Zoe and the Tormented Tycoon (15 page)

Three months. He'd only known this for three
months
? No wonder he looked like a man whose life was over. He'd had so little time to adjust to such devastating news.

‘Since then my vision has only gotten worse,' Max continued, and she heard the strain in his voice, felt the sorrow. ‘I can hardly see anything at all, and the simplest tasks are difficult…impossible—' He broke off, took a deep breath and continued. ‘Sometimes I catch a glimpse of something—your hair, or the green of your eyes. They're so very lovely.'

She felt a tear slide coldly down her cheek and tried to speak, but Max wouldn't let her. ‘But really I can't see anything at all. Blurred shapes, patches of darkness, sometimes something out of the corner of my eye. Peripheral vision, apparently, is the last to go. Eventually—' he swallowed ‘—it will all be dark.' His voice throbbed with feeling and Zoe dashed at the tear on her face. She would not be weak. Not now, not when this was so important.

‘Max—'

‘So you see why I was reluctant to have a relationship with you. I'm not—and I never can be—the man you thought I was. The man you want and need me to be.'

‘How do you know what I want?' Zoe asked, her tone raw, her throat aching. Everything was making terrible sense: his careful, deliberate movements, the look of uncertainty she'd seen flash across his features…why he hadn't looked at the ultrasound screen.

And hear it,
he'd said about the galloping sound of their baby's heart. Now Zoe understood why that had been so precious.

Max arched an eyebrow in blatant scepticism. He was distancing himself; she could feel it. He was becoming remote because it was the only way to protect himself from pain, or the possibility of pain. She knew all about that. Max protected himself by withdrawing; she did it by diving into the fray, laughing and flirting and partying her way to forgetfulness. Neither method ever really worked. ‘Are you saying,' he asked in a voice that was all too cold, ‘that it doesn't matter?'

‘Matter?' Zoe repeated incredulously. She blinked back the threat of tears and thought of how her own father had told her the circumstances of her birth hadn't mattered. But they did; she felt it deep inside. It mattered, and it also mattered what she did. How she responded. ‘Of course it
matters
—'

Max took a step back on the sand, his expression turning terribly blank, and Zoe reached out with desperate, empty arms. She'd said the wrong thing—she could see it in his face—and she hadn't even realised, hadn't meant…

‘Max, no—'

‘I knew what kind of woman you were the moment you sidled up to me,' he said, each word deliberate, cutting, aiming to wound. ‘A shallow socialite and an accomplished
flirt. That was why I took you to bed—I didn't want to have to deal with the morning after, and I knew you wouldn't give me any trouble. That's all you wanted too, wasn't it? At least, at first.'

Zoe shook her head, refusing to listen, to believe. ‘Don't—'

‘But it's true, Zoe. Remember that Internet search? I found plenty of fodder. Scandal.'

Zoe felt the blood drain from her face. The spotlight had swung towards her, and she didn't like its penetrating glare. ‘I'm sure you did,' she whispered.

‘You have quite an interesting history,' he continued, and now there was no disguising the sneer. ‘Failed out of school at sixteen. You were nearly expelled for sneaking out and partying with local boys.' Escapades she'd almost forgotten. Now they were thrown at her as judgements, and from the one person in the world she couldn't bear to know and say such things. ‘And you continued that reputation in London, spending your daddy's money on having a good time—except he's not even your daddy, is he? As we both know.' This was stated with a cold matter-of-factness that left Zoe winded and gasping for air, as if she had been struck. ‘Not,' Max finished with chilling precision, ‘that any of it
matters
.'

‘Why are you saying this?' she asked, her arms around herself, her back bent and shoulders hunched as if she'd been punched in the stomach. She felt as if she had, or, worse, stabbed in the heart.

‘Because it's true.'

Zoe shook her head. ‘No, Max—'

‘You're denying it?' he asked incredulously, and Zoe gave a little, hiccupping laugh.

‘No, I can't deny it. Everything you said is true.' She raised her head, met his contemptuous gaze. Perhaps he
couldn't see her, but he could hear the truth in her voice. ‘I came to New York to escape the gossip when the news of my birth broke. I told you that before. And before that I was everything you've said I was.' She gave another little laugh. ‘I admit it, I haven't done much with my life. I haven't fought a war or started a business or made millions. I never even thought about doing anything until I learned the truth, that I'm not a Balfour. I'm not who I thought I was.'

‘And that's so important to you?' Max asked, the question a sneer. ‘Being a Balfour?'

‘It was,' Zoe confessed quietly. ‘It was everything to me. I felt like if I wasn't a Balfour, I didn't know who I was. But now—'

‘I know who you are,' Max cut across her. His voice was icily calm, chilling Zoe to the heart, to the bone. ‘You're a shallow, vacuous socialite who's been amusing herself with some pathetic dream of happy families.'

