Zoe and the Tormented Tycoon (5 page)

Yet she said none of it, despite the pressure building inside her, in her chest and behind her eyes. She blinked away the sting of tears she hadn't expected and when Max kissed her again, his hands skimming her body, learning all of its curves and dips and secret places, she gave herself up to the sweet oblivion and let the words—and the thoughts, the fears—trickle away…at least for now.

Afterwards Max lay on his back, Zoe resting in the curve of his arm, her slender body curled towards the shelter of his. A tendril of her hair tickled his nose, and he breathed in that now-familiar scent of rose water. Shampoo, he surmised, and smiled.

He wasn't used to smiling, not a real smile anyway, and he wasn't accustomed to feeling this good. His body hummed with sleepy satiation, his limbs languid and heavy, and he felt, for the moment, utterly replete.

How strange.

For weeks—since that moment on the plane when his world had gone totally, terrifyingly black—he'd felt as if he were missing something. Losing something, bit by bit, so his body and his soul and his tormented mind all hungered for it, cried out for it.

Yet now, amazingly, he felt as if he'd been given something. He felt full. Blessed, even.

Ridiculous.

He heard Zoe give a little sigh and knew she was asleep; her head was heavy on his arm. He had no intention of sleeping himself, no desire to surrender to the weakness of dreams, or have Zoe see him in such a humiliatingly vulnerable state.

Carefully he extracted himself and rolled to a sitting position, his feet flat on the floor. The clothes were scattered haphazardly, and it took a moment for him to find his boxers. He pulled them on and then oriented himself by the foot of the bed; it was six steps to the door to the terrace.

Outside, the air had turned chilly and damp, and a breeze blew over him, cooling his heated skin. Ten steps to the railing; in the darkness he could make out very little, and he made a note to have all the terrace furniture removed. He'd hardly need it, as he doubted he'd spend much time out here.

Do you ever grow tired of the view?

No, he never had. He'd lost it before he had the chance.

Max closed his eyes.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
He didn't know if the voice inside his head was his own or his father's. No point in whining, regretting. Just get on with it. Get on with living.

Yet this didn't feel like living. This, he acknowledged starkly, felt like slowly dying. Yet even as this realization dawned, another followed closely on its heels.

What had happened in there, with Zoe—just Zoe—hadn't felt like dying. That had been life in its purest, most elemental form. He'd never experienced a night like that with a woman before, and he'd had plenty of nights. Plenty of women. Yet never had he felt so attuned with another person before, moving truly as one flesh.

Or was he just romanticising a tawdry encounter, imbuing it with more meaning that it actually had because he knew he would not have another night like it? He couldn't hide his encroaching blindness forever, couldn't keep the darkness at bay. The doctor had given him months, perhaps only weeks. Perhaps, Max thought as he struggled to identify the Chrysler Tower amidst the blurred shapes of the Manhattan skyline, only days.

And then what? What could his future possibly look like, what shape could it take?

He had no idea, couldn't imagine the suffocating darkness all the time, endlessly blindfolded. Just the thought of it made his chest hurt as he fought back the encroaching panic. At least now he had some visibility, some light. Some sanity.

He turned away from the view he couldn't really see. He would allow Zoe to sleep until morning, and then she would have to go. There was no point in her staying. Not that she would even want to stay; it had been clear to both of them what this night was…simply that, a night.

He took ten steps to the door, another six to the bed. From the light outside he could see the golden halo of her hair spread on the pillow, the pale, bare shoulder above the ink-coloured sheet.

She was a shallow, spoiled socialite. Every indication proved that assessment true. No matter what she had said, nights like these were simply par for the course. So why did the thought of her walking away in the morning feel like a punch straight to the gut?

To the heart?

Gently, so gently she didn't even stir, he slid his hand along her shoulder, across her cheek, feeling—seeing—her for the last time. His hand stilled as his thumb brushed moisture clinging to her lashes.

A tear?

Why would a woman like her—a spoiled socialite—be crying?

Regret and guilt bit at him. He knew he was dismissing her; he knew he needed to.

To believe she was more, could be more to him, was both dangerous and pointless.

