The Bad Boys of Eden (80 page)

The memory of that moment froze her blood, stiffened her spine.

She folded her arms, jerked her chin.

"I don't believe a word of it. You walked out on me, on us. Supposedly to re-join your unit. And I never heard a single word from you, or saw you, until today. So how do you explain that?"

Silence.

*  *  *

If she'd cold-bloodedly slid a knife into his heart, Oscar would have been less stunned, less... hurt.

He'd been decorated for his last mission. Not that he'd ever tell Emma. Real soldiers never boasted about their awards. Earning medals for glory usually meant honourable men, or the innocent, had died. On his watch he’d lost four good and brave soldiers. He refused to taint their memory by using their loss for personal gain.

Anger for everything his men had gone through, the sacrifice they'd made rose inside Oscar.

How dare she talk to him like that?

What the hell was wrong with her?

“I didn’t walk away, Emma. Why do you keep saying that?” Oscar ordered himself to calm the hell down. He’d never had a problem with his temper in the past, and he didn’t want to start having one now. "I don't understand how you can stand there and say those things to me. After everything we had, what we meant to each other, and after what happened between us less than twenty-four hours ago. What was that all about?"

Her frosty stare made him wonder now if he'd imagined what they'd shared together, because the Emma standing before him, angry, cold and hard, was not a woman he recognised.

"You are un-bloody-believable," she snapped. "I meant nothing to you. You walked away and never once looked back."

He noticed she avoided the last question and decided he’d get back to it later.

Now it was his turn to fold his arms.

His chin jutted.

"Oh I looked back, sister. I returned to New York to find you on your honeymoon, married to Richard Murray III." His voice went hard. "Naturally, your mother was thrilled."

Even though she went utterly still, those green eyes were filled to the brim with suspicion as they searched his.

"I don't believe you. I don't believe you came back. My mother would have told me."

"Would she, Emma?" Oscar shot back. "Would she really? How do you think I know you met him at a cocktail party? That it was love at first sight? That you married him within weeks. I turned up at the door to find you on your honeymoon in Venice. How do I know all that if I didn't speak to your mother?"

Colour fled from her face so fast that he moved towards her.

Emma sat on the sofa with a hard bump, pressing fingertips into her forehead.

Those glittering green eyes stayed on his, but they went wary now.

"But... I still have your letter."

Oscar was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

A very bad feeling.

"You have it with you now, here?" When she nodded, he held out his hand. "Let me see it."

Emma rose, moved to the desk holding a shiny laptop and a mountain of paper.

She unzipped a laptop bag.

And all the time he watched her, Oscar found himself wondering why she'd keep his letter, carry it with her, if she hated him so much.

She turned, placed it in his hands.

He examined the envelope, studied her name written in black ink, by him.

His hand shook as he slid out a single page, read the contents.

Read the lies.

Read the cold words.

Words carefully chosen to inflict the most harm, to wound, to kill a burgeoning love.

The Emma he'd loved had been a beautiful girl with a big heart, an innocent in the ways of the world. Someone who always saw the best in others. For a battle-weary soldier, she'd been a wonderful breath of fresh air, a shining light in a world of darkness.

Oscar lifted his eyes to look at her now and saw a very different woman. A woman who was still incredibly beautiful. But a woman with hard eyes filled with a latent hostility, with mistrust. A woman who, it appeared, no longer had a big heart. The letter he held in his hand certainly had the power to wound, to hurt. But surely that hurt hadn't led to the changes in the girl who stood before him now?

What on earth had happened to her?

Her marriage?

Her ex-husband?

Oscar held out the letter to her and wondered how she was going to react when he told her the truth.

He braced himself.

"I didn't write this," he said.

A natural reaction would be for her to jump to her mother's defence, even outrage, but he could never have imagined what happened next.

*  *  *

The ice that chilled Emma's blood too fast made her whole body give a convulsive shudder of utter horror.

A horrible cold sweat beaded on her top lip, trickled down her back.

The room spun as nausea rose into her throat, stinging her eyes.

These days she was a woman who recognised the fist of shock when she felt it.

Why wasn't she surprised Emma wondered numbly?

