His Brand of Passion

Aaron didn’t speak for a long moment. His irritation had gone, and he looked as weary as Zoe felt. ‘Tell me what will make this work.’

She knew he meant it this time, knew this was how he operated. Life was simply a matter of function and success. But at least he was trying, at least he was waiting for her answer. She needed to try, too.

‘I need more from you,’ she said, and almost could have laughed at Aaron’s involuntary recoil. ‘I’m not asking for you to hold my hand or tuck me in bed.’ She should not have mentioned bed. Or holding. Or even hands. because everything made her think of how he’d felt on top of her, inside her. Touching her, loving her—except, stupid Zoe, because what had happened between them had had absolutely nothing to do with love.

‘We need to figure out some kind of working relationship,’ she clarified. ‘If we’re going to be involved in this together, as parents-to-be, never mind actual parents—’

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,’ Aaron cut her off and Zoe nodded. One step at a time. One minute at a time.

‘But even now, Aaron. I can’t tiptoe around you. It’ll drive me crazy.’

‘I wasn’t aware you were doing any tiptoeing,’ he said dryly, and she let out a brief laugh of acknowledgement.

‘All I’m asking for—and I know it might seem impossible, considering who we are—but can we try to get along? Be friends of a sort?’

He stared at her for a long moment, long enough for Zoe to feel like what she’d asked was impossible…at least for Aaron. And maybe it was for her, too. Contrary person that she was, half of her wanted to fall in love with him and the other half wanted to hate him. Typical.

‘I hardly think it’s impossible,’ he said at last, and she couldn’t tell a thing from his tone.

‘That means,’ Zoe explained, ‘we have conversations. We eat dinner together—willingly. We ask about each other’s day.’

‘We paint each other’s nails?’

She smothered a smile. ‘That’s the second joke you’ve made.’

‘You must be having an influence on me.’

‘Well, then?’ she asked quietly. ‘Could you do that? Could you try?’

Aaron let out a sigh. ‘And if I do, will that be enough? Will you stay here willingly, for your pregnancy, and not complain or fight me every step of the way?’

‘I’ll try,’ she said and his mouth quirked in a small smile, lightening his features and making her realise how rarely he smiled. How much she wanted him to.

‘Then we’ll both try,’ he said, and held out his hand. ‘Deal?’

She took his hand and let it enfold hers, felt the warmth and strength of it all the way through her. ‘Deal,’ she answered back.

How the hell was this supposed to work? Aaron stared moodily at the screen of his laptop as he mentally reviewed last night’s conversation with Zoe. So he was just supposed to ask about her day? Eat at the same time? Instinctively Aaron knew Zoe wanted more than that. She wanted…what? A companion? A friend?

And Aaron didn’t know how to be a friend. He didn’t have any friends. He had employees, colleagues, acquaintances, siblings. None of them were friends. He’d been too private, too focused on work, too afraid of showing his weaknesses.

So how was he supposed to be a friend to Zoe?

He exhaled in an impatient sigh, resenting everything about this situation. Yet what could he have done instead? Installed Zoe in a separate apartment, he supposed, with staff. Instinctively he recoiled against such an idea, knowing she would hate it. He didn’t like it much, either. She made him anxious, angry and impatient, yet he’d meant what he said. He liked having her around. He liked the sound of her laugh, the bright art on the walls, the feeling that he wasn’t alone.

Good Lord. What was happening to him? And how did he make it stop?

He was still pondering the whole problem in his car on the way back to the apartment, the windows open to the warm, early-autumn air. His unseeing gaze suddenly focused on a shop sign and he pressed the button for the intercom.

‘Stop the car, please.’

Fifteen minutes later he was entering the penthouse, bag in hand. Zoe lay on the sofa, a magazine sliding from her loosened fingers, clearly asleep.

He watched her for a moment, saw how her dark lashes feathered her cheeks, her lush lips parted softly on a sigh. Her hair was tousled and spread across the sofa pillows, dark and lustrous. She looked like something out of a fairy tale, he thought suddenly, like a princess who would be wakened by a kiss.

