Finding Zoe (Atlantic Divide) (9 page)

“Mac…”

Using her hair, he jerked her away from him again, his eyebrows slammed down over his dangerously glittering eyes.

“Go.”

Hands on her shoulders, he whirled her around and shoved her body toward the closed door.

Her fingers fumbled for the latch, the door burst open, and her feet flew down the steps as she raced toward her Jeep and the protection of the kids.

*

Weakened, he sat with his head in his hands, breathing slow and deep. He felt as though he’d just been pushed off the goddamn cooling tower again. Only this time he’d leaped willingly. He closed his eyes, dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, and groaned. The woman had the power to wrench the oxygen from his lungs.

Who would have thought after all these years she would have still had that effect on him? Huffing out a breath, Mac looked up, glanced around him at the plush trailer, and wondered what the hell he was going to do. He’d thought to simply grab her for a moment, punish her a little for putting him through it with the kids, making him feel like a little schoolboy. She certainly hadn’t treated him like one, and he’d never guessed she would respond so passionately. She was like an unexploded bomb waiting to go off, but he’d had no inclination to run. When she’d shoved her hand down his pants and encircled him, he was the one who’d almost gone off like a rocket.

The pulse at the base of his throat still hammered loud and clear, drowning out the sounds of all reason at the thought of Zoe’s clever fingers. She’d always had power over him, even when they’d first met.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Bright sunlight reflected off the pond, searing his eyes as he squinted at the figure on the jetty. His heart soared, his pulse raced. She was there, her bright, red hair reflecting the sun, tossing shards of brilliant golds and reds to flirt around her head.

Joy and trepidation danced together through his veins as he raced down the hill from the old farmhouse, casting a quick glance to check if her parents’ car was there.

His pace slowed as he approached. She turned her head, her unusual eyes smiled into his. She patted the blue and green tartan rug, waved her hand at a picnic basket, and spoke. He had no idea what she said as he lowered himself onto the rug, the buzzing in his head over-powered all other sounds. His breath caught in his throat as she came to her knees in front of him, rested her cool, slender fingers on his shoulders, and smiled.

“Mac.” Her soft, cultured voice found its way through at last. “My parents are out for the day.” She placed her soft lips against his and rubbed them innocently across his mouth, down to his chin, and along his jawline in sweet, pecking kisses to his ear.

“I want to…” she whispered.

Resisting the surge of youthful hormones, Mac lay back, pulled her body on top of his, and let her investigate. Heated by the summer sun and the first flush of love, he closed his eyes as she opened his shirt and planted honeyed kisses along his chest.

Wanting more, he rolled on top of her; his heart stumbled as he met her eyes. Wide and innocent, her eyelashes fluttered over them, her elegant fingers traced his ear, sending shivers racing through his veins as she slid her hand to the back of his head and brought his mouth down to meet hers.

Sweet intoxication consumed him as his hands filled with her, making short work of relieving her of her skimpy shorts and T-shirt. Tiny pink panties were her only protection, and as he skimmed his hot lips across her small, pert breasts, he persuaded the little slip of pink material off her too. He paused to listen to her stunned, innocent gasp while his fingers found their way into her tight, wet center, sending shock waves shuddering through her into him as he drowned in her.

Forgetting her innocence, forgetting everything, he moved fast and desperate, shedding his own clothes. Heart swelling, head pounding, his eyes held hers as he pushed deep inside her.

“Zoe…”

Surging to his feet as pain tore through his chest, scorching his heart, Mac paced the short distance across the trailer and back again, his hands tearing at his hair. He wasn’t over her. He’d never gotten over her. He never would.

Where in hell did it leave him?

* * * *

Staring into the eyes of his makeup artist, Janet, as she smoothed moisturizer over his skin and applied foundation, he idly wondered about the irritated twitch of her eyebrows as she concentrated on the glide of her makeup brush over his forehead. Tired of being pampered, he sighed as she paused, stared closely at him, and then leaned back to summon the senior makeup artist over.

“Pierre. Come and have a look at this.”