‘No—' Zoe gasped, the word choked from her. She could hardly believe Max was saying these things; it hurt so much more than any newspaper's rubbish or acquaintance's sly remark.

‘It's only a matter of time before you get bored,' Max finished with cutting clarity. ‘Before you walk away and move on to the next amusement.'

‘That's not fair—'

‘Just true.'

She shook her head slowly. ‘Why are you saying these things?'

‘Because it's better to end this now,' Max said. ‘Before anyone could get attached.'

‘Attached?'
Zoe repeated, her voice somewhere between a sob and a squawk. ‘I was falling in love with you—'

‘Well, then.' The curling of Max's lip wasn't a smile; it was too cold, too cruel, for that. ‘It's a good thing you stopped.'

Zoe closed her eyes. She felt dizzy and sick, as if she'd been physically attacked. She
felt
attacked, violated, stripped bare. She could handle anyone else saying such terrible things about her, she realised; she expected it now. She'd endured it enough. She'd almost—almost—got over it. Yet coming from Max—Max, who she'd seen at his most vulnerable, and perhaps hers, who had let her hold him, who had held her—it hurt beyond bearing.

She lifted her head and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. ‘It's a good thing I did,' she finally said, her voice ragged, and then she turned and walked away.

 

Max watched Zoe disappear into the darkness; it swallowed her up and when he breathed in he couldn't smell roses any more. He felt winded, stunned, his mind and heart both shattered.

It was better this way, he knew. Better to have her leave on his terms, rather than hers. Better to fail her now, rather than later, when he couldn't be what she wanted, or give her what she needed. It was easier now, even if it didn't feel like it.

It felt like hell.

He'd only experienced this futile rage and hopeless desperation once before, when he'd been blindfolded, gagged and tied, a prisoner of war listening to the screams of his comrades and unable even to move. Even though he had no such binds now, he still felt as powerless. Still—and always—a prisoner.

Z
OE
called a taxi from the party, climbing in and letting it speed her away, down the sandy track to Max's beach house, now no more than a darkened hulk huddled against the shore.

She would leave tomorrow, she decided, too numb to consider the practicalities, the implications. She'd hire a car, or a bus—something—to take her back to New York.

And then what?

She lay on her bed, her eyes closed, unable to think about the next step…if there even was a next step. Every word Max had said was like a knife wound, her mind and heart lacerated and throbbing with pain.

You're a shallow, vacuous socialite who's been amusing herself with some pathetic dream of happy families.

It hurt, she knew, because she believed him. He was right. She was shallow and frightened, afraid she'd fail herself. Fail Max. Fail their child. She'd run away when the rumours started over her birth; she'd deflected Max's confidences just yesterday; tonight she'd walked away from him because she'd been too hurt, too frightened, to fight.

Afraid. Always afraid and weak.

You're stronger than you think.

She rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up to her
chest, and wrapped her arms around her knees.
No, I'm not, Daddy,
she thought, her eyes closed.
I wish I was. I wish I was as strong as you believed me to be.

It's only a matter of time before you get bored.
A scathing indictment, and so unfair. So untrue. And yet Max had believed it, had said it with such chilling finality, and the fact that he believed it—thought so little of her—hurt her more than she knew it should. More than she should let it.

She'd believed Max might think more of her, because she'd thought more of him. She'd wondered about and hoped for something deeper, something hidden underneath his haughty demeanour, his chilling scorn. She'd seen it…felt it, tasted it, when she'd lain in his arms, when he'd let her comfort him, when he'd smiled, when they'd danced…

Why, then, had he driven her away with such terrible words, scathing indictments?

I'm not…the man you want and need me to be.
Zoe opened her eyes, staring into the darkness, dry-eyed, her heart suddenly thudding in her ears. She'd known Max was distancing himself for his own protection; she'd felt it, yet she'd forgotten in the onslaught of personal accusations and judgements. She'd only been thinking about herself, and her own weakness.

Had Max been thinking about his? Was he driving her away because he was afraid she would leave him when she learned he was blind? Could he really think she was that shallow?

Or was he simply afraid…as she was?

Zoe knew she had to discover the truth. She had to know just why Max had driven her away like he did. She had to confront him.

The thought left her dry-mouthed with fear. She'd faced too many rejections, too many cold stares. She couldn't
bear the thought of facing that again, of feeling so empty and alone again, with no choice but to walk away, humiliated and hurting. Yet what was the alternative? Life without Max—without the possibility of Max—was too bleak even to contemplate. It was no choice at all.

