by Jena Petrie
She stepped back, turned away, and in spite of the thick robe, she couldn't hide the body shudder that followed.
Inconsiderate jackass! Reprimands were too late. Inappropriate as well.
Slowly, very slowly, she turned again, as if checking his response before committing to her own, but her eyes—even her whole face—looked sad, as if she hated this parting.
Not half as much as him. Not a tiny fraction as much. "I'm sorry. That was insensitive." With his hand outstretched, he invited her closer.
She accepted the challenge, almost covering the distance between them. Then her hands touched his T-shirt, moved across his chest and over to his arms, gripping the bare skin.
God, her touch felt as erotic as his frequent dreams and he couldn't stop himself. With both hands around her waist he pulled her closer, watching, waiting for her response.
It came immediately, but not in a way he hoped.
Not with a smile.
Not with an easy glide forward.
Not with her arms outstretched towards him, welcoming the intimacy.
Instead, her beautiful eyes enlarged, her hands fisted, and her breathing quickened. Thank God, all had vanished a moment later as she gave in to the pull.
An instant later their bodies touched and his arms slid around her as he buried his lips in her soft hair. Gorgeous, like the rest of her, inside and out. If only she supported him the way he needed.
A lump formed in his throat and he pushed her away. Holding her like this could tear his heart in two, knowing she didn't feel the same. But watching that sad face made his breath hitch. Hesitantly, he reached out again, ran his thumb down her cheek. "What's the matter, babe?"
Light fingers skimmed along his arm before she lifted her head and made eye contact, her face contorted with a mixture of emotions so deep, he had trouble reading her this time. Not just sadness, but also pain and... fear?
"Kiss me before you go, Connor. Kiss me goodbye."
His fingers dug into her waist. "That's for tomorrow. Why rush it now?" Yet even as he said the words, terror gripped his heart in a vice. Sounded like a final farewell, but please God, no.
A heartbeat. Two. Three, as her breathing quickened, her cheeks reddened and her tongue slid across her lips. Need made his hands sweat, his groin throb and his heart pound as he waited. His hands clenched, opened, and clenched again to stop himself touching her before she gave approval, or denial.
A thump sounded in his heart when she slid closer, multiplied a hundred, then a thousand times as her hands travelled upwards to the back of his neck then pressed his head down, down, down towards contact. Towards intimacy.
As if she'd already waited too long.
Automatically, his arms enclosed her as his lips touched hers in a series of tiny kisses, yet he held back from giving her more. No point rushing when it could spark his own flame and fire a passion so strong it could frighten her off. This had to be for her, so she had to lead the way.
Or was the real reason he held back, to protect himself from pain? Knowing she didn't love him hurt too damn much.
"I'm not talking about a peck on the cheek moments before you leave, Connor," she reprimanded. "Have sex with me please. Help me heal."
A massive breath escaped his lips. "You're finally ready?" Gazes met and it was like looking into the dark green chasm of her soul; into her very heart where a desperate yearning had evolved and grown. "You're sure?"
A nod. "I'm going to miss you, so would you do this for me please, before you go?"
"God, Bailey." Hands on her waist, he buried his face in her hair. "Then tell me first: what did your last boyfriend do that put you off sex for so long?"
In a series of hitches, a breath sucked into her lungs. "A sportsman. He used me; my articles, to promote himself. When the call came from the selectors he explained it all, taking great delight in telling me—in a nutshell—that he'd never loved me, I'd served my purpose and he was relieved to be moving on. I-I couldn't trust another sportsman with an intimate relationship after that." The wobbles in her voice made him tighten his grip.
"I would never use you like that and besides, I'd already reached the top when I met you."
"True, but I still doubted my ability to judge character." She stepped back a pace. "There. I've finally admitted the failing. The thing is, Sam's criticisms sent me into depression but then you won the Under 23 World Cup and became my hero. After that I knew you'd be easy to fall in love with but I couldn't allow that to happen with another sportsman."