And he wanted to be the prince that kissed her.

Not that he would. He didn’t even move. Getting physically involved with Zoe at this point was dangerous. Physically dangerous, considering the state of her pregnancy, and emotionally dangerous, as well. Not for him—hell, he barely had emotions. But for her…He didn’t want to complicate their situation any more than necessary. Even if right now it seemed like the most appealing thing to do.

Zoe’s eyes fluttered open then and she blinked sleepily. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’

Aaron felt a smile tug at this mouth, his heart inexplicably lightening. ‘Clearly.’

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s what you’re here for. To rest.’

‘Yes, but…’ She struggled up to a seated position. ‘I had dinner warming. I ordered Thai this time. I felt like sticky rice.’

‘All these cravings.’

‘I know. Crazy.’

He walked to the kitchen and peered in the oven where several foil cartons were warming. ‘I’ll dish it out,’ he offered and was rewarded with a cautious smile.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, he thought as he ladled rice and vegetables onto two plates. Maybe Zoe just wanted a little conversation, a little company. Maybe he could handle that.

He came back with the plates and handed one to Zoe. She took it with a murmured thanks, her feet tucked up under her, her cheeks flushed. She looked pretty, he thought. Rosy and even blooming. Wasn’t that what you said about pregnant women? Like flowers.

‘What did you get up to today?’ he asked after a few minutes of silence. He was conscious of how awkward he felt, making small talk. He didn’t do chit-chat. He gave orders, he listened to reports, he got things done. He shifted in his seat and ate another forkful of rice.

‘Not much,’ Zoe answered with a sigh. ‘I went for a short walk, I read a book, I planned my lesson for tomorrow and then I fell asleep.’

‘You’re bored,’ Aaron said, and he could hardly blame her.

‘Out of my mind.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I like being busy. I know it might not be reasonable to work on my feet at the café all day, but I need something more to do.’

As always Aaron went for solutions. ‘Could you take on more hours with the art therapy?’

She shook her head. ‘There’s so little funding for it already. I’d love to do it full-time, but budgets are being slashed left and right.’

‘What is art therapy, exactly?’

Her eyes glinted mischievously. ‘My little art sessions? Technically it’s the therapeutic use of art-making.’

‘Which is?’

‘Using art as a form of communication and healing for a variety of situations. I work with children who have usually experienced some kind of difficulty—whether it’s a death, divorce or some trauma in their family.’

‘And they just…draw pictures?’

‘I know it probably sounds like a waste of time to you.’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth,’ Aaron answered, although frankly it did. How could scribbling on some paper be of any help to anyone, child or adult?

‘Sometimes,’ Zoe said quietly, ‘it’s easier to express yourself through art than through words, especially for a child.’

‘I suppose,’ he allowed, and she gave him a small smile, as if she knew how sceptical he was. She probably did. ‘You should try it. You seem to have enough trouble expressing your emotions.’

He tensed, then strove to stay light. ‘Are you actually analysing me?’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’ She spoke as lightly as he had, but he knew she was serious and he prickled with discomfort. ‘Why is it so hard for you, Aaron? Why did you tell me you weren’t good at speaking about feelings—or anything?’ She cocked her head, sympathy in her studious gaze. ‘Were you not encouraged to do so as a child?’

‘Is that what the textbooks say?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s usually a fairly good guess.’

He really didn’t want to talk about himself. He never did. Yet he also knew he’d hurt Zoe if he tried to brush her off now; even that realisation surprised him. Since when did he consider anyone’s feelings at all? ‘I guess I wasn’t,’ he said after a moment, as if it were no matter. And really, it wasn’t. ‘We weren’t ever a close family.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t really know. My father was busy—elsewhere.’ With his mistresses, but Aaron didn’t want to reveal that much.

‘And your mother?’

‘Stop the interrogation, Zoe.’ He heard an edge to his voice. ‘I’m not one of your patients.’