Zoe and the Tormented Tycoon (12 page)

‘Connecticut.'

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?'

‘Three sisters, older than me.'

Zoe smiled teasingly. ‘You must have been dreadfully spoiled.'

Max paused, his head cocked to one side, considering the question. ‘Not particularly,' he finally said, and Zoe resumed her one-way questioning. It wasn't so much a conversation, she supposed, as an interrogation.

‘Did you have any pets?'

‘Pets?' Max repeated in surprise, and arched an eyebrow.
‘We had a family dog named Boots. She died when I was six.'

‘That must have been hard.' His only answer was another shrug; Zoe pressed her lips together. ‘Have you always been in business?'

‘No.'

‘What did you do before?'

A pause; Zoe wondered if she was finally getting somewhere. Learning about Max was like wandering in the dark, unsure of every step. ‘I was in the air force.'

‘Miltary?' Zoe said in surprise, even as she thought,
Of course
. Now she understood his sense of precision, the cool self-control of his movements and reactions. ‘For how long?'

Another pause. ‘Two years. The air force paid for college. My second year I was called up to fight in the Gulf War. The first one.'

He spoke flatly, without any emotion, and it made Zoe wonder what he
wasn't
saying. ‘You fought in the war?' she asked, even though he'd already said as much.

He nodded. ‘I was a flight officer on an E-2 Hawkeye. We mainly did search-and-rescue missions.' He paused again. ‘I left the air force after the war.' Another pause and he turned to stare out at the sea and darkness. ‘I was honourably discharged.'

‘You were wounded?' Zoe whispered.

‘Our plane went down.' He pushed his plate away, the movement restless. ‘Now it's my turn to ask some questions.'

‘All right,' Zoe agreed, even though she longed to ask more. Know more. ‘Go ahead.'

‘Why did you come to New York?'

She swallowed, struggling not to avert her eyes. ‘I needed a change of scene,' she finally said, keeping her voice light.

‘Why?'

She swallowed again, a flush rising from her throat to stain her cheeks. She wanted to dissemble, yet she knew she couldn't. Honesty had to start somewhere. ‘You remember that Internet search you did?' She toyed with her fork, her eyes on her plate. ‘Well, in England the press was about a hundred times worse than that. Reporters on the lawn, ringing up all hours. It was ghastly.' She wasn't about to go into the truth of her father, the rejection she'd received in New York.

Max didn't say anything for a moment. ‘So you left to escape the press?' he said, and Zoe knew he didn't buy it. He didn't believe her. And why should he? As much as she'd wanted to be honest, she hadn't been, not even with herself.

‘No, I left to escape myself.' The words surprised her even though she knew they were true. ‘When I found out I wasn't my father's…Oscar's child—I wasn't a Balfour—it was like I'd lost an arm or a leg or—'

‘Your sight?' Max filled in, and Zoe nodded.

‘Yes. An essential part of me. And I didn't know who I was, who I could be, without it.' She gave her head a little shake. ‘I still don't.' She lapsed into silence, both wanting and dreading Max to say something, equally afraid of his judgement or pity.

‘Well, how old are you? Twenty-four, twenty-five?'

‘Twenty-six.'

‘You have plenty of time to figure out those questions.' He pushed back from the table, suddenly seeming caged, restless. ‘I'm thirty-eight.'

‘And you've served in a war and have a multimillion-dollar business,' Zoe returned a bit wryly. ‘What do you have to figure out? I'm sure you know exactly who you are.'

Max let out a low laugh; there was something almost
grim in the sound. ‘Don't be so sure,' he said, and Zoe stared at him in surprise. ‘Anyway,' he continued, his voice softening a bit, ‘you'll get there. You're stronger than you think.'

It was exactly what her father had said. Yet Zoe couldn't quite believe it. She wanted to, desperately, but she didn't feel strong. At all.

‘How about some other questions?' she asked lightly, taking another bite of chicken. She didn't want to talk about herself any more. ‘Like what's your favourite colour?'

Max flashed her a brief smile, although there was something sad about the curve of his mouth. ‘All of them,' he said quietly. He turned his face away from her, and Zoe thought she heard him sigh, a tiny sound of loss and even despair. ‘All of them,' he repeated, speaking so softly she almost didn't catch the words.