God, the trials she'd been through. "And now?"
"Now, I need you again please, to do this final thing before you go."
Final thing? Not an on-going one then. A last Goodbye instead.
God, he'd tried. Tried to convince her he was worth loving. Three months should have been enough.
Man, how he loved her! Loved her so much he'd to do anything for her, regardless of the cost: the heartache. Letting her go would be his last gift. Tomorrow—if he could summon enough strength—he'd slip away and leave her to get on with her life.
"That is, if you can put off having dinner till later." Her gaze searched his face for signs of doubt.
Both his hands slipped into her soft curls and he kissed her forehead. "You're so beautiful, so desirable, I could eat you instead of dinner."
A slight smile touched her lips. "You're quite attractive yourself."
The need to touch more of her clawed at him, forcing his hand to leave her hair and slide down her cheek before he lowered his head. Tentatively, he kissed the soft lips, slid his tongue along their length, and slipped inside, but the taste of banana made him pull back. Banana? The common pick-me-up rowers used after a race. So she had been out biking. But why now?
Her fingers slipped the tie of her robe undone, revealing its secrets...
Red.
Lace.
God Almighty! His body jerked to attention and he fisted his hands. Sexiest colour on the planet. Coupled with lace, the mere sight had always been an instant turn-on.
For her! The words shouted in his head, forcing him to slow down. This is for her!
***
In the pale light of predawn Connor lay still. Why had he woken so early? Excitement for the trip to Nationals? A chance to prove himself to the selectors, and to Jeff? Or nervousness over their decisions? Beside him, the bed moved and he turned.
Bailey. Still here, her curls spread over the pillow, her hand lying only an inch from his body.
Last night he'd told her she was beautiful but it hardly compared to her present appearance. Eyes closed and mouth open in a slight smile, she looked angelic, peaceful and without a care in the world; her doubts and insecurities vanished like fog under sunshine.
Yet she'd implied that for them, this was the end.
Defeated, he fell back on the bed; his pleasure, his enthusiasm, his hopes, all gone.
Yet last night's loving had been amazing. Who would have thought she could respond so readily, understand his needs so quickly, and give back so much, he'd been sated too?
A breath shuddered into him. At least he'd done as she asked and given her the greatest gift possible.
But by making love, he'd granted her request to leave.
CHAPTER 20
Inside the large hall, women of all ages chattered and laughed as they fingered various Art Deco goods on display. But instead of the mood rubbing off on Bailey, the stone in her stomach sank lower. Why couldn't she join the festive mood like everyone else?
Because she'd only come to do a job.
One she no longer wanted. The second in that category, both of them keeping her away from her rightful place with Connor. The job in Whangarei had been difficult enough with the interviewee so ill and frail, but this one? This one was a complete waste of time. How could she do her best when her heart was with Connor?
And at the National Rowing Championships, finals would start tomorrow.
A soft whirring noise attracted her
attention and her head swung sideways, to a young guy a few feet away. His camera lens zoomed in and out in quick succession and he changed angles almost as often. So proficient, he must be a professional. Even without his height advantage he'd stand out in any crowd, but dressed in a pin-striped suit from the Art Deco era, he looked suave and sophisticated.
Emphasising her contemporary clothing as conspicuous and inappropriate.
For a moment the guy paused, merely watching the customers until something else caught his eye and he raised the camera once more.
Bailey took some photos of her own but they wouldn't be as good as that photographer's. Not with her much shorter viewpoint and less sophisticated lenses. Wandering around the hall, she fingered some of the items on sale: long necklaces, slim-fitting dresses, headbands, gloves, hats, shoes, feathers, and artificial flowers. Such an assortment, with many being snapped up by the enthusiastic crowd.
