Читать книгу The Marriage Renewal - Maggie Cox, Maggie Cox - Страница 9

TARA heard what Mac said but wondered crazily if she’d imagined it. All the way to his hotel she’d been frantic with nerves; terrified but excited at the thought of seeing him again—acknowledging that their unexpected encounter in the museum had stirred up so many hopes and dreams that she really should have let go of long ago. Especially after what had happened… But now, staring up into a fathomless blue gaze that clearly had no intention of letting her off the hook—not even for a second—she clutched her jacket to her chest and remembered that the only feelings she should have towards him were ambivalent at best—hostile at worst.

‘Is this some kind of bad joke? Because if it is, I really don’t appreciate it. One minute you’re telling me you’ve met someone and you want a divorce, the next… What’s going on, Mac?’

He told himself to take it easy, not to push so hard or he’d more than likely frighten her away for good. His insides clenched at the thought. Now that he’d seen her again he knew what he was doing was right. It was actually a shock to him that he’d survived so long without her. Maybe not so much survived as existed. How could he have contemplated for even a second marrying someone like Amelie? The French girl didn’t even let her guard down in bed; she was far too obsessed with her appearance, too controlled to get low down and dirty, too…too cold. Mac only had to glance at the hectic colour seeping into Tara’s cheeks to remember how warm his wife had been in that department—an erotic revelation of passion and fire.

‘It’s not a joke, Tara. Amelie and I broke up.’

A sharp spasm of jealousy coiled through her at the mention of his girlfriend’s name. Before she had a name the woman had been a hazy nothing in her mind. ‘Amelie’ made her flesh and blood, real, and that hurt.

‘So what am I? Any port in a storm?’

‘Of course not.’ He looked offended. Too bad, Tara thought wildly, when he didn’t seem to care what he did to hurt her.

‘We got along once upon a time,’ Mac continued, sliding a hand into a pocket of his dark blue suit. ‘Is it so crazy to imagine we might get along again?’

‘You’re serious about this, aren’t you?’ Inside her chest, Tara’s heart was beating double time. Of all the reasons Mac could have given for why he wanted to meet up with her, a reconciliation was the furthest—the last thing in the whole wide world she could have imagined. What was behind it, she wondered, and why was he torturing her like this when the mere sight of him was tying her insides into some kind of intricate macramé?

‘So serious I’ve taken a month’s leave of absence.’

‘Well, that must be a first! Are you sure they can spare you, Mac? I always thought you were so indispensable.’

To her surprise, a self-deprecating little grin hijacked his perfect mouth. ‘So did I. Obviously that’s not the case. Fortunately I have some good people working for me—people I can trust to do a good job. I really have no worries about being absent for a month.’

‘And what will you do with all that free time, Mac?’ Tara asked, tucking a stray blonde strand behind her ear. ‘Maybe some therapy might be a good idea?’

‘Therapy?’

‘For your workaholism…or are you still in denial?’

He could hear the hurt in her voice, the anger behind the bitter accusation, and regret twisted through Mac at the pain he must have caused her when time after time he’d put his working commitments before his relationship. Sighing heavily, he glanced round at the reception desk, at the interested glances they were getting from the smartly dressed brunette who sat behind it, who suddenly pretended to be looking at some paperwork.

‘We can’t talk here. Can we go somewhere?’

‘Where do you suggest? Aunt Beth’s shop? Your hotel room perhaps?’ Her green-eyed gaze disdainful, Tara unfolded her tan jacket and slipped it on. Flipping her hair out from behind the collar, she bit down on her lip to stop it from quivering. ‘You’ll get over your break-up with your girlfriend. I’m sure you could charm her into patching things up—you always did have a way with women, didn’t you, Mac?’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Perhaps you weren’t always working when you said you were. Perhaps you were seeing someone else when you walked out on me that night…’

Mac saw red. He had never cheated on Tara, nor felt any desire to. Sure, women came on to him, he wasn’t blind—but neither was he promiscuous, and when he’d told Tara he had to work late at the office, well, that was exactly what he was doing.