They ate the rest of the meal in near silence, and afterwards Max left for the sanctum of his study, citing work as an excuse, Zoe thought a bit bitterly, not to spend any time with her. Why had he invited her at all? Every time she felt as if she were getting close, Max pulled away again. Was he regretting his decision to invite her, perhaps even his decision to be involved in his baby's life? In her life?

The thought terrified her, and she was so tired of being afraid. She wandered around downstairs, examining each spectacular room before settling in the living room with a book. She wasn't particularly interested in reading, but she hoped that if she stayed downstairs Max might stop and sit with her for a few moments at least.

He didn't. At ten o'clock, exhausted despite her long nap, Zoe shelved her unread book and headed upstairs, feeling like the lone guest at an all-too-exclusive hotel.

She fell asleep only to wake suddenly, in the middle of the night, the moon sending silver rays across the floor of
her bedroom. She could hear the gentle shushing of the tide outside her window, but something else had woken her—she felt the echo of it still reverberating through her tense body.

A sob.

She heard it again, that muffled cry, and wondered who on earth could be making such a sound. Was a child lost outside at this time of night? Was there someone here Max hadn't told her about?

She swung herself out of bed, groping in the dark, walking instinctively towards that faint, intermittent sound. It was, she realised, coming from inside the house. She tiptoed down the darkened hallway past door after closed door, until she came to the last door on the corridor and paused.

The silence was unending, a thundering in her ears. Her own breathing was ragged, her heart racing. She pressed her hands against the door, spreading her fingers wide against the cool wood. Then the sound came again, a ragged breath, as if someone were in pain. And it was coming from behind the door she touched.

Without even thinking about what she was doing, or considering its possible ramifications, Zoe quietly pushed with her hand, and the door swung inwards. She stepped inside the room.

There, in a spill of silver moonlight, lay Max. He was in bed, the sheets twisted about his bare body, his eyes clenched closed. He was asleep, and that sound—that sob—was coming from him.

‘Max…?' Zoe whispered, no more than an exhalation of breath, but Max didn't hear her. He was dreaming…if such an expression of emotional agony could be considered dreaming. He looked as if he were caught in the throes of a terrible nightmare; it held him in its grasping jaws and wouldn't let go.

Zoe stepped closer. ‘Max,' she said again, louder, but words had no effect. His fingers clenched on his sheets and he shook his head as if to ward off some great danger, helpless against its encroaching power.

‘Max…' Zoe knelt on the bed, the sheets slippery under her knees, and touched his forehead, smoothing back his dampened hair. She longed to take this burden from him, ached with the need to comfort him, to give him solace. He thrashed against the pillows once more, and her heart twisted. She felt close to tears; they crowded under her lids and in her throat. ‘Max…' She cupped his cheek with her palm, felt the flick of stubble against her fingers. ‘Max…it's all right. It's all right…you're only sleeping.'

She leant closer to him, her hair falling forward to brush his face, and his hand came up to clutch hers, his grip like a vice, so her hand remained pressed against his cheek, and she was powerless to move. His eyes opened and he stared at her with a sudden, wild desperation.

‘You're all right? You're all right?' he demanded, his voice harsh and raw.

Startled, and a little bit afraid, Zoe stammered, ‘Y-yes, Max, I'm fine.'

His hand still clutched hers, nearly crushing her fingers. He stared at her for a long moment, and Zoe wondered if he was even seeing her. There was a strange and terrible look in his eyes, as if he were still caught in the nightmare.

Then he relaxed, his face softening, his grip loosening. Zoe began to pull back, but to her surprise Max pulled her to him, hauling her against his body and wrapping his arms around her in a way he never had before, as if he would take her into himself, fuse their bodies in one seamless joining. She snuggled against his shoulder, their bodies
pressed together, joined at every joint, amazed at how well they fit together, hard against soft, large against small.

She looked up at him; his eyes were closed once more, but not in the grimace of pain they had been a moment ago. His face had relaxed, softened, and Zoe felt a little ripple of gratitude pass through her. Her own body relaxed.

Then Max opened his eyes and looked down at her for an endless moment, their gazes locked, before he lowered his head and claimed her mouth in a kiss so achingly sweet Zoe nearly wept. Her hands came up and bunched on the sleek, smooth muscle of his shoulders and she pressed herself even closer to him, wanting to touch him, feel him, even be a part of him.