Everywhere, women's faces clearly showed exhilaration, their bubbling enthusiasm spreading to strangers and to behaviour that no doubt would normally be foreign. Here, it fitted the era perfectly as they wrapped beads or fur stoles around themselves, and posed for photos like giggling schoolgirls dressing for their first date.
Why couldn't she get in the mood?
Easy answer; because after Connor's awesome loving, thoughts of him overrode everything else. If only the weekends had worked out better and allowed her to attend nationals for Connor. Perhaps he could have come here with her.
Uh, oh. Mentally, she shook her head. Still wouldn't have worked. This close to Nationals and the national selection trials, he'd never consider taking time off.
Ten-thirty according to her watch. What would he be doing now?
About to row the semi-final of the Men's Four. Good luck, Connor.
Raising her head again, she looked around one last time but the tall photographer had disappeared. Finished already, no doubt. Gone to his next event, like she needed to do or she'd never experience enough activities to write the damn article.
Outside again, she wandered aimlessly along the street. If she could lift her head and watch the happy, excited faces coming towards her, maybe she'd catch their enthusiasm. Sure seemed like everyone here had absorbed the festive mood.
Everyone except her.
Wherever she looked people posed in costume in front of iconic buildings as they took selfies, no doubt intent on entering the amateur photo competition. Would normally be fun to check them out later, but not with this depression pulling her down.
Later, sitting in a cafe drinking coffee and munching on a salad roll, she checked her phone for messages. Nothing from Connor, damn it. If he gave up on her and their relationship, she'd be the one to blame. Why had she been so intent on pushing her own career? And why ignore Connor's advice when he'd suggested she concentrate on writing sports stories? It would keep her in touch with his career, give her a legitimate reason for being with him at every regatta, and even perhaps give her the opening to become the official reporter at international rowing regattas.
If he managed to make the grade again.
By refusing to attend nationals, she'd jeopardised his chances. What if he couldn't concentrate on his races? He wouldn't win medals, wouldn't impress the selectors, or his coach.
She'd been so stupid. So selfish. The ache in her heart intensified. This was worse than having no job. Worse than leaving her friends in Mosgiel. Worse even, than Connor must feel every time he rowed, seated in a position other than his favourite.
Hang on! Her mouth closed with a snap. Always said he needed her support, hadn't he? So why had she believed Renton when he said Connor didn't want her? Since then, she'd learned that Sleazeball's other statement contained only partial truth. Sure Connor would soon move out of his house but according to the rental agent, not because he'd cancelled the lease. That action had come from the landlord.
Bailey almost banged a hand on the table. Once again bloody Renton had deceived her with his lies and innuendoes but there was absolutely no excuse for believing him now.
Napier was the last place she should be.
Standing, she dumped her roll in the bin and marched out the door. She had a job to do and this time, nothing would stop her. To hell with Napier and the Art Deco article.
With luck, she'd be on the next flight to Christchurch, and at the regatta tonight.
***
"Grubb's up!" Connor called as he walked into the house the girls had rented for the week. After dumping the large dish of cooked steak and sausages in the centre of the table he stood back to admire the spread. "You've done yourselves proud, ladies. It's quite a feast."
"Well, why not?" Nat eased dishes aside to make room for the condiments in her hand. "You guys all need a big, solid meal to set you up for tomorrow."
Finals. Connor shoved hands into his shorts pockets. Finals, and still no word from Bailey. Well, he'd known.
Didn't stop him hoping for a miracle, though.
The door opened again and he watched it; just in case.
Mum. Across the table they smiled at each other and he relaxed a little. Her coming had been good and bad, like achieving second place.
Having Bailey here would always be first.
His mother's head lowered and she grabbed a plate, moved around the table picking out little helpings of food from some of the bowls and dishes. Would she ever eat a decent sized meal again? Her skinny frame looked so different from the one he remembered and now wrinkles had appeared around her mouth, beside her eyes and across her forehead. The latter from worry, no doubt.
He forced his breathing to calm. Really, he should be glad she'd come. Can't have been easy when she was clearly still not well.