‘First you accuse me of workaholism—a label I’m quite willing to entertain, by the way, because it’s probably true—but you go too far accusing me of having affairs with other women. What would have been my motive? You were always more than enough woman for me, Tara—don’t pretend you can’t remember…’

Coupled with his words, one glance from that suddenly heated blue gaze made Tara feel a surge of desire so strong that her knees nearly buckled beneath her. ‘Well, I’ve changed! I’m not—I’m not interested in that side of things any more.’ She blushed furiously, wanting the floor to open up and swallow her when Mac grinned knowingly and nodded. ‘I have other more important things to think about,’ she blustered on, ‘I have a fulfilling job working for Aunt Beth, I have—’

‘Why did you give up your dancing, by the way?’

Because right then the answer seemed to mysteriously evade her, Tara folded her arms across her chest and fixed Mac with an angry glare.

‘That’s none of your damn business! I’m a free agent now, remember? I don’t have to explain anything to you. After five years I—’

‘You’re still my wife.’ His voice was deadly serious—possessive, almost. Tara felt a little shiver dance down her spine.

‘Well, we can soon remedy that. You’ve got some time off—why don’t we find ourselves a solicitor and get some papers drawn up? Unless you’ve already done so, that is?’

‘I told you before, Tara, and my assertion still stands. I don’t want a divorce. I want a reconciliation. Understandably, you’ll want some time to consider my wishes, but, as you rightly say, I’ve got plenty of time on my hands at the moment so I can give you my full, undivided attention. Why don’t we start by having dinner together tonight?’

‘I can’t. I’ve got a date.’ As she tossed her head, Tara’s green eyes sparkled with triumph.

‘A date?’

‘With a man.’

‘You’re seeing someone?’ The muscle in the side of Mac’s impossibly beautiful cheekbone twitched tellingly.

‘Is that so hard to believe?’

Mac glanced down at his watch, straightened his cuff then smiled beguilingly. Tara held her breath as every cell in her body seemed to throb and tingle.

‘I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. Cancel your date. Tell your “friend” that you’re having dinner with your husband.’

‘I will not!’

‘Then give me his telephone number—I’ll do it for you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Then I’ll talk to Beth—perhaps she’ll supply it for me?’

‘Beth wouldn’t do that. Look, Mac, this whole thing is completely crazy! We’ve been apart for too long. We’re not the same people we were when we broke up—’ Anguished, Tara breathed deeply, staring desperately down at the soft green carpet beneath their feet. When she was more composed, she lifted her head to look at him pleadingly. ‘Go back to London. Ring Amelie. Believe me, Mac, a reconciliation between us just wouldn’t work.’

‘What if I said I wanted us to try for another baby?’

With a gasp of disbelief, Tara turned and stumbled out of the hotel.

Mac got into his Mercedes and drove. He didn’t know where he was going, nor did he particularly care. All he knew was that he needed to breathe, needed to think, needed to get his head straight about Tara. He should never have said what he had about the baby—that much was clear. Besides, he’d gone at it like a bull at a gate and, unprepared, Tara had turned tail and run. Blaming her wasn’t even an option, Mac thought as he negotiated a suddenly sharp curve in the road—he was the one who had acted like a selfish idiot. Right now she was probably wondering what the hell he was playing at. ‘All right,’ he said out loud, pressing a button on the dash for some music. ‘I want her back. I don’t care what I have to do to get her back. I want to make babies—lots of them. I want us to live happily ever after in a place of her choice… I want—’ The words of the song that was playing on the radio suddenly penetrated his brain and halted the eager flow of words with bittersweet irony. ‘It’s too late, baby,’ crooned the singer. Mac eased his foot off the accelerator and cursed harshly beneath his breath.

