Zoe and the Tormented Tycoon (4 page)

This wasn't, she thought a bit resentfully, the most auspicious beginning to the evening. Yet even so, she wasn't tempted to turn away. Max Monroe fascinated her, and more than that, he somehow managed to reach a place inside of her she hadn't known existed, even now wasn't sure was real. When he'd touched her she felt something stir to life that she hadn't realised was asleep—or perhaps even dead. Something—someone—
that had nothing to do with Zoe Balfour, and all to do with just Zoe.

And that was why she followed him through the building's foyer with its polished floor of slick black marble, to the bank of gleaming, high-speed lifts. Max stepped inside, his finger trailing along the buttons until he reached the top one, and pushed
PH
. The penthouse. Of course.

The Balfour apartment on Park Avenue was a penthouse as well, with its dignified drawing rooms and separate servants' quarters. It was a beautiful, well-preserved relic from another age, a different century, and Zoe knew instinctively Max Monroe's penthouse was going to be something else entirely.

And it was. The lift doors opened straight into the apartment, and Zoe felt as if she were stepping into the sky. The apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows on every side, and the Hudson River gleamed only a block away, the lights of one of Manhattan's many bridges twinkling in the distance.

She turned, and from the other side saw the Empire State Building's needle point heavenward, a sea of skyscrapers behind it, filling the horizon.

She turned slowly in a full circle, savouring the view from every direction, until she finally chuckled a bit in admiration and turned to Max, who had shrugged out of his jacket and was even now loosening his tie. He didn't look at the view at all.

‘Impressive,' she murmured. ‘Do you ever grow tired of the view?'

‘No.' He spoke so flatly Zoe wondered if she'd said something wrong.

Max moved around the apartment, flicking on a few lamps, bathing the room in a warm glow. Zoe glanced at the austere furnishings: all high-end bachelor pad with
sleek leather sofas and uncomfortable-looking chairs made out of chrome, a designer glass coffee table she thought she'd seen featured in a decorating magazine, and a glimpse of a spotlessly clean stainless-steel kitchen that looked to have every gadget and appliance and was clearly never used.

Her heels clicked against the Brazilian cherry-wood floor as she came to stand by a window. Actually, Zoe saw, it was a door, made so seamlessly it looked like a window except for a discreet metal handle that led out to a wide terrace.

She heard Max cross the floor, felt him stand behind her. It amazed her how attuned she was to his movements, so that even before he reached out she knew he was going to touch her, was
waiting
for him to touch her.

He lifted his arm slowly—so slowly—and Zoe tensed, ready for his touch. Yet when it came it still shocked her, the heaviness of his hand on her bare shoulder sending ripples of awareness along her arm and through her body, deep into her belly. Neither of them spoke.

His hand slid along her shoulder, down her arm, as if he were slowly, languorously learning the landscape of her body. His fingers twined with hers as he pulled her around so she was facing him, his eyes dark and fathomless, his face seeming harsh in the yellow light cast from the buildings behind her, a sea of sightless skyscrapers. He moved so her back pressed against the glass and she could feel his heat, the hardness of his chest and thighs.

Her heart hammered with slow, deliberate thuds and her knees actually felt weak. She'd never had such a reaction to a man—to anyone, anything—before. And he hadn't even kissed her.

Yet he was going to, Zoe knew that, felt it. She wanted him to, and yet she could hardly believe this was happen
ing, that she'd come here, found him. Her nerves leapt to life and she opened her mouth to say—what? Something, preferably something light or clever, to diffuse the intensity of the moment, of
him
, but before she uttered a word—and she wasn't even sure she
could
—she was prevented by his mouth coming down on hers.

His lips were hard, the kiss urgent and even a little angry, as if this moment was all either of them might ever have. His fingers slipped from hers, his hands sliding under her top to cup her breasts, and Zoe gasped at the sudden, intimate touch.