They had no future together.

They couldn't.

Max let his hand fall away and stretched out next to her, making sure not to brush against the inviting warmth of her body. He lay there, staring sightlessly ahead, waiting for sleep to come. He both hated and craved sleep, for while it granted oblivion, it also meant darkness and dreams.

More darkness.

Z
OE
woke slowly to sunlight, felt it stream over her sheet-covered body and warm her face. She kept her eyes closed, enjoying the warmth as she stretched slowly, languorously, the satin sheet cool against her bare skin.

She was naked.

In an instant the memories rushed back, tumbling through her mind, making her smile. Her body still hummed with satisfaction; her heart felt full.

Last night
… Last night had been wonderful.

She opened her eyes; sunlight streamed in from the wall of windows, bathing the room in cheerful morning light, slanting golden shafts across the empty bed.

Max was gone.

Zoe was surprised it had taken her this long to realise it; his absence was enormous, as if there was a great jagged hole next to her instead of an empty expanse of navy satin. Slowly she pulled the sheet around her, tucking it firmly across her breasts. Still, it trailed across the floor, and as she stepped over her scattered garments from last night she almost considered pulling them on, but then couldn't bear to do such a thing, for somehow—unreasonably perhaps—it relegated last night to something tawdry and temporary, and she didn't think it was.

Hoped it wasn't.

Was she simply being naive?

Last night she'd wanted to forget who she was, what she was, in Max's arms. She had, and amazingly, she'd woken feeling new. Different.

In Max's arms she'd felt whole. Healed.

Loved.

Now she realised she was being ridiculous. She barely knew the man; he certainly didn't know her,
just
Zoe. Could one night—one amazing night—really change that?

Zoe slipped into the living room, the morning light making the room seem all the more sparely chic and austere. And empty. Max wasn't there. She looked in the kitchen, peeked in two other bedrooms, a study, a library and a dining room with a table that looked able to seat twenty—but probably never sat a soul—and couldn't find him anywhere.

Had he actually
left
?

She stood in the middle of the library with its walls lined with leather-bound books, a huge mahogany desk in one corner. A scent of leather and pipe tobacco hung faintly in the air, and for a moment Zoe was reminded with painful force of home, of her father.

Oscar.

Uncertainty—and fear—gnawed at her.

She gazed around, the sheet slipping slightly, pooling in inky satin around her feet, and then she saw him.

Of course, he was outside. She'd glanced out at the terrace when she'd first entered the living room and hadn't seen him, but now she saw it wrapped around the entire apartment, and he was on the other side, through the dining room.

She crossed the two rooms, the sheet trailing behind her in a dark river, and opened the doors that led out to the terrace.

‘There you are.' She spoke lightly, but still she heard—and felt—the uncertain wobble in her tone. Felt the flutter of fear in her heart. Max was seated at a wrought-iron table, a thick ceramic mug of coffee cradled between his palms. He looked lost in thought, and he glanced up only as she came to stand near him, feeling a bit ridiculous wrapped in a sheet.

Why on earth hadn't she put her clothes on?

‘Here I am,' he agreed, and Zoe couldn't tell a thing from his tone.

‘Did you make coffee?' she asked, making sure to keep her voice light. ‘I didn't smell any in the kitchen, but I'm gasping for a—'

‘I made it hours ago. It's cold.' Now she was able to recognise his tone, and it was frighteningly flat.

‘Oh.' She paused, hitching the sheet more firmly around her. ‘Well, perhaps I could make another pot. And maybe borrow one of your shirts?' She raised her eyebrows, tossing her hair over her shoulders, determined to seem far more insouciant and confident than she felt. What man could resist a woman wrapped in a sheet after all?

‘I don't think that's a good idea.'

Apparently Max could. Zoe's hand clenched on the sheet, and the satin slipped under her fingers. Max regarded her with a remote coolness that made her throat dry and her eyes sting.

No. No, please, no. Not this. Not this utter rejection, the look in his eyes one of…annoyance? Zoe feared that was the humiliating emotion she saw there. She was no more than an irritation to be dealt with before he got on with his day.

