Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set (12 page)

She dropped her hand to her lap. Her last message had been a simple goodnight before she’d gone to sleep last night.

She straightened.
She wouldn’t be needy. Mac had a plan he needed to bring off, and in the meantime he’d asked her to wait. She’d wait—because his eyes had promised that once he’d done what he needed to do he’d devote all the time she wanted—needed—to her...to them.

She hugged herself. She still found it hard to believe that Mac wanted her.

And she wanted him.

Oh, what was the point in denying it?
Somewhere along the line she’d fallen in love with him. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment. Their first kiss? Their second? When they’d argued about fish fingers? When he’d helped her polish off that pizza? The scorn in his eyes for her cruel excuse of an ex-boyfriend?

Thanks to Mac, she saw that for what it was now—the attempt of a sad bunch of losers with no self-esteem to build themselves
up at the expense of others.

Pitiful.

It was pitiful that she’d let it affect her for so long too, but it had fed into all the insecurities created by her grandmother and her great-aunt. She let out a long breath. It had been easier to believe that she was unattractive than to risk being vulnerable again. Well, no more. She set her shoulders. She’d never fall into that pattern again.
Living with that kind of fear emotionally crippled a person, and life was too short.

‘Way too short, Bandit.’

She stood and swiped a bottle of water from the fridge, then headed for the front veranda. She turned in the doorway. ‘C’mon, Bandit—the fresh air will do you good.’

Bandit huffed out from beneath the table, head hanging low as she scuffed after Jo. When they reached the
veranda Jo bent down to caress Bandit’s face.

‘Aw, honey, he’ll be home soon.’

She sat and glanced out at the view. In the meantime she meant to savour her newfound sense of self. She was done with feeling like a freak. She was done with feeling as if she was too tall, too large, too broad—too anything! By whose standards was she any of those things? Even the tiny, gorgeous women who
adorned the covers of magazines were airbrushed to within an inch of their lives—their eyes widened, their necks lengthened, their waists trimmed and their thighs shrunk.

What was
that
about? If the so-called beautiful people weren’t beautiful enough, then what hope did real people like her have? None. Because the standard was no longer human—it was in the mind of some designer and that was
where the real freakishness lay. She was done with trying to live up to such impossible standards.

From now on she meant to wear whatever she wanted to wear—dresses, heels, chunky jewellery—regardless of whether it drew attention or not. She was healthy, she was strong, and she was a good person. She was kind to animals and to moody men. She was independent and able to make her own way in
the world.

Mac desired her, wanted her, but she could see now that too was secondary. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. It only mattered what she thought of herself.

She threw her arms out wide and lifted her face to the sun. ‘I am beautiful!’ She yelled the words at the top of her lungs and then with a laugh cracked open her water. ‘If anyone hears me, Bandit, they’ll think
I’m a certified nutcase.’

Bandit, who’d collapsed by the door, flicked an ear in Jo’s direction, but nothing more.

Jo pointed a finger at her. ‘Now, you have to stop being a pathetic female, Bandit. Seriously—neediness is a bad look.’

Nothing. No response at all.

‘It’s never wise to pin all your hopes on a man.’ She wrinkled her nose and grimaced. Well, on that count both she
and Bandit had failed. Spectacularly. ‘Except we can trust Mac, Bandit.’ She swallowed and nodded. ‘He’s a man among men.’

Bandit’s head lifted. Jo stared at the dog and pushed her shoulders back with a proud little shuffle. Well, well... Perhaps Bandit listened to her after all. Maybe she wasn’t as indifferent to Jo as she pretended to be.

‘I mean Mac won’t let either one of us down,
and—’

She broke off when Bandit leapt to her feet with a joyful bark and scampered down the steps at full speed. What on earth...?

‘Bandit, you have a tummy full of puppies!’ she hollered. ‘You need to be careful!’

And then she heard it too. A car coming up the drive.

Her heart started to thud. Mac was home? She bounced upright, spilling water. She wanted to race towards the
sound in the same way Bandit had.

