of hers. Unblinking. Unflinching. Unshrinking.
He stood his ground for several beats, then slowly, carefully, removed his hands from her body, sliding one into a safe spot in the back pocket of his jeans and placing the other on the column above her head.
‘Now,’ he said, his voice as deep as an ocean, ‘do you still want that drink?’
She nodded, her hair spilling sexily over her shoulders. It took every ounce of his strength not to wrap his fingers around a lock and tug her the last few inches it would take for those wide, soft pink lips to meet his.
‘Boston Sour, right?’ he asked.
She nodded again. A waft of that killer perfume slid past his nose. He gripped the pillar so hard he felt plaster come away on his fingernails.
‘I’m guessing beer for you,’ Hannah said. ‘Imported. Sliver of lime.’
Her words carried a slow smile, and behind that a hesitant note of flirtation he’d never heard from her before. He knew her drink of choice. She knew his. And now they both knew it.
‘Stay here,’ he demanded. ‘Don’t move. I didn’t save you from that booze-soaked clod so that some other mischief might befall you the second I leave you alone.’
He’d moved to push away, to get her drink and whatever they could pour quickest for himself, when she lifted a hand and flicked an imaginary speck from his shirt. ‘Whether you want to admit it or not, beneath the tough guy exterior you are, in fact, an honest-to-goodness nice guy.’
Through the cotton of his shirt her fingernails scraped against the hair on his chest, which sprang to attention at her touch. He clenched his teeth so hard a shot of pain pulsed in his temple.
Nice? Hardly. The truth was her tough relationship with her mother had unexpectedly slid beneath his defences and connected with his own. And in a rare fit of solidarity he’d felt he had no choice but to help.
He wasn’t being nice. He was choosing sides in battle. A battle whose lines were fast blurring. Dangerously fast.
It was time to make the boundaries perfectly clear. So that she understood just how close to the fire they were dancing.
‘Honey,’ he drawled, ‘looking out for you this weekend is purely professional insurance. I want you back on dry land this Tuesday, ready to work—not all hung-over and homesick, addled by wedding-induced romantic thoughts. That’s it. End of story. You think your mother is egocentric? She has nothing on me.’
He dropped his hand till it rested just above her shoulder. Edged closer till she had to arch back to look him in the eye. Till his knee brushed against the outside of hers. The rasp of denim on suede shot sparks up his leg which settled with a painful fizz in his groin.
She flinched at the sliding contact. Her cheeks grew red. The crowd jostled, the music blared, and the air around them was so heavy with implication and consequence it vibrated. He was meant to be teaching his protégée a lesson. Instead the effort of keeping himself in check made his muscles burn.
Hannah’s hand slowly flattened to rest against his chest. But she didn’t push him away. If the thunderous thumping of his heart wasn’t enough of a caution to her, he wondered how far he might have to go.
And where the point of no return might be.
It did occur to him—far too late—that he might have walked blithely past it the moment he’d stepped off his plane. The moment he’d made certain they’d be stranded on an island, to all intents and purposes alone.
Suddenly she gave him a hearty shove, then ducked under his arm and took off to the edge of the dance floor. He should have been relieved. But it wasn’t often he had a girl literally bolt from his advances—simulated or otherwise.
Feeling suddenly adrift, he made to follow when the strains of a new song blaring over the speakers stopped him short. That particular combination of notes plucked at something inside him. Something that chased all of Hannah’s latent heat from his veins and chilled him to the bone.
In his mind’s eye he could see a woman standing at a kitchen bench, hand reaching out for an overly full glass of wine, dishtowel thrown over her shoulder, gently swaying from side to side as she quietly sang along with the small radio on the bench at her elbow.
One of his aunts? No. Wrong kitchen.
The woman in his mind turned, but he couldn’t see her face. In the end he didn’t need to. The moment she saw him her whole body seemed to contract in on itself, and the overwhelming sense of rebuff told him exactly who she was.
It was his mother’s kitchen. His mother’s disappointment bombarding him. Telling him without words that he was nothing to her but a constant reminder that she’d fallen pregnant young and his father had bolted the minute he’d heard. It was his fault her life hadn’t tuned out as she’d hoped it would.
‘No, no, no!’ a familiar voice shouted at the edge of his consciousness.
He dragged himself back to the present to see Hannah, in her tight capri pants, sexy stilettos, hair tumbling down her back, with hands to her ears, mouth agape, staring into the distance.
At the sight of her—the realness of her, the nowness of her—the unbearable memory dissolved like a pinch of salt in a pool of water. It was just what he needed in that moment. She was just what he needed.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, placing a hand on her arm. Hannah’s warmth beneath his fingers further banished the cold memories. Selfishly, he let his hand trail down her arm till it found purchase in the sultry dip of her waist.
At his intimate touch her eyes snapped from the middle distance to glance at him. Cheeks pink. Eyes bright and questioning. Confused.
But mostly curious.
His solar plexus clenched in pure and unadulterated sexual response. It hit so hard, so violently, he just had to stand there and ride it. Either that or haul her over his shoulder like some caveman and drag her back to their room. Their shared room.
The song changed key. Hannah blinked, as if coming round from a trance. Then she waved a frantic arm in the direction of the karaoke stage and yelled to be heard over the speakers buzzing nearby. ‘I’m not tall enough to see, but is that my mother?’
Her mother?
‘You mean the one singing?’
Hannah nodded frantically.
Bradley searched the hazy room to see Hannah’s mother was indeed up on stage, belting out a Cliff Richard classic while swinging her hips and waving at the small crowd who were cheering as if she was a rock star. A man joined her on stage—a man young enough to be Hannah’s brother. Though from the way they oozed over the microphone together Bradley assumed the man was not blood-related.
‘That would be her,’ he said, keeping that last part to himself.
The sad, withdrawn, silently accusing woman fading in his mind and Hannah’s effervescent mother couldn’t have been more diametrically opposite if they’d tried. But neither of them could ever have hoped to be named mother of the year.
Instinct
