[Invitation to Eden 22.0] Delicious and Deadly

by CC MacKenzie

  He took a cold hand in his, rubbed limp fingers, patted the back of her hand.

  When her eyelids flickered, he blew out a very long, very relieved breath.

  "All the way back, baby," he said. "All the way back."

  She might not have the striking colouring of her cousins, Alexander's dark chestnut hair and Bronte's ash blonde, but Emma had the Ludlow eyes, a vivid emerald.

  At the moment they were dazed and confused as they stared into his.

  Then they blinked and that confusion was replaced with a sharp annoyance.

  He offered her a smile.

  Her response was a stony stare.

  Oscar couldn’t find any love or affection in that stare, plenty of ice though.

  Ooooookay.

  "What do you mean by banging my door like that?"

  Well, after the hot loving they’d shared the day before, the welcome was, to put it mildly... disappointing.

  Not the ‘What are you doing here?’ he'd been expecting.

  "You didn't eat."

  Blink.

  Blink.

  "Excuse me?"

  "You ordered food," he said in a soft tone, friendly even. "You didn't eat it."

  "So what? Who are you, the food police?"

  He was a bit more than that. However, she still looked pale, and was obviously snarky, so he held his tongue.

  She moved to sit, but he placed a hand on her shoulder to keep her still.

  "You fainted. Just sit there a minute until your head clears."

  Shoving his hand away, Emma rolled to sitting and held her head in her hands.

  "I don't faint," her snap of irritation had him move out of harm's way to sit on the opposite couch. Her eyes met his. "I was asleep and got up too fast thanks to you trying to break down the damn door. What are you doing here?"

  Bingo.

  "For the moment, I work here."

  Those green eyes went wide. "Security?"

  Oscar ran a hand down his jacket.

  "Nope. I'm the head chef."

  Bewilderment overcame irritation in those green eyes.

  She blinked.

  "Here? Seriously?"

  The way her voice went too high on the second question tickled him.

  He couldn't help it, his mouth twitched.

  "Seriously."

  His response won him another long, hard stare.

  "I thought your life was, and I quote," Emma said, her fingers making bunny ears. "Dedicated to the service of our country, to duty, to the military. Apparently, I didn't fit into that life. Something about it being too hard for a woman like me. So colour me confused to find you in Eden, employed as a chef."

  Oscar's brows met.

  He had indeed sent her a letter.

  The contents of his letter now spun into his mind as he wondered how that letter might have been in any way misconstrued or misunderstood.

  Confused, he shook his head as he studied the do-not-bullshit-me-pal look on her face.

  "You knew my work was classified," he began. "The order to rejoin my team came with a communication black-out. I fought for days for authorization to send you a note. A letter was hand-delivered to your house. I told you I loved you, Emma. I asked you to wait for me."

  By the way her eyes went wide he realised he'd shocked her.

  Silence.

  Emma could not believe that Oscar would sit right there, looking like a rock-star with his long hair, the tattoo sleeve on his strong arm, and lie like that straight to her face. To think she'd been carrying a torch for a man she believed was still serving his country in war-torn regions, keeping the free world safe.

  A hero.

  Instead, here he was, larger than life, cooking?

  She couldn't believe it.

  For twelve months, she'd barely survived living with a man who'd played mind-games that were beyond cruel. She’d barely survived the lies, the way Richard had brain-washed (there was no other word for it) her own mother. Painful experience had taught her to take anything a man said with a pinch of salt. These days Emma Ludlow was no pushover. And now here she was sitting in front of another man who'd obviously kept closely-guarded secrets, too. Since Oscar's military role had supposedly been classified how could she verify the truth if he'd been on a covert mission or not? How convenient for him. Oscar Zamani was just like her ex-husband, a compulsive liar. A user. A breaker of hearts.

  Temper now fisted in Emma's stomach.

  Did he really believe she was the same naïve girl who'd handed him her virginity all those years ago?

  Her legs might be a bit shaky, but now Emma stood, folded her arms.

  "There's something very wrong with your memory. Maybe you got hit too hard on the head when you were out in Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever the hell you were. That's if you ever went there in the first place." The way Oscar's face lost colour as he stared at her as if he'd never seen her before, didn't fill Emma with dismay. On the contrary, it only spurred her on. "How do I know you're not a fantasist, a liar? Perhaps you'd like to explain how you went from a member of a crack military team to a chef?"

  He looked bewildered, shocked even, as if unable to work out why she didn't believe him.

  Now he rose to his feet, all six foot four of him and stared down into her furious face.

  These days Emma recognised ill humour in a man.

  She took a careful step back.

  "I don't understand why you're taking that tone with me, Emma. My mother taught me to cook from the age of ten. Food has always been my passion."

  Seriously?

  Oscar was part of the Spencer family, one of the wealthiest in England. If ever a man had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, it was the man who was standing in front of her. Cooking had always been his passion had it?

  Did he think she'd come off the last banana boat?

  Emma didn't believe a word of it.

  "So why didn't you join the cook corp.?"

  He shook his head as his hands fisted at his sides.

