Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

“It was finished twelve years ago.”

Aidan’s mouth turned down. “Oh, was it, now?” His voice was low. “Then why did you come to my house?” He moved closer, his eyes locking with Gwen’s.

Gwen’s heart began to beat wildly. He was too damned intimidating. Too male, too overpowering.

“Stay away from me,” she said shakily.

He looked at her with hooded gray eyes. “What are you afraid of?”

Ever since KAREN VAN DER ZEE was a child growing up in Holland she wanted to do two things: write books and travel. She’s been very lucky. Her American husband’s work as a development econo-mist has taken them to many exotic locations. They were married in Kenya, had their first daughter in Ghana and their second in the United States. They spent two fascinating years in Indonesia. Since then they’ve added a son to the family, as well. They live in Virginia, but not permanently!

The Other Man
Karen Van Der Zee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE MAN was looking at her, silvery gray eyes probing her face, meeting her eyes. Gwen’s heart stood still. She recognized the eyes, if not the rest of him—the unshaven chin, the longish hair.

Aidan. Her body turned to liquid—she couldn’t feel her limbs and muscles anymore. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All she felt was a wild, overpowering emotion that made her heart pound and her blood churn through her body. Was it fear? Anxiety? Pain? Oh, God, she thought, don’t let me faint into my soup. Not with a restaurant full of people watching.

Desperately, she sucked in a gulp of air and tried to focus on Joe’s voice rambling on about the book they’d worked on together.

“Yes,” she said, having no idea what she was agreeing to. Her hand clenched rigidly around her soupspoon, she glanced out the window in an effort not to look the other way, at Aidan. The small, rustic restaurant perched on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific and she watched the turbulent waves crashing on the rocky outcrops, spraying up white spume. It was June and the days were long and she’d been looking forward to seeing the sun set, but dark, ominous clouds had gathered in front of the sun and the sky looked bruised and angry. Gwen gave a convulsive shiver. She wanted to go home,

to the safety of her house. But they’d only just been served their food and she couldn’t ask Joe to drive her back so soon. It was nice of him to take her out. He had meant well. You need to get out, Gwen, he had said. You need some time for yourself.

It took all her strength not to glance over at Aidan. She focused her eyes on her food. Concen-trating hard, she ladled in some of her soup—rich, creamy clam chowder. Her favorite soup, soothing and delicious. She was going to choke on it. She put her spoon down, her hand trembling. She couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t breathe.

Twelve years since she’d last seen Aidan. What was he doing here now? She glanced back at him— the need was too strong. There was gray in his hair now, hair that was a little too long and unruly. He looked older, more muscular, tougher. All the polish and shine were gone. Even his silver-gray eyes had a tarnished look about them. His face was brown and more angular than she remembered.

He was with a woman, an attractive woman in her thirties with short black hair and large, ex-pressive eyes. She was talking animatedly, using her hands, looking serious.

His wife.

It shouldn’t hurt, of course. She shouldn’t feel this sharp, jagged jealousy in her chest. She’d known he had a wife for years, but seeing her now made it more real.

My own fault…my own fault…

Aidan turned his head suddenly, as if he’d felt her regard, and again their eyes met. Her heart gave a sickening lurch. She stared, mesmerized, not able to look away from the pale, hypnotic gaze of his eyes.

“Gwen? What’s wrong?” Joe’s voice was worried.

Tearing her gaze away from Aidan, she pushed her chair back. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

Her legs were trembling so much it was a miracle she made her way out of the restaurant dining room and into the ladies’ room without collapsing be-tween the tables. She suppressed an hysterical little giggle, imagining the scene. Leaning on the cold ceramic of the sink, she closed her eyes. Calm down, she ordered herself. Get a grip on yourself. So he’s back. Big deal. Twelve years is a long time. It’s all history now. Think of something else—the book, the baby, anything.

Turning on the tap, she ran cold water over her wrists, splashing water on her silk dress. Periwinkle blue, matching her eyes.

She looked at her face in the mirror. She was ashen and her eyes had a wild, desperate look in them. She closed her eyes and moaned, seeing the man’s face in front of her lids. He looked strange with that dark stubble on his chin, but his eyes she would have recognized in a crowd.

Aidan.

Tears flooded her eyes. “Aidan,” she whispered, wanting to hear his name. “Aidan.”

She didn’t want to feel this way, this terrible pain—a pain full of longing and regret. Where had all that come from so suddenly? So intensely? These feelings shouldn’t have been there anymore; they should have been long gone, fled with time, buried in forgetting.

She had to get back to the table. She couldn’t stay here forever and hide. Swiftly, she pulled a comb through her hair, remembering it had been much longer twelve years ago, remembering Aidan playing with it. In the sun it looks like polished mahogany, he’d once told her, which to her had seemed a wonderfully exotic name for brown. Oh, please, she told herself, stop remembering things! Putting on some fresh lipstick, she willed herself to be calm. Smoothing the long, slim skirt of her dress, she walked out of the ladies’ room, head high.

Aidan. Looking at her. Oh, God. All her fragile control vanished.

He lounged by the large potted palm, hands in his cotton Dockers, looking tall and imposing in the small entryway. Familiar yet alien. Overpow-ering. Dangerous.

He didn’t even look like the man she remem-bered. The beard stubble gave his face something faintly sinister. His clothes were new, but were just the standard cotton trousers and striped, short-sleeved shirt available everywhere. The man she re-membered had worn expensive, designer clothes, had had immaculate haircuts and a clean shaven chin. And a smile in his eyes. There was no smile now. His eyes were a disturbing gray that shrouded darker emotions.

“Hello, Gwen,” he said evenly. “I thought it was you.” His voice, deep, masculine and intimately familiar, slid like expensive brandy through her system—smooth and fiery, spreading a treacherous heat.

It took a moment before she could make her tongue move. “Hello, Aidan,” she returned, hearing the odd, husky tone in her own voice.

For a timeless moment they stared at each other, the heavy silence ripe with old memories and new emotion.

“How have you been?” he asked at last, his tone cool and polite. Yet deep in his eyes she saw a dark turbulence that contradicted the calmness of his face and voice.