Pride
, she lectured herself, leaning against a veranda post as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She did her best not to bounce. She had no hope whatsoever of keeping the smile from her face, though.
Mac was home!
She couldn’t wait to hear a about the plans he and Ethan had made. She wanted Mac to be filled with hopes and dreams and plans for the future.
She meant to figure large there.

Mac manoeuvred the car along the rutted driveway. He didn’t stop to let Bandit into the cab—which, given Bandit’s over-the-top exuberance, was probably wise. Jo remained leaning against her post even when he pulled the car to a halt at the front of the house.

She wanted him to see her standing there, tall and proud in the sunlight, elevated by the veranda,
and she wanted to make him hungrier than he’d ever been in his life.

When he pushed out of the car, though, that thought fled. She raced down the steps towards him, appalled at his pallor and at the darkness that seemed to drag his eyes deep into their sockets. She took his arm. She’d have hugged him, but he shook her off.

‘Not now, Jo.’

She tried not to take it personally. ‘You
look ill. Do you need a doctor?’

He shook his head.

‘Then how about you put your feet up and I’ll get you a sandwich and a beer?’

‘I’m going to take a shower.’

He hadn’t even taken the time to pet Bandit, but he did let the dog follow at his heels.

Lucky Bandit.

Mac and the dog disappeared inside the house. Jo lowered herself back to the step. Things had evidently
not gone well in Sydney.

She closed her eyes.
Patience.
She’d let him shower and rest without pestering him, and later she’d put some good food in his belly. By then he might be ready to talk. Between them they’d find a solution to this setback.

She pushed to her feet. Spaghetti and meatballs. Comfort food. That was what they needed.

* * *

Mac closed his eyes as the stinging
spray from the shower rained down on him, but he couldn’t get the image of Ethan out of his mind. That image was burned there to torment him for all eternity.

Six months on and the nineteen-year-old still had to wear a bodysuit, was still in pain. Mac closed his eyes and braced his arms against the tiles.

Six months might have passed, but Ethan had taken one look at Mac and growled,
‘Go away,’ before turning his back.

Six years—sixty years—wouldn’t be enough to erase the harm Mac had done.

And then Diana Devlin had walked in and it had all gone to hell in a handbasket from there.

He scrubbed shampoo through his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp, wishing he could trade places with Ethan, if only for a day, to give him some respite.

Ethan’s doctor
had taken time to talk to Mac. Mac had well and truly wanted out of there by that time—going to visit Ethan had been a grave mistake—but the doctor had at least been able to assure him that the upset wouldn’t impede Ethan’s recovery.

That was something, at least.

In fact the doctor had said Ethan’s recovery was going better than any of them had hoped. He’d even implied that Ethan could
have gone home weeks ago.

Ethan hadn’t wanted to. The doctor hadn’t said as much, but Mac had read between the lines. They were keeping him in for ‘psychological assessment’—those had been the actual words. Not unusual in these circumstances, as it happened.

Mac twisted the taps off and seized a towel, scrubbing it over his face and hair. They thought Ethan was in danger of committing
suicide. No wonder Diana hated him.

The accident hadn’t just damaged Ethan physically. It had damaged him mentally. That was Mac’s fault.

An ache stretched his throat. He’d never be free from that.
Never.

He threw down the towel and dressed in the nearest things to hand—worn jeans and a faded sweater. The days of bespoke suits and designer clothes were behind him. He stood at the
window and stared out. Eventually he roused himself and spun back to face the room.

He hung up his towel, put his dirty laundry in the washing basket, unpacked.

You can’t put off going downstairs forever.

Weight slammed to his shoulders then, threatening to crush him. Earlier, when he’d pulled the car to a halt at the front of the house and had seen Jo standing in the sunshine,
proud and magnificent, his chest had cracked open and split down the middle like a hewn log.

He paced from one side of the room to the other, hands clenched and muscles corded. For as long as he owed such a debt to Ethan he didn’t have the right to pursue his own happiness. He pushed both hands back through his hair, fighting for breath. What he had to focus on was making enough money to
ensure Ethan was looked after.

The dreams he’d started to dream—they were dust. It was what he deserved.

But Jo? She deserved better.

He pressed his palms to hot eyes and eased himself down to the edge of the bed.