Maybe because she read the truth in those steady eyes the colour of dark chocolate. God knew she'd had plenty of recent experience with a consummate liar. And she'd had plenty of recent experience, too, of how her own mother had played mind games and taken the side of her powerful son-in-law against her only daughter.

On legs that felt like jelly, Emma moved to stand before Oscar, took the letter from his hand, read the words again.

She blinked rapidly.

Why hadn't she seen it, the same phrases, the same words before now?

Hadn't she heard them ringing in her ears day after day?

Her mother hated Oscar.

And Emma knew what was at the bottom of that hatred... his ethnicity.

Heartsick, a wave of shame rose in her lungs, that her own mother could stoop so low. Now she realised just how deep the depth of her mother's betrayal went.

The room swam as a hot fist closed her throat.

Dear God how could she bear this?

How could she face the man standing in front of her?

A man who was waiting for her to speak.

What was she supposed to say?

Silence.

*  *  *

Oscar cleared his throat.

"If you look at the handwriting very carefully, you'll see it's not a particularly good forgery. You do realise your mother wrote it?" he asked in a soft voice, as if to gentle the blow.

Blinking rapidly, Emma's eyes stayed glued to the floor.

She couldn't look at him.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Do you know why she did it?”

Her hand fisted around the letter.

“Yes. I want to apologise to you on my mother’s behalf, Oscar. Her thoughts and opinions on certain subjects utterly shame me.”

"Look at me."

It cost her, but she lifted her head.

The compassion that burned in those dark eyes, for her, almost broke her.

However, it was the pity she saw there, too, that had her chin wobble.

“You have nothing to apologise for, Emma. You are not responsible for the actions of your mother. I’m sorry that by lashing out at me, she hurt you, she hurt us.”

Emma's throat burned.

His face blurred.

She became aware that Oscar was standing too close, of the sound of his breathing, the scent of his familiar cologne. The realisation of how much she'd lost, they'd lost, threatened to break her. And all at the hands of her own mother.

She wanted to throw herself into his arms, but it was too late for that now.

Oscar had a new life.

Instead she turned, moved away.

"What happened with your husband?"

Emma stopped dead, didn't turn around.

After everything that had happened between then, everything that had been revealed, the one thing Oscar deserved was the truth, nothing but the truth.

But now wasn't the time.

Her brain needed time to process, to think.

Emma knew she was on the edge of a breakdown, she recognised the signs.

And knew she couldn't take any more of this.

She battled like a warrior to drag oxygen into burning lungs.

The result was unsteady breath.

"Our relationship was... all wrong... a big mistake. It didn’t work out. And I don’t want to talk about it."

"Emma..."

She shook her head, kept walking.

"I worked through the night. I need a shower. Perhaps we can talk later?"

*  *  *

Her marriage was a big mistake. It didn’t work out. That’s it?

Oscar heard the hitch in her voice, saw the shudder tremble through Emma as she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, walked into the bedroom and closed the door with a soft click.

Two minutes later he heard the sound of the shower, and told himself it was only natural that Emma was devastated by her mother's behaviour.

He understood that devastation, he'd seen it in her eyes.

Mind reeling, Oscar couldn't work out why the whole conversation had felt weird... all wrong.

But something was very wrong.

He could taste it.

The girl was a nervous wreck.

And no fucking wonder.

Christ, Catherine Ludlow was a piece of work.

As soon as his time in Eden was over, Oscar promised himself he'd be paying her mother a little visit. No way was he going to let the woman get away with manipulating his life or Emma's. No way.

To be honest Oscar wasn't at all thrilled to re-hash what had taken place in Emma's marriage either. But something bad had happened to her, something she didn't want to talk about. He hadn't missed the way she'd flinched from him when she opened the door, the way she'd braced herself as if for a blow.

Now his eyes slitted as a foul feeling tickled his gut, his intuition.

He might not want to accept the concept that now snuck unerringly into his brain, the idea that she might have suffered abuse at the hands of a man. If Senator Richard Murray III had laid a finger on Emma, he'd fucking kill him.

Oscar hadn't followed events in Emma’s neck of the woods, having determinedly put her right out of his mind. But surely, if she'd been having serious trouble in her marriage, Nico or Alexander would not only have told Oscar, but they'd have done something about it. Neither man was the type of person to just stand by when family was hurting.