“Fine.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, hugging herself. Cooking smells wafted in from the kitchen—garlic, grilled seafood, some-thing fruity. “I didn’t know you were back.” Of course she didn’t. There was no reason for her to know, no way she could have known. Twelve years had gone by since she’d last seen him and the only information she’d had about him she had found in a newspaper article. As a doctor he’d made an in-ternational name for himself in tropical pediatrics, working with children in hospitals in poor, Third World countries. At the time of the article, he and his wife, also a physician, were heading up an im-pressive medical research project in Asia.

And now he was back in Oregon.

“Just for a few months,” he said. “I’m staying at the summer house.”

His parents’ summer house by the beach, a few miles to the south. Not your average, simple summer cottage, but a luxury beach house high on a cliff with lots of glass affording magnificent views. She’d stayed there, slept in the big bed with him. Was he sleeping in the same bed now with his wife? Don’t think, don’t think.

“How are your parents?” she asked, putting herself on automatic pilot, trying to be polite, steering away from the personal.

“They’re doing well. Just embarked on a cruise around the world.” A small pause. He rubbed his chin, something dark and unfathomable in his eyes. “I understand your mother died.”

He hadn’t liked her mother. She swallowed. “Yes.” She’d become seriously ill a month after Aidan had left the country twelve years ago and had died three months later. “It’s a long time ago,” she added.

Only it didn’t seem like it, not now, standing here, seeing him again. All the feelings were still there, all the anguish, as if it had been days instead of years. How could that be, how could that be?

“Yes,” he said. His gaze swept over her with cool appraisal, taking in her silk dress, the jewelry, her expensive shoes. “Life appears to have treated you well,” he stated. There was no inflection in his voice—his words just a simple, clinical obser-vation, yet the slight, downward tilt of the corners of his mouth gave him away.

“Yes.” It was the truth, yet she could well im-agine the things he was thinking, seeing her like this, knowing what he knew. She swallowed hard, not knowing what else to say, wanting desperately to get away. She felt young again, and awkward and confused and she hated herself for it. She was almost thirty years old, not eighteen.

“I have to go,” she said.

He made a gesture with his hand, indicating the dining room. “Is he your husband?”

So he had known. Somebody had told him she’d married. But obviously his information wasn’t up to date.

She shook her head. “No. Marc…my husband died a year and a half ago.” Her voice trembled. “I’ve got to go.” She didn’t want some polite platitude he’d utter for the occasion. She fled back into the dining room and sat down across from Joe, almost tipping over the wineglass as she reached for it clumsily. From the corner of her eyes she noticed Aidan sitting down again at his own table across from his wife.

“I was about to send out a search party,” Joe commented, his brown eyes searching her face. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine now,” she lied.

“Your soup’s cold.”

“It doesn’t matter. I had most of it. It was de-licious. Now tell me more about your ideas for another book.” She sat back, determined to give him her full attention, determined not to look again in Aidan’s direction.

In August their first book would come out. She had collected the migrant children’s stories and drawings, he had taken the photographs. It was a beautiful, poignant collection eliciting smiles, laughter, anger and tears: the stories of forgotten children.

No matter how hard she tried, her mind was not on the book. She was acutely aware of Aidan sitting only feet away, afraid to look up and see his face, see the woman sitting across from him. Afraid to see some small intimacy—a smile, a hand touching the other’s. Private gestures that had once be-longed to her.

She felt as if she were suffocating. She had to get out of the place, away from Aidan.

She looked up into Joe’s face. “Would you mind terribly if we left? I don’t feel right being gone. I need to get back to the baby.”

It was an excuse, and she felt vaguely guilty. Alice, the baby-sitter, was a nurse and the mother of three healthy grown children. The baby couldn’t be in safer hands.

She managed to leave the restaurant without looking at Aidan. Outside the wind whipped at her hair and clothes and she dragged in a deep breath of the damp, salty sea air. Joe opened the car door for her and she settled herself in the passenger seat.

For a while the road followed the rugged coastline, offering dramatic views of the wild sea and jagged rocks on the one side, and the wooded mountains on the other. Angry clouds streaked through the sky and violent waves tormented the rocks and beaches. Gwen shivered, feeling a sense of foreboding slithering through her.

Half an hour later she was home, the scent of Poison greeting her as she entered the living room. Alice was sitting on the sofa, feet up, dressed in old jeans and a T-shirt stretched tight across her ample bosom. She was doing a crossword puzzle and the television was off.

The baby was asleep, and had been all the time Gwen had been gone, Alice said, looking distinctly disappointed. “I’d hoped for a bit of cuddling,” she added, and gave a long-suffering sigh. Coming to her feet, she gathered her purse and half-finished crossword puzzle. “By the way, do you know a country in Asia that starts with a B? Ten letters.”

Gwen’s heart made a painful lurch in her chest. “Bangladesh,” she said promptly.

“Wow, you’re good!” Alice scribbled in the word and frowned. “You didn’t even have to think about it.”

Gwen shrugged lightly. “Just happen to know.”

Alice left, not fazed by the rain, back to her husband of twenty-seven years. The house was silent. Gwen walked aimlessly around, nervous, tense. A big, beautiful, silent house. Marc had de-signed it for them. He’d been a talented, creative architect who’d designed many beautiful houses for private clients all over the state, Utah and California. Homes built with natural materials that fit the landscape and seemed part of it.

Thunder rattled the windows. She heard the baby cry and ran up the stairs to the room, picking her up out of her crib, holding her close. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I’m here, don’t cry.” She stroked the dark hair, kissed the soft, warm cheeks. The small body squirmed against her, as if fighting a frightening dream. She felt so light, so fragile-much too small for a child of eight months. A lump formed in her throat and she felt overwhelmed by love and tenderness and fear.

She switched on a small light and changed Churi’s diaper. She warmed a bottle of milk and sat in the rocking chair, feeding the baby until she fell back to sleep. She sat there for a long time, cradling the warm body against her breast, while tears ran soundlessly down her cheeks.

“I lied, Aidan,” she whispered. “I lied.”

CHAPTER TWO

“YOU LOOK awful,” Alice informed her the next afternoon. “What are you having done? A root canal?” She’d come over to baby-sit Churi while she had her nap so Gwen could go to the dentist. Gwen had planned it that way; she’d be back by the time Churi would be awake again. It made her uneasy to be away when Churi was awake.

