The Tycoon's Forced Bride

Malcolm McKenzie’s father was Scottish, his mother American and he’d been raised for the first thirteen and a half years of his life running wild in the Highlands, before being sent to boarding school in England for high school. Eton was an elite school, arguably the best boys senior school in the United Kingdom, but Malcolm had hated it. He didn’t want to board. He longed to be a day student, back home with his family and the freedom he craved. But during his second year at Eton his parents divorced and his father remarried and his mother, an American by birth, returned to New York.

The childhood he knew was gone. His father had a new young bride and they quickly filled the old manor house with young half brothers and sisters. It only took a couple visits home to realize he’d become redundant. He wasn’t needed home anymore. In fact, he was expected to get on with his life—university, work, independence. And so he did just that, with ruthless determination.

When Ava first met him, she’d heard him referred to as a modern day Celtic warrior. A raider. He took what he wanted without regard to the feelings, or needs, of others.

Ava had been intrigued despite his reputation. She’d wanted to know him, wanting to know the real Malcolm McKenzie.

She’d liked who she’d discovered. Yes, he was tough. He was a man that took no prisoners and refused to compromise, but his impossible ideals resonated with her.

“Is it?” She tipped her head back, meeting his cool blue-green gaze. “Your entire life has been a quest for perfection, and now you propose to saddle yourself with me? A woman who can’t always remember her own address?”

He dropped suddenly to his haunches, squatting before her, his hands going to her knees. “That man may have once existed, Ava, but he died the night you were injured. He’s gone. He’s been gone for nearly four years. But you are here, alive, and we need you, with us. Our family is incomplete without you.”

She closed her eyes, trying to shut out his words and voice, as well as the set of his mouth and hard beauty of his features. And yet, with her eyes closed, all she could feel was the heat and pressure of his hands on her knees. His skin was so warm that it burned her.

“I refuse to allow you to give up on us, and our son,” he added fiercely. “You and I created him. He is ours, and he needs you, his mother. It’s time you came home and became that mother.”

She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed. My God, did Colm know what he was doing? Did he understand how devastating, not to mention dangerous, this could be for all of them? “Last year, last December, you felt differently. You said Jack was better off without me.”

“I said maybe.”

She opened her eyes, looked into his, holding his gaze. “But they were your words, Colm. You had doubts, serious doubts, about my ability to properly care for Jack.”

“I spoke in a moment of anger and frustration. I regret those words—”

“I remember those words.” How could she not? She wrote them down in her little journal. She wrote them down and reread them daily so that she wouldn’t forget why she was alone. So that she wouldn’t forget why she didn’t see her son.

She’d hurt Jack, a year ago December. She’d lost him. No, left him.

She’d left a two year old in a busy shopping center. Worse, she hadn’t even realized that she’d left Jack. She hadn’t even remembered that she’d had a son. She’d gotten distracted by something and in that distracted moment her memory failed her, and she’d simply walked out of the mall and had kept walking. She walked until she was lost, panicked, pathetically confused. She only remembered those details because she’d written them down that night after the police found her and reunited her with Colm and Jack. She’d written down everything she’d been told so that she’d understand that while such a mistake could be forgiven, it couldn’t be forgotten.

Rereading that day’s journal entry horrified her every time. Jack could have died. She could have died. The outing could have ended tragically. Thank God it didn’t. But the police and social services were right. She wasn’t fit to be a mother. Malcolm had been irresponsible to trust her with a toddler. She’d failed Malcolm and their son. And she’d learned her lesson. They’d all learned their lesson.

This is why she lived in New York, and this is why her child lived with his father in Florida, and this is why dance was everything. It’s all she had.

It’s all she’d ever have. She couldn’t be trusted. Her mind was a dangerous thing.

“You and I both know it would be a mistake for me to return,” she said softly, hoarsely, even as the studio door opened and young girls in pink tights and black leotards filed in.

Ava attempted to rise. Without her cane she was hopeless. Colm took her elbow, drawing her up. “Jack’s older now, and you’re stronger,” he said flatly. “The fact that you are here, teaching four classes a day, proves you’ve made huge strides. If you can teach the professional dancers, as well as take care of these children, you can certainly take care of our son.”

“You don’t know that.”

He was standing so close that she could feel his intense energy slam into her, wave after wave of shimmering heat and strength.

“I know we have to try.”

Something in his tone made her look up and their eyes locked. Determination shone in his eyes. He was serious. Her tummy flipped, her mouth dried. “You need to let me go. It’s time you moved on.”

His gaze never wavered. Fire burned in the blue-green depths. “You don’t mean that.”

She licked her upper lip, wetting the painfully dry skin. “I do.” She swallowed hard, looked away, noting the children taking position at the barre, and the pianist taking her seat at the upright piano in the corner. “I’m not trying to be rude, either. But I have to teach now. I have to focus on my class. I’m their teacher—”

“And Jack’s mother.”

She flinched. “I can’t talk about it anymore. I need to gather my thoughts. Review my notes. I can’t teach without my notes.”

“I’ll leave so that you can teach, but I’ll be back end of the day, and we’re going to talk—”

“We have nothing to discuss.”

“That’s not true, and you know it. I’ll be back when you’re finished and we’ll sit, and eat, and we’re going to talk about the steps we need to take to bring you home—”

“It’s not my home!”

“Yes, it is,” he interrupted tautly. “But you’re just too scared to admit it.” And then he was gone, walking out of the studio, moving swiftly, without a glance back.

Chapter Three

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Yes, he was right. She was scared. She was terrified. And she had every right to be terrified. She was not the same person she used to be. She would never be the same person and he didn’t have to wake up in a strange body with a strange brain every day and wonder who he was, and where he was, and then struggle to piece together a life that had massive gaps because he’d lost huge chunks of his memory—memories that would probably never come back.

Thank God, she remembered music and language. And while she couldn’t dance anymore—her balance and coordination were shot—she remembered her classical training, and could teach.

But she battled through every day. Nothing was easy or familiar and her entire goal was to just get by.

To try to fit in.

To try to be normal.

Even though she had no idea what normal was anymore.

After Colm left, Ava struggled to get through her two remaining afternoon classes. It took every bit of her focus and energy to stay on task, and today she was forced to rely heavily on her notebook for teaching the classes.

The notebook was her lifeline. After losing Jack that day fourteen months ago, Ava began meeting with therapists again on memory strategies, and the specialist had recommended that Ava write everything down, and organize herself with a planner, and making lists and breaking action items down into steps. But then the key was to refer to those notes, again and again, mod

ifying her lists, making new lists, honoring the first rule of memory—write everything down in one spot (her notebook). And then the second rule of memory—write it down while it’s fresh in her mind.

She’d learned through trial and error to write more, not less. She needed complete notes, detailed notes, so that she understood what she was trying to tell herself.

The notes helped, too. They allowed her to function, and accomplish more. But she lived in fear of the day she lost her notebook. Would she remember what she needed to remember, without it?

Would she remember the last year if the book of memories disappeared?

As her last class for the day filed out, Ava spotted a shadow in the doorway.

Malcolm. He was back.