stopped dead in her tracks and swung round to face him, hands on hips. ‘Well, more fool you, Raj Singh, because I want to go dancing!’
‘You do?’
‘I do.’ And, although she was smiling and determined to have a good time, inside Tara’s heart was aching because Mac had never—not even once—taken her to a nightclub to dance.
‘I think that just about covers everything. If you can think of anything else, call me. You’ve got my number.’ His business concluded, Mac replaced the receiver on its rest and swung his long legs onto the bed. Picking up the hardbacked book beside him on the nightstand, he flicked to the page he’d turned down at the corner then, adjusting the stack of pillows behind his head, proceeded to read where he’d left off earlier.
Five minutes later, having read the same two sentences at least ten times, Mac dropped the book beside him on the counterpane and with a harsh sound of exasperation dragged both hands back and forth through his thick blond hair. Unused to having time on his hands, time when he should be relaxing and enjoying himself, he concluded it was a sad state of affairs when a man didn’t even remember how to participate in either of those two very necessary states. He was so used to working twelve-to fourteen-hour days, his body seemed to have lost the ability to relax when he wanted it to. Getting up, he strode over to the old-fashioned sash window, lifted the forest-green drape and glanced out at the deserted street below. The row of Tudor-fronted shops reminded him how historical this little town was. How appealing to the out-of-town visitor or tourist from abroad. But it was mid-afternoon and as quiet as the grave…too quiet. How did Tara stand it? Wasn’t there anything about London she missed? Apart from the Victoria and Albert Museum and Sadler’s Wells, that was? The capital city could be an unforgiving mistress with its noise, traffic jams and pollution, but Mac had to admit he loved it—missed it when he wasn’t there. In the early days of their marriage, Tara had often talked about wanting to move to the country and Mac had put her off, promising to discuss it ‘some time in the future’ when he wasn’t so busy—when the demands of his steadily growing business were perhaps less. He’d get someone in to run the agency for him, he’d told her—then it wouldn’t matter that he didn’t live close by; he could keep in touch by phone or fax, just show up for the important stuff. His ambition had been like a drug, he acknowledged now, shame churning his insides. He’d let it blind him to the fact that his wife had needs too, and more often than not he wasn’t meeting them. He shut his eyes at the memory. On the nightstand, the trill of the telephone mercifully jolted him.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Simmonsen? I have a Mrs Simmonsen down here in the lobby to see you.’
A vein throbbed in his temple. For a moment he didn’t know what to say. He’d begun to think she wasn’t going to get in touch after all, as Beth had speculated she might not. All day he’d resisted the impulse to make his way back to the shop and see if she was there—find out if she was deliberately avoiding contact. Not that he’d let a little obstacle like that get in his way—there was far too much at stake for that…
‘Tell her I’ll be right down.’
As he descended the thickly carpeted staircase to the floor below, Mac straightened his tie, rubbed a hand round his recently shaven jaw, and mused that it was surely a good sign that Tara was still using his name when she could have so easily reverted to her maiden name. Even though they weren’t actually divorced, who could have blamed her under the circumstances? But, that aside, he couldn’t deny the throb of pleasure that pulsed through him at the sight of her sitting on the big cream sofa in the lobby. She was wearing light blue jeans with a crisp white blouse and she’d folded her tan-coloured jacket across her lap. She looked fresh-faced and pretty and when she trained her wary green gaze his way Mac knew an almost irresistible desire to get her alone, in the most intimate situation he could think of.
She got to her feet as he drew level, and her scent drifted round him, stirring memories strictly of the bedroom variety.
‘I got your message. I can’t stay long—I’m helping Beth with a stock inventory. What is it, Mac? What was so urgent that you couldn’t just tell me on the phone?’
Going for broke, he squared his shoulders. ‘I’ve decided I don’t want a divorce after all,’ he replied evenly.
‘You don’t?’ Big as saucers, Tara’s green eyes were visibly apprehensive. ‘Then…then what do you want?’
‘I want you, Tara…back in my life. I want us to have a proper marriage.’
CHAPTER THREE
TARA heard what Mac said but wondered crazily if she’d imagined it. All the way to his hotel she’d been frantic with nerves; terrified but excited at the thought of seeing him again—acknowledging that their unexpected encounter in the museum had stirred up so many hopes and dreams that she really should have let go of long ago. Especially after what had happened… But now, staring up into a fathomless blue gaze that clearly had no intention of letting her off the hook—not even for a second—she clutched her jacket to her chest and remembered that the only feelings she should have towards him were ambivalent at best—hostile at worst.
‘Is this some kind of bad joke? Because if it is, I really don’t appreciate it. One minute you’re telling me you’ve met someone and you want a divorce, the next… What’s going on, Mac?’
He told himself to take it easy, not to push so hard or he’d more than likely frighten her away for good. His insides clenched at the thought. Now that he’d seen her again he knew what he was doing was right. It was actually a shock to him that he’d survived so long without her. Maybe not so much survived as existed. How could he have contemplated for even a second marrying someone like Amelie? The French girl didn’t even let her guard down in bed; she was far too obsessed with her appearance, too controlled to get low down and dirty, too…too cold. Mac only had to glance at the hectic colour seeping into Tara’s cheeks to remember how warm his wife had been in that department—an erotic revelation of passion and fire.
‘It’s not a joke, Tara. Amelie and I broke up.’
A sharp spasm of jealousy coiled through her at the mention of his girlfriend’s name. Before she had a name the woman had been a hazy nothing in her mind. ‘Amelie’ made her flesh and blood, real, and that hurt.
‘So what am I? Any port in a storm?’
‘Of course not.’ He looked offended. Too bad, Tara thought wildly, when he didn’t seem to care what he did to hurt her.
‘We got along once upon a time,’ Mac continued, sliding a hand into a pocket of his dark blue suit. ‘Is it so crazy to imagine we might get along again?’
‘You’re serious about this, aren’t you?’ Inside her chest, Tara’s heart was beating double time. Of all the reasons Mac could have given for why he wanted to meet up with her, a reconciliation was the furthest—the last thing in the whole wide world she could have imagined. What was behind it, she wondered, and why was he torturing her like this when the mere sight of him was tying her insides into some kind of intricate macramé?
‘So serious I’ve taken a month’s leave of absence.’
‘Well, that must be a first! Are you sure they can spare you, Mac? I always thought you were so indispensable.’
To her surprise, a self-deprecating little grin hijacked his perfect mouth. ‘So did I. Obviously that’s not the case.