“Just a regular cleaning and checkup. I’m fine.” Gwen made a casual gesture. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

Alice grimaced. “That storm was a zinger. The whole house was rattling.”

Gwen grabbed her keys and purse and made for the door before Alice would ask more questions. It had not been the storm outside that had kept her awake, rather the storm inside her head that had prevented her from sleeping.

It was a wonderful sunny June day and she opened the roof of the Porsche and drove away. Signs of the storm’s destruction were everywhere. The sprawling, neatly manicured gardens around the luxury houses located off the wooded road looked disheveled from the storm’s onslaught. Branches and twigs had been ripped off the trees and shrubs and littered the grass. Blooms lay broken and wilted in the flower beds.

Inside Gwen felt as ravished as the gardens. A tight knot of tension in her stomach was growing ever larger. All she’d been able to think about was Aidan, think about that night, twelve years ago, remember the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice, her own.

“Tell me you don’t love me!” Aidan’s hands hard on her upper arms, eyes wild. “Tell me, dammit!”

Anguish searing through her. “All right! All right! I don’t love you!” Tears running down her face. Sobs racking her body. “I don’t love you! I don’t love you!”

She stared blindly ahead of her at the curving road. “Stop it!” she said to herself. “Just stop it!”

It was not good for the baby for her to be so upset. Churi would feel her distress and there’d been enough distress in her short little life. Gwen bit her lip and clamped her hands hard around the steering wheel. She had to resolve this situation, fast, come to terms with the avalanche of memories and emo-tions that threatened to take over. She needed to be calm. For her own sake, for Churi’s sake. She needed to slow down.

She slowed down, realizing she was on the main road out of town, not even knowing how she’d gotten there. Oh, Lord, her dentist appointment! Too late now. Never mind. She was in no shape to sit in a dentist’s chair—quiet, docile, her mouth open, sterile instruments and gloved fingers probing her teeth. She might bite off a finger, or scream. They’d carry her away in a straitjacket. She groaned. A little Valium might not be a bad idea, dentist or no dentist.

It was not a conscious decision to go to the small cove, but an unknown force propelled her there. She parked the car off the road, close to the bushes. The narrow trail was still there, hidden by tangled growth, and muddy from the rains. She clambered down toward the small crescent of deserted beach strewn with debris the waves had tossed up onto the sand the night before. She took off her shoes and dug her toes in the cool sand, wondering why she had come back here now after all these years. Why she was opening herself up to memories that might be better left hidden.

They’d made love on this beach, in the silver light of the moon, with soft breezes cooling their heated bodies. Nights of magic and romance and love.

For a moment she fought the urge to flee, then slowly she lowered herself in the sand and drew up her knees. It was just the way it had been so many years ago: the same sand, the same ocean, the same rocks.

Nothing was the same.

The wind swept her hair back from her face and she closed her eyes, smelling the salty air, hearing the screech of sea gulls. She tried to think of peaceful things. The wind felt good. It came across miles of ocean, from tropical islands with beautiful flowers and palm trees. Hawaii, maybe.

It didn’t work. She wasn’t in some tropical paradise. She was here, in Oregon, a paradise in its own right with its magnificent wild coast, its ma-jestic, rugged mountains and deep, verdant forests.

And Aidan Carmichael. Aidan Carmichael whom she’d loved so passionately a long time ago.

Aidan in the summer house. Just down the road. She should go see him and get the madness out of her system. Maybe this sort of madness was per-fectly normal. After all, he’d been her first true love. He’d been the first man she’d ever made love to and that sort of thing left an impression on a girl’s psyche and soul, or so the books said. Usually a bad one, according to statistics.

But it hadn’t been bad for her. For her it had been magical.

He’d been caring and loving and gentle. She pressed the heels of her hands against her closed eyes. It was better not to think about this now. It was better to leave it buried like a wonderful treasure—to know it was there, but not to look at it. To leave it hidden in the shadows of the past.

A strand of hair blew across her mouth and she wiped it away. It had been a shock to see him again. Of course it had been, but she could get over it, surely. She was not eighteen any longer. All she had to do was go talk to him and it would be clear that the past was the past and what had been then was over now.

He was a different man now, famous in his field, older, different. And she was different, so different from that frightened, insecure girl she had once been. Talking to him would exorcise the ghosts of the past, the memories, the feelings. He was a stranger now with a life of which she was no part. Once she’d spent a few minutes with him it would become clear that nothing was left of the past and her peace of mind would be restored.

She got to her feet before her courage failed her, clambered up the rocky trail to the place where she had parked her car.

Down the road she went, her heart in her throat, the wind whipping at her hair. Please, please, she prayed. Make all this go away. Make me not feel all these feelings. Please give me back my peace of mind.

She stopped at the narrow path that led to his house hidden in the woods. The weathered wooden mailbox was overgrown with morning glory, the name only barely legible on the side.

She lowered her head on the steering wheel, swamped with trepidation. What if his wife was there? What if…What would she say to him? I just came to see that I’m really not affected by you anymore. You have changed. I have changed. Life goes on. That’s the way it should be.

I came to say I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

“Gwen?”

She jerked her head up, heart turning over. Aidan stood by the side of her car, looking down at her. He was bare-chested, wearing only shorts and running shoes, and every inch of his brown ex-posed skin gleamed with perspiration. His broad chest was lightly covered with dark hair and he was breathing hard. His sleek, muscled body was the picture of male vitality and strength, exuding a rugged, elemental virility. She smelled the scent of pine and tangy sea air and the earthy scent of warm, damp skin.

He wiped his forehead with a blue-and-white striped sweatband wound around his wrist. “Here we meet again,” he said, and his deep voice stroked her nerves and tingled through her blood.

Her throat went dry. She swallowed, unable to produce a sound, knowing she was staring at him wide-eyed, looking stupid, her hair wild and wind-blown. She must look like a madwoman. She felt like a madwoman.

His eyes swept over her red convertible, his face faintly mocking. “Nice car,” he said, his voice carefully bland.