* * *

Mac forced himself downstairs for dinner. Food was the last thing on his mind, but he didn’t doubt for one moment that if he didn’t appear Jo would storm
upstairs to demand an explanation.

The concern in her eyes when he strode into the kitchen cut him to the quick. ‘I’m fine,’ he bit out before she could ask.

He took the jug of iced water and two glasses she had sitting on the kitchen bench through to the dining room. She followed a few moments later with a fragrant platter of spaghetti and meatballs.

She dished them out generous
servings, but she didn’t start to eat. She gulped down water, the glass wobbling precariously in her hold.

‘I take it your trip didn’t go precisely as you’d hoped?’

It hurt him to look at her, but he forced himself to do it all the same. He deserved to throb and burn. ‘He’s a mess, Jo.’

‘He’s been through a lot.’

‘Seeing me didn’t help. Seeing me just made things worse.’

‘How...?’ Her voice was nothing more than a whisper.

He had to pull in a breath before he could continue. ‘He hates the sight of me.’

She didn’t say anything. She sliced into a meatball, slathered it in sauce and ate it. Her lips closed about the morsel and need rose up in him so hard that wind rushed in his ears, deafening him. Seizing his knife and fork he attacked a meatball, reducing
it to a pile of mush. He started in on a second one and then on the spaghetti.

‘I can put that in the blender for you if it’s how you’d prefer to eat it.’

He set his cutlery down, afraid he wouldn’t be able to push food past the lump in his throat. His stomach churned too hard for food anyway.

Jo continued to eat, as if unaware of his mental turmoil. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe
that, though. She was eating to stave off heartbreak. A fist reached out and squeezed his chest, all but cutting off his air supply.

‘So,’ she said eventually, with a toss of her head, not meeting his gaze. ‘What’s the plan from here?’

His very heartbeat seemed to slow. It was all he could do not to drop his head to the table.

From a long way away he heard himself say, ‘I revert
back to Plan A.’

Her gaze flew to his and he watched with a sickening thud as realisation dawned in those sage eyes. Her eyebrows drew in and she gripped a fistful of her shirt right above her heart.

He swallowed and forced himself to continue. ‘I focus on making enough money to take care of every single one of Ethan’s needs for as long as he needs me to.’

‘I...’ With a physical
effort she swallowed, but she didn’t loosen the grip on her shirt. ‘Where does that leave us?’

Bile burned like acid in his throat, coating his tongue. ‘There can’t be an “us”, Jo. At least not for the foreseeable future.’

She stared at him for long, pain-filled seconds, as if she hadn’t heard him properly, and then she flinched as if he’d struck her. The colour leached from her face;
the creases about her eyes deepened. Heaviness settled over him. His chin edged down towards his chest. His heart was thudding dully there. How could he have done this to her? Why hadn’t he taken more care?

I’m sorry!
The words screamed through him, but he couldn’t force them out.

She swung back, eyes blazing. ‘You fall at the first hurdle and give up? Come running home with your tail
between your legs?’

He wanted to open his arms and make his body a target, to tell her to hurl whatever insults she could at him. Anything to make her feel better. Only he knew it wouldn’t help. Not one jot.

‘Has life always been easy for you? Have you never had to fight for anything?’

She laughed, but it wasn’t the kind of laugh he ever wanted to hear again.

‘Russ used to
brag about you—about how you were this
wunderkind
who went from triumph to triumph.’ She shot to her feet. ‘But the fact of the matter is all that coming so easily for you has made you a...a
loser
!’

Her words cut at him like whips. He wanted to beg her to forgive him.

‘When something really matters, Mac, you keep trying until you succeed—despite the setbacks. If Ethan really mattered
to you, you’d try harder.’

What she was really saying, though, was that if
she
mattered to him he’d fight harder for her. It was what she deserved.

As for Ethan... He shook his head. He couldn’t force his presence on the young man again. He’d done enough damage as it was.

‘But you’re not going to do that, are you?’

How could he make her understand the extent of Ethan’s misery?
What was the point anyway? She’d simply tell him to do something to ease that misery. That was beyond Mac’s powers. What he
could
do was make money to hire people who’d bring about a positive difference in Ethan’s life.