Finally he released her, leaving her spinning, joyful and yet also bereft. Then he gathered her in his arms once more, his chin resting on her head.

‘Stay with me,' he murmured. ‘Don't leave me alone.'

‘I won't,' Zoe whispered. There was no chance of that. She didn't want to leave him; she didn't want to be alone herself. There was, Zoe realised, no place she'd rather be than in Max's arms.

Still, she couldn't even be sure how aware Max was of his actions, or even how awake he was. Had he
meant
to kiss her? Yet even so, she didn't move, didn't want to break this new bond, fragile and wonderful, between them.

Max sighed, the soft sound one of relaxation and contentment. ‘You smell like roses,' he murmured against her hair, and Zoe's heart turned over, only to still suddenly—horribly—when he added, ‘Diane.'

M
AX
woke slowly, blinking the world into its blurry focus, but for once it didn't matter. He didn't mind the loss of his sight. He felt the sunlight warm on his face, could see its yellow glow flooding his bedroom—and his heart—with light.

He still felt a sleepy languor in his limbs, a contentment throughout his body that was so strange, so unfamiliar, he hardly recognised what it was. And why he felt it.

Zoe.

She'd come last night, here, to his bedroom. She'd lain in his arms; she'd
fit
. And he'd let her stay, he'd wanted her to stay. It had been good.

Even as his heart acknowledged this fact, his mind protested.
She saw you weak…helpless…unmanned.

He closed his eyes against the light.

He couldn't remember more than a few fragments of the night before: the softness of her hair, the scent of roses, the gentle sweetness of her touch. When she'd lain in his arms, the old nightmare, the mocking voices and anguished screams, receded, as did his own father's censorious voice:

You have to let it go, Max. If you're going to be a soldier, a man, then you have to let it go.

He'd never let it go. He carried it with him to this day, the shame and the pain and the regret, and worse, the feeling of utter helplessness. He never wanted to feel that way again, couldn't bear the thought of Zoe seeing him like that….

Couldn't bear the thought of letting
her
down, failing again as he had before.

And yet. And yet she had seen him weak last night—a little bit, at least—and she hadn't left. It was—strangely, stupidly—only then that Max realised his arms were empty. He was the only one in bed.

Zoe was gone.

He fought back the sudden wave of loss and fear and swung himself out of bed. He jerked on his clothes; he'd learned to leave them folded by the side of the bed so he wouldn't have to sort and scramble through myriad unrecognisable garments.

Dressed in jeans and a loose button-down shirt, he walked through the house, hearing and feeling the mocking silence all around him. Where was she? Had she left? He went into every room, his ears and even his heart attuned to the tiniest movement, waiting for Zoe to say something, reveal her hiding place. To find him.

Why had she left?

Desperation gave way to annoyance and even anger. Had she actually gone without telling him? Had he repelled and disgusted her so much last night with his weakness, like a child who needed to be comforted because of a silly dream, that she'd
fled
? Shame burned, harsh as acid, inside him, corroding his courage and the sweet memory of Zoe next to him.

Alone in the centre of the kitchen, a fresh wave of fury pounding over him, he felt something. A flutter, a breeze, from the beach blowing over him, cool and sweet. He
inhaled and smelled brine; the sliding glass doors that led to the beach must be open, and then he knew where Zoe was.

He hesitated, suddenly reluctant to venture out to the beach. He used to like the sea, the glint of sunlight on water, the freshness of the breeze. Now everything had changed. The thought of walking across such an unfamiliar landscape—he hadn't been to his beach house in more than a year, and then only for a few weeks—made him hesitate. Fear.

It was that little spasm of fear that hardened his resolve. He would not let fear rule him; he was stronger than that. He could be.

He headed towards the doors that led to the dunes, and then to the sea.

Walking barefoot in the sand wasn't easy, but God knew he was used to it. The shifting sand made him lurch and stagger, and he felt the remembered metallic taste of fear on his tongue and in the back of his throat, could almost feel the sharp prod of a rifle in the small of his back, hear the jeering voices, and taste the sour stench of a gag in his mouth.

And the darkness. The unending darkness he feared so much.

It was so much like before, like his nightmare, he could hardly bear it. He hadn't had such a strong sense of memory swamp him before—at least while he was awake. Sweat broke out, cold and prickly, along his shoulder blades, and he bent over, his hands on his knees, breathing deeply, hating himself.