Nice car was an understatement, of course. It was a luxurious, expensive vehicle, a dream come true for many people. Marc had given it to her for her birthday two years ago. She hadn’t asked for it. It had never occurred to her to want a luxury sports car. And she’d never wanted the expensive jewelry and beautiful presents Marc was always giving her. “Please,” she’d say time and time again, “you don’t need to give me all these expensive things. It’s not me, Marc. You already give me everything I need.” Once, he’d looked at her with eyes full of dark emotion. “Really?” he’d asked, and her heart had constricted at the anguished tone in his voice. Even now the memory made her heart ache.

He had not stopped giving her gifts.

“Have some fun,” he had said when he’d pre-sented her with the Porsche. “Live a little.”

She remembered the words, but she couldn’t re-member his face. Panic surged through her. She couldn’t remember his face! How could she not re-member the face of the man to whom she’d been married for more than ten years? All she saw was Aidan—the light eyes in the dark face, the square, stubbled chin, the hard chest. All she was aware of was the disastrous effect he was having on her nervous system and the terrible hunger deep inside her.

“Something wrong?” Aidan asked.

She swallowed again, glancing away at her hands, trembling in her lap, her tongue paralyzed. She shook her head.

“I need something to drink,” he went on when she remained silent. “Come on up and join me.” Matter of fact. Casual. As if she were a friend, a neighbor. Yet behind the calm words she sensed a subtle command. He was used to having his way, to be obeyed. There was a sense of authority about him that seemed more pronounced than she re-membered. It was there in the way he held his body, the enigmatic face, the cool look in his eyes.

She nodded, not sure why. One part of her wanted to run, the other part wanted to do as he suggested. Her hand trembled as she put the car into drive and turned into the path, following Aidan as he jogged up to the house. Powerful legs, broad shoulders. He was a well-constructed running ma-chine, well-proportioned. She watched the smooth movement of his muscles beneath the tanned skin of his back and legs and felt her mouth go dry. Why couldn’t she have found him wearing baggy sweats?

She parked the car by the side of the house. Aidan opened the door for her and with a sweeping gesture indicated the back door of the house that led into the kitchen. The front door was never used, she remembered, only when strangers rang the bell.

The big, eat-in kitchen had changed little. It was light and bright with casual but expensive wooden furniture and was updated with the latest appli-ances. Not your average summer cottage this was, furnished with castoffs and attic furniture. Only the best for the Carmichaels. How awed and impressed she’d been by the family’s wealth when she’d been younger. How young and unsophisticated she had been…Sometimes, looking back, it amazed her how much she had changed, how much she had matured.

The windows had a view of wooded, rugged rocks jutting out into the wide expanse of ocean. She heard the call of sea gulls and the roaring of the waves.

He stood by the sink and splashed water on his face and neck, then dried off with a flowered kitchen towel he pulled out of a drawer.

“You look different,” she said, knowing she sounded inane, saying it just to break the awkward silence.

He shrugged as he filled two tall glasses with ice and water. “So do you.”

Of course she did. She was twelve years older. And a lifetime wiser. She searched her mind to think of something else to say. “Where were you working, before coming here? Bangladesh, still?”

“No, Ecuador. I left Bangladesh three years ago.” He handed her one of the glasses.

He gulped down the entire glass of water, then refilled it. She watched his hands work the tap. Big hands capable of gentle touch. Swiftly, she forced the thought away.

He turned back to her, regarding her with un-fathomable eyes. “Why did you come here?” he asked casually, tipping back his glass and drinking more water.

The question she dreaded. “I…” She gestured helplessly, scrambling for words, for a light touch. “I suppose just out of ordinary curiosity.” She managed a breezy smile. “To see how you’d fared after all these years.”

He cocked one dark eyebrow. “Really?” A single word, a thousand hidden meanings.

She sipped at her water. “Why are you staying here?” she asked. “Vacation?”

He pushed his damp hair away from his forehead. “No. I’m here to finish a book about my research project. Then I’m going back to Ecuador.” He placed his empty glass back on the counter.

“Are you ever planning to come back home for good?”

He leaned lazily against the counter, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Not a great need for tropical pediatrics in the temperate Northwest, is there?” Faint amusement in his voice.

She shrugged lightly. “No. But I suppose you could teach or write, or both.”

“I’d rather practice medicine, with a little writing on the side for a change of pace.”

They were having a calm, simple conversation, yet she felt shaky with tension. There was so much she wanted to say, so much to explain, but she could not find the words. Her mind seemed to have shut off, as if overloaded with emotion and stress. Then again, why would it matter to him at this point? He had the life he wanted and a wife who shared it, and the past did no longer matter. She wondered where his wife was.

“And what are you doing with yourself these days?” he asked politely.

She moistened her lips. “I’m a teacher. Kinder-garten. Five-year-olds.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Really?”

Had she seen a glimpse of surprise in his eyes? She nodded. “I…I love it. It’s vacation now, though, so I’m not working,” she went on, feeling ridiculously nervous, as if she were making an un-comfortable confession. “Usually I volunteer in the summer and work with special programs for mi-grant kids, but…eh, not this time.”

Why was she saying all this? Because she wanted his approval, to show him she was not merely a lady of leisure, driving a Porsche and living off her deceased husband’s money. She was a person in her own right, a person who had matured and made something of herself.

He studied her. “You look good,” he said bluntly. “You lost that scrawny look.”

To her mortification, heat rushed to her cheeks. She’d been thin at eighteen, working too many hours, eating too little food. She’d filled out a little in the past twelve years, she knew. She’d gained some weight and rounded out in all the right places.

“I’m not a teenager anymore,” she said, as if he didn’t know. Why did she have to sound so stupid?

The years of separation yawned between them. How did she bridge that gap of time—all the events and changes that had taken place in the years stretching between then and now? Was it even possible? Did she want to?

“You’re a woman now,” he agreed, his gaze sliding over her body with seeming clinical as-sessment. Hidden behind the cool gray something stirred that set off a tingling in her body.

Her heart throbbed in her throat. She swallowed painfully. “I was very young when we knew each other, Aidan.” It was more than a statement—it was a plea for his understanding.

“Eighteen.” His voice was stone hard. “Old enough to marry Marcos whatshisname.” His eyes were gunmetal gray as he stared at her with a sudden cold anger that made her heart turn over.

