Читать книгу Can You Forget? - Melissa James - Страница 10

Queen Victoria Theatre, Sydney

Fourteen months later

She took the massive bunch of dark red roses with a gracious smile, to the beat of thunderous cheers. Turning to her backup singers and the dancers, she handed each a rose and took her bows with them, knowing they’d resent the hell out of her for the audience’s enthusiastic response to her generosity.

Oh, Verity West is so magnanimous…

They’d all kill to have her life.

And all she wanted was to kick off the heels making her feet ache, go home, make a hot chocolate, curl up with her faithful dog Charlie Brown and sleep. Invite the family to stay. No hellish workouts or starving herself. No long hours in rehearsals and with stylists and couturiers. No adulation, groveling or saccharine-sweet impertinence from agents or producers, reporters, wannabe socialites or begging visits, letters, emails or tapes from singer-songwriters in her mould.

And best of all, no men showering her with compliments and gifts, all hoping to be the one to brag that they’d broken the Iceberg’s famous cold shell and gotten her in the sack.

Final night of the Sydney tour. Here we go. Party time…

Backstage, she donned a simple white sheath. The famous twisted curls glowed with flame, so the media said—better than the schoolkids’ taunts of “better dead than red”—pulled up in a clip, tumbling down to her waist. A gold rope pulled in the dress at her waist and showed off her breasts…and no one knew how much unflagging discipline it took to keep her glorious figure.

Fat girl, fat girl!

She plastered a smile on her face and headed for the limousine, smiling and waving, signing autographs. Wishing Gil was here to laugh at the absurdity of her life, to help her survive the predators—to hold her when she cried. For cool-as-ice, touch-me-not Verity West was a marshmallow inside. A shy girl living in the public eye. A stranger inside her own life.

The heart of the girl who hid from the world was still beating within the slender, lovely shell. Still sickly sweet, trusting and vulnerable Mary-Anne Poole somewhere deep inside, seven years after becoming Verity West.

She spent the evening encouraging hopeful singers, talking to kids who’d won contests to meet her and fending off men’s smug I-know-you-want-me advances with her trademark cool smile and quiet wit, counting the minutes until she could leave.

Then a waiter passed her. Inconspicuous; there one moment, gone the next. Pressing a note into her hand.

Change your key, songbird. In the shadows of the alley, a ghost from your past awaits.

Escaping through the kitchen and service elevator of the exclusive hotel, she ran past the blinding glare of flashing bulbs in her face and slipped inside the leather-lined luxury of the darkened car. “Thank you,” she sighed. “What’s the deal?”

Nick Anson, her secret boss, smiled at her. “Sorry, darlin’, but you’re getting a throat infection. You need a fortnight off.”

She sighed with the intense relief she always knew when she had to drop work for a mission. “My agent and manager will have collective heart attacks. Could be fun. Where am I going?”

“This is the most vital mission I’ve ever given you, Songbird.” Nick threw it at her, hard and blunt. “You’ll spend the first few days in Mekalong Island in the Torres Strait—and you know why, since you stole his file when my back was turned.”

Her heart stalled, then kicked again. All she could think of was, What can I say to that—sorry, yes, it was me? But she didn’t think she could speak right now. God help her, even in shock her body was primed already, pounding with excitement. She had to fight to get one croaked word out. “And?”

“And we need Irish back pronto. He’s refusing to answer my calls or messages. It’s up to you. Make him want to do it.”

She jerked up in the seat. “Me? But…his wife—”

“He’s been divorced for three years.” He slanted her an odd, probing look. “Wasn’t that in the file I let you steal?”

She kept her mouth clamped shut. He knew damn well it wasn’t on file. Nick Anson was too much a rabid perfectionist to leave it off file—unless he’d had a damn good reason to do so.

No point in drawing this out. “So you know about our past.” She drummed her fingers on her leg, the only visible sign of the internal explosion of her heart. “The tabloid stories, right?”

“It’s how I came to recruit you in the first place. I saw the possibilities in case a mission like this ever came up—and so I sought you out.” Silence filled the car as she absorbed, then accepted, her ruthless boss’s reasons for first contacting her to join the Nighthawks. Then he went on in his smooth-as-molasses Southern drawl.

“The future of the Nighthawks depends on this mission. No one else can possibly handle it, so the American office sent the request to me.” He hesitated. “Irish broke into the office several times to access your file, after you two ran into each other at headquarters that day. I believe you two have a mutual chemistry that, together in one place, would create an explosion big enough to rock the planet.”

