by Maggie Cox
‘Yes, well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? So tell me, what made you decide to try again? At marriage, I mean? Last time we were together you yelled at me that it was the biggest mistake of your life.’
The pain in Tara’s throat was making it difficult to speak. He’d wounded her deeply with his cruel, angry words then walked out without giving her a chance to make things right. The following day he’d rung to say he was leaving. He’d come home that night to pack, then left her in pieces while he walked calmly out the door. A few days later he’d sent her a cheque for some outrageously large amount in a card with a Monet painting on the front—the one with the waterlilies—and she’d torn it up along with the cheque and thrown it in the bin.
‘I lost my father last year to cancer.’ Mac’s words were hesitant, measured, and Tara’s foolish heart turned over at the flash of pain in his deep blue eyes, but she’d never met his parents. Mac had always been too busy to arrange it. Another casualty of his drive to succeed. ‘Something like that…the death of a parent…makes you think about your own mortality. I’m thirty-eight years old, Tara, and I want a child. I want the chance to be a father.’
‘Is that right?’ Her words were barely above a whisper and Mac could see that she was visibly shaken. He frowned. A memory returned that jolted him. Clearly he should have chosen his words more carefully.
‘I’ve got to go.’ Gathering up her jacket from the spare chair between them, Tara got hurriedly to her feet. ‘I’ve just remembered I’ve got several things to do today. I can’t stay here chatting. You can have your divorce, Mac. You know where I live, so send the papers there and I’ll sign them. Good luck.’
‘Tara!’
He pursued her from the cafeteria into a long, echoing corridor with marble busts of grave historical dignitaries looking on and a shiny parquet floor. When he caught up with her, urgently spinning her round to face him, it distressed him intensely that she was crying. Two slow wet tracks trickled down her face onto her chin. Impatiently she scrubbed them away. ‘What is it? You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? What more do you want?’
‘I want to know why you’re crying.’ He held onto her arm when she would have tugged it free and felt it suddenly grow limp in his hand.
‘You said you wanted a child, that you wanted to be a father?’ Suddenly weary and angry and beyond caring that she was about to lay her soul bare for him to trample all over it, Tara lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I begged you to let me have a baby…do you remember that?’
Mac did. He remembered a night of the sweetest, most erotic lovemaking known to man—a night that had come about after another bitter argument, when their mutual desire and attraction was stronger than the anger that raged between them—and his beautiful green-eyed wife laying her head on his chest and asking him if he could guess what she wanted more than anything else in the world. Suddenly his chest was so tight he could hardly breathe.
‘I remember.’ Hot colour crept up his neck and he let go of her arm.
‘When we broke up I was pregnant.’
Her words sliced through him, knocking his world off its axis.
‘I didn’t— Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Why should I have? You left. Our marriage was over. You didn’t want a baby anyway. You didn’t know if you were cut out to be a father, wasn’t that what you said at the time? Work was too demanding, you were busy building up the business…“safeguarding” our future, that’s what you said. Didn’t that just turn out to be the biggest joke of all?’
‘Tara, I…’ Loosening his tie, Mac dragged his fingers shakily through the blunt-cut ends of his thick blond hair. ‘What happened?’
Fear clouded his impossibly blue eyes and just for a moment or two Tara considered softening the blow. She didn’t know how, but she would have done so if she could. Cruelty just wasn’t in her nature.
‘What happened?’ Her even white teeth bit briefly into her quivering lower lip. ‘The baby died in my womb at six months.’
‘Dear God!’ Mac’s exclamation was like a hissed breath. He moved away, shaking his head, staring down at the floor as if he didn’t want to hear any more. Couldn’t handle hearing any more.
‘The baby was a boy.’ Tara’s sorrowful green gaze sought him out, made him look at her. ‘We had a son, Macsen. A little baby boy.’ And with that, she ran down the shiny corridor, the heels of her sandals echoing like cannon fire in her ears as she frantically sought out the exit, her heart beating fit to burst.
