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She looked up with a start as Nick’s tall frame filled the doorway, clad in a rumpled T-shirt and boxers. ‘Here you are.’
‘Clearly.’ Her arms ached to hug him, to kiss the tiredness from his face, but instead she forced herself to put teabags into mugs. ‘I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.’
‘Looks like I’ve saved you the bother.’ He cocked his head to the side and studied her. ‘What’s wrong, Lizzie?’
‘Nothing.’ She kicked herself at her instinctive response. It was just the opening she’d needed, and she’d ducked it.
‘Last night you didn’t want to talk.’ He paused, his eyes searching hers. ‘Or make love. This morning you couldn’t leave my side fast enough. I think I’m entitled to know what’s going on.’
‘I . . .’ Words she’d carefully rehearsed as she’d watched the sun rise suddenly stuck in her throat.
Slowly he walked towards her. Taking hold of her hands, he brought them to rest against his warm chest. ‘Since when have you not been able to talk to me?’
Her eyes filled. She didn’t want him to be kind, or sweet. She wanted him angry with her. Cold and distant. Anything but the gentle concern she was staring at now.
‘This is so hard,’ she whispered, dropping her eyes to look at their entwined hands. Hers small and pale. His strong and capable.
‘Shall I make it easier?’ Abruptly he let go of her and stared out of the window where the waves were splashing onto the beach. ‘You want us to finish.’
She swallowed her surprise. Of course he knew. His sensitivity was a big part of who he was. ‘Yes,’ she replied, her voice catching in her throat. ‘I think it’s for the best.’
Nick spun round sharply. ‘For the best?’ He sounded as raw and as hurt as she felt. ‘Best for who?’
‘Best for both of us.’ A part of her died with each lie she spoke.
‘I can see why it’s best for you, but don’t bloody kid yourself this is best for me.’
She gripped at the back of the kitchen chair, desperately trying to control the anguish churning inside her. ‘Of course it is. We can’t carry on a relationship across the Atlantic. I can’t stay in England and you hate it here.’
* * *
Nick felt his heart turn in on itself, shrivelling into a burnt out husk in his chest. ‘This is about last night, isn’t it?’ With an anger born of fear, he shoved at the chair, causing it to wobble dangerously. ‘Just because I’m not prepared to make a total prick of myself on the dance floor, you suddenly think we’re not compatible?’ It didn’t matter he’d thought those very same sentiments himself. Faced with losing the woman he loved, logic flew out of the window. He wasn’t going to give in without a fight.
‘We’re not,’ she replied bluntly. ‘I’m a model, for God’s sake. I’m extrovert, love to be the centre of attention, often selfish, very needy. You’re—’
‘Quiet. Dull,’ he supplied coldly.
‘No,’ she threw back. ‘You’re anything but dull. You’re funny, smart, generous, warm.’
‘But that isn’t what you want.’
‘Of course it’s what I want. It’s what every woman wants.’
Her voice wobbled and he stared at her sharply, wondering why she looked so cut up when she was the one doing this to them. ‘Then what’s the problem?’ he asked quietly.
‘The problem?’ She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. ‘The problem is, you’re too damn nice.’
‘Too nice?’ He rocked back, stunned. Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that. ‘And that’s a bad thing?’ As soon as the words were out, he wanted to withdraw them. Of course it was a bad thing. How many romantic heroes were ever described as nice? It was a wishy-washy word. Tepid and uninspiring.
‘Of course it isn’t bad.’ Refusing to look at him, she sunk down on the closest chair and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. Tears streamed down her face.
‘But nice isn’t what you want, is it? You like your men mean, moody and exciting,’ he supplied, fighting the urge to go over and hold her. She was clearly upset, but damn it, so was he. ‘I know, I’ve seen the list of your past lovers.’ He shook his head, forcing his shoulders to loosen from their rigid set, his hands to relax. ‘You know I should feel insulted. The fact that you prefer the likes of a bastard like Charles, to someone who wants to take care of you. Instead, I almost feel sorry for you.’
Her head jerked up. ‘How can you throw that man’s name in my face, after all I’ve been through?’
‘I’ll tell you how.’ Vibrating with anger, sliced to the core that she didn’t want him any more, Nick strode towards her. ‘I . . . care for you, that’s how.’ Hell, he’d almost told her he loved her. Almost spilt his guts and got down on one knee, ready to beg. Thank God he’d stopped himself. He didn’t want her pity, he wanted her love. But damn it, if he couldn’t have that, he’d take desire. She might not want him any more, but that hadn’t been the case twenty-four hours ago. He’d make her feel it again.
With a desperate lunge he grabbed her hand and pulled her up from her chair, yanking her towards him. Teetering on the brink of control, he brought his head down and savaged her mouth. As he plundered her soft lips with his tongue, rasping her bottom lip with his teeth, he allowed the burning, savage emotions coiling inside him to run free. When he finally lifted his head it was to drag her away from the kitchen and into the hallway. There he pushed her against the wall and pulled off her robe, shoving it onto the floor. For once his mind wasn’t on tenderness, on giving pleasure. It clawed with a need he couldn’t control. A need to bind her to him forever and never let her go.
