by CC MacKenzie
***
Later, as Olivier's car limped its way through heavy London traffic on the way to the airport, Ana turned to him.
She couldn't help but admire the way he wore plain blue jeans and a crisp white shirt, both expensive and exquisitely cut, but neither screaming money. Although the same couldn't be said for the outrageously expensive timepiece on his wrist from one of his most important sponsors.
Actually, she looked pretty hot herself in her little shift dress by her favorite designer. And thanks to Olivier messing up her hair, she'd tied it in a loose plait that sat over her breast.
"I love it when you speak Italian to me. Say something."
He kept his eyes on the road, but his lips twitched.
"Cappucinno," he drawled.
"Olivier!"
His face went serious. "Okay—Americano."
"Har-har. I need to learn Italian, pronto!"
"I am happy to teach you my language—among other things."
"Like what?"
"Like trusting me to take care of your heart," he said softly.
Ana wondered how the hell their conversation had gone from light to deep in the space of a few seconds.
"This is about setting a date for the wedding, isn't it?" She sat up, shoved the weight of her plait behind her shoulder and kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead. "What difference will it make? We live together, most of the time."
Which was true, except between them they were racking up the frequent flyer miles.
A decision about their future needed to be made, and fast.
Could she meet him half way?
Maybe?
His sigh was deep and heartfelt. "I want more. You want more. You know it."
She did know it.
And a compromise wouldn't kill her.
"I'll speak to Nico, see if I can move the office to Rome. At the end of the day I can work from anywhere."
He turned to look at her. "You would do that for me?"
"Yes. Something tells me Linda will do a happy dance at the thought of relocating to a city full of hot Italian men."
"I am stunned you would even consider it," Olivier admitted.
Ana knew the feeling. "To tell you the truth, so am I. My whole life is here in this city. My friends are here and now my family, too."
Olivier shook his head. "There is no rush to move or to marry, tesoro."
"Hmm. But I bet being married will smooth the path ahead with your mother?" Ana guessed.
"Si. Of course it will. Always remember I love you, cara. I love you more than life."
She knew that and covered his hand with hers.
"And I love you so much, Olivier. So much."
A companionable silence reigned for a few minutes, until Olivier turned to her.
"You are quiet."
"I'm nervous."
"You have no need. Mama will love you. You talked on the phone for over an hour last week. She loves you already."
Ana made a face. "Yeah, but that's not the same as meeting my future mother-in-law in the flesh."
CHAPTER FOUR
There was always the busy hum of traffic and people on a Friday afternoon in summer in London. Wide-eyed tourists, wearing their usual uniform of sneakers, jeans and back packs, roamed in closely packed groups. Loved-up couples took pics on their selfie sticks.
However, the majority hovered at the black iron fence surrounding Buckingham Palace, cameras clicking madly at soldiers standing to attention and guarding the gates. They wore red jackets, shiny brass buttons and black bearskin helmets. T.C. reckoned the poor guys must be as hot as hell in all that gear.
From the rail of her penthouse apartment, she enjoyed the ebb and flow of humanity. High above, she absorbed the wide variety of languages and cultures and noise, without being an intrinsic part of it. Danni always said that T.C. was an observer of life until she wanted to let her hair down and be reckless and bang in the middle of all the action. And T.C. supposed that was true.
The persistent ache of grief in her heart was a permanent reminder of a time when she'd been reckless and it had led to a disaster of her own making.
Who'd have thought the price would have been a human life?
But summer in England, especially late summer, always triggered memories of the past, good times, when her life had been normal. Until one afternoon when she'd made a fatal mistake which had cost herself and her family dear. At this time of year, she couldn't help but relive the moment over and over in her dreams until she couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. Last night's nightmare had been a particularly harrowing one that had left her pillow wet with tears.
Years of painful experience had taught T.C. that any attempt to run from the past usually led to her in a bar with her emotions wired too tight, drinking too much and ending in a one night stand. Maybe one of these days she'd move past the guilt, the shame and a grief that was pitiless as it was unrelenting.
The time had come to move on, or at the very least, to deal with the loss differently.
She didn't have much choice.
And definitely no alcohol.
Lifting her head, she let the wind whip her hair. It danced frantic and free on the breeze, a heavy shock of blonde, the shade of light gold found on a newly minted pound coin. Her skin was lightly tanned from her recent trip to support her best friends in Paris.
Anastacia often said T.C.'s eyes—depending on her mood—were a regal purple. T.C. herself called them a common blue and didn't waste precious brain cells on the precise shade. A few men, who deludedly thought they were being poetic and romantic, declared them lavender. And anyway, who gave a shit about poetry or romance? Not her.