Switching off the offending record, he stared through the windscreen at the surrounding countryside with little pleasure. Give him the city any day, he thought irritably. At least he knew how to operate in the city. The countryside was too quiet, too…green, too—well, it made him introspective and right now Mac didn’t know if that was a particularly good thing. He couldn’t honestly say he liked what he was finding out about himself. Thirty-eight years old, owner and director of one of London’s most successful advertising agencies, it was true—but that was where the success story ended. In every other respect he felt like a failure. He was a self-confessed workaholic who up until now lived to work. He’d walked out on his wife of three years because he’d put ambition before love and in five years had made no contact with her because he knew that walking out on her when she had desperately wanted to make a go of things—when she had needed him most—was pretty damn unforgivable. Even more so since he’d found out about the baby…

Half an hour later, emotionally drained and weary of his own incessant thoughts, Mac pulled over into a place signposted as an area of outstanding natural beauty, got out of the car and walked. Around him there was an infinite sea of rolling green, to his left a densely wooded area that with the sun glinting off it looked like a sentinel in the distance, and above him the bluest sky known to man. As he walked, his expensive Italian-made shoes cutting a swathe through the grass, the sun on his back, Mac surprisingly sensed some kind of peace descending on him. Shucking off his jacket and pulling off his tie, he continued to walk without looking back. A reluctant country-lover at best, he had to admit a grudging pleasure at this impromptu little foray into unknown territory.

‘Any messages?’

The dark-haired receptionist glanced up at the gorgeous blond Viking who’d strolled through the doors of the select little hotel and almost choked on her biscuit. Flushing scarlet with embarrassment, she blinked wide-eyed into Mac’s amused blue gaze.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Simmonsen, I was just having my tea. Been enjoying the fresh air, have you?’

His immaculate white shirt was undone casually at the collar, his suit jacket thrown loosely across his arm, and intriguingly there were a couple of blades of grass in his mussed hair. Eileen Dunne felt one of her tropical moments coming on. With the back of her hand she fanned herself.

‘It really is beautiful around here,’ Mac replied, smiling, the dimple in his chin devastatingly in evidence.

Slack-jawed, Eileen cleared her throat. ‘We have a lot of visitors who just come for the peace and quiet,’ she managed before blushing furiously again.

‘I can see why. So…no messages, then?’ Preparing to move towards the staircase, Mac doubted there were but thought there was no harm in checking.

‘There is one.’ Eileen turned round to the row of little boxes behind her on the wall to retrieve a folded piece of paper from one of them. ‘It’s from someone named Tara. I hope you can read my writing. If not, I can tell you what she said.’

Staring at the opened scrap of paper, Mac felt a crazy leap of hope in his chest at what he read.

Mac.

If your offer of dinner still stands, I’ll meet you at your hotel at eight.

Tara.

‘Thanks.’ Slipping the note into his back pocket, he treated the awestruck Eileen to another drop-dead gorgeous smile then took the staircase up to his room two steps at a time.

‘Thank you…’ Eileen grinned at his back before taking another ravenous bite of her biscuit.

‘Hey! What’s all this, then? Going somewhere special?’ Popping her head round the door of her niece’s bedroom at just after seven that evening, Beth Delaney smiled at the colourful heap of clothing on the bed. Tara was standing in front of an open wardrobe, dressed in one of those floaty Indian cotton summer dresses that made her look as if she’d just stepped out of the pages of A Midsummer Night’s Dream—especially as her feet were bare. Her soft blonde hair was newly washed and dried and her pretty face was flushed from the recent heat of the hair-dryer.

‘I’m meeting Mac for dinner.’ Thinking it was best not to turn around just then to gauge her aunt’s expression, Tara gazed unseeingly at the contents of her wardrobe, not certain about the dress she had chosen.

‘You are?’

‘I am.’

‘What’s brought all this on? I thought you swore you were never going to see him again when you ran into the shop this afternoon? Did he or did he not make you cry?’

Tara turned slowly to face her aunt. The older woman’s expression was bewildered and concerned. She sighed. Right now Tara was feeling more stunned than if a brick had been dropped on her head from a great height. ‘I want us to try for another baby,’ Mac had said, as cool as a cucumber—while in contrast she’d felt as if her heart would pound clear out of her chest.