There was nothing she could say to that, nothing that would make any sense to him. Yet she did not want to be affected by his anger. She had come to peace with her own past and she didn’t want to be dragged back into it by his anger. Only she was, whether she wanted to or not. It was as if a storm had tipped her little boat upside down and she was hanging on for dear life, trying not to drown in the turbulent waters.

She wished she were not affected by him so. She didn’t want to feel that churning hunger inside her, that pull on her senses just being in his presence.

After all these years, it was still there—the same magnetism, the same power.

What had she hoped for? That her memories were only the feelings of an eighteen-year-old? Romanticized, idealized? That perhaps now that she would see him with the eyes of a mature, grown woman, he would somehow seem diminished, that his strength and male appeal would not seem nearly as devastating to her now as it had been before? She’d been wrong. It was still all there and more. He exuded a raw, wild sensuality that she hadn’t known or recognized before and to which she reacted in-stinctively now. Maybe it had not been there then, or maybe it took a mature woman to sense it.

In the silence she saw his face relax, take on again the look of cool detachment. He waved at a chair. “Sit down.”

She sat down. “How did you know I was married?” she asked, clasping her trembling hands in her lap.

He shrugged. “Somebody sent me the an-nouncement that was in the newspaper. I don’t re-member who.” He refilled his glass with water. “I seem to remember his name was Spanish. Mexican?”

“Yes. Marcos Silva. He was born in California, but his parents came from Mexico.”

“What did he do for a living?” He tipped his glass back and took a long swallow of water.

She watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed the water. “He was an architect. He de-signed private homes for people.”

He nodded. “A much better choice than I, I’m sure. Your mother must have approved.” A wealth of meaning hid behind those coolly spoken words. Hot indignation flared through her. She forced herself to stay calm.

“She never knew him.”

His brows quirked fractionally. “I see.”

No, you don’t, she almost said. No, you don’t see a thing, Aidan! She fought the impulse to ex-plain, to make him understand, but she knew it would all sound wrong and he was in no frame of mind to accept her words. Pride kept her silent.

She did not know him this way, those cold eyes, the hard mask of his face. This was not the same man she had once known—not by a long shot. So why then did he still ignite a fire in her blood? Why then did he make her heart race? He was not the open, enthusiastic young doctor she had so loved when she was young. Why then did she still feel the vibrations? Still the yearning? Was it merely a reaction to long-ago memories, rather than the present reality?

She glanced away, out the window, seeing from the corner of her eye that he pushed himself away from the counter. He came toward her, towering over her, and fear assaulted her. He was too close, too potently male, and she felt exposed and vul-nerable. He reached for her hands and pulled her to her feet. She was trembling on her legs as she looked into his face, so close, so very close. The heat of his bare chest radiated onto her arms. She felt his breath on her face, smelled the male scent of him—clean sweat, warm, damp skin, salty sea air.

Her body tingled and ached and she couldn’t find air to breathe. She wanted to put her mouth to his chest and taste him, lose herself in his nearness. No! No! She didn’t want to feel this terrible hunger, this aching need for something she’d tried for years to forget. Panic assaulted her and she fought against it. No, no!

She struggled for air as his eyes locked with hers, felt her heart slam into her ribs and then his mouth was on hers. Firm and hard and sensual. The kiss did nothing to assuage the pain, nor the panic, nothing to melt tension. It started a fire inside her— a fire fed by the still-familiar taste and smell of him, the feel of his hot mouth, his hard body pressed against her.

No! No! She fought ancient instincts, struggled against him, tore her mouth from his. Finally, he released her and stepped back. Gwen leaned against the table, trembling violently, gasping for breath.

“What…the…hell…was…that…for?” she managed on a furious tone, finding a frightening well of anger. Anger at herself for feeling the way she did now. Anger because he had no right to do this.

Anger because she was terrified. Nothing but heartache and disaster lay ahead if she allowed this to affect her.

He shrugged, a mocking slant to his mouth. “For old times’ sake.”

“Bastard,” she whispered fiercely.

The sounds of a car driving up. A door slamming. She gulped in more air, clasping the edge of the table for support, struggling for composure.

The door swung open and his wife walked in, clutching a bag of groceries to her chest.

“I’m back,” she said unnecessarily, and dumped the bag on the counter. She wore a topaz blue shirt and white shorts that showed long, lean legs. She glanced at Gwen. “Hi,” she said, and frowned. “Haven’t I seen you before? Oh, yes, the restaurant! Last night.” She glanced questioningly at Aidan, obviously waiting for an introduction.

“I’ve got to go.” Gwen didn’t know where her voice came from. Somehow she made her legs move, forced them to take her out the door and into her car.

Next thing she knew she was out on the road, driving on automatic, going too fast.

He’d had no right to kiss her, to touch her—no right at all. Anger burned inside her. And deep, hot humiliation. He had seen the emotion in her face, sensed the effect he was having on her and he’d taken advantage of it, humiliated her.

“Damn you, Aidan!” she shouted out loud, but the wind whipped away her words.

The sangria was delicious. Alice’s daughter, just back from a college semester in Spain, had made it according to a genuine, unadulterated Spanish recipe, which included generous amounts of cognac.

It was getting late, but the party was still going strong and Gwen was having a wonderful time. Her friends had outdone themselves. Flowers every-where, a pile of birthday presents, wonderful food, a huge, homemade birthday cake.

It was good to have so many friends, to have people care about her and take her seriously. When Marc had died, they’d gathered around her, helping, comforting. And now this. She smiled as she glanced around her garden where they’d all gathered to help her celebrate her thirtieth birthday.

Thirty! It sounded wonderful, as if now she really had grown up and truly was a mature woman. It wasn’t what a lot of women thought when they left their twenties, but she didn’t mind in the least. She liked it.

It was good to feel independent and secure in yourself and to know what you wanted. It was wonderful to be able to make decisions on your own and to feel confident about your choices and abilities.

She was going to sell this house. She didn’t have to ask anyone for permission. She could do it be-cause she wanted to. Because this was no longer her house. It was a place where she had spent a part of her life, a very important part, but that part was over now. Marc was dead and she was no longer a married woman.

She’d sell the Porsche, too, and buy something a little more modest and practical. She grinned to herself. It was wonderful to feel in charge of your own life, to feel so in control.

