by Avery Aster
How the hell could she have been so stupid?
Emma thrust the heavy weight of her hair back from her face, and wondered where the hell she’d put her favourite hair tie.
She'd paid for her mistake.
In spades.
And it was time to move forward, and put the past where it belonged.
In the past.
* * *
Now Emma used her own life experiences as she threw herself into how her hero meets the woman who would change his life, and destroy his trust in all women, forever.
Night slid seamlessly into her room.
Emma didn't notice it.
She didn't notice the grey light of dawn hovering on the horizon.
Nor did she notice that her shoulders screamed or her fingertips were numb.
By the time she collapsed face down on her bed, eighteen hours had passed. But Emma couldn't give a hot damn. She'd burst right through the plot, given it a couple of surprise turns readers wouldn't see coming. Hell, she hadn't seen them coming herself. So it was a happy but utterly burned out author who sank like a stone into sleep. Blissfully unaware that by writing through the night and most of the morning, she'd set in motion a chain of events that would change her life.
Forever.
Chapter Eight
The head chef stood in the castle of Eden’s state-of-the-art kitchen, long legs apart, muscled arms folded, a stony stare pinning Mika to the spot.
It was eight-thirty in the evening and the young waiter felt as if he was about to pass out.
A trickle of cold sweat slid down Mika’s back.
His heartbeat hammered too fast against his ribs.
On the whole, being part of the service crew and working for Oscar Zamani was a pretty good gig. Chef might be one big scary bastard with hands the size of a dinner plate, but he was a cool guy, usually. Chef was also passionate about food reaching dining tables and rooms piping hot. Customer satisfaction was key. So how the hell was Mika going to explain the return of not just one, but two trays, untouched, from a suite in the tower?
"Just to be clear, Mika. You are telling me that the trays were simply left in the hallway?" Oscar wanted to know, his deep voice no more than a growl. His inflection was pregnant with disbelief, as if Mika had left a newborn unattended among a pride of lions. The tone had Mika's knees knocking.
"Chef, the... the note on the door said, 'Please knock. Leave the tray in the hall.' So I did. Twice."
"Note?" Mika jumped as Oscar barked the word, held out his hand.
Thanking sweet baby Jesus that he'd had the bright idea to bring the note with him as proof, Mika dug his hand into his vest pocket. Placed the folded piece of paper onto Oscar's huge palm.
Eyes never leaving Mika's, Oscar opened the paper, flicked his eyes down to read.
Silence.
With great care he folded the note and tucked it nice and safe in the top pocket of his crisp white chef jacket.
Dark eyes rose and pinned Mika to the spot.
"Name?" Oscar asked in a soft voice.
Because his black bow tie felt too tight, Mika cleared his throat.
"E.J. Byron."
Oscar frowned.
The name rang a very distant bell.
"Man, woman?"
"No idea, sir. Never seen him."
Oscar turned to survey the staff manning a kitchen gone too quiet, all that could be heard was the steady drip, drip, drip of a tap.
He raised his brows in silent query.
Everyone shook their head.
Oscar moved over to a tray, lifted a heavy lid of solid silver. He's never... never had an untouched plate returned to his kitchen. With a righteous fury burning his gut, he surveyed the congealed mess on a delicate plate of white china. His teeth ran over his top lip at the thought of how much planning and effort had gone into making sure the rack of melt-in-the-mouth lamb had been seared to a light pink... perfection. How the broccoli spears had been steamed to al dente... perfection. How the delicate reduction, using the finest claret from Eden's vast cellars and black currants flown in at great expense from the mainland, had excited the palate... perfection. The bowl of now limp green salad seriously annoyed him, too. But it was the mini baked Alaska, meringue made with handmade marshmallow scented with distilled rose water, that lay in a gooey mess of melted double cream ice-cream, which pressed his hot button.
Under the wide-eyes of a staff holding their collective breath, Oscar untied his pristine white apron, folded it carefully, and placed it on an immaculate stainless steel worktop.
He removed his chef's hat.
Placed it on top of the apron.
Turning on his heel, Oscar marched out.
"Omigod," Mika whispered.
The sous chef crossed himself.
* * *
A distant drumbeat boomed out, like thunder, and then echoed from far, far away.
What the...?
The struggle to open heavy lids made her groan out loud as Emma tried to kick-start her foggy brain. It sounded as if the heavy door to her suite was vibrating in its frame.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Emma stood, swaying on her bare feet.
Stumbling just a little, she shoved her hair from her face.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
A mix of irritation and worry began to simmer in her stomach.
She tripped over a pair of abandoned flip flops and nearly fell flat on her face.
Sheer temper had her kick one out the way as she stalked through the disaster zone that was the sitting room.
She yanked opened the door.
"What the hell?" she yelled.
The clenched fist in her face had her body react, arms lifting in defence, before her brain could compute. The trembling started in her feet, by the time it reached her knees, her legs couldn't hold her weight. The only warning she got was the roaring in her ears before Oscar was moving into her.
The world went black.
Thank God for quick reflexes.
Not only had he nearly punched Emma in the face, but he'd caught her just before her head hit the floor. A mix of alarm that he’d all but hit her, combining with an elation that he’d finally found her, had Oscar's heart pounding in his chest. He carried Emma in his strong arms. His Emma. She smelled the same, of flowers, and a very warm and very sleepy woman. A woman who right now was passed out cold. After he'd tossed reams of paper to the floor, he laid her on a couch.
Knelt at her side and just stared at her.
What on earth was Emma doing here under an assumed name?
It didn't make sense, unless... she was hiding from someone?
She wore a short sleeved T-shirt the colour of sand, matching yoga pants slung low on her hips, showcasing a flat belly. Her hair was long, right down to her ass. The day before he hadn’t taken a lot of time to just look at her. Now he had plenty of time to soak her in. Oscar studied her carefully. Her wonderful face was just the same. His brow creased. Nope. Thinner and maybe a little bit sad. And was that a worry line between her brows?
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 mothe
r 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?