too hot. The night outside seemed unnaturally still. And Emma knew she needed to get out, to breathe fresh air and to see the ocean, to remind herself that she'd survived.

Five minutes later Emma, with Richard's voice still ringing too loud in her head, was racing along the sand towards the boom of the surf. She kept going until she turned the headland towards a tiny lagoon. Moonlight bathed the path in a silvery light as it wound downhill to sand that appeared to shimmer in the moonlight. At night the water of the lagoon was pitch black instead of a rippling pool of sky blue. Humidity had perspiration trickle down her back. And all the while her heart beat too fast and too hard.

In the back of her mind, she realised there was something different about the night, but Emma couldn't put her finger on it.

Now she stopped, breathless, as she stared out over the water and into the darkness beyond. She'd had enough of running away from the past, enough of being afraid. And as she stood there with her heart hammering and her heaving chest, all Emma could think was that stripping off her sweaty clothes and diving into the water was immensely appealing. Ten minutes in the cool clear water would be exhilarating and set her up for hours at her keyboard.

Without a second thought, Emma stripped down to her skin and stepped into the lagoon until the water came up to her knees. Taking careful steps she moved deeper until it was at her waist, so lovely and cool. How amazing to be able to simply indulge herself in the sheer luxury of sliding naked into the lagoon?

And something like resolve rose to stiffen Emma's spine.

From deep inside a little voice told her to stop running.

Then Richard's voice echoed, '
You are nothing, you are no-one.'

He'd taken almost everything from her, had tried and failed, to stop publication of her novel. And when that hadn't worked he'd done all he could to prevent its success. In spite of it all, she'd found her readers. And those readers had risen up to honour her and demand more.

And by God, Emma swore to herself, she was going to give them more.

In a sudden explosion of energy, she dived into the lagoon then burst through the surface and flipped back wet hair.

She raised her arms to the heavens, felt the heavy weight of hair slap her backside.

"Get out of my head, you bastard," she muttered to Richard's voice in her head. "I'll write another best-seller, just to spite you." Laughing, she tossed her head back to stare at the millions of stars twinkling in the heavens. "Just see if I don't."

"Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity," drawled a deep voice.

Emma's hands instinctively fastened on her small breasts as she spun around to find Oscar standing at the water’s edge. God, he looked wonderful. All male, dark and broody. Under her hands her nipples hardened right along with her belly. He had a look in his eyes she recognised... predatory. He wore nothing except board shorts. And he held a large torch in one hand and a bath towel in the other. Her gaze lingered on his sculptured and polished chest. The man was built. His mouth might be sober, but those dark eyes twinkled in the moonlight.

Narrowing her own, she spat at him,

"What do you think you're doing?"

Oscar simply stared at her in silence, the only reaction a very slow raising of his brows.

Water had darkened her hair in the moonlight to a gleaming brown that looked black. It clung wetly to blanket smooth skin and fine bones. Temper flashed in eyes dark as jade and dangerous as a wildcat's. Her mouth, clamped together in a way that told him she was as mad as a hornet, had a full and pouty bottom lip that contrasted with her obstinate chin.

Coolly, he let his gaze slide down.

He'd missed caressing those full breasts, missed kissing that flat belly.

Just as coolly his gaze went up, moved back to hers.

She didn't flinch, didn't flush, under his scrutiny.

There wasn't trepidation or a welcome in her eyes.

Instead, she sent him a cold look that might have felled a lesser man.

"You've seen it all before, Oscar," Emma began in a silky voice, "You can put your tongue away."

Instead of responding he dropped the towel and the torch and walked towards her with a loose, easy stride that still carried a military air.

Then, as he entered the water and waded towards her, he smiled.

"Skinny dipping, Em?"

"The name is Emma... use it," she snapped.

"Cranky too. Can't sleep? The muse not flowing?"

"The muse is fine, thank you very much."

"I'm writing a book, too," he said, and watched her eyes go wide.

"People say that to me all the time."

He just bet they did.

"A cookbook. Nico reckons it'll be a huge success."

"Good for you," she said sincerely. "I'm sure it will. What about your family? How does your father feel about your new career?"

His grimace said it all.

"You're not the only one with a difficult parent, Emma."

"You clash?" she guessed.

"We clash."

"Do you see him regularly?"

"No. I don't want to talk about it."

Her brows rose.

"But you want me to talk about mine?"

"Touché. How about we do this instead."

He moved closer.

Her little flinch told him too close.

Oscar's lips twitched at her hiss of breath.