‘Where shall we eat tonight, darling?’ Amelie Duvall finished putting the final careful touches to her make-up, took a brief inventory of her appearance in her classic ‘little black dress’ in one of the two mirrored wardrobes that banked the big scroll bed, then reached inside her black sequinned purse for some perfume. Spraying it liberally behind her ears, her knees, then behind her wrists, she returned the bottle to her purse then threw it onto the bed.
‘Macsen? I asked you a question. Were you even listening?’ Barefooted, the French girl padded out into the living room, coming to an abrupt halt when she saw Mac seated on the sofa, hunched over a glass of what she immediately guessed to be brandy. He’d removed his tie, his hair was dishevelled—as if he’d been ceaselessly running his fingers through it—and the expression on his stunningly handsome face was nothing short of grim.
‘But you are not even ready to go out.’ Amelie could not mask her disappointment. She loved the opportunity to dress up and go out to dinner with her handsome escort—knew without doubt that they made an eye-catching pair, her own dark beauty a perfect foil for his blond Viking good looks. Whatever had brought on this dark mood of his Amelie saw it as her mission to shake him out of it.
‘I don’t feel like going out to dinner tonight.’ Mac finally looked up at her, his gaze cursory—without pleasure—as if all his senses were deadened to her svelte Gallic beauty, then, tipping back his glass, drank down the remaining contents in one deep draught.
‘But you said on the phone—’
‘Forget what I said!’ Rising to his feet, he restlessly paced the room then went to stare out of the panoramic window at the lights of London winking all around him in the darkened sky.
‘Darling, what is the matter? Did something bad happen at work? A deal fell through, perhaps? Please put it behind you, chéri, tomorrow is another day. You will do better then.’
Sensing her moving behind him, Mac was unaccountably enraged. All of a sudden her expensive French perfume was too cloying—oppressive almost—and he wanted to tell her to just leave him the hell alone. But he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t resort to anger when what he needed to do was just come clean. Be honest. Stop this charade now before another relationship went to hell in a handbasket. It was bad enough that he was going to call the whole thing off. Since the moment he’d seen Tara today—even before she’d told him about the baby, his son—he knew in his heart he didn’t want to marry Amelie. Couldn’t marry her.
‘Look…I know we talked about the possibility of us getting married, but all things considered—I honestly don’t think it would work.’
‘You mean your wife would not agree to the divorce?’
It was typical of Amelie that she would immediately lay the blame for his decision on someone else.
Sighing, Mac continued to stare out of the window. He thought about the baby—the son he’d never known—about Tara willing to face a pregnancy she thought he wanted no part of, then losing the child in the most horrendous way… His stomach knotted painfully with sickness and regret. ‘My decision has nothing to do with that. I’d do anything to prevent you feeling hurt and disappointed, Amelie, but it’s better that we end things now than go through with a marriage that would be a complete fiction. I’m sure if you’re absolutely honest with yourself you don’t really want to marry me either.’ Slowly he turned away from the window to face her.
Her pretty elfin face with her wide doe-like brown eyes st
ared back at him as if he’d suddenly been inflicted with some desperate malady. ‘Of course I want to marry you. Are you crazy? I love you!’
‘Do you?’
She had the grace to colour a little. Mac responded with a sardonic little smile.
‘You love my money, chérie. You love what I can buy for you; clothes, jewellery, perfume…’ His nostrils flared a little, a memory coming out of nowhere that almost floored him. Tara’s scent—a subtle, flowery, honeysuckle and vanilla whisper that had driven him almost mindless with need. He had sensed it today, even as he told her he wanted a divorce, and hadn’t been able to ignore it. His body had hardened almost instantly. ‘This proposed marriage of ours wouldn’t really suit either of us. You are too young and too pretty to tie yourself down to one man and I…well, up until now my work has been my life. I don’t deny it’s important but now I’m ready for a family. I want to have children. I’m not interested in dining out at the best restaurants every night or flying out to New York or Paris on a whim just so that my girlfriend can shop. I want a home life. A proper home life.’