Plus his friends
knew
he still had feelings for her.

What the hell was going on?

And right there he promised himself he'd have a little chat with his best friends, too.

No way was it an accident that he and Emma were in Eden at the same time.

No way.

The whole set-up in Eden had the fingerprints of Nico Ferranti and Alexander Ludlow all over it.

It took a while for the first part of Emma's response to hit him.

What the hell did she mean by,
she'd worked through the night?

Turning to study the chaos in the room, Oscar had a fastidious streak a mile wide, he bent to retrieve a couple of pages of paper from the floor. A manuscript, he realised. Then he moved to check out the desk, the laptop, the ergonomic chair. She was typing a piece of writing for someone?

He frowned when he spotted the bowl of candy, the mug of coffee gone cold.

No wonder the woman was jittery, she'd too much sugar and caffeine in her system.

Jeez, the place was a mess, with an inch of dust covering the glass topped tables. Had she always been untidy? Oscar couldn't remember. Surely he should be able to remember? Or had he been too wrapped up in the heat of lust and the flush of true love to see Emma as she really was? Not that it mattered to him if she was messy. Who the hell cared about that?

Then he admitted that three years ago they hadn't had the chance to get to know one another, not really.

Oscar made short work of gathering up papers strewn on the coffee table, the floor, and left them on a tidy pile next to her laptop. He picked up candy wrappers, chip packets, a couple of apple cores and dumped them in the bin in the kitchen. He noticed wine remained untouched and there was hardly a dent in the fruit bowl. He washed his hands before moving to the refrigerator. Oscar ensured the staff placed plenty of fresh and nutritious food in the fridges and the cupboards of all the private apartments. Shaking his head, he pulled out a carton of eggs, cheese, sniffed the milk, and began whipping up an omelet. For a moment he stopped, wondered what the hell he was doing?

He shrugged.

The least he could do was feed her, and then he'd find out what was going on.

Chapter Nine

Emma closed her eyes as steaming water pounded over her head, digging her nails into her scalp as she shampooed her hair until it was squeaky clean. Seeing Oscar again like that, without any warning, and with everything he'd revealed, had badly shaken her.

*  *  *

Then her mind took her on a roller-coaster ride into the past, to the day they'd first met.

Since her mother had caused a rift with the family over the sale of The Hall, Emma had travelled alone for the christening of her cousin Bronte's twins, Luca and Sophia. Oscar had been talking to Nico, then he'd turned and those fabulous eyes had met Emma's. And that was it. She'd always believed love at first sight was a myth, something dreamed up by romance writers. He had a face blessed by the gods. McSteamy-style short hair the colour of jet. Tall, dark and handsome. And dressed in a bespoke suit of pale grey that hugged wide shoulders, those long legs, like a lover. He had the most amazing dark eyes, slashing brows and a pale café au lait skin that made her fingertips tingle just to touch. In her dreams Emma's ideal man of the moment had been the delicious Henry Cavill. But the man who was watching, who couldn't take his eyes from hers, made Henry appear pale in comparison.

Oscar had made a beeline for her, taken her hand.

And just like that, bye bye, Henry.

She'd tipped back her head to look up into his eyes, his face, and remembered now the way her heart had fallen. This man was way, way out of her league. Not that Emma herself was a hideous hag or anything like that, but even in vertiginous heels, she
was
vertically challenged.

Tiny.

Little.

Small.

Five foot one and three quarter inches.

Her heart had sank a little further.

He was too tall.

Those dark eyes went warm as they looked down into her face.

He said, "Hi, I'm Oscar."

Absolutely thrilled by what that deep voice did to her hormones, Emma's brow creased even as she'd smiled.

"Hi, I'm Emma."

"Where the hell have you been?"

Confused, she blinked up into his marvellous face.

"Sorry, you've lost me."

His smile showcased white teeth.

"And I absolutely adore dimples. Where have you been all my life?"

She couldn't help but smile wider.

"Seriously? Is that the best you can do?"

"Trust me, I've never been more serious in my life. I've waited nearly thirty years for you."

