Now he’s got the problem that I grew up, made something of myself, and he doesn’t want to have to acknowledge my existence.’
‘He’s the one who should be ashamed to exist.’ Fiona uttered the words and let him see in her gaze all she was feeling. Her protectiveness towards him that was so sweet when he was perfectly capable of looking after himself.
Yet something down inside him admitted it would be nice. To have a woman’s care.
Well, he couldn’t do that, could he? He couldn’t let himself care or wish to be cared for. Brent could take the hard knocks of life. But setting himself up for the embarrassment of rejection because of his condition—
That was one ‘been there, done that’ he didn’t want to repeat.
Are you sure it’s only about that, MacKay?
Tension pooled at the base of Brent’s neck and he frowned. Of course he was certain. What else would there be?
‘Here we are.’ The driver’s voice interrupted Brent’s thoughts and he realised they’d arrived at Fiona’s block of flats.
Brent still had Fiona’s fingers pressed to his thigh, could feel their warmth. Her body remained pressed to his. Consciousness of her swept over Brent then, and pushed past his guardedness about his condition. His instincts took over and at this moment his autism didn’t come into it. Brent’s hand caressed over Fiona’s. His fingers stroked hers.
A dozen different thoughts buzzed in Fiona’s head, with as many accompanying emotions.
When Brent instructed the driver to wait, climbing from the taxi with her to start the short journey to her flat, those thoughts distilled into pure feeling. The touch of his fingers at her elbow as he guided her along the path, up the staircase and along the balcony that led to her flat.
The beat of her blood in her veins as she tried to decide whether to invite him in, say goodnight, talk about their night, the award, the good parts of the evening.
Of all of it, the trip back here in the taxi with their bodies close to each other had been the best. And for her, she had to admit, the most emotional.
His father had rejected him, abandoned him, all because Brent had a condition he had learned to live with and, indeed, to use to his advantage in business, in his work. His uniqueness only made him all the more appealing.
And right now he had his hand at her elbow and Fiona’s heart was beating a little faster because…she liked that touch.
Liked it too much for her safety? Attraction, that was easy to deal with, but was she more than attracted? Were her emotions involved? Because she really mustn’t let that be the case.
He was her boss. She should say goodnight and walk inside…‘Brent, thank you for tonight—’
‘Thank you for attending the Awards ceremony with me.’ He paused. ‘You got more than you bargained for with our exchange of a family night for the Awards night.’
‘My family situation isn’t even worth words in comparison to what happened tonight.’ She shook her head. How could she even think her paltry difficulties with her family mattered now? ‘Brent, I just don’t know how to comfort—’
‘Don’t feel sorry for me.’ Though he interrupted her, he did it gently, wrapping his fingers around hers where she’d been toying with her keys. ‘My past is what it is. I’ve moved on from it.’
‘Maybe, but you went on trying to conceal a part of yourself that you shouldn’t worry about that way.’ She bit her lip. Her breath stuttered in her throat and she whispered, ‘I can’t talk—’
About it any more? Brent certainly didn’t want to.
‘Then we won’t talk.’ He uttered the words with an accepting edge. ‘I’d rather do this, anyway.’ He bent his head to hers.
Touched his lips to hers.
A soft, seeking, giving and taking exchange. Lips to lips. How could it be all of this between them? And yet, somewhere inside herself, Fiona had wanted and needed his kiss and not even known how much she did.
Now she knew.
A taste of delight and sweetness and desire and pleasure. Her fingers wrapped around his forearms, and his hands were about her waist.
It felt good and right to have his mouth over hers, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her waist. For a few wonderful moments, she lived in the sensations of kissing him.
His mouth caressed hers as though he needed and wanted to kiss her this way. Their gazes were locked, his lashes dusky crescents that fanned against his cheeks as he focused wholly on her. And then those lashes swept down fully and her eyes closed too, and it was all sensation and feeling and the beat of her heart in her breast and the spread of such warmth all through her.
That warmth told its own story. She had invested emotionally in him, at least to a degree, even when she knew that was dangerous. A little hint of panic surfaced as Fiona made this realisation.
And the moment that panic hit, she realised something in Brent had changed as well.
He ended the kiss and dropped his hands away from her. Stepped back, and some kind of regret showed in his eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. It can’t go anywhere. You and I can never—’
He cut off the rest of the sentence, but he didn’t need to finish it. Fiona could do that herself.
Now that he’d felt the reality, had touched the reality of her generous curves, he did not want her. The house of cards that had been desire and pleasure and closeness and a hope she should never have allowed, crumbled down.
Fiona tipped up her chin and told herself it didn’t matter. It absolutely, fiercely did not matter. ‘Goodnight, Brent.’
‘Goodnight. I’m—’
Sorry.
At least he didn’t say it.
With one last glance from a troubled green gaze, Brent walked away.
Chapter Six
REPEAT after me: I am a professional, I am a professional, I am a professional. I’m focused on my work, my career, my ‘five year plan’ and my goals for success…
Fiona attempted, yet again, for the umpteenth time, to figure out what was wrong with the feature plants in the painting she was working on. If she could feel settled or focused about anything at all, it might help her make a decent assessment of the problem.
And how could she feel settled when all of her was utterly distracted and had been since the night Brent had kissed her and walked away straight afterwards?
‘Stupid thing.’ She grabbed the open container of ochre paint from her work shelf.
Perhaps, if she blended a little white into it, she’d overcome the toning issue she had going on. If indeed the problem actually was a toning issue. The