  Emma didn't take her eyes from his, didn't miss the signs of hostility, and took another step back. Living with a man who couldn't control his temper had made her wary.

  "I joined the military after the seventh of July terrorist attacks in London. I lost my best friend. I couldn't just stand by and do nothing."

  He sounded genuine.

  Sounded plausible.

  And the way his eyes were fixed on hers, he certainly appeared sincere.

  But then another man who'd come across as sincere entered her mind. She remembered a dramatic moment from the end of her marriage, how tears had flowed down Richard’s cheeks. How he’d wept that he loved her, right in front of her mother. And her mother had believed every lie. Catherine Ludlow had been holding Emma’s ex-husband, comforting him. Then Richard had stared at Emma over her mother's shoulder and smiled right into her eyes.

  The memory of that moment froze her blood, stiffened her spine.

  She folded her arms, jerked her chin.

  "I don't believe a word of it. You walked out on me, on us. Supposedly to re-join your unit. And I never heard a single word from you, or saw you, until today. So how do you explain that?"

  Silence.

  If she'd cold-bloodedly slid a knife into his heart, Oscar would have been less stunned, less... hurt.

  He'd been decorated for his last mission. Not that he'd ever tell Emma. Real soldiers never boasted about their awards. Earning medals for glory usually meant honourable men, or the innocent, had died. On his watch he’d lost four good and brave soldiers. He refused to taint their memory by using their loss for personal gain.

  Anger for everything his men had gone through, the sacrifice they'd made rose inside Oscar.

  How dare she talk to him like that?

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  “I didn’t walk away, Emma. Why do you keep saying that?” Oscar ordered himself to calm the hell down. He’d never had a problem with his temper in the past, and
he didn’t want to start having one now. "I don't understand how you can stand there and say those things to me. After everything we had, what we meant to each other, and after what happened between us less than twenty-four hours ago. What was that all about?"

  Her frosty stare made him wonder now if he'd imagined what they'd shared together, because the Emma standing before him, angry, cold and hard, was not a woman he recognised.

  "You are un-bloody-believable," she snapped. "I meant nothing to you. You walked away and never once looked back."

  He noticed she avoided the last question and decided he’d get back to it later.

  Now it was his turn to fold his arms.

  His chin jutted.

  "Oh I looked back, sister. I returned to New York to find you on your honeymoon, married to Richard Murray III." His voice went hard. "Naturally, your mother was thrilled."

  Even though she went utterly still, those green eyes were filled to the brim with suspicion as they searched his.

  "I don't believe you. I don't believe you came back. My mother would have told me."

  "Would she, Emma?" Oscar shot back. "Would she really? How do you think I know you met him at a cocktail party? That it was love at first sight? That you married him within weeks. I turned up at the door to find you on your honeymoon in Venice. How do I know all that if I didn't speak to your mother?"

  Colour fled from her face so fast that he moved towards her.

  Emma sat on the sofa with a hard bump, pressing fingertips into her forehead.

  Those glittering green eyes stayed on his, but they went wary now.

  "But... I still have your letter."

  Oscar was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

  A very bad feeling.

  "You have it with you now, here?" When she nodded, he held out his hand. "Let me see it."

  Emma rose, moved to the desk holding a shiny laptop and a mountain of paper.

  She unzipped a laptop bag.

  And all the time he watched her, Oscar found himself wondering why she'd keep his letter, carry it with her, if she hated him so much.

  She turned, placed it in his hands.

  He examined the envelope, studied her name written in black ink, by him.

  His hand shook as he slid out a single page, read the contents.

  Read the lies.

  Read the cold words.

  Words carefully chosen to inflict the most harm, to wound, to kill a burgeoning love.

  The Emma he'd loved had been a beautiful girl with a big heart, an innocent in the ways of the world. Someone who always saw the best in others. For a battle-weary soldier, she'd been a wonderful breath of fresh air, a shining light in a world of darkness.

  Oscar lifted his eyes to look at her now and saw a very different woman. A woman who was still incredibly beautiful. But a woman with hard eyes filled with a latent hostility, with mistrust. A woman who, it appeared, no longer had a big heart. The letter he held in his hand certainly had the power to wound, to hurt. But surely that hurt hadn't led to the changes in the girl who stood before him now?

  What on earth had happened to her?

  Her marriage?

  Her ex-husband?

  Oscar held out the letter to her and wondered how she was going to react when he told her the truth.

  He braced himself.

  "I didn't write this," he said.

  A natural reaction would be for her to jump to her mother's defence, even outrage, but he could never have imagined what happened next.

  The ice that chilled Emma's blood too fast made her whole body give a convulsive shudder of utter horror.

  A horrible cold sweat beaded on her top lip, trickled down her back.

  The room spun as nausea rose into her throat, stinging her eyes.

  These days she was a woman who recognised the fist of shock when she felt it.

  Why wasn't she surprised Emma wondered numbly?

  Maybe because she read the truth in those steady eyes the colour of dark chocolate. God knew she'd had plenty of recent experience with a consummate liar. And she'd had plenty of recent experience, too, of how her own mother had played mind games and taken the side of her powerful son-in-law against her only daughter.

