At the mention of her ex-fiancé’s name, she waited for the pain of betrayal to surface. It never came. Relief, pure and sweet, flooded her. “How so?” she asked Mike.
“He thinks money and power will make up for all he missed. He doesn’t realize that material wealth won’t replace love.”
Why had he chosen that particular word? She whipped her head around expecting to meet his potent gaze. Instead, Mike was staring out at the ocean, one hand rubbing his right shoulder hard.
She studied him. His muscled physique created waves of longing, but what did she feel for this man that was so different than anything she’d ever experienced? Was it to be savored as something special or feared as an extension of her father’s legacy? It was about time she found out.
Her future was at stake.
“So Peter’s looking for money and power to make him happy.” Which cemented what she’d already known—the reasons why he’d gotten and remained engaged to her. “But what are you looking for?” she asked Mike. “All the travel, the danger—are you running?” she asked softly.
He didn’t respond.
She placed a hand on his arm. “I think you are.” Which made them very much the same, Carly thought sadly. “The question is, when will you stop?” When would she?
He remained silent. The answer was locked inside him, she thought. And like her, he’d have to face his private demons. Sooner or later.
* * *
Mike stood in the entryway to Carly’s kitchen, eavesdropping on his chef for the evening. She stood, hands on her hips, staring into an oversized lobster pot.
“Call me a coward, but I can’t do it.” She brushed her bangs off her forehead with her fingers.
He grinned as she glanced from the wriggling lobster on the counter to the boiling pot on the stove. “Can’t do what?” he asked.
“Drop live lobsters in there. I thought I could, but I can’t.”
Mike glanced at the counter where two lobsters moved languidly in plastic bags. “Dinner?”
“Only if we boil them alive.”
He chuckled. “Why don’t you go outside for a while? I can handle things in here.”
She glanced into the steaming pot. “They scream.”
“What?”
“When I was younger I went to a friend’s house for dinner. Her older brother took a lot of pleasure in informing us that if you listen carefully you can hear their high-pitched screams before they die.” She shuddered.
“You don’t believe that.”
“Not anymore, but I did. I was ten. I had nightmares for weeks.”
“Boys can be cruel.”
“Yeah. So can men,” she said.
“I’ll give you that.” He leaned over and kissed her soft cheek, then gave her a playful swat on the behind. “I’ll handle this.”
“I owe you one.”
He met her gaze. “And I fully intend to collect.”
She turned for one last look into the lobster pot .Mike snuck up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in the expanse of skin at her neck. Her vanilla-like scent was permanently etched in his dreams. Reality was much sweeter.
She stiffened at his initial touch but relaxed against his insistent nuzzling at her ear. His hands splayed across her stomach. Every ounce of willpower he possessed went into keeping them below the round swell of her breasts. He pressed his lower b
ody into her back and was greeted by her soft moan of pleasure in response.