Revenge (5 page)

He climbed into his pickup, opened the glove compartment and pulled out the letters—the damned letters that had been nagging at the back of his mind for the better part of a week. He scanned his father's note quickly, then studied the letter from Skye. Why hadn't she told him she was leaving? Why had they argued so bitterly?

But he didn't believe it, and even as the ugly thought entered his mind, he tossed it aside.

He started the truck, threw the gearshift into reverse and cranked hard on the wheel, making a police U-turn and spraying gravel from beneath his tires.

Seven years was a long time...too long. But his memory was sharp. Skye had been working that summer. Her mother, Irene, was recuperating from some kind of female surgery, and Skye had agreed to fill in for her, working long hours on a word processor in the offices of McKee Enterprises.

Max had been struck by her the first time he'd seen her at her desk. She'd glanced up at him and she'd smiled and his world had tilted. They'd begun to date and he'd fallen hopelessly in love with her. One look from her gorgeous smoky green eyes and he was lost.

Cursing under his breath, he rolled down the window, resting his elbow on the ledge. Warm air swept into the cab and the first few stars dared to wink in the thickening twilight. How many evenings such as this one had he been with her, kissing her, laughing with her, touching her and making love to her? He just couldn't seem to get enough of her. He remembered wrestling her to the ground one dew-drenched morning and kissing her so recklessly that he got aroused now just thinking of it.

“Hell,” he muttered as Rimrock came into view. A small grid of lights guided him into the center of town, and within minutes he'd parked near a dilapidated old garage on the Fletcher grounds. The lights in her apartment weren't on and he noticed that the clinic was bustling with activity. Several cars were still scattered in the parking lot and the fluorescent lights glowed an eerie white-blue through the windows.

He cut the engine and sat in the dark.

Yep, it was time to have it out with Skye.

Once and for all.

 

Skye rotated the kinks from the back of her neck before she stuffed her stethoscope in a pocket of her lab coat and hung it on a coat tree in her office. Nearly dead on her feet, she was reminded of her endless hours as a resident. She felt that same fuzzy bone weariness. During the past week, she'd slept little, intent on establishing herself in the practice as well as moving into her apartment. Sighing, she snapped off the lights to the clinic. It was past eight, two hours after the small medical facility had officially closed. Her stomach rumbled noisily from having missed lunch. Aside from the usual sore throats, ear infections, jammed toes and physicals, she'd seen a fifty-five-year-old woman with a lump in her breast, a pregnant woman in the beginning of her third trimester who was spotting, twins who had broken arms and ribs in a biking accident and an elderly farmer who had nearly torn off his hand in a threshing machine.

Things weren't all that rosy in the office, either. The secretary, Madge, didn't make any bones about the fact that she considered Ralph Fletcher her boss and felt that Skye was an interloper. The bookkeeper was a sullen young woman with three kids who kept her on the phone all day, and one of the nurses had called in sick.

“What did you expect?” she chided herself as she walked past the laurel hedge and smelled the sweet scent of honeysuckle wafting from a hidden vine. Crickets chirped and somewhere off in the distance a dog barked. The thudding bass notes of rock music drifted through an open window on the second floor. The night was warm, the temperature still hovering in the eighties without a breath of wind.

Sweat beaded on the back of her neck and she imagined taking a long, cool shower, scrounging up some dinner and then unpacking some more boxes before falling into bed in an exhausted heap.

She rounded the corner, glanced at the back porch and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the shadowy figure of a man lurking near the door. At the sight of her, the intruder shifted, still partially hidden and keeping away from the dull light of the single low-wattage bulb over the door.

“Keepin' kind of late hours, aren't you, Doc?” a familiar male voice said in a low tone that had once turned her knees to water.

Her throat turned to dust and her legs threatened to give way, but she forced herself to move forward and climb the sagging steps. Resting a hip against the porch rail, his arms crossed over his chest as if he had some kind of accusation to sling in her direction, he glared at her. In the shadowy light, the contours of his face seemed more angular, his expression even more grim than she remembered.

She didn't need this. Not now. “Was there something you wanted?” she asked, spying Kildare stalking beneath the laurel hedge. “Unless my memory fails me, the rent isn't due until the first of next month.”

“I'm not here to collect the rent, Doctor.”

“I'd have thought that the president of McKee Enterprises would have better things to do than prowl around in the dark.”

“Is that what I'm doing?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Looks that way.”

“I was waiting for you.”

Her heart seemed to stop and she swallowed with sudden difficulty. Why was it always this way with him? Why? She had told herself, promised herself, that she was over him, that she'd never again think of him with that blind passion she'd felt seven years ago, and yet here she was barely able to breathe, lost in long-ago memories that should have been long forgotten.

“I don't see that we have any business to discuss—”

“Not business. It's personal.”

“Personal,” she repeated, and her heart began to thunder. “We don't have anything personal. Not anymore.”

“Did we ever?”

“It's been a long time, Max, and I—”

“Why'd you leave?”

The question seemed to ricochet off the surrounding hills. “That's ancient history.”

Even in the gathering darkness, she saw his face muscles tighten as he repeated, “Why'd you leave?”

She'd never been one to back away from a fight, never considered herself unwilling to tackle any challenge, and yet there seemed no point in dredging up all the old memories, all the old pain, all the old problems again. Around the light bulb a moth was fluttering, bouncing against the hot glass, drawn irresistibly to the incandescence and certain death. “It doesn't matter, Max,” she said, refusing to see herself in the futile actions of the flying creature. “I left and that was it. End of story.”