She had Marc to thank for it all. He had helped her become the person she was now. She closed her eyes for a moment as a wave of guilt washed over her. With an effort she pushed the feeling away and opened her eyes.

Aidan, entering the room from the terrace.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Oh, God, why was he always showing up when she wasn’t expecting him? What was he doing here now? She didn’t want him here, in her house. She drew in a long breath of air, fighting for control. He’s not going to ruin the evening for me, she thought grimly. I won’t allow it.

He was coming toward her, moving with lazy grace, wearing casual trousers and an open-necked shirt. His chin was smoothly shaven, different than it had been when he had kissed her. She could feel again the roughness against her face, feel again his mouth on hers. Her heart turned over and a sense of humiliation flooded her again. Get out of my house! she wanted to call out, but the words stayed frozen in her head as she watched him approach, feeling again the old, familiar pull on her senses, and the frightening sense of having no control over them at all.

Don’t let him see how you feel! said a little voice inside her. Be cool. She straightened her spine, pulled back her shoulders, gathering strength.

“Happy birthday,” he said when he reached her. As if nothing had happened. As if he were a friendly neighbor just dropping by.

She cocked a cool brow. “How did you know?” Her voice was steady. She took a careful sip from her sangria and tried to look relaxed. It took a ter-rible effort.

He shrugged lightly. “It’s the last day of June. I happened to remember, so I thought I’d stop by to congratulate you. After all, thirty years is a milestone. Are you depressed?”

“Heavens, no,” she said breezily. “As a matter of fact, I’m delighted.”

He surveyed her face for a moment, as if to verify the truth of what she said. “My sister had a nervous breakdown,” he said then. “Thought her life was over.” A hint of humor, barely perceptible, colored his voice. His eyes did not leave her face.

“Mine’s just beginning.” She smiled brightly.

His brows rose in question. “How’s that?”

“Well, let’s say I’ve finally come into my own. I feel good about myself.” She felt a surge of new courage and looked at him squarely. She knew a yearning for him to understand, to know. “I’m standing on my own two feet and I like the feeling.” She twirled on her toes as if to demonstrate, her long silky skirt swirling around her ankles. She would not let him spoil her mood. She felt happy surrounded by friends and good cheer.

“Admirable,” he said evenly.

“Have a drink,” she offered. “We have sangria. The genuine article, straight from Spain. The recipe, that is.”

He put his hands in his pockets. “No thanks, too sweet for me.”

She gestured at the terrace outside. “The bar is over there, get what you want.”

“An impressive spread,” he commented, looking at the tableful of food—marinated shrimp, French country pate, a selection of exotic cheeses.

“I have lots of friends.” She smiled brightly. “They did most of it.”

Surprise flitted across his features. Gwen knew what he was thinking. Lots of friends. She hadn’t had lots of friends when she was younger. She’d been a loner then, shy and insecure, living with her mother in a ramshackle little house at the edge of town. All of that had changed.

He glanced around. “Quite a place,” he com-mented. “You did well for yourself.” Just a comment, a simple statement of fact, yet she sensed more than heard the contempt behind the words. Was she imagining it?

There was no reason to feel on the defensive, yet she felt herself tense, she couldn’t help it. “Yes, I did,” she said flatly, forcing herself to look straight into his eyes. There was nothing there. Nothing but cool, impersonal gray.

The silence throbbed, and suddenly, deep inside that still gray of his eyes she glimpsed something deeper—a dark shadow trying to hide—not anger, not contempt, something else.

He took one of his hands out of his pocket and absently stroked the back of the leather sofa. “I’ve wondered at times,” he said casually, “if you had what you wanted.”

Pain. Deep and sharp. She fought not to show him, taking a slow drink from her glass. Her eyes met with his as if drawn together like magnets. Her tongue wouldn’t move.

“Did you?” he insisted. “Did you have what you wanted?”

“I was very lucky,” she managed, her voice husky. “And I understand you did very well for yourself, too, according to what I’ve read,” she added in a desperate attempt to get away from his line of questioning. “You’re doing wonderful work, important work. It’s what you always wanted to do, isn’t it?”

“Right.” His tone was cool, clipped, businesslike.

Something else had changed about him, she realized. There was a stillness about him—in the way he spoke, in the way he moved. Once there had been a restless energy in him, an enthusiasm that caused bright silver sparks in his eyes when he spoke.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Joe sauntering up to them, his sleek black hair tied back in its usual ponytail. Smiling his warm smile, he draped a protective arm around her. Joe to the rescue, she thought, feeling warm with gratitude and relief. She glanced back at Aidan, seeing his eyes narrowing a fraction.

“Aidan, this is Joe Martinez. Joe, Aidan Carmichael.” They shook hands, Aidan’s face pol-itely bland, Joe’s brown eyes darkly suspicious. He wore his standard garb of jeans and a loose, torrid silk shirt. His cowboy boots were well-worn and well-polished. Next to Aidan in his conservatively casual clothes, he looked rather eccentric.

She slipped out from under Joe’s arm. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and escaped to her other guests. It was getting late and they were beginning to leave, giving her hugs and smiles and thank-yous which she returned with warmth.

Half an hour later, Joe came up to her. “He’s still here. Do you want me to stay?”

She’d been watching Aidan as he’d moved around, exploring the room, not mingling much. He’d studied the Mexican paintings in the living room, stared at the sky outside and he’d perused the books on the shelves.

“He’s been looking bored. He’ll leave soon.” She smiled. “You worry too much about me, Joe.” Joe had been Marc’s best friend and he was looking after her.

“I don’t like the looks of the guy.” He frowned. “Who is he?”

She waved her hand casually. “Somebody I knew, a long time ago.”

He looked at her searchingly. “I think there’s more to it than that.”

She bit her lip. “He wanted to marry me, before I met Marc.”

“And you didn’t want to marry him?”

She hesitated. Her light, frothy mood was de-serting her. “I was scared.” Just the memory of that primitive, ancient fear made her hands clammy even now, twelve years later. She remembered the nightmares, felt again the dark sense of foreboding she had not been able to shake. I can’t go. Some-thing terrible is going to happen.

Something terrible had.

Joe frowned at her. “Scared? Were you scared of him?”

“No, no. Please, Joe, I can’t go into this now.”

