pleasure at this impromptu little foray into unknown territory.
‘Any messages?’
The dark-haired receptionist glanced up at the gorgeous blond Viking who’d strolled through the doors of the select little hotel and almost choked on her biscuit. Flushing scarlet with embarrassment, she blinked wide-eyed into Mac’s amused blue gaze.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Simmonsen, I was just having my tea. Been enjoying the fresh air, have you?’
His immaculate white shirt was undone casually at the collar, his suit jacket thrown loosely across his arm, and intriguingly there were a couple of blades of grass in his mussed hair. Eileen Dunne felt one of her tropical moments coming on. With the back of her hand she fanned herself.
‘It really is beautiful around here,’ Mac replied, smiling, the dimple in his chin devastatingly in evidence.
Slack-jawed, Eileen cleared her throat. ‘We have a lot of visitors who just come for the peace and quiet,’ she managed before blushing furiously again.
‘I can see why. So…no messages, then?’ Preparing to move towards the staircase, Mac doubted there were but thought there was no harm in checking.
‘There is one.’ Eileen turned round to the row of little boxes behind her on the wall to retrieve a folded piece of paper from one of them. ‘It’s from someone named Tara. I hope you can read my writing. If not, I can tell you what she said.’
Staring at the opened scrap of paper, Mac felt a crazy leap of hope in his chest at what he read.
Mac.
If your offer of dinner still stands, I’ll meet you at your hotel at eight.
Tara.
‘Thanks.’ Slipping the note into his back pocket, he treated the awestruck Eileen to another drop-dead gorgeous smile then took the staircase up to his room two steps at a time.
‘Thank you…’ Eileen grinned at his back before taking another ravenous bite of her biscuit.
‘Hey! What’s all this, then? Going somewhere special?’ Popping her head round the door of her niece’s bedroom at just after seven that evening, Beth Delaney smiled at the colourful heap of clothing on the bed. Tara was standing in front of an open wardrobe, dressed in one of those floaty Indian cotton summer dresses that made her look as if she’d just stepped out of the pages of A Midsummer Night’s Dream—especially as her feet were bare. Her soft blonde hair was newly washed and dried and her pretty face was flushed from the recent heat of the hair-dryer.
‘I’m meeting Mac for dinner.’ Thinking it was best not to turn around just then to gauge her aunt’s expression, Tara gazed unseeingly at the contents of her wardrobe, not certain about the dress she had chosen.
‘You are?’
‘I am.’
‘What’s brought all this on? I thought you swore you were never going to see him again when you ran into the shop this afternoon? Did he or did he not make you cry?’
Tara turned slowly to face her aunt. The older woman’s expression was bewildered and concerned. She sighed. Right now Tara was feeling more stunned than if a brick had been dropped on her head from a great height. ‘I want us to try for another baby,’ Mac had said, as cool as a cucumber—while in contrast she’d felt as if her heart would pound clear out of her chest.
‘I’m feeling very emotional right now. I don’t rightly know what’s going on with me and Mac. If nothing else, we have some unfinished business to discuss. That’s why we’re having dinner together.’
‘Does this “unfinished business” concern the pair of you getting a divorce?’ Beth asked.
Turning back to her vague perusal of the contents of her wardrobe, Tara sighed again. ‘Probably.’
‘Probably?’
‘You may as well say it, Beth. You think I’m a fool for agreeing to see him again. You think he’s up to no good. You think he’s going to break my heart. Well, I’ve got news for you—he can’t do it again because it hasn’t been mended in the interim, so I’m perfectly safe from that particular affliction!’ Her eyes filling with tears, Tara dashed them impatiently away with the heel of her hand. It was probably a huge mistake to see Mac again but she had to know what was going on with him—why he was professing to want to take up where they’d left off; why he had said what he had about trying for another baby. Until she knew, the turmoil in her head would give her no peace.
‘The man’s already caused you more hurt than I can bear. You gave up everything when he walked out, your dancing, socialising, living, for God’s sake! Everyday things that gave you pleasure. You gave it all up because of Mac—because you were in pain and hurting. I’m not saying he’s a bad person, Tara. He clearly isn’t. But he is a driven man. A man addicted to work. A man like Mac doesn’t know how to make a relationship work—more to the point, he doesn’t have the time to make it work. Go and have dinner with him. Tell him you want a divorce and you want it now, then let him go and get on with your life! And if that means leaving here and going somewhere you can teach dance—then so be it!’
Her normally pale cheeks flushed with the passion of her words, Beth abruptly turned and exited the room.
Heart pounding, Tara dropped down onto the bed, silently acknowledging the truth of what her aunt had said. When all was said and done, she trusted Beth. When her mother had died ten years ago and her father had remarried and moved away, Beth had willingly taken over the roles of mother, sister and friend. Clearly, Beth’s affection for her ran deep. As far as Tara knew she couldn’t make the same claim for Mac.
She hadn’t eaten a thing. For several excruciating seconds more Mac watched her push her food round her plate, then, leaning forward, deliberately stilled the hand that held her fork with his own. ‘I think you’re meant to put the food onto the fork then put it into your mouth.’
Startled by his touch, by his bold blue eyes burning into hers, Tara felt her mouth drop open. Needing no more reaction than that, Mac stabbed some mange-tout with her fork and lifted it to her lips.
‘You’ve got it,’ he said softly as she helplessly began to chew. ‘Now, tell me why you’re not eating. I hope you’re not doing anything stupid like trying to lose weight.’
She flinched at his censure and the ache in her throat made it almost impossible to swallow the meagre mouthful Mac had dropped into her mouth. Glancing round at the other diners in the intimately lit French restaurant, Tara wished she could feel as carefree and happy as most of them appeared to be. Laughing and talking with their companions, clearly out to enjoy themselves, they were all a million miles away from the tense, apprehensive little picture she knew she must make sitting opposite Mac.
‘Of course I’m not dieting. The meal is delicious, I’m just—’
‘Just?’ A golden eyebrow quirked up towards the silky lock of hair that flopped sexily onto his forehead.
‘I find it difficult to eat when I’m not relaxed—when I’m worried or tense.’
‘I remember.’ He said it as though the memory caused him pain. Touching his pristine white napkin to his lips, Mac leant back
