The Tycoon's Forced Bride

“Pretty good, huh? Next thing you know and I’ll be out on the comedy circuit.”

He laughed softly, appreciating the levity, appreciating her. She was such a little thing—the top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulder—but she was fierce. Fiesty. His Argentine beauty.

“Can we start tonight over? Try this again?” he asked.

“Maybe.” She extended a hand to him. “I’m Ava.”

“I’m Colm.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Colm. Do I detect an accent?”

“I was raised in Scotland.”

“I was raised in Argentina.”

“What brought you to the US, Ava?”

“Ballet. I’m a dancer—” She broke off, corrected. “Was a dancer. I just teach now. What about you?”

“I buy things, sell things, make money.”

“Is that your passion? Money?”

“No. I’m just really good at it. Is dance your passion?”

“Yes. I love it. I do.” She looked up at him, her gaze examining his face. “I also have a passion for brawny blondes with a Scottish accent. You can blame it on Diana Gabaldon. The Highlander.”

His lips quirked. “I believe the story is The Outlander.”

“Ah, right. Well. This might be a good time to mention that I was in a car accident in New York and hit my head pretty good. So there’s some brain trauma, and memory issues, and balance problems, and pain, but other than that, I’m really good.” She smiled up at him. “Any questions?”

“None at all.”

“Good. Because it looks like you have an army of staff arriving with dinner.”

*

After the earlier drama, dinner was relatively uneventful.

There was no more fighting. The tension was gone. They’d come to an understanding of sorts.

Ava wasn’t sure what the understanding was. Maybe they were just too mellow from the champagne, or maybe the fact that they were eating by candlelight in an elegant tent on the beach made them feel civilized.

Or, perhaps, the torches ringing the tent’s perimeter had them feeling like castaways on a tropical island…

Or, maybe, just maybe, they were enjoying each other’s company.

Imagine that.

Ava sipped her coffee and lounged against the soft silk pillows lining the couch, watching the flame dance on a torch just outside the cabana. The flame was matched by the flickering candles on the table. It had been a gorgeous meal. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten so well, or been served on such fine china or toasted with such excellent crystal.

“Did we take a picture of this?” she asked, turning to look at Colm. “If not, we should. I want to remember this. It’s like you’re Valentino and we’re in our very own desert oasis. Except, we’re not in the desert but on a private beach with a view of the sea.”

He grinned. His teeth flashed whitely. “You’re funny.”

“You bring it out in me.”

Colm leaned forward, checked her wine glass. His eyes were brilliant in the candlelight. “You’re empty. Want more?”

“No, I’m happy with my coffee. I have enough trouble without a hangover.” She smiled at him. “Thank you. For this. It really was lovely.”

“It turned out okay.”

“Despite the bumpy start.”

“We’ve always had bumps, babe. We’re strong people. We knock heads. Have different opinions. But it’s what makes us, us.”

She held his gaze a moment and then set her cup down. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Have we ever been friends?”

Colm opened his mouth then closed it. He gave his head a brief shake. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Which makes me think the answer is no.”

His brow furrowed. “Relationships are complicated.”

“Or are we complicated?”

He made a soft, rough sound. “I’ve always said you are the smartest woman I’ve ever met.”

She gave him a look. “And still you avoid the question. Never a good sign.”

“I want to be honest with you, and I’m trying.” He leaned forward, wrapped his hand around her neck and drew her towards him, kissing her hard, and then soft, and then slow, hot, and demanding as the kiss sparked and desire exploded and the kiss went on and on until she was boneless and mindless and a tingling mass of nerves.

“We were not then what we are now,” he said, stroking her full soft lip with the pad of his thumb. “We didn’t talk about much. You had dance. I had my work. We met late at night, and, if lucky, we slept together until early in the morning when you left for the theater. But there were plenty of days—weeks—where I traveled or the Manhattan Ballet traveled and we would text or call, but those calls would be brief. There wasn’t much to say. We didn’t share feelings. We didn’t talk too much about work. We communicated in bed. We expressed ourselves through sex.”

She caught his thumb, stopped its maddening caress so she could try to complete a thought. “And you never wanted more from me?”

He hesitated only briefly. “No.”

“Did you ever want more from any woman?”

“What is this about, Ava? I’m not sure I understand.”

She searched his eyes, trying to see past the startling color to the man behind. Their relationship baffled her. She wondered if it had always baffled her. She imagined so, but couldn’t be sure. Maybe before the accident she’d been happy with what he gave her…maybe the sex had been enough.

Or maybe it hadn’t. Maybe the unexpected pregnancy had jolted them out of complacency….

“I search my memory and you are there,” she said, holding his hand, “but there is very little attached to you. You are just there. Big, handsome, sexual…but I can’t find a relationship. I don’t have stories. I don’t have lots of pictures. If anything, I just see you and me, in bed.”

“That is where we were happiest.” He hesitated. “And you were happy with me, Ava. You were happy with us. At least, you were happy until our fight that night. That night wasn’t good. You said things. I said things. You stormed out. I happily put you into the cab. And then the taxi crashed and you were hurt and we have both lived with that night, hanging over us, haunting us, ever since.”

“And the fight was about the baby.”

“The pregnancy.”

She mulled his choice of words over. She thought about the relationship and what she’d felt for him, and how she’d imagined he felt for her. She must have discovered the night they’d fought that he didn’t have strong feelings for her. That he didn’t want her, or the baby. Or maybe he’d given her an ultimatum. She didn’t know. She might never know. Could she live with that?

*