Her senses reeled; her body jerked into an instinctive and powerful response, and she found herself answering him kiss for kiss, the sorrow and despair of the past few weeks overflowing from her soul into this one caress. The intensity of Max's kiss, as well as her own response, surprised her—this wasn't even like her. She wasn't used to feeling this much, had been keeping it at bay these past weeks, maybe forever, and yet—

Yet she couldn't stop herself from responding, from her hands travelling up Max's hard, muscled shoulders to his hair—surprisingly soft—pulling him closer, as if she could take him right into her skin, fuse their bodies and melt into one.

It frightened her, this feeling so much. Wanting so much. From somewhere she summoned the strength to pull away—or try to, for she was trapped against the wall of glass. She arched her head back, her hair cascading down her back, so she could look at his face. Colour stained his cheekbones; his eyes were closed, his breathing ragged.

‘In a hurry, are we?' she finally managed, but if she'd meant to sound light and unaffected, she failed. Her voice came out in little more than a gasp, and her body shook with the aftershocks of emotion.

He drew in a breath, and slid his hands from her breasts up to her shoulders, threading his fingers through her hair, his thumbs massaging her scalp. ‘Why waste time?' he murmured.

‘I'm sure you get plenty of women with that approach.' With the last of her willpower Zoe slipped under his arms, away from the cage of his body, and walked across the floor on legs that were far too wobbly.

Max propped one shoulder against the window, one hand in his trouser pocket. He looked remarkably recovered. Zoe felt as weak as a newborn kitten, a motherless lamb.

‘You want to
talk
?' he asked with the slightest sneer, but it was still—considering what had just happened—enough to wound. Zoe sank into one of the chrome chairs—more comfortable than she'd expected—and arched an eyebrow.

‘Silly me,' she said, and her voice finally sounded light and droll. ‘I thought you might have mastered the art of conversation.'

‘Only when necessary.' He walked slowly along the outside of the room, one hand trailing along the glass wall, so Zoe felt as if she were a powerless prey being circled by a hungry predator. He stopped in front of a chrome-and-glass drinks table; a bottle of whisky and a tumbler were already neatly laid out. He poured himself a finger's worth, his movements deliberate and precise. ‘So,' he finally said, sipping his drink and swivelling to face her, ‘you're from England.'

‘Yes.'

‘Just visiting, or do you live here?'

Zoe hesitated. ‘Visiting,' she said finally. ‘For now.'

‘No firm plans?' Again, that slight sneer that still hurt. More than it should.

She smiled with a breezy confidence she was far from feeling. Seemingly innocent questions, yet each one pos
sessed its own little sting. ‘No. Never. I'm not that kind of girl.'

‘Ah.'

‘And what about you?'

He took another sip of his drink. ‘What about me?'

‘You're a businessman.'

‘Yes.'

‘What do you do, exactly?'

‘Business.'

Zoe rolled her eyes. ‘How enlightening.'

‘I manage investments. I buy companies. I take risks.' He shrugged, the movement one of powerful, eloquent dismissal. ‘I make money.'

‘Money is good.'

His mouth quirked up in something that looked like a smile but didn't feel like one. ‘Isn't it just.'

‘How did you get that scar?' The question popped out inadvertently; she hadn't meant to ask it. She suspected he was sensitive about it, perhaps self-conscious. And how could he not be? It was noticeable, impossible to ignore, a livid line of whitened flesh from his eyebrow to his chin, snaking along the side of his nose, a vivid reminder of—what? Something, he'd said. Something terrible.

‘An accident.' He spoke flatly, unemotionally, yet Zoe sensed the darkness—the sorrow and despair and even the fury—pulsing underneath. He said the word
accident
the way she said
illegitimate
.

‘It must have been some accident.'

‘It was.'

‘Were you alone?'

‘Yes.' He paused, his throat working before he elaborated in that same flat tone. ‘I was flying my plane.'

‘You're a pilot?'

‘I was.' He paused. ‘Recreationally.'

His voice was flat, his face expressionless as he took a sip of his drink.

‘So.' Zoe tried to keep her voice light, as if her tone could stave off the darkness emanating from Max, swirling around her soul. ‘What happened?'

‘I crashed.' He smiled, the curve of his mouth terribly cold. ‘It happens.'

‘I suppose so.' Zoe crossed and recrossed her legs, searching for something to say. ‘You're lucky you escaped with your life,' she finally said, and at that moment it felt like a terribly inane sentiment.

