blonde strand behind her ear. ‘Maybe some therapy might be a good idea?’
‘Therapy?’
‘For your workaholism…or are you still in denial?’
He could hear the hurt in her voice, the anger behind the bitter accusation, and regret twisted through Mac at the pain he must have caused her when time after time he’d put his working commitments before his relationship. Sighing heavily, he glanced round at the reception desk, at the interested glances they were getting from the smartly dressed brunette who sat behind it, who suddenly pretended to be looking at some paperwork.
‘We can’t talk here. Can we go somewhere?’
‘Where do you suggest? Aunt Beth’s shop? Your hotel room perhaps?’ Her green-eyed gaze disdainful, Tara unfolded her tan jacket and slipped it on. Flipping her hair out from behind the collar, she bit down on her lip to stop it from quivering. ‘You’ll get over your break-up with your girlfriend. I’m sure you could charm her into patching things up—you always did have a way with women, didn’t you, Mac?’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘Perhaps you weren’t always working when you said you were. Perhaps you were seeing someone else when you walked out on me that night…’
Mac saw red. He had never cheated on Tara, nor felt any desire to. Sure, women came on to him, he wasn’t blind—but neither was he promiscuous, and when he’d told Tara he had to work late at the office, well, that was exactly what he was doing.
‘First you accuse me of workaholism—a label I’m quite willing to entertain, by the way, because it’s probably true—but you go too far accusing me of having affairs with other women. What would have been my motive? You were always more than enough woman for me, Tara—don’t pretend you can’t remember…’
Coupled with his words, one glance from that suddenly heated blue gaze made Tara feel a surge of desire so strong that her knees nearly buckled beneath her. ‘Well, I’ve changed! I’m not—I’m not interested in that side of things any more.’ She blushed furiously, wanting the floor to open up and swallow her when Mac grinned knowingly and nodded. ‘I have other more important things to think about,’ she blustered on, ‘I have a fulfilling job working for Aunt Beth, I have—’
‘Why did you give up your dancing, by the way?’
Because right then the answer seemed to mysteriously evade her, Tara folded her arms across her chest and fixed Mac with an angry glare.
‘That’s none of your damn business! I’m a free agent now, remember? I don’t have to explain anything to you. After five years I—’
‘You’re still my wife.’ His voice was deadly serious—possessive, almost. Tara felt a little shiver dance down her spine.
‘Well, we can soon remedy that. You’ve got some time off—why don’t we find ourselves a solicitor and get some papers drawn up? Unless you’ve already done so, that is?’
‘I told you before, Tara, and my assertion still stands. I don’t want a divorce. I want a reconciliation. Understandably, you’ll want some time to consider my wishes, but, as you rightly say, I’ve got plenty of time on my hands at the moment so I can give you my full, undivided attention. Why don’t we start by having dinner together tonight?’
‘I can’t. I’ve got a date.’ As she tossed her head, Tara’s green eyes sparkled with triumph.
‘A date?’
‘With a man.’
‘You’re seeing someone?’ The muscle in the side of Mac’s impossibly beautiful cheekbone twitched tellingly.
‘Is that so hard to believe?’
Mac glanced down at his watch, straightened his cuff then smiled beguilingly. Tara held her breath as every cell in her body seemed to throb and tingle.
‘I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. Cancel your date. Tell your “friend” that you’re having dinner with your husband.’
‘I will not!’
‘Then give me his telephone number—I’ll do it for you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Then I’ll talk to Beth—perhaps she’ll supply it for me?’
‘Beth wouldn’t do that. Look, Mac, this whole thing is completely crazy! We’ve been apart for too long. We’re not the same people we were when we broke up—’ Anguished, Tara breathed deeply, staring desperately down at the soft green carpet beneath their feet. When she was more composed, she lifted her head to look at him pleadingly. ‘Go back to London. Ring Amelie. Believe me, Mac, a reconciliation between us just wouldn’t work.’
‘What if I said I wanted us to try for another baby?’
With a gasp of disbelief, Tara turned and stumbled out of the hotel.
Mac got into his Mercedes and drove. He didn’t know where he was going, nor did he particularly care. All he knew was that he needed to breathe, needed to think, needed to get his head straight about Tara. He should never have said what he had about the baby—that much was clear. Besides, he’d gone at it like a bull at a gate and, unprepared, Tara had turned tail and run. Blaming her wasn’t even an option, Mac thought as he negotiated a suddenly sharp curve in the road—he was the one who had acted like a selfish idiot. Right now she was probably wondering what the hell he was playing at. ‘All right,’ he said out loud, pressing a button on the dash for some music. ‘I want her back. I don’t care what I have to do to get her back. I want to make babies—lots of them. I want us to live happily ever after in a place of her choice… I want—’ The words of the song that was playing on the radio suddenly penetrated his brain and halted the eager flow of words with bittersweet irony. ‘It’s too late, baby,’ crooned the singer. Mac eased his foot off the accelerator and cursed harshly beneath his breath.
Switching off the offending record, he stared through the windscreen at the surrounding countryside with little pleasure. Give him the city any day, he thought irritably. At least he knew how to operate in the city. The countryside was too quiet, too…green, too—well, it made him introspective and right now Mac didn’t know if that was a particularly good thing. He couldn’t honestly say he liked what he was finding out about himself. Thirty-eight years old, owner and director of one of London’s most successful advertising agencies, it was true—but that was where the success story ended. In every other respect he felt like a failure. He was a self-confessed workaholic who up until now lived to work. He’d walked out on his wife of three years because he’d put ambition before love and in five years had made no contact with her because he knew that walking out on her when she had desperately wanted to make a go of things—when she had needed him most—was pretty damn unforgivable. Even more so since he’d found out about the baby…
Half an hour later, emotionally drained and weary of his own incessant thoughts, Mac pulled over into a place signposted as an area of outstanding natural beauty, got out of the car and walked. Around him there was an infinite sea of rolling green, to his left a densely wooded area that with the sun glinting off it looked like a sentinel in the distance, and above him the bluest sky known to man. As he walked, his expensive Italian-made shoes cutting a swathe through the grass,
