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“Oh my God. She’s a nightmare. Demanding, unreasonable, paranoid—”
“The mother of your child.”
“I’m not sure of that.”
“Paul!” This conversation needed a good, hard pull back onto the right track. Her agenda didn’t include a paternity debate.
“I don’t know,” he backtracked, “but I know I can’t marry her. I’m miserable. I miss you. I love you, Chelsea. I realize that now. I’m meant to be with you.”
He sounded desperate. But the words her pride had craved mere weeks ago did absolutely nothing now except leave a sour taste in the back of her mouth. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Oh shit, she’s coming. I’ve got to go.”
“Paul, no! Do not hang up. We need to talk. There are things I need to say…to…you…” Crap. Pleading with a dial tone accomplished nothing. She tossed the phone into her handbag and rested her head in her hands. Way to own the conversation, Chelsea.
“You should reconsider your priorities.”
She turned to find Rafe leaning against the wall, a pair of navy sweats riding low on his hips and an empty glass in his hand. His dark brows formed the temperamental “v” she usually found so appealing, but tonight the expression put a knot in her stomach. Something glittered in his eyes. Maybe fever, but it turned his gaze edgy.
“My priorities?”
He shrugged, pushed off the wall and closed in on the couch. A vision shivered through her mind, of herself as prey about to be menaced. “Let’s examine them.” He stopped and coughed. She held her hand out for his glass, intending to get him more water, but he brushed her off. “Here you are wasting time and energy on furtive phone calls with a man who has other commitments, whether he cares to acknowledge them or not, when a perfectly nice doctor just asked you out.”
No point denying either statement. A perfectly nice doctor had asked her out, and the caller had been Paul. He’d obviously overheard enough to know, but his unflattering assumptions about the situation fired up all her defensive instincts. She stood and crossed her arms. “It’s impolite to eavesdrop.”
Not a trace of repentance flickered in his face. “It’s careless to conduct a long-distance affair with your now-engaged ex from my villa while I’m just a few feet away, even if I am just a friend.” Another bout of coughs punctuated the insults, but he got them under control and continued. “As a friend, I feel obligated to point out you’re making a big mistake. A smart woman would set her sights on the doctor.”
A nauseating mix of hurt and anger churned inside her. She didn’t give a damn what he’d overheard. How could he believe she’d do something as deceitful and immoral as rekindle a relationship with Paul? That she’d even be tempted? Hell, Rafe and Cindy had so much in common. They both shared the same low opinion of her. She searched his face for some sign of uncertainty, but he had an impassive mask firmly in place.
Before she could consider the consequences, she lifted her chin, and said, “If that’s honestly what you think, I should probably go.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he shrugged again and stepped back. “Don’t stick around on my account.” He turned away slightly and coughed into his arm.
The hurt turned into cold, slippery panic, and she tried to backtrack. “You’re sick. You have a fever. What if you need—?”
“It’s the flu, Chelsea, not malaria. I don’t need a nurse.”
She opened her mouth to argue, and then snapped it closed because something perilously close to a sob threatened to burst out. How had the evening gone so wrong? She’d been excited to see him tonight—more than she’d cared to admit—probably more than fun, mutual attraction and entertaining sex warranted. Instead she’d gotten a well-timed lesson in guarding her heart. Not only did Rafe think she had the morals of a…well…of Cindy, he’d just told her in so many words to get out.
“Good-bye,” she managed, as she snagged her purse from the coffee table. She turned on her heel and strode to the door before any tears could fall.
Chapter Twenty-One
A clock ticked relentlessly in Rafe’s brain—a disturbing soundtrack to a disturbing dream. He sprinted after Chelsea, but as hard as he ran, he couldn’t seem to close the distance. Fast-moving clouds obscured the moon and he kept losing sight of her. Every time the clouds parted for a moment, he glimpsed her white bikini, but then she’d disappear again.
Tick…she sat in the lounge chair by the pool.
Tick…she stood in the gleaming lobby of the resort.
Tick…she walked the pathway leading to the beach.
He caught up with her there, and swung her around to face him. Rain started, but the canopy of trees sheltered them.
He wanted to talk to her. To tell her…something…he couldn’t remember because she leaned against a palm, looped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. He inhaled her scent, and smoothed his hands over her bare skin. He was just about to taste her parted lips when she whispered, “Good-bye.”
Everything faded. Her. The trees. The dream. He blinked his eyes open and found himself squinting at his own reflection in the mirrored canopy, disorientated from spending too many hours in bed, caught in a blurry cycle of sleeping, waking, getting water, taking a pill, and then crawling into bed again. But this time around, he felt less foggy. He scrubbed his palm over his rough jaw and took a quick physical inventory. Headache? Gone. Body aches? Gone. Cough? He breathed deep and waited. His throat still felt scratchy, but…better. Agonizing hard-on from the cock-torturing dream? All too present.
Murky light filtered into the bedroom through the gap between the curtains. A steady patter against the roof of the villa told him the rain hadn’t been a figment of his overactive imagination.
