lack of oxygen, the fever, sent her crazy. She reached for him. Reckless. If she’d been able to get away with it once, couldn’t she do it again? If she could somehow keep his hands occupied—like the way she had last night, forcing him to take her weight, to take her. God, she wanted that again. His strength. His glorious width. Frantic, furious and fast. She fought with his belt. Once more. Just once.
He pulled back sharply, grabbing her hands, stopping them with his. ‘No.’
She looked up at him in surprise. Stepped back when she saw the anger in his eyes.
He shook his head at her. ‘Too fast.’ A savage whisper.
She tried to get her hands back but he tightened his grip. ‘If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this properly.’ He eyeballed her, stepping closer. ‘My room or yours?’
She looked away. Damn. Honestly she wanted nothing more than to lie in a comfortable bed and be able to explore him freely and at leisure, but it wouldn’t be the same. He’d be like Neil—freeze, then run a mile. Or he’d treat her like some fragile piece of glass and she hated being wrapped in cotton wool.
He stepped even closer, so his body pressed against hers. His erection teased her. His question terrified her. ‘Why won’t you let me see you naked?’
She tried to pull away but he moved closer still—pushing her back against the wall, keeping hold of her hands, his body leaning into hers.
Her breathing shallowed—half from fear, half from desire.
‘You’re willing to let me kiss you. You’re willing to let me inside you. But you won’t take your clothes off.’
‘Rhys…’ Amazed at his acuteness, she pleaded with him not to go there despite knowing it had been inevitable—from the moment he’d strode onto the sand beside her this morning. She’d been kidding herself to think she could get away with not telling him. But it was exactly what she didn’t want to have happened. Exactly why she’d run into the night after their encounter.
‘Why?’
She stared into his searching eyes, at his sensual mouth now pulled into a hard line. She reached up on tiptoe, pressed her hand to his lips. Finally felt them soften and part. He kissed the tip of her fingers—his mouth moving slowly, warm and teasing.
Desire raged through her veins, coupled with painful anger over what was to come. But she knew no matter what happened, no matter how things would change, she couldn’t walk away from him a third time. She was as human as the next person and the temptation was too strong. She had to run the risk so she could have the chance of feeling his erotic intensity again.
She pulled her hand away. He straightened, watching her, waiting for her answer.
She stared at his shirt buttons. ‘I have a scar.’
There was a bit of a silence.
‘So do I.’
She jerked her head up.
He looked down at her. Mouth twitching. ‘You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’
She stared back at him and watched his humorous touch fade. His brows lifted. ‘Big scar?’
‘Pretty big.’ Actually it wasn’t. More like hairline, it was what it represented that was huge.
‘It can’t be as big as mine.’ He firmed his grip on her.
He still wasn’t getting it. Unable to handle it any more, she grabbed the neckline of her tee in a tight fist. Pulled it down so it exposed the vee of skin all the way from her neck down to the dainty bow decorating the point where the cups of her bra met in the middle. The scar ran from the base of her throat. A straight line right down the centre of her body. Defining her.
She saw the shock register in his face. And recognition. And then she saw it. The look she’d known was unavoidable. Fear. He hid it quickly. Shutting down. Closing off. But it had been there. She tensed.
He said nothing. Just stood frozen. Staring at her chest. His mouth opened a fraction and the buttons on his shirt jumped about as she heard the sharp intake of breath.
Anger and pride held her head high. Her chin lifted higher—underlining the challenge he’d already failed. As she’d predicted, as she’d known, the flame of desire was snuffed out in a flash.
She pushed him back against the wall. Met no resistance, almost as if he’d stepped back at the moment she pushed. She ran, feet light in her sandals. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. He didn’t come after her. Didn’t call out. Didn’t seem to stir even.
She dragged in deep breaths, pushing the sobs back deep into her chest. Forget it, forget it, forget it.
She scurried past Curtis on Reception, raced into the telly room, knowing at this time on a Saturday night it was bound to be empty, everyone would be out partying. She chose a big chair on the far side of the room, curled into it like a cat, hiding from the world. She reached into her small day pack and pulled out her journal.
The list of wannabe life achievements she’d scrawled on page one stared at her, making a fool of her. She told herself it didn’t matter. Tried not to let it ruin everything. Failed. With anger and misery she relived past revelations.
Neil had been like that. Backed off the instant he’d seen it. Eventually he’d returned. But he’d been hesitant, treating her gingerly. Then he’d made it worse. He’d told the world. She’d only just escaped her hometown and the notoriety of being the ‘heart-girl’. Wanting to start over with anonymity. Be normal, like anyone else at university. She’d thought she could trust Neil to see past it. He didn’t. And her secret had become common knowledge—the looks, unwanted, undeserved pity sent her way again. And rather than understanding more, Neil had understood less. Become more protective, more and more stifling until he was as bad as her mother and brother combined.
She wanted freedom. She wanted to be the same as anyone else—and to be treated like that. Part of the reason she was going overseas was to start over—again. She read over the list again. Then, for the first time in all her years of keeping a journal, she ripped a page right out.
Rhys rested back on the warm bricks as a range of emotions rushed through him. Shock, anger and desire but mostly disappointment. In himself—what had happened to his renowned beside manner? His unflappable charm? So much for an uncomplicated summer fling. He’d known what he was looking at. For a second after the shock he’d even admired the skill of the surgeon who’d done it. As neat a job as you could get. Then the ramifications set in. You got that kind of scar from a major operation. Open-heart surgery. The thought of her lying on an operating table had made him recoil. Not someone as young and full of vitality as her.
Stupid, when every day at the hospital he was confronted with mortality—he knew full well it could hit anyone any time. He knew that from his own brush with it as a kid. With Theo.
He hadn’t been joking about having a scar of his own. It was a mess, but it had left an even bigger mess on the inside. While Sienna’s heart might have been operated on, his was the scarred one—one that had never fully healed. He tried so hard to make it right. And failed every time. Roughly healed, puckered tissue formed a protective barrier and he didn’t want anyone to penetrate