This had all happened nineteen years ago. Half his lifetime. And he was still crippled by it, especially now he was losing his sight.

By sheer force of will he kept walking, one foot in front of the other, until he crested the dune and he could smell
and hear the sea. He wasn't in the desert; he was on the beach. His beach, and he knew, absolutely knew, that Zoe was right in front of him. Relief flooded through him, weakening his limbs with its sweetness.

He blinked in the glare of the brilliant sunshine, its brightness making it even harder than usual to discern any shapes. Yet even so, squinting, he could make out a small, seated form on the hard sand, the graceful curve of a shoulder and back.

Zoe.

He walked forward until he was only a few feet away from her, shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and waited. Questions crowded in his throat:
Why did you come to my room last night? What made you stay? What made you
leave?

Yet he didn't ask any of them. Couldn't. He was, he realised with stinging self-contempt, afraid of the answers. So he stood there, listening to the seagulls call out with their mournful cries, imagined them wheeling in graceful arcs against an azure sky. And waited for Zoe to speak.

 

Zoe felt Max behind her and found herself tensing with a confusing mix of hope, relief and fear. He'd come and found her, yet now he stood unmoving and unspeaking, and she had no idea what he was thinking. Feeling. Wondered if last night—as intimate in its own way as their other night together had been—had meant any more to him. Had it meant anything at all? She didn't know if he even remembered it.

‘You're awake,' she said, turning to smile at him, shading her eyes as she kept her voice deliberately light.

‘Yes.' The single word was terse, making Zoe tense all the more. She turned back to face the sound, its surface smooth and placid under the morning sun.

‘It's beautiful out here. I watched the sun rise over the water. It turned everything to mother-of-pearl. Amazing.' She was babbling, Zoe realised, and she sounded utterly inane. Yet it had been amazing, and watching the sea cast in luminescence, the world slowly awaken to colour and light, had been surprisingly restorative. She'd felt, strangely, as if she had been awakening as well—her mind and body and heart opening up to possibility.

She'd felt that when she'd woken up next to Max that first morning, as if colour and light were flooding through her, restoring her senses. As if she was, once more, alive. She'd felt it again, an hour ago, when she'd seen him sleeping next to her. She'd touched his cheek, loving the feel of him. Then she'd remembered how he'd called her by someone else's name and she'd slipped out of bed.

‘I used to love watching the sun rise,' Max said, and there was a strange note of longing in his voice that Zoe didn't understand.

‘Used to?' she asked, her voice still light and even teasing. ‘Not a morning person any more?'

He paused. ‘Not a sunrise person.'

Zoe nodded even though she didn't really understand. ‘Neither am I, to tell you the truth. I usually sleep in far past dawn.'

‘Somehow that doesn't surprise me.' The faint note of humour took the sting out of his words, and he sat down next to her on the cool, hard sand, his body tantalisingly close to hers. She could feel his heat, even his strength, and she wished she could touch him. She wished she were brave and confident enough to lean into him, to ask him what he was thinking and perhaps even tell him how she felt.

I think I'm in love with you…with the glimpses of you I see, when you let me in like you did last night.

She pressed her lips together and stared out at the sea.

‘I used to come here as a child,' he said quietly. He scooped up a handful of damp sand and let it trickle through his fingers. ‘I loved it.'

Zoe turned to look at him, desperately curious. ‘Does this place belong to your family?'

Max shook his head. ‘No. We rented a little cottage closer to town. I had this place built five years ago. I wanted the light to fill every room, to see it no matter what time of day it was.'

Zoe couldn't help but notice how he spoke in the past tense, as if his life were over. And perhaps, in some strange way, it was. Max, she realised, didn't seem like the walking wounded; he seemed like the walking
dead
. Everything about him was closed, shut off from life, from love.

Why? What had happened to him to make him so utterly remote, the bleakness in his eyes chilling and yet so unfathomable?

Or was she simply imagining it all, as a way to explain his own past brutal rejection of her?

And yet, Zoe knew, it was that bleak sense of loss that had first drawn her to Max, for she felt it in herself. Her life—the life she'd known—was over. No matter what happened, she could never be a Balfour—the kind of Balfour she'd been before—and that gave her a certain grief…a grief she felt Max, in some strange way, shared. Felt.