Pierre came to stare hard at an area on his forehead. His shocked little gasp didn’t cause much of a stir; there was always some kind of panic going on. He’d probably developed an eyebrow hair that needed plucking. Mac rolled his eyes.

“What?”

As the man silently drew closer, Mac had the urge to tweak his nose, but Pierre’s look of concern started to worry him as he fluttered his hand and then pressed his fingers firmly against his pursed lips as he continued to inspect Mac’s forehead closely.

“Mr. Blunt. You have a wrinkle. Right…here!” Pierre poked him with a sharp fingernail right between the eyes, and it was a good thing the director leaned in to have a look and saved the man’s life.

“Cormack, you have a goddamned line from frowning too much…bring a mirror.” A mirror was instantly shoved into Mac’s hands as half a dozen makeup artists leaned in for a closer inspection.

“We need Botox.”

“I’m not having goddamned Botox.” He almost leaped out of his chair, but the director’s firm hand kept him there.

“You need it. Halfway through the film and a line appears, it’s going to ruin continuity.”

Janet approached with latex gloves and a ready-prepared needle.

“Jesus Christ.”

He managed to leap up this time, ready to run. No one was going to hold him down. “I’m not having a fucking injection in my head; now get the fucking needle away from me.”

Unaccustomed to abuse from Cormack Blunt—known as the gentleman of movie stars—various looks of surprise, shock, and admiration were thrown his way. Mac divested himself of the white protective tissues surrounding his throat and threw them onto the vacated chair. The director frowned. “Cormack…”

“No!”

“Okay, we’ll have to do some film touch-ups afterward to make sure it doesn’t show.” When the director’s eyes met Mac’s, he was deadly serious. “You need to stop frowning.” He scanned the surrounding crowd and flicked his hand authoritatively, as though he’d just personally averted a major crisis. “Back to work, people, panic over.”

There was no goddamned panic in the first place; he just wasn’t having a needle shoved in his head, or his ass, or any other place they thought they needed to shove one.

* * * *

“Zoe, I just wanted to tell you, you’ve given me a frickin’ wrinkle.”

“I?…What?”

“A goddamned wrinkle.”

“Mac?” puffing out a breath, Zoe held the phone away from her head and glared at it. Slapping it back against her ear, she growled down it. “Mac? Why are you phoning me at the surgery?”

“Huh?”

“Mac! How did you get this number?”

“I asked. Someone got it.”

She rolled her eyes; the man was impossible and they treated him like a god. He wasn’t a god; he was only a lowly action hero. No, definitely not a god, only the biggest star in the universe. She breathed in, nice and slow, and used the side of her fork to shave another bite of carrot cake from the slice in front of her.

“What do you want?” She opened her mouth and popped the cake in, groaning quietly to herself with pleasure. She couldn’t think of anything nicer. Well she could, but Mac was on the other end of the phone.

“I told you. It’s your fault. I’ve developed a wrinkle on my forehead overnight. They want to inject me with Botox.”

She sucked air in through her teeth and nearly choked as a crumb flew down her throat.

“Zoe? Are you there?”

“Yes.” She forced the sound through her closed throat, tears formed in her eyes, and she thought if she died on the end of the phone, Mac would only be annoyed because she wasn’t listening to him anymore. Then she tried not to giggle. She never giggled, it was stupid and childish, but he made her act like a teenager.

She coughed and cleared the obstruction.

“You don’t want to let anyone near your face with a needle, Mac. It’s going to hurt.”

“That’s what I told them.”

“Okay. Good. So, what would you like me to do about it?”

“Nothing…God, Zoe, I just wanted you to know.”

This was the third phone call he’d made to her over the past couple of days, just to let her know little things like what Ryan and he had been doing or were going to do. The previous two were on her home number. Now he’d managed to track her down at work too.

Rapidly losing patience with him for telephoning and herself for being pleased he had, she smacked the telephone three times against the table.

“What in hell’s name is that?” he yelled.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m trying to dissect a bullock.”

“Uck. Not a nice job, but what’s the noise?”

“It’s the meat cleaver; I have to use it to get through the bone. You know, rather than saw it; I have to…
chop
it.”