‘I’m feeling very emotional right now. I don’t rightly know what’s going on with me and Mac. If nothing else, we have some unfinished business to discuss. That’s why we’re having dinner together.’

‘Does this “unfinished business” concern the pair of you getting a divorce?’ Beth asked.

Turning back to her vague perusal of the contents of her wardrobe, Tara sighed again. ‘Probably.’

‘Probably?’

‘You may as well say it, Beth. You think I’m a fool for agreeing to see him again. You think he’s up to no good. You think he’s going to break my heart. Well, I’ve got news for you—he can’t do it again because it hasn’t been mended in the interim, so I’m perfectly safe from that particular affliction!’ Her eyes filling with tears, Tara dashed them impatiently away with the heel of her hand. It was probably a huge mistake to see Mac again but she had to know what was going on with him—why he was professing to want to take up where they’d left off; why he had said what he had about trying for another baby. Until she knew, the turmoil in her head would give her no peace.

‘The man’s already caused you more hurt than I can bear. You gave up everything when he walked out, your dancing, socialising, living, for God’s sake! Everyday things that gave you pleasure. You gave it all up because of Mac—because you were in pain and hurting. I’m not saying he’s a bad person, Tara. He clearly isn’t. But he is a driven man. A man addicted to work. A man like Mac doesn’t know how to make a relationship work—more to the point, he doesn’t have the time to make it work. Go and have dinner with him. Tell him you want a divorce and you want it now, then let him go and get on with your life! And if that means leaving here and going somewhere you can teach dance—then so be it!’

Her normally pale cheeks flushed with the passion of her words, Beth abruptly turned and exited the room.

Heart pounding, Tara dropped down onto the bed, silently acknowledging the truth of what her aunt had said. When all was said and done, she trusted Beth. When her mother had died ten years ago and her father had remarried and moved away, Beth had willingly taken over the roles of mother, sister and friend. Clearly, Beth’s affection for her ran deep. As far as Tara knew she couldn’t make the same claim for Mac.

She hadn’t eaten a thing. For several excruciating seconds more Mac watched her push her food round her plate, then, leaning forward, deliberately stilled the hand that held her fork with his own. ‘I think you’re meant to put the food onto the fork then put it into your mouth.’

Startled by his touch, by his bold blue eyes burning into hers, Tara felt her mouth drop open. Needing no more reaction than that, Mac stabbed some mange-tout with her fork and lifted it to her lips.

‘You’ve got it,’ he said softly as she helplessly began to chew. ‘Now, tell me why you’re not eating. I hope you’re not doing anything stupid like trying to lose weight.’

She flinched at his censure and the ache in her throat made it almost impossible to swallow the meagre mouthful Mac had dropped into her mouth. Glancing round at the other diners in the intimately lit French restaurant, Tara wished she could feel as carefree and happy as most of them appeared to be. Laughing and talking with their companions, clearly out to enjoy themselves, they were all a million miles away from the tense, apprehensive little picture she knew she must make sitting opposite Mac.

‘Of course I’m not dieting. The meal is delicious, I’m just—’

‘Just?’ A golden eyebrow quirked up towards the silky lock of hair that flopped sexily onto his forehead.

‘I find it difficult to eat when I’m not relaxed—when I’m worried or tense.’

‘I remember.’ He said it as though the memory caused him pain. Touching his pristine white napkin to his lips, Mac leant back in his seat to study her. ‘I’m sorry I’ve contributed to you not being relaxed but I’m not playing games here, Tara. I want us to get back together again, and this time to make it work.’

‘You make it sound like a project you’ve got in mind. Is that going to be your approach, Mac? Treat me as if I’m one of your accounts? What are you going to do—allot me a certain amount of time to achieve the goal that you want? I might have guessed work would come into the equation at some point.’ Bitterly, she pushed her plate away, raised her glass of wine to her lips and drank deeply. As the alcohol shot to her brain, she felt vindicated in her anger. Why should he sit there looking so damned cool and arrogant while her emotions were swirling around inside her like some mini-cyclone? Did he really expect her to welcome him back with open arms after what he’d done?