You're stronger than you think.

‘I'm trying, Daddy,' she whispered, and slipped off her bed to search for Max.

The beach house was silent and silvered with moonlight, every room she slipped through quiet and empty. Zoe realised she didn't even know if Max had returned. Was he still at the party, forgetting his cares—forgetting her—with some socialite who really
was
as vacuous as he'd claimed she was?

Still, Zoe searched, slipping through the moonlit rooms on silent cat's feet, wanting only to find him, yet having no idea what she might say, what he might be willing to hear.

She finally found him in the first place she realised she should have looked—on the beach. She walked down the slatted wooden path between the dunes and saw Max near the shore. He was seated on the sand, his elbows braced on his knees, the waves lapping his feet. A thousand stars spangled the sky above him, and the surface of the sound glittered with their light. Zoe hesitated by the softly rolling dunes, unsure what to say.

She tried to imagine what Max must be feeling now; she wondered how much of the awesome star-filled sky he could see. Her heart twisted, not with pity, but with admiration. He was a brave man.

She walked forward, the sand cool under her feet, and sat down next to Max. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

‘I came to find you because I don't believe you meant all those things you said,' Zoe said quietly. Max didn't
answer for a long moment, and she clasped her knees, her fingers digging into her palms as the silence went on and on—too long. Finally he spoke.

‘Which things?' His voice was low, aching, and Zoe ached too.

‘The bit about being a shallow, vacuous socialite who is going to get bored,' she reminded him. The words still hurt even though she tried to keep her voice light. ‘Remember?'

‘I remember.'

Zoe took a deep breath. This was harder than she thought; Max was giving her nothing. In the moonlit darkness his profile was hard, the line of his cheek and jaw harsh and unyielding. ‘I won't, you know,' she said softly. ‘I wouldn't, if you gave me the chance.' Still, Max said nothing and Zoe looked down at the sand, blinking hard. ‘When you said those things, it hurt so much because—because I've always believed them about myself. I couldn't stand the thought of someone else believing them too—someone I loved.'

Max let out a ragged sound, something torn from him, something between a laugh and a sob. ‘Don't, Zoe—'

‘I have to,' she said simply. ‘I'm trying to change, to be strong, and I'm not going to walk away without trying, Max. Without telling you everything.'

He shook his head. ‘It will just make it harder.'

‘Why?' She reached out a hand and touched his arm; his skin was warm and her fingers curled around his forearm, craving the touch. The connection, no matter how small. ‘Why does it have to be hard? I love you, Max. I love the man I've come to know, when you let your guard down, when you stop trying to hold yourself apart—'

He shook his head again, more forcefully.
‘Don't—'

‘And in those moments,' Zoe continued, her voice no more than a whisper, ‘I believe you love me too.' She stopped, her hand still on his arm, and he didn't respond. She felt the tide shush around her feet, lapping over her toes, warm and salty, like tears. Her fingers tightened on his arm. ‘Am I wrong?'

He just shook his head, his throat working, yet he didn't speak. Couldn't, Zoe thought, and she didn't know whether that gave her hope or sorrow. ‘Tell me, Max,' she commanded, her voice soft yet strong. ‘Tell me you don't love me. Tell me you meant all those things you said before, that I'm shallow and…and vacuous.' Her voice broke, just a little bit. This was so scary. This was more of a risk than she'd ever taken before, more of a risk than when she'd faced her biological father. This was her heart, life, love, everything, on the line. She waited, watching him; he didn't move.

Please don't turn away.

Max covered his face with his hands, his long, tapered fingers pressed against his temples. ‘I can't,' he said in a voice so low Zoe almost didn't hear it. Her breath came out in a surprised, grateful rush, and Max dropped his hands to look at her, his expression so bleak it chilled and saddened her, even as hope bloomed deep inside. ‘I can't, Zoe. But I wish I could.' Even as he said the words, his hand came to circle her wrist, pulling her towards him. Zoe went, unresisting, her head falling back as his lips met hers again and again, a desperate dance of their mouths, lips and tongues and teeth, a furious yet beautiful joining, both of them craving the connection.

‘I should let you go,' he murmured against her mouth even as he kissed with a deep hunger that Zoe matched, her fingers threaded through his hair, her body moulding and melting into his as they fell onto the sand, their limbs
entwined, their mouths meeting once more. ‘I should let you let me go,' Max confessed raggedly in between kisses.

Zoe held his face in her hands, moving away a little bit to ask, her voice as ragged and breathless as his,
‘Why?'

Max let out a shuddering breath, and the wonderful moment—that moment of hope—was broken, shattered, so Zoe wished bitterly she hadn't asked such a question. He'd been
kissing
her; why had she asked any questions at all?