The French girl sniffed, prettily, with elegance—the way she did everything else. ‘You make me sound so shallow, Macsen. I am deeply hurt you do not want to marry me. I would give you babies—lots of them.’ But even as she said the words there was a discernible stiffening of her slender, gamine frame that spoke volumes to Mac. She detested the idea. He hadn’t brought up the subject before but now he knew without doubt he was doing the right thing by bringing the relationship to an end.
‘I understand you better than you think I do.’ He smiled again, pulling her into his arms, but the kiss he bestowed at the corner of her perfectly made-up mouth was nothing short of paternal. ‘Don’t worry, chérie. I won’t let you leave empty-handed. I will give you more than enough to tide you over until your next wealthy suitor comes along…’
CHAPTER TWO
‘TARA? What are you doing sitting here with all the lights out?’
Blinking at the sudden brightness that flooded the living room, Tara guiltily uncurled her legs from beneath her on the couch and pasted an automatic smile across her face. The slightest slip of the controlled mask she’d so carefully constructed to prevent Beth knowing how she really felt inside and her aunt would pounce on her weakness like a lion on a raw steak, demanding to know what she could do to put things right. Her help would be well-meaning, of course, but ultimately useless. This was one situation her ever-practical aunt definitely wouldn’t be able to fix.
‘I drifted off,’ she lied in answer to the older woman’s question. ‘I locked up downstairs, fixed dinner, then came in here to relax.’
‘Did you see Mac?’ Her aunt threw her keys down on the little antique table just inside the door and stood, arms akimbo, in that brisk, no-nonsense, ‘I’m in charge’ way she had that reminded Tara of one of those TV cops about to conduct an interrogation.
‘I saw him,’ she replied carefully, tucking some stray blonde strands behind her ear. ‘Why did you tell him where to find me?’
‘Because he was charming and polite and concerned, and because in my opinion it’s about time you two got some dialogue going—even if most of the blame lies squarely at his feet.’ Beth Delaney, tall, slim, fiftysomething redhead with Irish temper to match, slipped off the tailored navy jacket of her suit and arranged it carefully on the back of a polished Edwardian chair.
‘I haven’t heard from him in five years, Beth, so I think you must have misinterpreted the “concerned” part. And as for dialogue, don’t you think it’s a little late for that?’
‘It’s never too late to talk, my darling. Your situation is just too ridiculous for words. Married but not married…in the usual cohabiting sense, of course. The pair of you need to sort it out.’
Tara took a deep breath and pushed herself to her feet. ‘It’s sorted. He’s asked me for a divorce.’
‘Oh.’ For a moment or two Beth looked simply stunned. Which had to be a first as far as Tara was concerned. No one, but no one ever caught her aunt off-guard. Sharp as a tack from the age of two—so the family mythology went. ‘And what did you say to that?’ Back in charge, Beth absently fingered the single strand of exquisite pearls round her neck.
Emotion tightened Tara’s throat. In her mind—the fevered jumble of thoughts that passed for logic—she told herself it was only natural Mac had found someone else. But a stubborn, hopeful, definitely illogical part of her had always clung to the tenuous belief that one day he might come back to her. As of today that belief had been cruelly swept away, like a lone leaf in the path of a cyclone.
‘I agreed, of course. What more was there to say?’
‘What more was there to…? I take it you told him about the baby?’
Dogged in the pursuit of truth, Beth didn’t flinch from asking the tough questions.
‘He’s met someone. He wants to get married again and start a family. In answer to your question, yes…I told him about the baby. In some respects I wish I hadn’t.’
Tearing her anguished gaze away from her aunt, Tara swept past her to the door. Some might call her a coward but right now she couldn’t take any more interrogation. All she wanted to do was unwind in a long, hot, scented bath and break her heart over Mac in private.
‘Why not? He deserves to know the agony he put you through!’
‘He was devastated, Beth. I saw it in his eyes. What’s the point of us both being in agony?’
For once, Beth did not know how to answer her niece. Making a little ‘tsking’ noise with her tongue, she retrieved her jacket then reached out a hand to gently smooth Tara’s fringe from her eyes.