‘Oh, yes,' Max agreed, and there was a darker note in his voice now, the pulsing emotion underneath bubbling to the fore, as hot and dangerous—and fascinating—as a latent volcano. He walked towards her with slow, deliberate strides. ‘I'm very lucky.'

Zoe resisted the urge to press back against the chair. She didn't like the dark look in Max's eyes, the sudden, cruel twist of the mouth she'd just kissed.

‘How long have you been flying?' she asked in a desperate attempt to restore a sense of normality to the moment. It didn't work; Max just kept walking. He stopped only when he was a hand span away, and then, to her surprise, he dropped to his knees in front of her so they were level, his eyes gazing darkly, intently, intensely, into hers.

They stared at each other for a moment, neither speaking, the only sound the harsh tear of their breathing. Zoe felt trapped, transfixed, and yet with a strange, new need inside her. What was happening here?

Max didn't move, didn't tear his gaze from hers—it was as if he were waiting, needing something…needing her…

Then, out of instinct and even her own need, Zoe
reached out—with the same careful deliberation he had touched her moments ago—and with the tip of one finger traced the jagged path of the scar along his face. The damaged flesh was surprisingly smooth, almost silky, and faintly puckered.

Zoe didn't know why she did it, didn't know how Max would react. She didn't really know what was happening here, what this feeling was between them—so much
feeling
. Pain and sorrow and even a jagged little shard of hope.

Max stilled, tensing under her touch, and then she felt him relax, the resistance trickling from his body, leaving him loose and pliant under her hand. He closed his eyes. Her finger rested on the edge of the scar by his chin; she could feel his stubble. Then, still acting out of instinct and an even deeper desire, Zoe leant forward and kissed that wounded place, her lips lingering on his skin as she breathed in his scent, mint and musk.

Max shuddered.

Zoe drew back, strangely shaken, and her gaze flew to Max's face. He'd opened his eyes and was staring at her with a blatant hunger that both thrilled and alarmed her. He reached forward and cupped her face in his hands, his fingers sliding along her cheekbones, and he drew her to him so their lips barely touched.

He brushed his lips against hers once, and then again, and then kissed her with a gentleness that was so different from that first angry encounter. It made Zoe's insides sweetly melt, until a deeper, rawer urgency made her deepen that little kiss, and her hands came up to grip Max's shoulders.

She didn't know how long they remained that way, only knew the glorious sweetness of a kiss so deep and unending it felt as if they were exploring each other's souls. Then Max scooped her up in his arms; she felt as tiny and trea
sured as a doll, nestled against his chest, curling into him with a surprising naturalness. He carried her with the careful, deliberate strides she was becoming accustomed to into the bedroom.

Like the living room, the bedroom was all windows, and light from the buildings outside filtered through the venetian blinds, bathing the room in luminescence. Max set her down on a huge bed, the navy satin sheets slippery under her. She looked up at him; his expression was shuttered and yet grave. She waited.

Slowly Max brushed a tendril of hair away from her face, his fingers skimming her cheek, her eyebrow, the ridge of her nose. Then he dropped his hand and began to unbutton his shirt.

Zoe watched, unable to keep her gaze from the expanse of broad, muscled chest revealed by the gap in his shirt; she reached out and helped him shrug the garment off, letting her fingers trail his skin as his had hers, enjoying the feel of hard muscle, crisp hair.

Still, neither of them spoke, and Zoe wondered if it was because they had no need of words, or because they were afraid words might break this moment, shatter the precious, fragile bond that had silently sprung and stretched between them.

The only sound was the whisper and slither of clothes as they undressed each other, the slide of silk to the floor as Zoe shrugged out of her halter top and trousers. Then they lay naked on the satin sheets, staring at each other for a long moment. Zoe wanted to speak, to say something, and the words clogged in her throat, too many words. She wanted to tell Max she might not have a scar on her face, but there was one on her soul. She wanted to explain that, like him, she'd had an accident—an accident of birth. And,
she suspected, like him, it had left her wrecked and wondering how to rebuild a life that had been virtually destroyed, if there even
was
a life to rebuild.