“She did what she could,” I mumble, even though I know that’s a lie. I’m too lost in the way his nose is
skimming my shoulder and neck, my skin erupting with goosebumps. The hand that was in my hair now
trailing down my naked arm and wrist and back up. He’s a clever one with all his seductive ways.
Lulling me into a sense of soft security, teasing my body so I’ll open up to him. I don’t have the energy
to fight it, I’m his captive when he touches me this way.
“She didn’t stop bringing men around her child, Miele.” His voice takes on a hoarseness and I stiffen.
I’ve told myself this, a million times over and over. He’s not saying anything I don’t already know, yet, it
still hurts like he’s thrust a knife into my chest; to hear someone else say it.
“Why did you leave Chicago? Leave her?” his voice has deepened, his hands trailing down my arms
and up again, leaving gentle tingles on the surface. His face back in my hair, releasing me a little. I
want to melt into him, let him do with my body as he pleases. His touch sending searing pleasure
wherever it lands, my eyes still closed and lost in sensation. For once the doubts sliding away. He’s
bewitching me to open up and I’m completely lost to him.
“I needed to walk away from all of it … I needed to save myself because no one else was going to.” A
tear courses down my cheek while saying it out loud for the first time. It’s bittersweet, yet I sound so
pathetic. Heart gnawing with pain.
“I think you need to talk to someone about all of this, Emma … a counselor … I could …”
My eyes snap open and I jerk away instantly, spinning to glare at him angrily. My mood changing with
those simple words that wound me deeply and ignite a fire all over again.
“Not a goddamn chance.” I spit, all venom returned, defensive and lashing out. “I’m not fucking crazy!”
“Emma, that isn’t what I said,” his voice is one of surprise at my reaction, he attempts to put his arms
around me again, but I hold out a hand, stopping him. Brimming with fury. He stays back, wariness in
his narrowed eyes, my anger spilling out like a burst dam.
“Don’t, okay … You wanted to know … Now you know, and that’s the end of it.” The strength is back in
my voice … PA Emma has returned, and I stalk past him toward the car signaling the end. I can’t look
at him, my eyes are drying now, and that steel wall building back up, I’m gaining control again.
To be looked at like some broken mental case is too much. I don’t need a shrink. I need him to stop
prying.
“Don’t do that,” he snaps accusingly, following me back to the car, close on my heels; he grabs my arm
to turn me, but I yank it away.
He thinks I need therapy! He thinks I’m some broken, pathetic girl with emotional issues, and he’s
wondering why I’m pissed. I knew this was a bad idea, I knew he would see me differently the more he
knew.
“Do what?” I yell, deliberately looking anywhere but him to get away. He grabs my arm again and tugs
me around to face him harshly, this time succeeding.
“Don’t shut me out again … Clamp down like you always do … Not after everything … I’m sick to death
of this never-ending fucking circle.” He rages at me. Fire meeting fire.
“I didn’t want to tell you … You just keep pushing.” I wrench my arm away, and I’m back in fight mode,
ready to push it all back into the black box in my head and act like it never happened.
“Let’s go back to the boat. I’m hungry and I’m tired.” I spit. I didn’t know I could sound so cool, amid the
sea of emotions swirling around my head. Sending a very loud and clear message that this
conversation is over. He lifts his hands as if he’s going to choke me and grits his teeth, his eyes burn,
and he paces away from me again, cursing and raging into the open air. I ignore him. I walk to the car
and get in, slamming my door and buckling up in stony-faced silence.
Eventually, he angrily slides into the car and I can tell he’s given up, he knows it’s pointless. My mask is
well and truly back in place and even though his mood is coming off him in aggressive droves, he
doesn’t look my way.
“Conversation fucking over!” he mutters to himself and thins his lips; he’s angry. He’s sulking. I don’t
care; I don’t want to do this. I glare at him then turn away, to stare out of the window as he turns the car
in the road and heads back to where we came from at a neck breaking speed that makes me uneasy,
but I bite my tongue and say nothing.
We don’t talk as we drive; he turns up the stereo loud, indicating he won’t attempt it and I try and relax
into my seat. Pretend to anyway. Hard to do when you’re being driven around winding cliffs by a
maniac in a temper, with a sports car at his command.
His hand tugs mine out of my hair angrily, biting pain with it and I throw him another furious glare.
“Stop fucking doing that!” he barks over the music, eyes glinting.
Nice.
“That hurt.” I snap, reaching out to turn it down again. I touch my head where I yanked my own hair
painfully, almost out at the root.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He’s talking through gritted teeth, glaring even though he’s apologizing. “I’m
sorry.”
“I don’t know why it bothers you so much.” I spit at him childishly. “I don’t know I’m doing it.”
“It bothers me because it’s a sign that you’re anxious … That you’re nervous or upset … I don’t like it.”
He retorts with that same pissed tone and bad mood.
“Oh, so you want me to unleash vulnerable Emma, but only if she doesn’t act nervous or anxious …
Makes so much sense.” I seethe. He glares at me, his jaw tensing, fury meeting fury. The sizzle of
static between us causing the air to crackle. He turns away and focuses on the road, gripping the wheel
so hard I’m sure it’s going to come off.
I hope it hits him square in the face.
The journey back to the boat is silent and quick.
Helps when your driver thinks he’s Schumacher.
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