God help her, Nick was right, and she didn’t know if Earth was ready for the explosion. Nick Anson had to be the gruffest, most irascible and unwilling Cupid ever to plague man and woman. She’d thought she’d never want to see Tal again, nor he her, yet it seemed neither of them could forget…

“Will you do it?” Nick asked quietly. “Will you work with him? This mission won’t be an easy one, on any level.”

Was she shaking with excitement, or fear of what seeing Tal again would do to her? “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“You’re not Mary-Anne now. You’re Verity West, and aside from your phenomenal talent, you’re a brilliant, brave and beautiful woman whose skills have saved more than one operative in the past. I’m proud to have you on my team. I know you can do this.”

“A penny looks pretty when you shine it up, but it’s still a penny.” She bit her lip, feeling rimmed by shadows of the past. Going to Tal would mean inflicting deeper cuts on old scars…and exposing her long-hidden heart—being Mary-Anne again. But Nick couldn’t know that: only Tal would ever know. She took a harsh breath, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “All right.”

He nodded, having expected no less. “This is going to be harder than you know.” He pulled a bundle of photos from a folder and passed them to her. “I kept more than his divorce out of that file I let you steal. I’ve kept a secret from you about Irish for the past fourteen months.”

Mekalong Island, Torres Strait

No time left! No time! The typhoon’s gonna knock them off the cliff shelf into the sea. There’s only one chance now! If I don’t get the kids into the bird in time—

Tal woke with a start and a hard, guttural curse.

Would he ever be able to put the memories behind him?

Rolling jerkily off the lounge, he laid a towel over the sweaty plastic before he resumed his position, hat over his eyes to block out the violent sunlight. Not bad, the deal Anson made with him. For the hardship of hiding out under an assumed name—finally being the beach bum pilot his cover had always been—he got a massive payout and all operations paid for, past, present or future. Only two left to go to finish the muscle layering on his leg, and one to inject more collagen and massive doses of vitamins beneath the slow-fading scars on his face.

After the last op, he’d be almost as good as new…ready to face Mum and Dad with his new look. He couldn’t go home yet. The folks had all been through enough with Kathy’s sickness and death. Sending a few postcards from nonexistent Navy ships in different “postings” was better than telling them the truth.

The squeaking sound of feet shuffling over the hot, creamy-white sand gave him thirty seconds’ warning. Someone was here. Time again for the stares, the sidelong looks and whispers. “The poor thing, he must have been so handsome once…”

To add another twist to the rack, the stranger had a CD player on—there was no radio station on this remote island—and of course, it was that song.

“‘I never thought we’d break up, at least not for good. When it came to goodbye, I never thought we would. But I was wrong about you, you found someone new, and you were wrong about me, I found someone too…’”

“Farewell Innocence.” Her song…perhaps their song. Would he ever know? The jackhammer hit his guts with the first wistful refrain. Words and voice, so strong and incredibly pure, woven together like the strands of harp and violin and transposed into human sound. Sheer perfection. There was no way in hell he’d ever forget that voice—or the girl who’d owned it.

Had they made a new version of the song, without background music? Seemed even more haunting without harmony. She sounded so scared, so lost. As she had ten years before when—

He couldn’t escape her, no matter where he went. Even without the constant dreams of her, with constant radio airplay of her nine worldwide hits from three albums, avoiding the memories was the impossible dream. Her first smash hit—“Farewell Innocence”—had taken up permanent residence inside him from the first time he’d heard it…wondering every time if she’d written about their life and his betrayal of her ten years ago.

Mary-Anne, oh, honey, it wasn’t like that!

The singing stopped the same time the foot-squeaking ended. “Hello, Tal. Nice shorts—more casual than the Flying Doctor, Navy or Nighthawk getup. You do get around, don’t you?”

Great, now he’d upgraded from dream to hallucination. Her songs did that: he’d spend the next few hours creating scenarios where they’d meet again. So many years wasted in insane hope, hearing her voice, turning around so damn fast he got dizzy only to meet emptiness, the darkness of ghosts taunting him.

She’d never come to him. They were both different people now. He sure as hell was different—as was she. A reversal of lives. The cruelest joke ever played on a man.

But it didn’t stop his body from lighting like a blowtorch, filling with instant heat, his heart bounding up into his throat with useless, stupid hope against hope. From praying that this time it would be real—it would be her, his Mary-Anne, standing in front of him, with that sweet, high-lipped smile of hers.

Can it, O’Rierdan. She’s never coming back to you.

“Well, I see you’re as rude as ever. Don’t you say hello to old friends anymore?”