He took her hand. “You know, Gwen, I’m here for you. If you need me, let me know, will you?”

She felt a lump in her throat. “I will, Joe. You know I will.”

A while later she found herself alone in the silent house. Everyone had gone home and there was no sign of Aidan. He’d left without saying goodnight. She shrugged, feeling relieved that he was gone.

Kicking off her shoes, she sank down on the large Italian sofa and gave a deep, contented sigh. She didn’t even have to clean up—it had all been done. All she needed to do was lock up, peek in on Churi, and crawl into bed. She closed her eyes, feeling for the first time how tired she was.

She heard the wind rustle in the trees outside, the cacophony of insects thrilling in the cool night air. Very peaceful. Then she heard footsteps out on the terrace and she froze.

“Gwen?” Aidan’s voice.

She bolted upright. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was sharp, out of control.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets. He advanced into the room. “I took a walk—it was a little longer than I intended. Everybody gone?”

She came to her feet. “Yes.”

“Your bodyguard, too?” A faint note of amusement. She didn’t like it, but she couldn’t think of a good retort, so she said nothing and just gave him a cool look.

He glanced down at the small table at the end of the sofa and studied the grouping of photographs arranged on it. She and Marc on a sailing boat, laughing, the wind in their hair. She and Marc sitting on a picnic bench, heads together conspir-atorially, his arm around her shoulders. Their wedding picture, both of them smiling. Joe had taken every one of them—beautiful photos, catching just the right expressions, just the right moods.

The air throbbed with tension. Her stomach churned with anxiety as she looked at Aidan’s rigid posture.

“You were happy,” he stated, a harsh edge to his voice, as if it were an accusation.

She swallowed painfully, her eyes on the photos, fighting a confusion of feelings—a struggle that knotted her stomach and made her chest hurt. The photos blurred in front of her and she clenched her hands into fists. She blinked her eyes, trying to focus on Marc’s face, but it was useless. Then she lifted her face to Aidan and met his eyes.

“Yes,” she said.

He studied her for a tense moment, taking in the red party dress, his eyes coolly disdainful. “You don’t look like a grieving widow to me.”

The words hit her like a fist in her chest, then fury flooded her. How dare he? How dare he judge her? She wanted to say something back, something sharp and damaging, but words failed her. The silence echoed with his voice, and the fury mixed itself with guilt, a toxic mixture that lodged itself in her throat, making her wild with a need to lash out.

Then a cry, a frightened cry coming from up-stairs. All thought of Aidan, of anger and revenge evaporated. Her body moved instantly, racing up the curving stairs to Churi’s room. She lifted the baby out of her crib and hugged her. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Let’s go have some milk.”

Holding the whimpering baby against her shoulder, she went down the stairs, stepping more carefully now, afraid to trip over the long skirt of her dress.

Hands in his pockets, Aidan was standing in the middle of the living room, his face expressionless, his eyes the color of old pewter. He said nothing, and there was a curious stillness about him as he gazed at her holding the baby.

She drew in a steadying breath of air. “Get out of my house,” she heard herself say. Her voice was not her own. It was hard and frigid and she could not remember ever having spoken that way.

For a moment longer he just stared at the baby, then he turned sharply on his heel and marched out of the French doors into the garden.

How dare he? How dare he? For the next few days, the words echoed in her mind fueling her outrage. Anger was so much easier to deal with than the other emotions-—the pain, the longing, the fear. Easier than the devastating hunger she felt every time she looked at him. She could not allow herself to feel this way. It was wrong and dangerous.

On Wednesday she took Churi to the doctor for her scheduled checkup. She’d gained a pound. “Excellent,” the doctor said, smiling at her. “She’s doing great.”

Afterward they went to the small town’s only supermarket, crowded now with summer tourists who came to the beaches and the mountains. The store was full of the scents of suntan lotion brought in by the people and the fragrance of fresh bread baked on the premises.

With Churi propped up in the baby seat, Gwen pushed the shopping cart through the aisles, picking up bread and vegetables, diapers and baby food, all the while keeping up a conversation with Churi, who looked serious and drooled. A new tooth was coming through.

She met a friend and chatted for a while, dis-cussing babies and baby food brands, then headed for aisle nine to find a can of coffee.

She wasn’t the only one looking for coffee, but by the time she realized that one of the three people in the aisle was Aidan, it was too late to turn back; he’d already seen her.

Her heart skipped a beat and started a nervous gallop. Her legs felt oddly weak. Oh, God, she thought, this is so stupid, so stupid. Why does this happen to me? Why can’t I just stay calm? She clenched her hands tightly around the cart handle as she forced her gaze to pass over him casually, then return to the shelves.

“Hello, Gwen,” he said. So calm, so polite.

She looked back at him. “Hi,” she said coolly.

He studied the baby, who gazed back at him with dark, solemn eyes. Gwen glanced at the contents of his cart, seeing a big steak, jumbo shrimp, a bag of rice and assorted other groceries. Perhaps he and his wife took turns doing the shopping.

“How old is she?” he asked, and Gwen’s heart slammed against her ribs.

“Almost eight months. Excuse me.” She pushed the cart past his and kept on walking.

You should have told him. You should have explained.

I don’t owe him any explanations.

As she turned out of the aisle, Aidan’s wife turned in, a plastic bag of green grapes in her hand. Gwen kept on moving, pretending she hadn’t noticed her, her legs wooden, her chest aching.

At home, she made herself a cup of coffee and a sandwich and fed Churi her lunch. After a nice long cuddle, she tucked her in bed for her afternoon nap.

She had to try not to think about Aidan. She had work to do. She wanted to sell the house. Which meant she’d have to find another place to buy. What place? Where? A little closer to the beach, but not too far from school. Something simple and comfortable and not too big. She’d have to do some looking around, check with a real estate agent. Which one? Joe would know.

“You want what?” he said after she told him of her intentions.

“A real estate agent, to help me sell the house,” she repeated. “It’s too big, too fancy for me, Joe.”

Joe was silent. Joe had been Marc’s best friend and she knew what was going through his head. Marc had designed that house for them. They’d lived there almost all their married life.

“I have to move on, Joe,” she said quietly.

“Yes, yes, of course.” He was all business sud-denly, giving her the name and phone number of an agent he knew personally.

