She sighed. “Never mind.”
“You always do that. It irritated the hell out of me back then, and that’s something that hasn’t changed.”
“Excuse me?” she snapped.
“You run, Donovan. Things get bad and you deflect and then you run. You don’t explain, you just do whatever the hell you want.”
An eyebrow lifted as she looked straight at him. “Do you hate me for what I did?”
The question came out of nowhere, and for a moment Jack wasn’t sure what to say. And for a guy who was used to using words to get his point across, that wasn’t a good place to be in. He watched her closely. Watched the play of emotion flickering in her eyes which were now glassy.
Did he get into this now? Did he open that can of worms?
“Would it matter if I did?”
She blinked rapidly and nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “Yes. It would matter.”
“Why?” he asked without thinking.
Tense, Jack moved a few inches back, rolling on his heels as he stared down into a face that he would never forget. A face that belonged to the woman who’d walked away from him all those years ago. It was all her. Hell, she’d refused to talk to him when he’d driven all the way to Nashville from Florida to confront her, and then she’d threatened to have security throw him out of the goddamn hotel when he refused to leave.
He shouldn’t have to remind himself that he’d moved on and had no desire to revisit their past. So why was he asking her the one question he shouldn’t care to know the answer to?
He felt that slow burn of anger again, and eyes flat he watched her, his wine glass held so tightly he was surprised it didn’t shatter in his hand. This is how he needed to be with her. Hard and uncompromising. It’s what she deserved.
“Jack,” she said roughly. “Let’s just eat. A trip down memory lane isn’t going to be good for either one of us.”
She was right. He had no desire to rehash a past that was to
tally fucked.
“Let’s eat,” he said abruptly, turning toward the patio.
Spell broken, Jack was back on his game. Even though his appetite had pretty much vanished, he’d eat his steak, drink his wine and do whatever it took to forget about her. No way was he letting Donovan James get under his skin again.
Chapter Eight
* * *
The next day Jack was aloof, his political game face on. He answered a few questions about his campaign, but it was painfully obvious he wasn’t interested in conversation. Polite or not. So Donovan gave up.
She spent the day pretending to read the Huxley book, and Jack spent the day out on the water. No shared meals. No conversation. There was just nothing.
And yet the entire day she was hyper-aware of every move he made. Her eyes followed him from behind her over-sized Gucci’s, and even the silent treatment did nothing to abate her need to watch him.
Lunch and then dinner came and went. He made himself pasta and salad (Mary kept the fridge and pantry well stocked), and then he’d eaten alone on the patio.
Jack was right, Donovan was hopeless in the kitchen, so she settled on a peanut butter sandwich, a soda, and a chocolate bar for dessert. Which she ate down on the dock because there was no way she was going to sit on the patio with Jack and take his silent treatment.
When he left for a walk around the island just as dusk was falling, Donovan escaped to her bedroom and now, nearly twelve hours later, after a third night of next to no sleep, her nerves were wrung so tight that a headache was burrowing inside her skull.
Tomorrow Roger and Mary should return, and Donovan prayed that they’d come sooner. She hadn’t been able to write. Hadn’t picked up her guitar since Jack arrived and the slow, sexual burn that wouldn’t go away was driving her crazy. How could two people who hated each other so much still have that connection? She knew he felt it. She’d seen it in his eyes.
All of that coupled with the tension and the sleepless nights were making her cranky, and she contemplated hiding out in her bedroom for the day. But then the more she thought about things, the more angry she got.
She paced her room, worrying her lower lip until it was raw and finally she realized how ridiculous she was being. She scooped up her towel and book (why oh why hadn’t she brought at least one People Magazine?) and opened her bedroom door.
She strode out into the main room, ready for whatever side of Jack Simon she was going to get, only to find the place deserted.