Well, that was new to his reunion scenarios…. In his dreams she’d been furious, smacking him as he deserved, or running into his arms and kissing him senseless. But the gentle amusement in this voice confused the hell out of him. He really was losing it…

“Aunt Sheila would be ashamed of your manners—and Uncle Dal would clip your ear, boyo.”

He frowned, blinked slowly beneath his hat. He’d all but forgotten that silly joke of hers. “Mary-Anne?” he croaked.

“Either that or your worst nightmare, O’Rierdan.”

The silver-gold shimmer of laughter rocked his soul. Now that his prayers had finally come true—she was here—what did he do, yell at her for taking so long, or pin her beneath him and love her until he’d slaked half a lifetime of aching fantasy?

Uh-huh. One look at the scars on his face and leg and she’d be begging him. Yeah, that was gonna happen.

“G’day, Mary-Anne.” He didn’t have to lift his hat to see her: she was a tattoo burned on his brain, seared on his soul with a branding iron. She’d lived and breathed, gasped and moved beneath or above him in his dreams every night in hot, vivid color, since he was sixteen. He lifted his knees to hide his hard, primed body, ready for her to say the word. Man, he hurt already, and she’d only been here a minute. “So Anson’s bringing out the big guns to make me answer his summons? He must be desperate to convince you to come to me.” He heard the guttural rasp in his voice, the hot, essential male-to-female thrust-and-parry he’d only ever known on this gut-deep level with her.

Another soft ripple of laughter, full of heart and soul and fire. “That’s what I said, but even though we’ve never worked together, we both know Nick. Never say die.”

“Yeah.” He grinned beneath his hat. Man, he loved her laugh—almost as much as he’d loved the gentle touch of her silky-soft fingers on his skin, as innocent and sensual as the kisses they’d shared as boy and girl. The unbidden fantasy was so intense he almost felt the tender glide of her hands…the kisses so saturated in love they filled all the empty places inside.

Can it, O’Rierdan. It wasn’t going to happen—and he didn’t want her here, re-igniting hungers that he’d never explore. Who are you kidding? They’re in permanent ignition, ready to explode. “Tell him you tried. Want a drink before you go?”

He could hear the grin in her voice. “I’m booked in at the local B and B for three days, so cut the rude stunts. I outgrew being hurt at them by the time I was about twelve.”

Despite the roaring inside him, the exploding Molotov cocktail of fury at his life and her expected rejection, he chuckled. Ah, it felt so good to talk to her outside the bondage of sleep. Never, in all their long history, had she let any of his gauntlets lie unchallenged, defusing his quick rages with a smile. It was refreshing after a year of overdone kindness born of pity and the sidelong glances of people unable to handle imperfection. And having her finally here, with him in the flesh, made him feel like more of a man than he had in years.

And what good is that going to do me? He’d spend the whole time she was here in knife-edged, gut-gnawing hunger. Variety might be the spice of life, but right now this particular life had all the pepper it could handle.

So find out why she is here and get rid of her. Fast. “So spill. What does he want from me? Whatever it is, the answer’s no, but what the hell, I can listen for a few. Entertainment’s kinda self-made in these parts.”

He heard the shrug in her voice. “Sure. But I’d like that drink. In private. I’m booking your services for the afternoon.”

His laugh sounded rusty from disuse…and its feel-good release unleashed hungers he’d worked long and hard to lock away in darkness. Yet the response in kind came, dragged from him against his will. “Baby, watch your terminology. There could be a journo behind any shrub, if they know you’re here. I can see the headlines now. Verity West Writes A New Song. ‘I go for banged-up bush pilots and pay them for their services.’”

She laughed again, its pure sound vibrating with the serenity his soul had hungered to know the past ten years—yet he heard the stress beneath. So it wasn’t any easier for her to face him than it was for him to know she was here… “Well, at least I know you, and you’re my age.”

“I’m more attractive, too,” he remarked blithely, hiding his pounding heart. Mad, crazy—totally certifiable—but the hope wouldn’t go away. She didn’t say no or retreat behind embarrassed silence at the thought of being with him…

He heard the sorrow in her voice as she replied, “Nick only told me about your accident two days ago. If I’d known—”

Sudden cold rage made him grit his teeth. “Yeah, right. We both know you wouldn’t have come. Anson must’ve painted you into a corner to get you to come here. But it’s a good revenge, seeing Tallan O’Rierdan, walking freak show, huh?”

“Oh, grow up, Tal,” she snapped.

His hat suddenly flew over the sand, leaving his unprotected face exposed to her gaze. Refusing to back down, he stared up at her, blinking against the harshness of the hot sun and its silver reflections off the water and bright sand all around. “Well?” He knew what she’d see: the destruction of the face women once compared to a blond-haired, brown-eyed, living angel.