His eyes again went on a voyage of discovery over her hair, her face, those narrow boned shoulders, to her hands cupping full breasts.

"Back off, Oscar. I'm not on the mood for games."

He brought his gaze back to hers.

"Emma, sweetheart, we're long past the point of playing games." Then he dipped his head, kissed her right on her pouty mouth. "I cannot tell you how much I missed that dimple. Kiss me, Emma."

Her eyes narrowed again. And Oscar loved the way they glinted through fabulous, thick lashes.

Testing her, his mouth hovered over hers.

She didn't move back.

"I'm not sleeping with you," she told him.

His hand reached out and touched her.

"Who mentioned anything about sleeping?"

Emma felt that fast, breathless pressure in her lungs and recognised it for what it was. No way was she going to let him get to her again. She let her gaze lower, to where his knuckles stroked the delicate curve of her breast, then lifted it to study his face.

"Back off," she whispered into his mouth.

His response was to gently capture her wrists to remove her hands from her breasts.

The scent of his breath, of his skin, made her head spin.

Oh God, she'd missed him, his touch, so damned much.

For a moment his hands stilled.

"Your nipples have gone hard," he whispered back.

"Because I'm wet and standing in the ocean. It's cold."

"Little liar." Casually, he released a wrist before his hand lifted a strand of wet hair. "You look like a mermaid."

She was seething that, just having him touch her like this, her heartbeat was drumming against her ribs. She could hear the gentle swish and fall, feel the gentle push and pull, of the ocean.

He smelled incredible.

His eyes were so dark.

That strong jaw badly needed a shave.

Even as Emma battled the heat of attraction burning low in her belly, she found herself wondering how he would look with all that black hair untied. She imagined he'd look like a primitive, pagan warrior. Of its own volition, her hand moved to reach out to touch his hair.

And Emma snapped out of it fast.

She knew better than to listen to the roaring in her ears, in her head. She'd listened before and look where that had led? She’d been naïve, meek, and too damned stupid to live. She wasn't that woman now. The most important thing to remember was that, these days, she was in control. She made the decisions.

"I told you twice to back off," she said softly.

"I know," Oscar agreed, watching her face. "Why?"

"I do not like to be touched."

He didn't move away.

“You liked it well enough yesterday morning," he said.

“That was different. I was caught by surprise. I made a mistake,” she whispered.

And told herself that that was a pitiful comeback

His eyes locked dead on hers, very straight, very fierce.

"Did someone else's touch hurt you, Emma?"

Her eyes never left his.

She shivered, and by the way he watched her, she knew he’d caught it.

"Back. Off."

This time he stepped back, waded to the beach, lifted a towel and returned to her.

He handed her the towel.

"What if I don't want to back off?"

Emma moved past him, to the refuge of shallow water.

The fact she was naked made her feel too vulnerable, too exposed.

She wound the towel around herself, tucked the ends firmly between her breasts.

Wading to the beach, she bent to retrieve her clothes from the sand.

In a better mood now that she was decent, Emma turned to him.

"That's your problem, not mine. Have a nice vacation, Oscar. Try not to tire yourself out slaving over a hot stove."

For a big man he moved fast.

His hand lifted, reaching out to touch her.

In an automatic move, her hand came up in a defensive pose.

She flinched as his hand gripped her arm.

And just like that fear fisted in her throat.

He'd seen the fear, she could tell by the way his eyes went watchful, wary even.

Oscar now tilted his head to study her face.

"You know I would never hurt you."

Deep inside her she knew he spoke nothing but the truth.

Oscar would never hurt her.

Shame joined the jittery dance of fear in her belly, but Emma lifted her chin.

"I know you won't. Because I won't give you a chance."

"We've unfinished business."

She jerked out of his hold.

"Leave me alone."

His head was spinning because that was the second time she’d flinched from him, as if steadying herself for a blow. Someone had hurt her. Someone had raised his hand to her. With fury roaring in his ears, in his head, Oscar simply stood ankle deep in the surf and kept his eyes on hers.

Slowly and carefully his hand reached out, two fingers snagged the knot in her towel and pulled her close.

"No. What did he do to you? You're going nowhere until you tell me."

Her breath hitched before it shuddered out between her lips.

The pulse beneath her ear was going crazy.

And all the while her eyes never left his.

Still, she didn't speak.

"Emma..." he warned.

Then her eyes went wide as she cocked her head, listening.

"Do you hear that?" she asked him in a soft voice.

Oscar huffed out a breath, thinking she was stringing him along.

But now he did listen.

The hair on the back of his neck rose at the same time his gut clenched.