To Love Honour and Disobey

The tears were hot and salty and hurt her eyes and they wouldn’t stop. And she couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t stop the sobs, the choking as the agony burned its way out. She cried for the things that she’d longed for—for love, for family. And she cried because she simply couldn’t keep holding it in. All the while he held her tight, murmuring somethings, nothings, the soft sounds of comfort.

And for once she shared the burden.

Chapter Seven

SEB watched Ana sleep. He should be running—far and fast. But he couldn’t. Just couldn’t. He had an inkling of what she must have suffered—and with such quiet strength. Hadn’t he seen his mother suffer—for years—as the other children she’d longed for had never eventuated? Hadn’t he felt the helplessness, the hopelessness—hadn’t he seen the heartbreak?

Yes, he knew something of the devastation Ana must have felt. And even though that baby had been unplanned, even if she’d never wanted children, he could understand why and how its loss had devastated her.

Because wasn’t there a hurt inside himself right now? As if a part of his heart had been skinned. A facet of it he hadn’t felt before. Hadn’t he missed out on something precious too? What would that child have looked like? Would it have had her vivid blue eyes or his pale ones? Undoubtedly it would have been tall and dark…

He closed his eyes and blanked his mind. Not going there. Kids had never been part of his plan—never would be. He inhaled. What had happened was just fate, wasn’t it? It was just the way it was meant to be. But how he wanted to make it all go away.

He sat in the chair across from the bed and saw when she stirred. Finally she opened her eyes. From the distance he saw her lose colour as consciousness returned and memory came with it.

She sat up quickly, pulled the sheet up to cover herself. ‘I’m sorry I wailed all over you last night. I’m over it. Really.’

In some ways she was—physically over it, and she’d been making plans to get on with her life. That was why she’d sent the divorce papers, wasn’t it? She wanted closure so she could move on.

‘It’s OK. I’m glad I finally know,’ he muttered, his voice rusty. ‘I’m sorry.’

And he was. Desperately so. But there was still a problem. Closure was elusive—and would remain so unless they worked it all through.

‘You’ll want to get back to the mainland.’ She rubbed her forehead with her fingers, hiding her eyes from him.

‘No. I’m not ready to leave the island yet.’ He wasn’t ready to leave her. For he wanted closure too, wasn’t that why he’d come all this way? When, having finally found out where she was, he hadn’t been able to just sign it all away without seeing her for himself.

And once he’d seen her, he’d known why he couldn’t just sign. It was still there. Just as it was for her. That damn electricity, the inferno that blazed between them. They had to go on and finish it. They’d got off the bus too early last time—they had to get to the end of the ride now.

He tossed the packet of condoms on the bed. ‘I got those from the office.’ He held his breath. God, could he be more blunt? But he didn’t know how else to approach it.

She looked at them and the colour returned to her cheeks in a flood. ‘I don’t want sympathy sex.’

He gritted his teeth as he heard her anger. ‘That’s not what I’m offering.’ This wasn’t bloody sympathy sex. This was I-can’t-control-my-lust-for-you passion—and he was desperate to get rid of it. For both their sakes.

‘Well, what are you offering?’

‘What do you want?’ He couldn’t stop the rasp in his voice. He knew what he wanted—he wanted as he’d never wanted before. He wanted to make her feel good. He wanted to make himself feel good. Because right now he felt like crap and instinct screamed at him that the only way to feel better was to get close.

She drew her knees up to her chest. Her hair hung in a mess around her face and her red-rimmed eyes were vivid blue and shielded. ‘I want what we agreed,’ she said fiercely. ‘The fling we should have stuck to a year ago. A few days of indulgence to burn it out. Then you go your way, I go mine.’

She had changed. Was tougher—not the marshmallow of a year ago. Now she was asserting her desire—and desire was it. He let go his breath with a kind of relief. For wasn’t that it for him too? Wasn’t that all he wanted—or had he changed?

He stood, unable to keep from moving a moment longer. He couldn’t think any more. Couldn’t do anything but bow to instinct. He knelt on the bed, leaned over her, pressing her back against the pillows so she was in no doubt of his need.