‘You’re such a beautiful girl, my darling, you don’t deserve to be so dreadfully unhappy. At your tender age you should be having the time of your life instead of being stuck working in a fusty old antique shop with an old bird like me!’
Tara smiled, her heart swelling with affection for the aunt who hadn’t hesitated to offer her a place of refuge when Mac walked out on her. An aunt who’d given her not simply a home but a job too if she wanted it; who’d stood by her when times were at their toughest and held her hand all through that dreadful night in the hospital—weeping with her when Tara finally lost her precious babe.
‘You’re not old, Beth. Not in any way, shape or form. And as for having the time of my life, well…’ Colouring helplessly, Tara momentarily forgot her deep sorrow at unhappy memories she’d rather not dwell on. ‘I think I had that for the first two and a half years I was with Mac.’
‘The man’s a fool!’ the older woman declared in disgust. ‘I said it then and I’ll say it again now. I wonder if he has even the slightest clue just what he walked away from?’
Mac pulled over into a lay-by to study the map once again. Satisfied he was on the right track, he wound down his window to breathe in some fresh country air. It was nearly autumn and the Indian summer that had lasted well into the first week of September was at last showing real signs of abating. Leaves were already scattered beneath the hedgerows and there was the scent of wood-smoke in the air. There was also a refreshing drop in the temperature that right now Mac found he welcomed. The cool air helped him think straight and God knew he’d done some thinking over the past three nights. He had the bags under his eyes to prove it. Flipping open the glove compartment, he delved inside for a photograph—a dog-eared colour print of Tara standing outside the Tower of London that he’d snapped years ago when they’d first met. Laughing back at him into his camera lens, she looked completely ravishing with her soft blonde hair, sparkling green eyes and pretty summer dress that moulded itself to her lithe, slim body. Mac had hardly been able to take his eyes off her and she’d been so sweet, insisting on paying for lunch and treating him when they both knew he was easily the more solvent of the two. But he had soon discovered Tara was like that: generous and loving to a fault. And Mac had lapped it up, the attention and the loving, like a man who’d been living underground all his days unti
l he’d met her. She’d brought light and joy and humour into his life, and the day he’d walked away from her had been the darkest of his life. Until she’d told him about the baby, that was…
The pain of that thought was like a knife ripping through his chest. Releasing a harsh, dizzying breath, Mac dropped the photograph onto the passenger seat beside him and started the ignition. There was a deep frown between his dark blond brows as he checked his mirror then navigated the silver Mercedes out onto the country road to continue his journey. If he’d calculated the distance just right, he should arrive in Tara’s little market town round about lunch-time. He’d check into his hotel, get some directions from the desk clerk and go in search of Beth Delaney’s antique shop, Memories are Made. Whether she liked it or not, Tara and he had some talking to do. He just hoped that she or her aunt wouldn’t simply slam the door shut in his face and deny him the opportunity.
‘You can badger me all you like, Mac Simmonsen, but I have absolutely no intention of telling you where Tara is. I made the mistake of doing that only a few days ago and she’s been a different girl since you and she met up again. She took a long time to get over you…losing the baby—’
‘God dammit, Beth! Why didn’t someone tell me she was pregnant? As her husband, I had a right to know!’ Glad that the little antique shop was helpfully empty of customers, Mac knew his temper was on a dangerously short rein. He could accept he’d been in the wrong. He wasn’t so arrogant that he blamed Tara for keeping her pregnancy to herself—not when he’d walked out—not when he’d been the one who’d asserted he wasn’t ready for fatherhood. But he did hold her family responsible for being so damned self-righteous that they couldn’t even contact him on her behalf…especially in her hour of need.
Beth Delaney bristled. Her long topaz earrings shook alarmingly as she crossed her arms in front of her thin chest and squared up to the impressively built male in his perfect designer suit with blue eyes that would dazzle a less immune woman at twenty paces. But Beth prided herself on being stronger than that. Her beloved niece’s well-being was her priority and no amount of hectoring or pleading would shake her conviction that right now Tara should keep well away from this man. Not that she could imagine the proud, self-contained, Mac Simmonsen pleading for anything.