Yeah, right. An angel with pink puckered scars down the left side of his face, perfect on the right. Sorta like those half-man, half-woman carnival freaks people used to pay to gawk at in horrified fascination.

Come on, Mary-Anne, do it. Gulp. Cry. Turn away. Just do it and get the hell away from me!

But he couldn’t drag his gaze from her. Oh man, she was more beautiful in real life than in her promo and society shots, or even his most erotic dreams. Her vivid, wildly curling hair fell free, tumbling over her shoulder blades and full, sweet breasts. Her face glowed pale and soft-freckled in the tropical sun, dominated by a sweet, high-lipped pink mouth, sleepy cat’s eyes and a delicately wide jaw, lending feminine character and strength to a pretty face: the vividness and fire she’d once had in abundance beneath her shyness. She wore a loose tie-up flowered cloth as a skirt and a sapphire-blue bikini—striking against her silky skin, glowing hair and eyes. A floppy straw hat half fell over her face, flat sandals on her feet. A smudge of zinc cream covered her pert nose to stop further freckling.

Lovely. Entrancing. His girl as he’d always wanted her, fat or thin, shy recluse or world-famous ice queen, because she’d never been an iceberg for him. Just natural, unadorned, innocent Mary-Anne, who took in all strays and came out of her habitual hiding with both guns blazing to take a passionate stand for the rights of any underdogs she took into her heart.

His girl, as God made her.

And true to form, her direct gaze stayed right where it was, traveling from his eyes to his messed-up cheek and back again. “Did you think Nick would send me to you without showing me the pictures first? He might be hard, but he’s not a sadist.” Her face softened then. “He wouldn’t hurt you after what you’ve already been through, Tal. And neither would I.”

It took all he had to not grit his teeth. “Thanks, but you can leave the pity at the front door,” he drawled.

“Pity? For what?” Her slumberous eyes blazed with the flaming aliveness that had always made her a goddess in his eyes, no matter what her weight happened to be at the time. “You chose your path, like all of us did when we joined the Nighthawks—I’m sorry you’ve paid the price for your dreams, but you did what you love best. Yes, I hurt for what happened to you, but I don’t pity you—and why would I hate you for marrying Ginny? There were no promises between us, just a lot of dreams on my part.” She sighed. “And even if Nick hadn’t shown me the pictures, I never had hang-ups about physical perfection. I was a nurse—and with my childhood, I can’t afford to judge people by their looks. I’m not Ginny. You should always have known that.”

The mention of his ex-wife released a store of anger buried deep beneath lazy mockery for months. “Oh, I don’t know. You both did a runner when life didn’t work out the way you wanted.”

She tilted her head, utter perplexity now mingled with the dark flash in her eyes. “What reason would I have to hang around home, except my parents? I had college to finish, a job in the city, friends, someone to love me.” Her hands fluttered up. “We used to be best friends, Tal. I thought you’d be happy for me.”

She spoke the words with genuine confusion, but they hit him like a careless blow right to the gut, and his heart—what was left of it. That was the crux of it: he’d never spoken the words. All the promises he’d wanted to give her remained locked inside a boy’s heart, filled with dreams of their future. His father’s son, all right. He’d never had the gift of the gab like Kathy, who’d been the only O’Rierdan to escape the family’s introverted, take-it-on-the-chin genetics.

The name jabbed at him, an uppercut he took in silence with the other blows life punched out. His cute, funny little sister was gone and he’d lost Mary-Anne, the only girl who’d just—

No use thinking, or feeling. He heaved to his feet. “You’re right. I was happy for you. Okay, I’m yours for the afternoon, for the minimal fee of one hundred dollars per hour including tax.” He picked up his Akubra, jamming it over his head—keeping one side of his face in shadow.

“You know, you could earn that much an hour working as a doctor—or back in Search And Rescue with the Nighthawks—and you’d get a lot more job satisfaction,” she said softly.

He wheeled around on her, his throat burning like the sudden prickling heat behind his eyelids. Damn it, didn’t she know he had to fight the longing every day? “Don’t go there.” His voice was harsh and as tortured as a crow in a bird-catcher’s trap. “I’m not coming back. Anson can go to hell.”

“Why, you want him to join you?” She stood him down, defiant, lovely in radiant emotion, and, like a flicked switch, a compass turned north, he was where he needed to be, with her—and it turned him on even more. “So it seems your lifelong hatred of self-pity suddenly looks good from the other side of the fence?”

