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‘Kate. Me. Same difference. The point is, you waited six months to come and thank us for it. Whatever it was.’ Sitting in one of the armchairs beside the French windows that looked out onto the resort’s cliff-top gardens, Zack motioned towards the armchair opposite. ‘So maybe you’d like to explain that. Kate was pretty hurt.’
‘No, she wasn’t.’ Rye eased himself into the chair and rubbed his leg. His thigh had stiffened up, thanks to an eleven-hour flight which, even in a First Class bed, had felt a lot longer than before, and the two-hour drive down Highway One to get to the resort. ‘I happen to know your wife is made of sterner stuff than that. She’s put up with you for four years.’
‘Can I help it if the woman’s crazy about me?’ Despite the humour in Zack’s voice, Rye felt a funny little stab of envy.
Weird? While he’d always admired the constancy and companionship Zack and his wife shared, he’d never wanted the same thing for himself. A marriage like theirs required promises he wasn’t interested in making, to any woman.
‘And don’t change the subject, pal.’ Zack slung his ankle over his knee, his smile flattening. ‘What took you so long?’ He pinned Rye with a hard stare. ‘I called you, emailed, countless times. Even had to speak to that dumb jerk, Clements. You dropped right off the face of the earth. What the hell happened to you?’
Rye simply stared, stunned by Zack’s outburst and the emotion in his friend’s voice. The sudden surge of guilt had blood rising up his neck. It had never even occurred to him how his self-imposed purgatory in the last few months might have affected his friends. And Zack was a guy who knew him better than most.
They’d met years before in Vegas, when he’d made the mistake of trying to hustle Zack at the poker table. Zack had bluffed him out of every last penny, but somehow they’d connected. One debauched night at the Bellagio later and they’d been nursing the world’s worst hangover together and telling each other their life stories.
He knew Zack and Kate hadn’t just sent flowers to his hospital bed. Zack had tried to contact him but he’d refused to communicate with anyone, busy wallowing in his self-pity, and this was the result. He’d managed to upset one of the few people in his life who mattered.
‘I didn’t know you cared,’ Rye said, the lame joke a desperate attempt to cut through the tension.
Zack swore under his breath. Scraping his fingers through his hair, he sent Rye a weak smile. ‘Kate’s going to kill me. She told me not to lay it all on you the minute you walked in the door. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s okay. Seems I’m the one who should be sorry,’ he said, the guilt intensifying.
Zack huffed out a breath, the smile dying. ‘Why did you leave Clements in charge, Rye? Why put some bean-counter in charge of a business you’ve spent years pouring your life into?’
‘Good question,’ Rye said, and one he had no answer for any more. ‘Don’t worry; Clements’s days are over. As soon as I get back to the UK, I’ll be moving back to London, taking over the reins full-time.’
The statement brought with it a sense of rightness, but also triggered the picture of Maddy that had been lodged in his brain ever since he’d walked away from her two days ago.
He hadn’t bothered to contact her since, hadn’t even told her that he’d left for California. He didn’t have to answer
to her; that was already understood. But, more than that, he hadn’t wanted to risk a repeat performance of the foolish way he’d behaved that night, when she’d turned down the chance to come with him. He’d convinced himself that his anger, that curious desire to claim her, had been nothing more than hurt pride.
But pictures of Maddy had been crowding into his head ever since. Her bright emerald eyes glinting with pleasure when he teased her. Her wayward curls mussed around her head first thing in the morning when she cooked them breakfast. Her reddened nipples, stung by his stubble, peeking over the quilt as she slept. Even the blush of colour on her cheeks when she told him she didn’t want to sleep with him. The memories were so damn vivid they even came with her scent attached, that intoxicating mix of herbs and spices and summer flowers. He damped down the instant surge of reaction, struggled to dismiss the thought.
He wasn’t through with Maddy yet; that much was obvious. And that was a problem—one he hadn’t figured out yet. But he would. Although he’d have to figure it out sooner rather than later, now he’d committed to returning to London.
‘Rye, you scared me, man,’ Zack said, accusation heavy in his voice. ‘I knew the accident was bad, but when you wouldn’t return my calls, when you put that jerk in charge, I figured you’d damaged a lot more than just your leg.’
I did, but it’s not damaged any more.
‘Truth is, Zack,’ Rye said carefully, ‘I went a little crazy there for a while.’ More than a little crazy. ‘In the last few weeks, though, I’ve come to my senses.’
‘Well, good,’ Zack said, his smile returning. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what turned you around? Six months is a long time to cry over spilt milk.’
Rye chuckled. Zack’s offhand assessment of what had been one of the most difficult periods of his life seemed oddly appropriate. ‘I met someone,’ he said without thinking. ‘She made me realise I hadn’t lost as much as I thought.’
‘Oh, she did, did she?’ Zack’s eyebrows winged up. ‘So the Playboy of the Western World finally got snared.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Rye backtracked furiously as clammy sweat pooled under his arms.
Maddy was a problem. No question. But that would be a catastrophe.
‘It’s not like that,’ he said emphatically.
‘Who are you trying to convince here, buddy?’ Zack coughed out another laugh. ‘Me or yourself?’
Zack had always had a cruel sense of humour. But Rye couldn’t see the joke as the old scars that had festered inside him ever since he’d been twelve opened like a fresh wound.
He didn’t feel like that about Maddy—or anyone—and he never would. Because he knew what the consequences were. To love someone, you had to depend on them, to trust them to be there for you when you needed them. And he was never falling into that trap again.