Something like a skittering excitement had run up her spine as his hand had taken hers to his lips and pressed a feather light kiss on her fingertips. A kiss that had weakened her. Now she studied that face. His razor sharp cheekbones. A wide but firm mouth. The strong jaw. And knew she'd never forget it. His hair was sleek, black, and brushed back from his face. The man was gorgeous. He stood, shoulders back, as those eyes burned into hers. And he smelled good enough to eat. Clean, spicy cologne and all male.

For the rest of the day not once did his hand relinquish hers.

Not once.

Emma and Oscar had sat at a table in a quiet corner of the vast ballroom of Ludlow Hall and ignored everyone else in the room. Four hours later, they admitted that they'd fallen madly in love. For ten days and nights they'd been inseparable.

Later, back in the real world and her real life in New York, Emma slowly began to understand that the man she'd tumbled into love with had been deliberately vague about his military career. And that was when she'd had the first stirrings of doubt.

Catherine Ludlow had done nothing to allay her daughter's fears.

Once her mother had realised Emma was serious about her relationship, she'd been vocal in her strong opposition to Oscar. At first, Emma couldn't understand her mother’s issue. The man she loved was from a good family. He was in the military. But it wasn't until her mother had made a comment about his ethnicity that Emma had finally understood. For the first time in her life she'd argued with the mother she adored who, Emma made crystal clear, shamed her.

Then, without a word, Oscar had disappeared.

A few days later she'd received his letter.

A letter that had destroyed her dreams and broken her heart.

Terrified and estranged from her mother, Emma had discovered she was pregnant. However, fate wasn't finished with her quite yet. It had been the loss of her baby at twelve weeks that had truly shattered her soul.

And the memory of reliving that experience was all too much.

The agony of her lost child, merged with the nightmare of her marriage and the truth she'd learned today. Now, slumped against the shower wall as water stung her face, the harsh reality of the terrible thing her mother had done to Oscar, to her, burst the heaving dam of Emma's emotions wide open.

Beyond pain, she cried out loud.

A year of therapy had taught her that dealing with the bad stuff as it happened was very important if a person wanted to heal and move on. And Emma let it all out. If there was one thing she'd learned after living with Richard, she'd learned to accept pain. That was the thing about pain, it's a part of life. Pain demanded to be felt because the person who suffered either grew as a human being, became more, or chose to remain broken.

The choice, Emma knew, was up to her.

No way would she break.

No way.

But
why
on earth had mother done such a thing?

Because, the relentless voice of truth whispered in her ear, Oscar was mixed race. A stunningly beautiful example of mixed race it was true, but an example her mother was determined would never be a part of her family.

And Emma knew, deep in her heart, that she would never, ever forgive her mother for this.

Never.

Now she buried her face in her hands.

Why was it every time she thought she was moving forward, something happened to kick her legs out from under her like this?

Why was life so bloody hard?

Her legs wouldn't hold her upright as she slid down the wall of the shower to the floor, to curl up in a tight little ball. In her relentless ambition for her daughter, and for herself, her mother had done terrible,
terrible
things. Now Emma wondered why she hadn't questioned the validity of the letter right from the very beginning? But now she admitted she'd been too hurt by losing Oscar, too bewildered by the loss of their child, to think logically never mind clearly.

What daughter could ever imagine a mother so determined to get her own way, she'd commit a criminal act of forgery?

Emma couldn't get her head around it.

And what of Oscar himself?

He was a sensible man, which meant there was no way he'd ever want a future with Emma. A future that would tie him irrevocably to a woman like Emma's mother. A woman who by her appalling behaviour proved she could never be trusted.

The man who'd stood before her, just minutes ago, looked nothing like the Oscar she remembered. And she wondered how on earth he'd ended up in Eden?

The timing for all this, Emma knew, could not have been worse, she had the book to write!

She was too busy to have memories and thoughts of Oscar Zamani crowding her thinking. Emma decided that once she had the answer to why he was here, she'd try to put him out of her mind. It was time to put the heartache of the past behind her and move on.

However, she made a firm promise to herself to confront her mother.

The woman needed a rude awakening.

The time was long overdue for straight talking.

Catherine Ludlow either changed her behaviour or she'd lose her daughter, for good.

Emma was shivering with reaction now.