Bailey must have used her persuasive interview skills to talk Mum round. Trouble was, instead of making him glad and relaxing him at last, it had been proof that his girlfriend had no intention of coming.
At least Mum seemed to have settled in well enough, using the bed the girls had initially booked for Bailey.
But even that hurt.
So really, the only good thing that had come out of having Mum here had been in seeing her again and learning why she'd stayed away these last few years. Still, she should have told him from the beginning. At least then he'd have been prepared if the worst happened and she hadn't survived the cancer.
His plate full, Connor stepped back, cutlery clasped in his hands as he looked around for a spare seat. "Why aren't you outside?" he asked the room in general as he jerked his head at the closed ranch slider door. "Sun's still shining. Breeze has died down. Why not make the most of it?"
"More comfortable chairs inside, Connor. Haven't you noticed?" Suzy indicated the lounge chairs around the large room. "I don't know about you but I prefer comfort to those hard concrete steps."
"Go out if you want," Aaron invited and Connor turned to scowl at him.
"I can cope with hard seats for a while but not a lack of company, as you know, dork."
Chuckles came from the women as he sat and started his meal.
"Oh, poor guy. You're missing Bailey, aren't you?" Beside him, Ken paused and patted Connor's shoulder.
"Yuk! Get your hands off me." Connor shook himself to dislodge the contact. "You'd miss your girl too, if she wasn't here."
A glass banged hard on a table and immediately, silence pervaded the previously noisy room. Connor's cutlery dropped and almost his plate too, from its precarious position balanced on his knees. Thank God Michelle, beside him on the sofa, grabbed everything in the nick of time. What the–?
Framed by the doorway, Bailey stood silent, as if waiting for the world to catch the latest action.
Connor's throat clogged. He couldn't speak, couldn't move; hell, he couldn't even think.
Bailey. Like an echo, the name repeated in his head until finally the fog lifted and the meaning became clear.
She'd come after all.
Or was this some trick of his imagination? Slowly, he stood, but
move forward? Impossible. And when he tried to speak, his voice came out in an almost incoherent croak. "Really you?"
Stupid thing to say but it seemed his brain couldn't come up with anything more appropriate.
"Hello, Connor." She came towards him in a glide, her hands out as if pleading. "I-I couldn't keep away..." Her voice trailed off and she stopped at the table while he shook himself to clear his head.
"You were never going to come," he insisted. "Never going to change your mind. You were totally focused on the interview in Whangarei. Your goal, to write for magazines and you were almost there." Even he could hear the doubt in his tone but she'd screwed with his head so many times, he couldn't help revealing his disbelief.
Silence, so he repeated, "Why?" When his hands fisted he shoved them in his pockets and like a trigger, hope crept in amongst the doubts. Hope that she really had come for him. Inside his chest his heart pounded, so loud he could hear it as well as feel the thumps.
No. Something must have gone wrong. She'd never have given up on that dream otherwise.
Unless a better opportunity had cropped up.
Like the chance to report on the regatta, and this show of support was just a cover-up.
"I made a discovery." As if to steady herself, she gripped the edge of the table. "You needed me here, and I'd been too selfish to put your needs ahead of my own. So..." She stopped, shrugged, started again. "I came to support you for your finals races but..."
One by one the others exited the room and sat on the concrete steps outside. Bailey waved a hand in their direction. "If I'm not welcome, I'll leave."
"Honey." God, his mouth felt like coarse sandpaper, stopping words from forming while his voice box apparently needed a complete overhaul. "I can't believe you're really here. Why'd you change your mind?"
"Oh, Connor." A step forward and she gripped his arm. "Whangarei was lovely but I couldn't enjoy it. And the Art Deco Festival in Napier today was all about people having a good time. I hated being on my own; needed you with me, sharing the fun, the excitement and the activities but without you there, I couldn't get in the mood."