  On legs that felt like jelly, Emma moved to stand before Oscar, took the letter from his hand, read the words again.

  She blinked rapidly.

  Why hadn't she seen it, the same phrases, the same words before now?

  Hadn't she heard them ringing in her ears day after day?

  Her mother hated Oscar.

  And Emma knew what was at the bottom of that hatred... his ethnicity.

  Heartsick, a wave of shame rose in her lungs, that her own mother could stoop so low. Now she realised just how deep the depth of her mother's betrayal went.

  The room swam as a hot fist closed her throat.

  Dear God how could she bear this?

  How could she face the man standing in front of her?

  A man who was waiting for her to speak.

  What was she supposed to say?

  Silence.

  Oscar cleared his throat.

  "If you look at the handwriting very carefully, you'll see it's not a particularly good forgery. You do realise your mother wrote it?" he asked in a soft voice, as if to gentle the blow.

  Blinking rapidly, Emma's eyes stayed glued to the floor.

  She couldn't look at him.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Do you know why she did it?”

  Her hand fisted around the letter.

  “Yes. I want to apologise to you on my mother’s behalf, Oscar. Her thoughts and opinions on certain subjects utterly shame me.”

  "Look at me."

  It cost her, but she lifted her head.

  The compassion that burned in those dark eyes, for her, almost broke her.

  However, it was the pity she saw there, too, that had her chin wobble.

  “You have nothing to apologise for, Emma. You are not responsible for the actions of your mother. I’m sorry that by lashing out at me, she hurt you, she hurt us.”

  Emma's throat burned.

  His face blurred.

  She became aware that Oscar was standing too close, of the sound of his breathing, the scent of his familiar cologne. The realisation of how much she'd lost, they'd lost, threatened to break her. And all at the hands of her own mother.

  She wanted to throw herself into his arms, but it was too late for that now.

  Oscar had a new life.

  Instead she turned, moved away.

  "What happened with your husband?"

  Emma stopped dead, didn't turn around.

  After everything that had happened between then, everything that had been revealed, the one thing Oscar deserved was the truth, nothing but the truth.

  But now wasn't the time.

  Her brain needed time to process, to think.

  Emma knew she was on the edge of a breakdown, she recognised the signs.

  And knew she couldn't take any more of this.

  She battled like a warrior to drag oxygen into burning lungs.

  The result was unsteady breath.

  "Our relationship was... all wrong... a big mistake. It didn’t work out. And I don’t want to talk about it."

  "Emma..."

  She shook her head, kept walking.

  "I worked through the night. I need a shower. Perhaps we can talk later?"

  Her marriage was a big mistake. It didn’t work out. That’s it?

  Oscar heard the hitch in her voice, saw the shudder tremble through Emma as she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, walked into the bedroom and closed the door with a soft click.

  Two minutes later he heard the sound of the shower, and told himself it was only natural that Emma was devastated by her mother's behaviour.

  He understood that devastation, he'd seen it in her eyes.

  Mind reeling, Oscar couldn't work out why the whole conversation had felt weir
d... all wrong.

  But something was very wrong.

  He could taste it.

  The girl was a nervous wreck.

  And no fucking wonder.

  Christ, Catherine Ludlow was a piece of work.

  As soon as his time in Eden was over, Oscar promised himself he'd be paying her mother a little visit. No way was he going to let the woman get away with manipulating his life or Emma's. No way.

  To be honest Oscar wasn't at all thrilled to re-hash what had taken place in Emma's marriage either. But something bad had happened to her, something she didn't want to talk about. He hadn't missed the way she'd flinched from him when she opened the door, the way she'd braced herself as if for a blow.

  Now his eyes slitted as a foul feeling tickled his gut, his intuition.

  He might not want to accept the concept that now snuck unerringly into his brain, the idea that she might have suffered abuse at the hands of a man. If Senator Richard Murray III had laid a finger on Emma, he'd fucking kill him.

  Oscar hadn't followed events in Emma’s neck of the woods, having determinedly put her right out of his mind. But surely, if she'd been having serious trouble in her marriage, Nico or Alexander would not only have told Oscar, but they'd have done something about it. Neither man was the type of person to just stand by when family was hurting.

  Plus his friends knew he still had feelings for her.

  What the hell was going on?

  And right there he promised himself he'd have a little chat with his best friends, too.

  No way was it an accident that he and Emma were in Eden at the same time.

  No way.

  The whole set-up in Eden had the fingerprints of Nico Ferranti and Alexander Ludlow all over it.

  It took a while for the first part of Emma's response to hit him.

  What the hell did she mean by, she'd worked through the night?

  Turning to study the chaos in the room, Oscar had a fastidious streak a mile wide, he bent to retrieve a couple of pages of paper from the floor. A manuscript, he realised. Then he moved to check out the desk, the laptop, the ergonomic chair. She was typing a piece of writing for someone?

  He frowned when he spotted the bowl of candy, the mug of coffee gone cold.

  No wonder the woman was jittery, she'd too much sugar and caffeine in her system.