It wasn't until her teeth were chattering that she realised the shower had gone cold.

Her stiff muscles protested as she struggled to her feet, slapped off the water, and grabbed a towel.

Like an automaton Emma wandered through the bedroom, winding her towel-dried hair in a plait before pulling on jeans and a black tank. She couldn't look in the mirror because she didn't want to see eyes heavy and swollen from her crying jag.

As she opened the bedroom door, she could hear someone moving about in the sitting room. She'd left the place in a mess. After living with a man who had an obsessive compulsive disorder for towels to be folded just so, for everything in his closet lined up and regimented by colour, these days Emma loved having the freedom to toss things on the floor.

Who the hell cared if she didn't pick up a dirty cup?

Then she remembered that Oscar was incredibly tidy, too.

And knowing him, he'd probably alerted the cleaning crew.

Then the scent of hot food and fresh coffee hit her.

Stunned, Emma wandered into the sitting room to discover the dining nook set for two with candles lit and a bottle of red wine uncorked to breathe.

Taking a deep breath, she crossed the room in bare feet to find Oscar in the kitchen.

His big body filled the small space.

On the counter top two plates held a beautifully presented green salad.

A dish towel was tucked into the waist of his chef's trousers.

It appeared he was preparing the ingredients for an omelet.

"Don't you cook?" he asked without turning around.

The man had ninja hearing.

"Sometimes," she said. She'd never had a man cook for her before. The scene was so domesticated, intimate, Emma wondered if she was dreaming. "Badly," she added since there was no point in lying.

He turned his head to shoot her an incomprehensible look.

His dark eyes searching her face, questioning.

"You haven't even opened the carton of eggs," he said in a rough voice. "What have you been eating since you arrived, apart from M&M's and potato chips?"

Annoyed at the tone Emma didn't answer, since she considered what she ate and when she ate it none of his damned business.

But she didn't want to fight with him either.

What was the point?

*  *  *

Oscar knew she was watching him.

She was standing utterly still, wary, too wary, of him.

Those lovely eyes looked so desperately sad, all teary and swollen.

And it killed him that she'd been crying.

Maybe he'd been too hard on her?

Maybe he'd scared her?

Then he told himself he didn't give a damn one way or the other. And that decision shocked him. As well as stir up things he didn't want stirred. He could feel lust tighten, but it was the overwhelming love for her that drained him.

To give himself a moment to calm down, Oscar chopped an onion, grated cheese. Then he turned to her, noticed how her eyes were nervous.

He moved to wash his hands, dried them on a towel.

Without warning, he crossed to her, framed her face in his hands, watching those vivid green eyes go wide just before his mouth captured hers.

He'd meant the kiss to be hard and fast. A quickie to relieve the ache in his heart. But as his lips tasted the sudden tremble in hers, that ache shifted, rose too fast, threatening to rip his control apart as the kiss changed, quickened.

Emma stiffened, and in an involuntary action pressed her palms to his wide chest in an attempt to push him back. Oscar realised he didn't want her to struggle or to fight him. Instead he wanted the gentleness that came with intimacy. An intimacy he'd had with very few. And he desperately wanted it, craved it, with her again.

"Emma, don't." His fingers slid into hair damp from the shower. His voice hoarse with a desire that was tying him in knots. "Please... don't fight me... please."

*  *  *

Maybe it was something in the tone of his voice, the whisper of need, that had her hands slide over strong shoulders. She submitted, and in submitting to his mouth, to his touch, found herself plunged into an ocean of unimagined pleasure.

His mouth savoured hers, gentled, as the kiss took her down, down.

Her hands slid into his hair, her head angled back so that his mouth might roam free over her jaw, her neck, the delicate skin of her shoulder. Emma floated in a pool of liquid delight, a joy she'd never known was even possible.

With a deep sigh, she submitted utterly and let him take her.

*  *  *

After everything her mother had done to them, and what Emma had done to him by marrying another man, Oscar couldn't believe he was capable of the overwhelming need to protect, to handle this woman, with such tender care. No other woman had released it from him. And all the while the unrelenting ache in his loins grew. But instead of desperation he felt a soft flow of something like contentment. A contentment and a rightness that shook him to the core.

Stunned, Oscar very carefully released her.