“I don't think so.” He approached her with the determination of a predator, and though she shuddered inside, she stood her ground, refusing to give even an inch. “A lot happened before you left that I didn't know about.”

Max stopped when he was close enough for her to smell the scents of soap and leather, musk and beer. His eyes had darkened to the color of a storm-tossed sea, his dark brows drawn into a single line. He looked ranch tough and there wasn't a trace of the younger man she'd known. With a face all angles and blades and an I-don't-give-a-damn attitude that seemed to radiate from him, he was purely business.

“What was this all about?” he whispered as he drew a faded sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket.

“What—?”

“Don't you remember?”

Her heart caught as she recognized her own handwriting on the page, and a small sound of protest formed deep in her throat. Why was he bringing all this up now?

“The letter.”

His smile was as cold as death. “Ah, so you do remember.”

“It's been seven years.”

“This,” he said, crumpling the sheet of paper in his fist and holding it under her nose, “doesn't explain much.”

He wasn't making any sense. “I said all I could.”

“And then ran away.”

“I didn't run. You knew where I was. If you wanted—”

“I wanted, Doctor,” he cut in. “I wanted very much. That was the problem. I thought you wanted, too.”

Something was wrong here. Very, very wrong. Aside from the fact that his angry breath was a hot stream against the base of her throat and that his eyes were flashing with the fury of a lightning bolt, something far deeper than simple irritation was being expressed.

“I don't know what you're getting at.”

“Don't you?” One side of his mouth curled up into a cruel little smile.

“Max—”

He moved closer and she couldn't resist. She backed up a step and her rear brushed up against the door. Over her head, the moth battered helplessly against the bulb.

“You're a liar, Dr. Donahue,” he said, placing a hand on either side of her head. “A beautiful, manipulative liar.”

“I never lied.”

“Didn't you?”

Oh, God, she could barely breathe. She was a doctor, for crying out loud, an independent woman—she didn't want or need a man, especially a man named McKee, messing with her mind. “Why'd you come here, Max?”

His jaw clenched tightly and a muscle worked frantically near his temple. “I'd like to lie to you and tell you that I stopped by to check on the lease, or look for my brother, or some other lamebrain excuse. But the truth of the matter, after I found the letter and saw you again, is that I couldn't stay away.”

“You don't expect me to believe that after seven years—”

“Believe what you want, Doctor. I don't really give a damn.” He stared deep into her eyes, and in that instant she knew with a certainty that what she feared would soon prove her undoing. He was going to kiss her.

Again she stepped back, but her shoulders only pressed against the unmoving siding of the porch. As his head lowered to hers, she swore she'd put up a fight, that she'd slap him across his arrogant McKee cheek, that she'd kick his shin or knee him in the groin to avoid letting his lips touch hers again.

But she didn't. When his mouth found hers, she remained still and lifeless, refusing to respond even though the long-banked embers of desire ignited in her blood. His lips were warm and inviting, and when he took her face between his callused hands, as he'd done a hundred times before, her heart seemed to crack.

He pressed up against her, his body straining beneath his clothes, the bulge in his jeans giving evidence to the passion singing through his blood.

Still, she closed her mind to the delicious sensations swirling deep within her, refused to accept the fact that her body was a traitor. When he finally lifted his head, she gritted her teeth and forced her bones not to sag.

“Got your jollies, Max?” she said caustically, though her voice was more breathless than usual.

His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you learned in medical school—how to be an ice princess?”

“Maybe I learned it from you.”

“Oh, no, darlin'. If memory serves, you were one hot little number. You couldn't wait to get out of your panties and into my bed. I remember—”

Furious, she slapped him. The sound echoed through the night and Skye's hand stung. “Don't you ever talk to me like some cheap tramp,” she said, enraged. Who was he to come here and insult her? She felt the heat climb up her face. “Get this, and get it straight, Max. I'm not some little simpering thing who'll run back to you just because you kissed me. Nor am I a woman who will stand by and be degraded and talked to as if I were a slut. I'm not impressed with you or your money and I won't tolerate your insults. What happened between us seven years ago is over, Max, and I would think—no, I would hope—that you would have the decency to leave it alone. I'm the town doctor now, whether you like it or not, and I won't let you treat me like some woman without an ounce of self-esteem who chases after the McKee men and the McKee money. If you don't have the decency to respect me, then just get the hell out!”

Eyeing her, he rubbed his stinging cheek. “That was some speech.”

“I meant every word of it.”

“You can't just ignore what happened between us.”

“As if you haven't. For the past seven years neither one of us has talked with, written or called the other. I think we're doing a damned good job of ignoring it.”

“So why are you back, Skye?”

“Not for you, Max,” she said, though her voice nearly caught. “What we had once was special and I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for you, I suppose. You were my first love—but it's over. It ended a long time ago.”

“Because you left.”

“Because I couldn't stay.”

“I always wondered about that.”

“But not for too long,” she noted, wanting to wound him for his crass remarks. “It didn't take you long to marry someone else.” The color seemed to drain from his face and his lips flattened over his teeth. “Don't make it any more than it was, Max.” She reached into a pocket and extracted her key ring.

Max placed a hand against the door. His smile was as cold as the bottom of a well at midnight. “I take it you're not going to invite me in.”

“You take it right.” She lifted her chin a notch, then slipped the old key into the lock. “Don't mess with me, Max. Let's just pretend that we never cared about each other.”

“You think you can?”

“Of course,” she lied, her heart still hammering crazily as she twisted the key until the lock clicked. She had been trained to sound cool and professional, even in the most stressful and emotional times, but no amount of practice could have prepared her for the emotions raging in Max's eyes. “Look, I think you should leave.”