“Jesus Christ, Zoe, you’re sick. I have to go.”

“Of course you do.”

She replaced the phone, sat back, and forked another piece of cake into her smiling mouth.

She was fooling herself if she thought she could avoid him any longer. It wasn’t fair. To her, her dad, Mac, or Ryan. It was stupid. She’d manipulated her workdays so she was absent when he arrived, and her father had said nothing. In his quiet, diplomatic way, he’d allowed her to do what she wanted, but it wasn’t healthy. For any of them.

She’d abided by the rules and made sure she stayed out of his way. But it was Mac. He kept phoning her. Initially it was on the days he had seen Ryan to give her an update, but now he seemed to be tracking her down wherever she was and whatever time of the day suited him.

She needed to sort things out with him. And not just over the phone. It was too easy for him to get away from her. Every time she tried to have a serious conversation with him, he found an excuse to hang up. The best way was to go and see him. Without letting Ryan know.

Uncomfortable she’d actually considered telling her dad a lie, she stared at herself in the mirror. She’d thought to tell him she was meeting a couple of her girlfriends for a drink, maybe something to eat, but the lie had stuck like a claw in her throat and nearly choked her. But when she’d told him she was going to meet Mac, she’d wished she’d been able to lie. His steady, wise gaze made her want to run and hide.

She’d changed her clothes three times, and now she looked at herself critically. Pale blue blouse, slim-fitting jeans, and gold sandals. Waist-length hair, loose, curling madly to frame her pale face in a cloud of red. He used to love it when she wore it loose. Sighing, she turned away from the mirror and considered tying her hair back.

She was supposed to be going to sort him out, not turn him on.

* * * *

She knocked on the trailer door. Waited. Her heart hammered. Perhaps she should have phoned first. Impatient, she rapped her knuckles against the door again, louder, and then stepped back feeling foolish. He had obviously gone back to the hotel.

The door swung open, and there he stood in a pair of faded denim shorts and nothing else. His charcoal-black hair gleamed wet and dense. Droplets of water scattered across his shoulders and dribbled down his chest.

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as her eyes traced a single teardrop while it drizzled a lazy line down the center of his chest, over his glowing tawny skin, gathering speed as it raced farther down to his muscular belly to be sucked into the denim material resting low-slung on his hips.

Her gaze trailed lower and paused for a moment where the bulge in his shorts appeared to expand. Small, shuddering breaths jerked in through her lungs as her gaze tracked still farther, down the long length of his thick muscular thighs and bulging calves, onward to his long, slim, naked feet.

“Did you want something?” Her eyes shot up to meet his gleaming obsidian ones. He raised one arm and leaned it negligently across the top of the doorway, exposing the tender underside of his arm and stretching his chest muscles out for her delectation. One quizzical black eyebrow rose as he perused her.

Swallowing, she tried to open her mouth to speak, gulping uncontrollably. Jesus, he was beautiful. So beautiful her eyes ached, and she could feel the violent throbbing in every pulse in her body.

He adjusted his stance, waiting for her to reply. Every muscle in his body flexed, and it occurred to her he knew exactly what position to stand in to give a woman the best view; it was his profession to look hot. And boy, was he hot.

Panic slid in, insidious and sly. What in hell’s name was she doing there? She had no right. He was no longer the man he had been eleven years ago. She’d been burned then. She was going to get incinerated this time.

She bit her bottom lip. Shaking her head, she backed away from him, a cold sliver of fear skimming up her spine as his expression darkened. She could feel the prickle of tears behind her eyes. Panic bloomed and had her breath backed up so hard in her throat she thought she might simply expire.

His arms dropped to his side; his eyes narrowed.

She whirled. Ran.

Faster than she could ever have believed a man of his size could move, within three short steps he’d caught her around the waist. She kicked her legs furiously as he hauled her thrashing body off the ground; her foot connected with his thigh, sending a sharp pain buzzing through her ankle, but she had the small pleasure of hearing him grunt. His solid arm banded around her, easily holding her to his damp, naked chest as he hefted her through the doorway of the trailer.