And yet when they were together—when they'd danced, when he'd held her in his arms—she hadn't felt that grief. And she didn't think he'd felt it either.

For some reason now, the thought didn't give her hope. It made her sad.

‘Who is Diane?' She had not meant to ask that question. She wanted to forget that Diane even existed, that Max had
said another woman's name while he held her in his arms, the taste of her still on his lips. Yet the memory of that one little word had tormented her all morning, a thousand pointless questions echoing emptily inside her as she watched the sun peek over the edge of the water and then flood the world with light.

Next to her Max tensed. She watched him drop the last few grains of sand and flatten his hand on the ground, spreading his fingers wide, as if he were bracing himself. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘You—you said her name,' Zoe said quietly. She turned her head, unable to look at him. ‘You called me Diane last night,' she elaborated, and tried to shrug as if it were all a bit amusing. ‘I couldn't help but wonder.'

Max let out a sigh, whether of exasperation or some deeper, more painful emotion, Zoe couldn't tell. Neither of them spoke for a long moment; the only sound was the shushing of the tide and the cry of the gulls. ‘She was a flight surgeon, one of my crewmates on the Hawkeye during the Gulf War.'

Zoe blinked. She hadn't been expecting that. A socialite, an old lover even, at worst, a fiancée. But a crewmate? Yet then again, why not? Those two years must have been powerful and traumatic for him; why shouldn't he carry the pain of those memories even now? She remembered how he'd cried in disbelief, ‘You're all right?' to her and she asked slowly, ‘Did she die when your plane went down?'

Max let out a ragged breath. ‘No. But sometimes I wish she did.'

Zoe blinked again. She wanted to ask what happened to make him say such a terrible thing, but she was afraid of the answer. She was afraid she might not have the strength
to hear it, to know what demons Max was battling even now. To know what she was up against. She wasn't strong enough, despite what her father—and Max—had said.

In any event, Max did not give her the chance. He rose from the ground in one fluid movement, reaching down a hand to help her up. Zoe took it, if only for the opportunity to touch him again. His hand was hard and strong as he pulled her to her feet and then let go.

‘Come on,' he said and, surprising her once again, added, ‘Let me make you breakfast.'

Zoe followed him into the kitchen and perched on a stool at the black granite island, watching as Max moved around the kitchen with his careful, deliberate actions. He opened the fridge and took out a dozen eggs, glancing back at her. ‘I hope you like scrambled eggs?' he asked wryly. ‘It's one of the few things I know how to make.'

Zoe swallowed. She'd never been particularly fond of eggs, and the thought of eating one now made her queasy tummy take an unpleasant turn. Still, she was too touched by Max's willingness to cook for her—to even spend time with her—that she found herself smiling and saying brightly, ‘Lovely.'

He got out a bowl, cracking six eggs into it one-handed and with a brisk efficiency Zoe couldn't help but admire. She could make coffee and tea and occasionally a decent piece of toast, and that was it.

He looked up, arching an eyebrow. ‘Is coffee out? How about herbal tea?'

Zoe made a face. ‘Wretched. I'll just have water.' She slipped off the stool to fetch herself a glass. She stood by the fridge and sipped her water, watching Max move around the kitchen with that precise military deliberation. He reached for a frying pan and put it on the sleek new
range, pausing only slightly before he lit the gas and poured the frothy eggs into the pan.

This was all so normal, Zoe thought with a pang. So comfortable and
real
. She felt as if she could exist forever this way, enjoying the sun pouring through the French doors, the warmth of the tableau they created, with breakfast sizzling busily on the stove and Max standing there, surprisingly relaxed, in a half-buttoned shirt and jeans that emphasised his narrow waist and trim hips, his long, powerful legs encased in denim.

Zoe's belly turned over, tightening with desire as she remembered their kiss from last night. Max hadn't mentioned it. Had he remembered? Did she dare ask?

‘I think the eggs are ready,' Max said, prodding them with a spatula. Zoe gave him another bright smile.

‘Fabulous.' And amazingly, she actually didn't mind eating them; she liked it. Sitting at the table with Max in a pool of sunshine, she felt she could eat anything and enjoy it, for the moment was so pure, so perfect, so
possible
.