Or was she overreacting? Battle scarred from all the trashy tabloid talk, the stares and whispers?

‘Why?' she finally asked, and forced herself to smile. ‘Are you out of coffee?'

‘No, I'm not,' Max replied. ‘But I don't think you should stay long enough to warrant coffee or clothes.'

Zoe blinked. She felt as if she'd been slapped. She opened her mouth but for once any witty retort or rejoinder deserted her. Her mind was blank, numb, and she looked away, blinking hard.

‘I can't say much for your hospitality,' she finally managed. Her voice sounded scratchy, and her throat felt sore.

‘No,' Max agreed. His mouth was set in a hard line, the expression in his eyes chilly and so terribly resolute.

‘Did last night not mean anything to you?' Zoe asked, wincing even as the words came out of her mouth. What a stupid question to ask. Obviously it didn't; he really couldn't make it any plainer. Was she a glutton for punishment, demanding the torture of him explaining himself even more?

‘No,' Max said again, and Zoe bit her lip. ‘And I don't think it meant much to you either.'

How could he say that, Zoe wondered, when she'd felt so different, so
new
? How could he believe it? Pride forced herself to smile coolly and toss her hair over her shoulders. ‘Well, even so, a parting cup of coffee would be a courtesy, at least.'

‘Sorry.' He didn't sound sorry at all.

‘Right. Well.' She gripped the sheet tightly; the last thing she wanted was for the thing to fall off completely and leave her standing completely naked in front of this man who had used and rejected her with a clinical, cold cruelty.

And she had let him.

She'd wanted to forget…and she had to give Max that—he'd allowed her to forget.

And now she just had more pain and heartache to remember. To try to forget…again.

‘You might want to explain to your future lovers that you have a strict morning-after policy,' she said, gripping a handful of sheet, her teeth gritted even though she managed to keep her voice cutting rather than wobbly, as if she were angry rather than desolate or even heartbroken. ‘Out before eight o'clock.'

‘Actually, it's almost nine,' Max drawled in a bored voice. ‘But I'll keep that in mind.'

‘Bastard,' Zoe hissed. She couldn't keep herself from saying it; it was better than crying.

Max swivelled to face her fully for the first time since she'd come out on the terrace.

‘You knew what you were getting into, Zoe,' he said coolly. ‘
Just
Zoe. Some men might sugarcoat it a bit more than I do, but the fact remains the same. We had a night together, and it's over. Now I have work to do.'

He rose from his chair, one hand braced against the table. Zoe didn't move, and his mouth tightened.

‘You need to go.'

‘What about—' Zoe swallowed the words. What was the point of asking,
What about when I touched your scar? I held you in my arms. It felt like so much more. It meant so much more…to me.

She was so very, very stupid.

‘Fine.'

In a whirl of satin she stalked from the terrace, and it was a testament to her rage that she didn't even care when the sheet caught in the door and came undone, leaving her utterly bare.

Naked she strode through the rooms, too angry to care—or at least to acknowledge she cared—and found her clothes in the bedroom. She jerked them on, reaching for her wrap and handbag by the door before she stabbed viciously at the lift button.

It seemed an age before the elevator finally arrived, and she stood there, taut, her chest heaving with the effort of containing her emotion, unable to turn and look at—for—Max, to see the scorn that would undoubtedly be twisting his features. Finally the doors opened, signalling her freedom, her exile. She could feel Max behind her, even though she hadn't looked at him once since he'd told her to go.

Now as she stepped into the lift she whirled around, determined to give him one parting shot.

‘Go to he—' The words, ripped from her, were cut off as she gazed at him still standing by the door to the terrace, the sheet she'd worn pressed to his face, his eyes closed.

He didn't seem aware of her at all, and before she could say—or think—anything more, the doors whooshed closed and she was speeding down, away from Max Monroe forever.

 

The sheet smelled ever so faintly of rose water. Max breathed it in, his eyes still closed, trying to reconstruct her face, the feel of her body, in his mind. A memory.

Everything was becoming a memory.

Sighing, the sound harsh with regret, he dropped the sheet. He'd almost tripped over the blasted thing, and he'd only meant to kick it away, but when he'd smelled that faint, lingering scent…

He sighed again, and then he cursed.