Seriously, T.C. thought a man was a complete tool if he fell for the color of a person's eyes. Eye shade was merely the lottery of genetics and had nothing to do with the woman within. For twenty-four years she'd put up with people dissecting the beauty of her eyes, and had come to the decision most people were beyond stupid. In truth, she took after her great-grandma on her father's side—as the family portrait, painted in oil, in her hallway proved. If anyone had taken the time to actually ask, she'd have explained, in words of one syllable, the biological process of how a gene was passed from one generation to another—including eye and hair color, height and build—plus the same do-not-mess-with-me disposition. However, most men were genuinely not interested in scientific fact and T.C. was genuinely not interested in most men.
Most men.
There was one man she'd left herself no choice but be interested in.
Although Sean Kennedy had absolutely no idea she was concerned with him at all—and that was the way she planned to keep it.
For now.
It wasn't as if she could lay the blame for what happened at his door, because he'd done nothing wrong.
But anxiety about how she was going to cope alone in the future wound tight in her gut. At the end of the day, T.C. couldn't blame anyone except herself for the shit storm that was about to hit her entire world and everyone in it.
Her mind trapped in constant circles hunting for a solution which wasn't forthcoming, she kept an eye on the comings and goings far below her knowing full well she was deep in what Anastacia would call procrastination mode. In the normal course of events, Ana and Danni would have remembered today's date. But these days nothing was normal between her and her besties. Anastacia and Danni were crazy mad in love. And since today was the anniversary of a horrible time in her life, they'd called her to make sure she was alright. Her response had been to tell them to get on with their own lives and have fun with the men they loved. Which was as it should be and was probably just as well. Because if, when, they learned what she'd done, they'd be pretty damn horrified.
Hell, she was horrified with herself.
A whimper escaped from her throat.
Oh God, what had possessed her to kiss Sean like that?
One kiss had led to one thing and then another.
Truth was, the man had been helple
ss lying in his hospital bed and she'd found that helplessness simply irresistible. Plus, she'd been just as helpless to resist an attraction that had been burning hot for weeks. She hadn't been able to turn down the chance of being in control of him, for once, either.
It had been her choice to visit him during his stint in hospital in Paris.
In her heart, she knew gratitude played a large part in why she'd let her guard down with him. She'd been so terribly grateful he'd saved Ana and Danni's lives by laying his own on the line. Although, she supposed risking his life in the protection of others was the kind of thing a bodyguard did. Plus, with the bump on his hard head and his ribs all banged up, he'd been helpless to defend himself against her womanly wiles. To gain entry to his room, she'd told the French authorities she was his bride-to-be. Typically, they'd fallen for the romance and given her unlimited access to a brave and gorgeous tough guy who was about six foot four and two hundred and twenty pounds of hard muscle.
A guy who'd watched her from beneath his dense lashes, his cheeks hectic with lust as she'd kissed him—with tongues. The thought of how he'd tasted, powerfully male, even now made the pulse between her legs ache and throb and want. Her nipples peaked beneath her T-shirt.
T.C. took in a deep breath to try and ease the need, but it was no use.
Six weeks later, she was still mortified by the memory of that kiss and by the dirty things she'd done to him. Things that had left her feeling dazed, confused and her belly all twisty with need.
Afterwards, she'd given him a finger wave good-bye and strolled right out of the room and out of his life.
Since then, she'd ignored his texts.
Every day, he rang, once, and left the same message on her machine. "Pick up the phone, Theresa."
She reckoned Sean Kennedy was more stubborn than most, but he'd give up soon enough.
They always did.
T.C. had a rule that any emotional involvement with a man was, for a variety of reasons which made perfect sense to her, not an option. Although she'd well and truly broken that rule with Sean.
The trouble was, she'd no idea what to do about it.
Through the grapevine, mainly from Danni, she'd learned that Sean was due to return to active duty any day—as Ana's lead personal protection officer. Seemed the guy was going stir crazy after weeks stuck at home doing paperwork.
T.C. tried to have sympathy for him, and failed, because she had something more important to worry about.
Something she hadn't prepared for.
Something she could never have imagined.
Recently, and when she least expected it, her brain seemed to delight in taking sneaky little trips down memory lane. She'd been feeling off, a bit brain foggy, since returning from Paris.
Yesterday morning, she'd taken a nap.
In sleep, the dream of one of the worst moments of her life had seemed so real to her, she'd cried out. She was back in her childhood home. The argument with her mother had begun like so many others, over a small thing, and had escalated into a screaming tantrum from a child desperate for an affection that was deliberately withheld.
In response, T.C. had broken every single piece of the family's collection of Edinburgh crystal glass.
"I hate you," T.C. had screamed at her mother, with every single furious beat of her twelve-year-old heart.
"We do not do hate in this house, Theresa," her mother had replied, her blue eyes like ice, flat and hard. Her lilac business suit the perfect foil for her slim blonde beauty. "To hate we'd need to care in the first place about a person who's torn the beating heart from this family. I don't care about you and neither does your father, and it is about time you grew up and realized the truth."
T.C. had accepted long ago that rejection from her parents had broken something fundamental inside her.
She'd never truly recovered from it.
