One Summer At The Beach: Pleasured by the Secret Millionaire / Not-So-Perfect Princess / Wedding at Pelican Beach. Melissa McCloneЧитать онлайн книгу.
overanalyse. Maybe she shouldn’t even try to make sense of what was happening, of the secret desires rising in her. All the things she couldn’t, shouldn’t have.
Frustrated, she looked about the room. Write anything to break through it. Describe the damn curtains. And so she did. Putting order into her mind by describing the room she sat in. Ignoring the important things—like whose room it was and what she was doing in it wrapped in one of his shirts and nothing else. Trying to block out the melancholy that came when bliss was followed by uncertainty.
He’d said he wanted to make love to her, called her his girl. But these were just words—the soft nothings of pillow talk. This was the man who still couldn’t seem to talk. Who was still so reticent and guarded—despite having invited her into his personal domain. Why didn’t he trust her? What had happened that made him stay so locked up? She longed to break through to him. She knew she shouldn’t, she was getting too involved, but how she wanted to. You always wanted what you couldn’t have.
In his dream her belly was gently rounded. She put a hand to it, her secret smile teasing him. Then her belly was swollen tight and she sat naked, her breasts full, nipples darkening with maternal maturity. His body tensed with longing. His child. His family. Indescribable satisfaction surged through him.
But in that flash the picture fled. Suddenly it was images of the hospital speeding through his brain—medications and operations and tubes and beeps. And then it wasn’t Sienna on the table, but a kid.
He snapped back. No. No. No! The sound of his own voice jerked Rhys awake. He took a couple of deep breaths. Pressed his hands to his eyes, keeping them closed. Not real. The sweat rapidly cooled, leaving him chilled. He tried to rationalise.
Rhys the clinician knew if ever she was pregnant it could be managed. Yes, there were higher risks, but nothing that medication and good care couldn’t handle. And, yes, there was the chance that a heart condition might be passed on to her child. The chance was small but it was there.
Rhys the man couldn’t handle even the smallest risk. Rhys didn’t want to sit uselessly and suffer while his loved ones suffered.
Suddenly his arms ached with emptiness. He reached out to touch her, sat up sharply as his hand encountered the cold, empty sheet. The loss stabbed. How could he give to her if one day he woke to find her gone?
His heart thumped a wild tattoo. Then he saw the faint light coming through the hall. He slipped from the bed and pulled on boxers. Quietly he moved, unable to stop suspicion rising. She was huddled in his favourite chair, her head bent, scribbling in her journal. What details was she recording?
He stood in the shadow. Uncomfortable—with what had happened, with the crazy way his mind was messing with him, with what she was doing. How little he knew of her. Was she another Mandy? Was she transcribing their every word so she could sell it on? Rhys needed privacy. He needed to keep those deepest and darkest desires and secrets well hidden so he could keep their impact under control. But he’d just slipped up. He’d wanted to make up for his lie, but he’d given far more of himself than he’d intended. She’d slipped under his barriers. Had she known? He needed to back-pedal. Needed to get this back to the casual fling it had started as.
‘What are you writing?’
She looked up and guilt flashed all over her face. ‘Nothing.’
He hesitated. He could hardly demand to read it. He had to go on trust. He wasn’t so good with that. ‘You should be in bed.’
Get her back in bed, where he could keep an eye on her. She’d admitted she hadn’t intended anything serious from this affair. He needed to think the same. Put it in the physical box and keep it there. No more questions, no more depth. No thoughts to a future that could leave him wide open to a level of pain he knew he couldn’t handle.
She should be in bed? What was his angle—because he wanted her or because he was concerned for her? The last thing Sienna needed was another doctor. Scenes from the tapas bar tumbled back—the way he’d wanted her to eat, the way he’d tried to take her pulse, the fact he’d gone through her bag to find her medication. He couldn’t help himself. Being a doctor was as much a part of him as his legs were. If this continued into a relationship he’d be mollycoddling her as badly as Neil had. She should walk. Go back to the hostel. Stop before the disappointment hit—inevitable as it was.
But his attraction was irresistible. He had such strength. She wanted to borrow some. And she also wanted to break through it, to whatever it was he was so fiercely protecting. She only had another couple of days in Sydney anyway. Live now.
But as he flopped back onto the bed and pulled her onto him, she wished for the carefree romp they’d enjoyed at the hostel. This was getting heavy, he was starting to matter too much and he was so far wrong for her. But while the joy he brought was so unimaginable, so indescribable, she just couldn’t say no.
They spent most of the next morning lazing, testing each other’s general knowledge by reading the questions from a trivia board game. Not bothering with the actual rules. Conversation stayed safe and simple. They shared favourite movies, favourite songs, most embarrassing moments. He joked, teased and laughed. She joked, teased and laughed. And all the while she knew she was finally getting the truth from him, but still not getting to the heart of him. The scar was key. She saw the way he sometimes rubbed at it. The way he avoided any mention of it.
She thought of her airport trek tomorrow. Hell, her backpack was still at the hostel, padlocked shut but still vulnerable under her bunk in the dorm room. While Rhys was in the bedroom she found the phone and called Curtis on Reception. Got him to put it in the secure room for her. Fobbed off his attempt at chit-chat and enquiries as to what she was up to.
‘Who were you talking to?’
She spun, surprised at the accusatory tone in Rhys’ voice.
‘The hostel. I just got Curtis to lock my pack away for me.’
‘Oh.’ He walked across the room, tightened the blinds, keeping them wide enough for light to come in but for the world outside to be blurry.
Sienna couldn’t stand it any more. Skirting around issues wasn’t something she was good at. She was good at getting people to talk, and she wasn’t going to have Rhys, someone who actually mattered, be her only failure.
She even had a plan. His bathroom was magnificent and already they’d spent quite some time investigating how much hot water was in the cylinder—lazing for hours under the shower. So in the late afternoon she suggested they return there. This time when she went in she eyed the double basins and twin towel racks with mock disfavour. ‘You entertain here often?’
‘No.’ He grinned. ‘I told you I like my privacy. I don’t tend to have people over much.’
‘I’m honoured.’
He laughed. ‘You are not.’
‘No, I am, Rhys. You letting me in here.’ She shot him a not-so-innocent look from under her lashes. ‘You must trust me.’
His smile remained on his mouth but his eyes went wary. ‘Maybe a little.’
‘How much?’ She walked towards him. ‘How much do you trust me?’
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