It was over. He'd never see Zoe again. He let out a sharp laugh at the irony of his words. Of course he'd never
see
Zoe again. That was why he'd sent her away as callously as he had. Admittedly he'd never spent more than a few days—sometimes weeks—with a woman, but he favoured them with more dignity and respect than he'd just treated Zoe.

He'd had no choice. The cut had to be clean. Sharp.

Final.

Everything felt so final.

Cursing again, Max walked with careful steps to the study. At least he had his work…for now. When would that be taken from him? How could he consult or invest when he couldn't even read a newspaper or a computer screen? Already those tasks were proving difficult, near impossible, and it was only a matter of time before everything went blank. Black.

Forever.

And he was left powerless, as helpless as a child once more. He couldn't bear to feel that again, and he certainly couldn't bear for anyone to see him like that.

That was why he'd sent Zoe away.

Bastard.

Yes, he was a bastard, and she was a shallow socialite, and they'd forget each other in a fortnight. For his own sake, Max prayed that were true.

Go to hell.

Max smiled grimly. He was already there.

 

Zoe took a taxi back to the Balfour apartment, barely conscious of the blocks speeding by, a blur of traffic lights. Her body and mind both ached, and she felt utterly exhausted. Spent.

Used.

She gritted her teeth, trying to keep Max's words—his sneer—at bay.
Some men might sugarcoat it a bit more than I do…

That was an understatement.

Sighing she leant her head against the windowpane of the cab. The morning sunshine had given way to grey, and outside a light drizzle fell, misting over Grand Central Station. The weather matched her mood perfectly.

Why had she gone with Max last night? What had she been hoping to achieve? Even though she liked a party, she was choosy with her partners. She didn't hop into bed with just anyone, and yet last night…

Last night had been different. Max had been different.

Or so she'd thought. She winced, remembering that feeling of glorious optimism she'd felt when she'd woken in a pool of sunshine in Max's bed. She'd felt as if it was the beginning; she thought she'd finally found herself.

Hardly.

Nothing had changed; she hadn't changed. Max Monroe was a self-serving ass and she was just what she'd been before, and what she'd called him—a bastard.

The apartment was dark and quiet when Zoe entered, flinging her keys on the marble table in the grand entrance foyer. Oscar Balfour hired a full-time housekeeper to maintain the apartment, but she had weekends off and Zoe was glad. She wanted to be alone. She needed to be alone; she didn't think she could handle a conversation of any kind at this point.

She stripped off her clothes, kicking them into a corner, vowing never to wear them again. Then she strode into the marble en-suite bathroom and ran a full, foaming tub, hot enough to almost hurt, sinking into the bubbles in blessed relief.

She stayed in the water until her fingers and toes looked like prunes, and it had gone from steaming to tepid to cold. Only then did she reluctantly rouse herself from the blank state of lethargy she'd snuggled into like a cocoon, blocking out the world and its harsh judgements and memories. She put on the pair of pyjamas no one ever saw her in—an old pair of grey track bottoms and a worn-to-softness hoody—and curled up in bed, her knees to her chest.

All around her the apartment was quiet, dark. Empty. Curled on the huge bed, she'd never felt more alone. More lonely. Spinning in a great, empty void of uncertainty and uselessness.

And then before she could stop herself, the tears she'd been holding back for not just hours but weeks came rushing down her face, scalding her cheeks, emptying her soul.

She didn't know how long she cried, the sobs racking her body as for once she didn't hold anything back, didn't pretend even to herself that she was all right, that she was strong as her father had told her she was.

She wasn't. She wasn't, Zoe thought as she wiped her cheeks, anything at all. The loss of the Balfour name had been the loss of her identity. It was humiliating to realise that, to feel as though she had nothing to call her own, nothing to
be
.

And had she actually thought—if only for a few hours—that Max Monroe could give that to her? That with him she'd know who she was?

‘I know who I am,' Zoe said aloud. Her voice sounded small and forlorn, pathetic. Yet still hugging her knees to her chest, she reminded herself of just what kind of woman she was. What she could do best.