The Tycoon's Forced Bride

Truly they were a study in opposites, she thought. He had everything and she…well, it was probably better to leave that alone.

“At least, I never did,” he added. “It was enough that I liked you, and wanted you, and wanted to be with you whenever our schedules permitted.”

She listened to what he was saying, and yet something rang false and she couldn’t figure out what wasn’t right. What wasn’t true.

He was here before her—tall, handsome, successful. Ridiculously successful. If he bought

an island estate for twenty-four million dollars, he could probably buy and sell small kingdoms if he wanted.

And he said he wanted her. Her.

It didn’t make sense. And no, her memory wasn’t what it used to be, but she still had logic, and logic made her question a relationship where she had never once heard him mention the word love.

If he didn’t love her, then why was he so loyal?

If he didn’t love her, why hadn’t he moved on?

Was it because of Jack? Was it Jack he loved so much?

“What are you thinking?” he asked, brow creasing.

“Am I so transparent?”

“You don’t hide your emotions like you used to.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

He sat down next to her on the couch. “You used to keep your emotions under lock and key. You didn’t like to show any weakness.”

“And yes, emotions were a weakness.”

“If you thought they’d be used against you.” He hesitated. “You were that way from the time I met you. That wasn’t a you and me thing, but an Ava thing. I always wondered if that came from dance, or maybe before that. If it was something you learned at home, as a girl in Argentina.”

She looked down into her glass and watched the bubbles rise and fizz. “I think that is a Galvan thing,” she murmured. “My father was not as easy man. The only way to survive was to protect yourself.”

“I can relate.”

Ava curled her legs under her. “I think our fathers were similar. Didn’t they both divorce our mothers and marry younger women and have more children?”

He touched the edge of his goblet to hers. “Here’s to remembering the good stuff.”

She laughed at his sardonic humor. “I think you used to make me laugh, too.”

“A lot. Even though I’ve been told I don’t have a good sense of humor. Fortunately, you liked mine.”

“I think it’s because I liked you,” she said softly, feeling the past, and the intensity of her love.

She’d adored him. She’d been crazy about him. He was the one with reservations. He was the one who hadn’t wanted her…

Ava frowned and took a quick drink from her glass. The champagne was cold and crisp and it warmed as it went down.

He hadn’t wanted her.

He hadn’t wanted the baby, either.

That was the reason they’d had that fight. That was the fight on that last night, the one when she’d been hurt.

Or did she have it wrong?

It wasn’t something she’d put in her notebook. It wasn’t something she could read there. It wasn’t something anyone had told her, either. But it whispered through her, and the whisper had shape and weight. Truth.

“I can see the wheels turning,” he said, reaching out to lift one of her long strands of hair, and curling the ends around his finger. “What are you worrying about now?”

“Facts.” She struggled to smile but couldn’t. A lump was forming in her throat making it hard to swallow. “Details. Things like that.”

“Those must be very distressing facts because you look very sad now. Can you share those facts and details with me?”

But she couldn’t. She was afraid to hear what he had to say. Afraid that everything about this evening would change. And it was—or it had been—magical. The gondola ride. The tent on the beach. The candles and flickering torches.

“It’s nothing.” She sipped her champagne, swallowing a mouthful because she needed the fizz and burn. He didn’t love her. He’d never loved her.

He was raising Jack out of guilt.

And that was why he wanted her back. Not because he wanted her, but because he was driven by guilt.

It felt like a fireball exploded in her chest. Her heart burned. Her throat ached. Pain rushed through her.

She turned her head and looked at him, unable to keep the words to herself. “You never loved me.” She said the words brokenly, bluntly. “You didn’t want Jack, either. I did.”

His hand fell from her hair. He leaned back against the couch cushion, his jaw tightening, hardening. “It’s not that black and white. It never was.”

“We fought the night of the accident. We fought about the baby.”

“Yes.” Colm’s voice was clipped.

She studied his hard features. His expression was shuttered. There was no more light or easy warmth in his eyes.

“If it’s not black and white, then tell me what happened.” She couldn’t look away from his face, wanting to understand, needing to make sense of a past that constantly slipped away.

“Will it matter tomorrow?” he retorted, looking at her. “Will you remember? You don’t have your notebook to write down the truth.”

She flinched. “That was a low blow.”

“It’s not—” He broke off, and in one smooth motion, rose to his feet.

He stalked to the edge of the flat Turkish carpet that had been rolled across the sand and for a long minute he stood, facing the sea, his shoulders rigid, posture stiff.

She could feel his anger and frustration. This was the Colm she knew. The warrior. The raider. The one victor who took no prisoners.

The silence added to the tension until her insides churned.