He almost flinched, remembering his careless, thoughtless, get-over-it remarks about her size—then he understood. The unaccustomed gibes were deliberate, designed to make him think, feel—and fight back. “Call it self-pity if you like. I call it accepting life as it is.” He took a few steps. No hiding the limp. No exaggerating. “SAR operatives run, free-fall out of choppers, climb down cliffs and belay into caves. They climb trees to hide from the enemy and drop out of them to attack. I’m what you might call ‘out of shape.’ I don’t do that anymore.”

He finally obtained his first objective: she turned away.

In the awkwardness of sudden silence, laughter filtered from the other end of the beach from kids splashing, families playing together in the tropical warmth of the late-summer day. The scent of frangipani and fallen coconuts filled the air. It was picture-perfect, a secluded tropical paradise, and she was finally here—yet he felt so damn alone. Aching, needing to reach out, to have the sweetness of contact with her for the first time in more years than he could count.

She tugged at an errant curl dancing in the warm breeze. “So you’re just giving up? Leaving the life behind that once meant everything to you?”

The darkness unleashed…the trembling started deep inside, the damn-fool useless longing to go back. All he’d ever wanted was to be a doctor, to help those in desperate need.

The flash of agony ripped through his leg, the faceless enemy, the constant reminder that his life was over.

He had to get out of here before he fell down.

He tipped up her face, denying the searing heat that raced through him with the simple touch. He couldn’t afford to think about it. “Don’t go there,” was all he said—but even he heard the anguish, the need, and he didn’t have a clue which need it was right now, to have his life back or to have her.

Didn’t matter: his dreams were gone and he couldn’t have them back. He dropped his hand, ready to run.

Limp, his mind corrected in sardonic self-mockery.

The tender touch on his face halted him with the force of a Mack truck. She’d always had that way with her; her power all the stronger because she had no idea what she did to him. “Tal,” she whispered, holding him captive with warmth and caring. “Don’t go. Please.”

He turned his face back to hers and aching hunger ripped through him: the need to fall inside her arms, lips and body—and just maybe, lost inside her, he’d find himself once again.

“We’ll talk tomorrow.” Desperate, his voice sounded thready now, weakening under the relentless jagged hell in his thigh.

He couldn’t face her like this. When he could walk again—when he’d got his head together, drowned the roaring need under the force of a few cold showers—he’d feel more in control.

“All right.” Then both hands touched him, cupping his face. Her silky-soft fingers trailed over his scars, unconsciously erotic on the exquisitely sensitive skin. “You didn’t lose it all. Dreams change shape. You can still help. You can be so much more than you are now.” And the soft brush of her mouth on his shocked him to the core. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He swallowed down the ball of hot gravel in his throat. What a man—he wanted her like hell, but could barely stay on his feet. He couldn’t stand for her to see— “Just go, okay?”

As if she knew, she dropped her hands. “Okay. But we have to talk. Consider your services hired for tomorrow—all day.”

With a massive effort, he grinned. “I’ll look forward to that, Miss West.”

Already walking away, she flicked a strange, intense look over her shoulder. “I hope you still feel the same when you know what services the world requires from you—Dr. O’Rierdan.”

When she’d gone, he grabbed the walking stick he kept hidden behind the deck chair near the wooden shack he called his home-office. Gritting his teeth, he hobbled slowly into his cabin. As soon as he was inside he fell to the bed, pulling his legs up, fighting the fisted knuckle-punches gutting him from the inside, from thigh to groin. When he could finally pull it together, he rolled to the bedside table and grabbed the full syringe he kept there and injected his leg, right beside the scars.

He forced himself to lie flat on the bed, waiting for relief. He only took enough to take the edge off, never often enough to get addicted. But when it came, he had two choices: this or puke and pass out where he landed. If he was flying when the pain hit, he settled for a local anesthetic until he got back here.

At least he had a choice today: he could feel sorry for himself or think about why Mary-Anne was here…why she’d gotten mad with him, why she’d touched him—kissed him.

Could it be that maybe, just maybe, beneath the cool, controlled, icy Verity West persona that she presented to the world, his Mary-Anne—lovely Mary-Anne, so sweet and caring, so fiery and passionate as she’d only been with him—still existed? And if she did, maybe…God help him for even hoping—

Don’t think. Don’t go through this. She’ll be gone soon, back to her latest album or concert or high-society party, and your life will go back to crap.

Yet as he drifted into restless sleep he knew that, no matter why she’d come to him or what happened after, life was going to be a hell of a lot more interesting this week than it had been over the past fourteen months.