“Have you thought about my idea for the next book?” he asked then.

She hadn’t thought about anything but Aidan and the baby in the last few days. “I’m sorry, I haven’t,” she admitted. “Maybe we should see first how well this one sells. It’s only a couple of weeks before it’s out.”

“Yes, of course. I was just thinking of the possibilities.”

After they’d hung up she glanced around the house. She’d have to sell or give away a lot of the furniture when she moved to a smaller place.

A place of my own. All my own. Guilt swamped her suddenly, settling like wet cement in her heart. Marc had given her a home, love, security, stab-ility. All the things the scared little girl inside her had needed and craved. All the things her mother had said to look for. No, that was not true.

Her mother had not believed in love.

Love was an overrated, dangerous emotion that existed only in people’s fantasies. Love invariably caused grief and disillusionment. Love did not keep food on the table or a roof over your head.

Her mother had been a very disillusioned person.

That night she dreamed of her mother. She looked very old and gray, lying in a white hospital bed, her skin sallow. Her mother was crying. Her mother never cried.

“And what about me?” she was saying over and over again. “What about me?”

“I’m not leaving, Mom. I’m here.” Gwen searched for her mother’s hand. It wasn’t there. She broke out in a cold sweat, searching every-where under the covers. She couldn’t find it any-where. “I’m not leaving, Mom. Give me your hand. Please, Mom, give me your hand.”

“If you go to Africa, I’ll be all alone,” her mother whimpered.

“I’m not going to Africa, Mom! I’m going to stay with you. Just give me your hand. Please, just give me your hand.”

Churi was in her playpen on the terrace while Gwen watered her plants in the wide windowsill of the living room window. The room smelled deliciously of roses. She’d just picked a large bouquet of them in the garden where bushes flourished with abandon. Inside her plants did well, too. Plants were so easy. Just a little care and they grew and bloomed luxuriantly. She liked to take care of things, to see things grow. Plants. People. Babies.

A gleaming, blue-grey Mercedes-Benz came down the road and slowed down, then turned into the driveway. Every muscle in her body tensed and her breath caught in her throat as she noticed Aidan’s big frame emerging from the vehicle. He wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt and his hair looked disheveled. His appearance was in odd contrast to the luxury car, which was probably on loan from his globe-trotting parents. It struck her how easy it was to visualize this tough, rugged man in a Jeep or Land Rover. He strode purposefully up to the door.

Why was he here? What did he want?

The doorbell chimed its cheerful tune.

I don’t want to see him anymore, she thought desperately. I want him to stay away from me. He was shaking up her world, her hard-earned control of her life, her confidence and her peace of mind. She could not allow him to do that. She drew in a ragged breath. Her chest ached.

She went to the entryway and opened the door.

“Good morning,” he said, raking a hand through his hair, as if he realized it needed some attention. It did. He looked in serious need of a shower and a shave.

“Good morning,” she returned, forcing her voice to be calm and polite.

It did not appear to be a very good morning for him; he looked exhausted, his eyes weary, as if he’d been up all night. Maybe he’d had a fight with his wife and she’d kicked him out of the house. Maybe he’d slept in his car. It did not seem a likely expla-nation. Aidan Carmichael was not a man who’d let himself be kicked out of the house.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her body tense, forcing herself to look him squarely in the face.

“I want to talk to you.” A command more than a statement, and it didn’t escape her notice.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Why? Do you want to insult me some more?”

“Insult?” He frowned as if trying to remember what she was referring to, then shrugged lightly. “I was merely stating a fact. In that sexy red dress you looked quite the happy birthday girl.”

Well, she had been. She gritted her teeth. “I was the happy birthday girl, with absolutely no apologies to make! And I have no intention of standing here arguing with you. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, yes, I should.” Without further ado, he put his hands on her shoulders, moved her aside and stepped into the large hallway. She watched in stunned disbelief as he strode into the living room as if he had every right in the world to be there.

CHAPTER THREE

HIS RUDENESS rendered her speechless for a moment. This was not the Aidan she remem-bered—the one with the impeccable upbringing and superb manners and sophisticated ways.

Hands clenched, she followed him, furious for his intrusion. “What do you want?” she asked coldly.

He stepped through the open French doors onto the stone terrace, where Churi sat in her playpen playing with her toys.

He put his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you introduce us?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“Her name is Churi. I want you to leave.”

He smiled at the baby. “Hello, Churi,” he said gently.

The baby looked up at him with large brown eyes—eyes that looked too big for her small face.

Aidan glanced back at Gwen. “I’d appreciate a cup of coffee. Strong, please.” Another order. Who did he think he was?

Gritting her teeth, Gwen glared at him, her body rigid. “This is not a restaurant.”

“I’m aware of that,” he said with infuriating calmness. He was looking at the baby again. “Has she been ill?”

“No, she hasn’t,” Gwen said tightly, feeling her nerves begin to jump. She wanted him gone—fast, now. “You shouldn’t be here. This is a small town. People talk.”

He cocked a faintly contemptuous brow. “It does not interest me in the least what people might say.” He allowed a significant pause. “I do not arrange my life according to the wishes and opinions of others.”

As opposed to what she had done years ago-according to his opinion. A wave of hot anger washed over her. She wanted to slap his arrogant face, but with an effort she managed to control herself. For a fleeting instant she heard again his voice, saw his face as he had looked at her that fateful evening years ago. You can’t allow your mother to decide for you what to do, and how to live. You’re not thirteen. You’ve got to live your own life. She pushed the memory away, curling her toes as if it were a physical effort.

“What do you want?” she asked coldly, wanting not to feel disturbing feelings, trying to block them out.

“There’s something we need to discuss.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Oh,” he said lazily, “we can think of some-thing. There’s plenty of unfinished business.”

“It was finished twelve years ago.”

His mouth turned down at the corners. “Oh, was it now?” His voice was low. “Then why did you come to my house?” He moved a little closer, his eyes locking hers.

Her heart began to beat wildly. He was too damned intimidating with those pale, piercing eyes in that dark face. Too male, too overpowering.

“Stay away from me,” she said shakily. She felt like a little girl again and she hated it. She hated to feel the insecurity he seemed to evoke in her.