‘Because there can never been anything between us.'

She touched her lips, swollen by his kisses, tasting of him. Her heart still raced and her body tingled. ‘It's a little too late for that.'

Max shook his head. He rolled to a sitting position, and after a moment Zoe did too. Her clothing was rumpled and she could feel sandy grit in strange places—between her breasts, on her thighs. ‘I mean it, Zoe. I can't give you the life you want. I can't be the husband you need.'

A shard of anger lodged inside her, splintering her soul. ‘That's starting to sound like a tired—and rather convenient—refrain.'

Max swung his head around to stare at her, his eyes narrowed, and Zoe wondered if he was trying to see. His heart, she thought resentfully, was as blind as his eyes.

‘What are you talking about?' he demanded.

‘You don't know what I want, Max. You don't know what I need. And it's not up to you to decide whether you can or cannot give me those things.'

He sighed, the sound weary, and the anger drained out of the moment, leaving a far worse despair. ‘Do you know what I hate about going blind?' he finally asked, and Zoe just shook her head, not willing even to hazard a guess. ‘The sense of powerlessness.' Max scooped up some sand and let it trickle between his fingers. ‘I felt that once before,
and I never thought I'd have to feel it again. The thought…' He drew a breath, let it out. ‘It terrifies me,' he finished so softly Zoe wasn't even sure she'd heard him.

‘When…?' she asked, her voice just as soft.

‘When my plane was shot down in combat.' He gave a little humourless laugh. ‘Nineteen years ago, half a lifetime, and I still can't get over it. Pathetic.'

‘No—'

‘We were captured,' Max cut across her useless denial. ‘There were five of us. Four men, one woman. Jack, our pilot, was in bad shape. He died en route to the holding facility.' His face was averted from hers, and Zoe longed to touch him. Reach him. ‘The others were stable, but hurt. More hurt than I was.' He paused. ‘I was the healthiest, you see. The most capable of giving answers.'

Zoe's whole body went cold. ‘You mean—'

‘It's standard,' he cut across any sympathy she might have been about to offer. ‘You're prepared for it. You expect it. It's war after all.'

‘But still—'

‘There's no justification for abuse,' he said, as if he were agreeing with her even though she hadn't said anything. ‘By anyone, any side. But I thought I was ready.' Another pause; his head was still averted. ‘I didn't think I'd
break
.'

‘Oh, Max.' It was all she could say. There were no words, no useless expressions of sympathy or pity, she could offer, no absolution she could give.

‘They kept me blindfolded, you see,' he said quietly. ‘They never took it off. I couldn't—' He paused, his throat working, his eyes now closed. Sweat beaded his brow. ‘I couldn't stand it after awhile. I thought I might— I thought I was—' He shook his head, let out a long, slow breath.
‘Crazy. Insane. I felt like I didn't even know who I was any more. I couldn't remember what it was like to…see. Feel.' Zoe swallowed past the lump in her throat. She reached out and touched his arm again; to her relief and joy he didn't shrug her away. He didn't, she realised, seem aware of her touch at all. ‘I didn't answer their questions. I stayed strong. I was
proud
of myself.' The sneer she'd once heard in his voice returned, his deepest scorn reserved for himself. ‘Then they started on the others. I couldn't tell what they did. I only
heard
…'

Zoe remembered his words about Diane, and whether she'd died:
No. But sometimes I wish she did.
Now she was starting to understand.

‘I told them everything,' Max said after a moment, his voice now flat and emotionless. ‘I don't even remember half the things I said. I was gibbering like an idiot, tripping over myself to give them the information they needed. I would have sold my own mother.' He paused, turning to gaze unseeingly at the fathomless darkness, the stretch of ocean in front of them. ‘I sold my own soul.'

‘Then you aren't the first to feel you did so,' Zoe replied evenly. ‘Plenty of men—and women—have reacted as you did, and no one blames them for it. Max, you were
tortured
—'

‘Don't.' He held up one hand, his palm flat in front of her face, obscuring her view. The movement had the effect of both distancing and silencing her even though she was still touching him. ‘Don't try to excuse or absolve me, Zoe. Trust me, plenty of people have tried. Doctors, nurses, comrades, friends. Even my crewmates. You know we all made it through, except Jack? They told me they understood. They said they would have done the same in my place. As though that makes it
better
.' He spat the word
with contempt. ‘It's why I left the air force. An honourable discharge, because of war wounds, but the reality is there was no honour in it at all. I couldn't hold my head up. I couldn't even stand to look in the mirror.'

Zoe wondered how much judgement and condemnation Max had poured on himself. More, she suspected, than anyone else had. Then she was proved wrong by his next words.