Once she'd reached the age of independence, she walked away and never looked back.
For the last six years she hadn't set eyes on her parents.
And apart from Ana and Danni, T.C. didn't do close friends either.
She certainly didn't do close relationships with men.
Truth was, since the age of twelve, T.C. had lived each day just waiting for the axe to fall on her and chop her heart from her chest.
After all, she expected, she deserved, nothing less.
But now Sean, through no fault of his own, had forced his way into her life.
Actually, she'd forced her way into his life.
He was brave.
Gorgeous.
Sexy.
And in Paris, she'd seen him vulnerable in a way she knew he'd never willingly have shown her.
Maybe she had feelings for him.
Maybe he'd even taken a tiny piece of her heart.
Maybe.
But another possibility filled her with utter dread.
What if she cared too much?
What if she'd tripped and fallen down the rocky road to love?
The thought horrified her enough that her heart began to pound against her ribs.
Nah.
Not possible.
She hardly knew the man.
And anyway, people chose to love.
They didn't just fall into love against their will.
Did they?
The truth hit her so hard she could hardly catch a single breath.
And now her heart stopped before it went crazy.
She loved.
Oh God, she loved Sean.
The whole idea was insane on so many different levels.
She didn't do love, couldn't do love for one simple reason, she didn't deserve such a gift.
Over the years, she'd learned one very hard lesson.
If she loved, she'd be punished for it.
Even if she couldn't quite imagine what form the punishment might take.
Lying alone in her bed, she'd curled up into a ball to make herself smaller.
To wait.
She hadn't needed to wait long.
It had taken exactly twenty-four hours after the nightmare of her argument with her mother for the axe to fall.
And when her punishment came, it had been a doozy.
Pregnant.
Knocked up.
Knocked out, more like.
Bloody hell.
Now what?
CHAPTER FIVE
Sean Kennedy had often been told he was a man of few words.
Fair comment, he supposed.
In the army, his superior officers had called him a challenge, usually because they were talking a complete crock of shit.
He was street wise.
And perfectly at home in the desert where he'd honed many deadly skills.
Not that there was a lot of sand, or a desperate need for deadly skills, in London.
Taking time to prepare for his return to his day job, to keep a close eye on Anastacia Morgan, he checked what was left of the bruising on his ribs. His hours of physio might have hurt like hell, but at thirty-three he was relatively young, fit and a fast healer. His breathing had improved and he'd managed a steady jog this morning without coughing up a lung.
Considering he lived in one of the most expensive cities in the world, his two-bedroom apartment was spacious and airy, all glass and steel. It had tall windows overlooking the murky waters of the winding river Thames. He'd bought it years before Canary Wharf had become a big deal and had never regretted it. He was careful with money, some might say a little too careful, but Sean never gave a shit about what others thought. He worked hard. His personal protection business was in the black. He might live frugally and not worry about home comforts like a couch or a T.V. but that was no one's business but his own.
For the first time in years he'd grown his hair long enough to actually style it.
Not that he was vain, but Nico Ferranti had told him he looked like GI Joe and to grow it to blend in with the staff and clients of Ferranti Communications.
Sea
n had a lot of time for Nico and Bronte Ferranti and their rapidly expanding family.
Their kids were a blast, especially little Sophia. The last time he'd been in her delightful company, she'd told him she was six and asked him wait until she was at least eighteen because she was gonna marry him. He had to laugh. The kid was a complete pistol, no wonder Nico's hair was going grey.
One day—maybe—Sean himself might meet a woman prepared to put up with him, settle down and have a family of his own.
One day.
And of course that thought put the blonde bombshell that was Theresa Catliff in his head.
Again.
The girl might be drop-dead-fucking-gorgeous, but she was also stubborn as a fucking mule.
Obstinate.
Contrary.
And determinedly ignoring his texts and his calls.
T.C. wasn't any man's idea of wife and mother material, especially with her bad attitude, bad temper and that beautiful but potty mouth.
Then again, knowing her, she'd likely surprise him.
After all, the woman lived to surprise him.
He loved the sound of her smoky voice. It was a voice that crawled under a man's skin and tugged low in the belly. Plus, she'd smelled amazing—warm woman and sweet and delicious—like a blonde bombshell should.
He grinned, thinking of the first time he'd seen her and the way she'd stopped him in his tracks. The face of an angel with the mouth of an Irish road digger. Sean hadn't been able to take his eyes off of her. Still couldn't, truth be told. She had the most amazing bone structure and that flawless peaches and cream skin, like silk or velvet. Her hair was a glorious tumble of blonde, all shiny and slippery. And, man, those eyes were large, a stunning blue framed with thick dark blonde lashes. She was tall, curvy, perfect—even with a dirty mouth and bad attitude—he couldn't get enough of her.
He heaved a sigh filled with a weird yearning that went deep into his very soul.
Pity she didn't feel the same way about him.
Sean was a big boy.
He accepted that once had been enough for her.