One Summer At The Beach: Pleasured by the Secret Millionaire / Not-So-Perfect Princess / Wedding at Pelican Beach

She stared into his searching eyes, at his sensual mouth now pulled into a hard line. She reached up on tiptoe, pressed her hand to his lips. Finally felt them soften and part. He kissed the tip of her fingers—his mouth moving slowly, warm and teasing.

Desire raged through her veins, coupled with painful anger over what was to come. But she knew no matter what happened, no matter how things would change, she couldn’t walk away from him a third time. She was as human as the next person and the temptation was too strong. She had to run the risk so she could have the chance of feeling his erotic intensity again.

She pulled her hand away. He straightened, watching her, waiting for her answer.

She stared at his shirt buttons. ‘I have a scar.’

There was a bit of a silence.

‘So do I.’

She jerked her head up.

He looked down at her. Mouth twitching. ‘You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’

She stared back at him and watched his humorous touch fade. His brows lifted. ‘Big scar?’

‘Pretty big.’ Actually it wasn’t. More like hairline, it was what it represented that was huge.

‘It can’t be as big as mine.’ He firmed his grip on her.

He still wasn’t getting it. Unable to handle it any more, she grabbed the neckline of her tee in a tight fist. Pulled it down so it exposed the vee of skin all the way from her neck down to the dainty bow decorating the point where the cups of her bra met in the middle. The scar ran from the base of her throat. A straight line right down the centre of her body. Defining her.

She saw the shock register in his face. And recognition. And then she saw it. The look she’d known was unavoidable. Fear. He hid it quickly. Shutting down. Closing off. But it had been there. She tensed.

He said nothing. Just stood frozen. Staring at her chest. His mouth opened a fraction and the buttons on his shirt jumped about as she heard the sharp intake of breath.

Anger and pride held her head high. Her chin lifted higher—underlining the challenge he’d already failed. As she’d predicted, as she’d known, the flame of desire was snuffed out in a flash.

She pushed him back against the wall. Met no resistance, almost as if he’d stepped back at the moment she pushed. She ran, feet light in her sandals. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. He didn’t come after her. Didn’t call out. Didn’t seem to stir even.

She dragged in deep breaths, pushing the sobs back deep into her chest. Forget it, forget it, forget it.

She scurried past Curtis on Reception, raced into the telly room, knowing at this time on a Saturday night it was bound to be empty, everyone would be out partying. She chose a big chair on the far side of the room, curled into it like a cat, hiding from the world. She reached into her small day pack and pulled out her journal.

The list of wannabe life achievements she’d scrawled on page one stared at her, making a fool of her. She told herself it didn’t matter. Tried not to let it ruin everything. Failed. With anger and misery she relived past revelations.

Neil had been like that. Backed off the instant he’d seen it. Eventually he’d returned. But he’d been hesitant, treating her gingerly. Then he’d made it worse. He’d told the world. She’d only just escaped her hometown and the notoriety of being the ‘heart-girl’. Wanting to start over with anonymity. Be normal, like anyone else at university. She’d thought she could trust Neil to see past it. He didn’t. And her secret had become common knowledge—the looks, unwanted, undeserved pity sent her way again. And rather than understanding more, Neil had understood less. Become more protective, more and more stifling until he was as bad as her mother and brother combined.

She wanted freedom. She wanted to be the same as anyone else—and to be treated like that. Part of the reason she was going overseas was to start over—again. She read over the list again. Then, for the first time in all her years of keeping a journal, she ripped a page right out.

Rhys rested back on the warm bricks as a range of emotions rushed through him. Shock, anger and desire but mostly disappointment. In himself—what had happened to his renowned beside manner? His unflappable charm? So much for an uncomplicated summer fling. He’d known what he was looking at. For a second after the shock he’d even admired the skill of the surgeon who’d done it. As neat a job as you could get. Then the ramifications set in. You got that kind of scar from a major operation. Open-heart surgery. The thought of her lying on an operating table had made him recoil. Not someone as young and full of vitality as her.

Stupid, when every day at the hospital he was confronted with mortality—he knew full well it could hit anyone any time. He knew that from his own brush with it as a kid. With Theo.

He hadn’t been joking about having a scar of his own. It was a mess, but it had left an even bigger mess on the inside. While Sienna’s heart might have been operated on, his was the scarred one—one that had never fully healed. He tried so hard to make it right. And failed every time. Roughly healed, puckered tissue formed a protective barrier and he didn’t want anyone to penetrate it. He wasn’t going to be vulnerable. He’d never reveal the depth of that pain—to anyone. Nor did he want to set himself up for more of that kind of hurt.

He headed back to the hostel. Maybe he should just check out. She’d be feeling pretty mad with him and he was mad with her for not giving him a chance. For springing it on him and then skipping out.

But the more he thought of her, the greater his need to see her again grew. As the shock faded, he felt the resurgence of desire. If anything he wanted her more. He wanted to kiss away the pain he’d seen in her eyes. He wanted them heavy with passion and the glow of life. He refused to analyse why. Just pegged it on desire. Tim had told him to lighten up, to take a break. He rationalised, remembered she was only in town for a few days. This could still be a holiday fling. They weren’t talking for ever and babies. Being with her once more couldn’t do him any more damage—or her. Maybe they could both forget about their scars for a while.

Curtis was in his regular position behind the reception desk.

‘Did they concrete you in place here?’ Rhys muttered.

Curtis looked up from the old gossip mag in front of him, his eyes narrowing when he saw it was Rhys. ‘She’s in the TV room. Looks like you’re in trouble.’

Rhys acknowledged the truth with a grunt and went in search of her. He looked into the room, saw her in the far corner, her fine-boned figure folded into the armchair. Her head jerked up as he approached and he saw her stuff a piece of paper into her book, snap it shut and then jam the whole thing into her bag.

‘You running out on me is a really bad habit.’

‘Be honest, this time you were happy to be run out on.’

‘No, I wasn’t, and I really don’t want you to run out on me again.’

She stared up at him, the blue in her eyes shadowed with the purple of pain. Looking all the more intense in the unnatural pallor of her face.

He boxed on. ‘I never did get to show you my scar. You walked away before I had the chance.’

‘You froze over. Colder than, than…’

‘I was unprepared.’

‘It’s good that way. Then I get an honest reaction.’

‘It’s not fair to set someone up. What was I supposed to do? Of course I was going to be shocked. How could I have predicted that? Anyway, it looks to me like some kind of life-saving scar.’

She looked away from him then, seeming to focus on a speck of dust hanging in mid-air.

‘Did it work?’

‘Clearly.’

He hid his smile at her caustic tone. ‘Come on.’ He tugged on her hand, hauling her out of the chair. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

‘Rhys, I really don’t want—’

‘Come with me.’ He spoke quickly and then gave a cheeky grin as he realised the double entendre of his words.

She looked less bruised, more baleful.

‘Please.’ He kept hold of her hand and led her up the stairs, away from Curtis’ grin and to the privacy of his own room.

‘You know, yours isn’t really much of a scar. Mine is much bigger.’

She blinked. He’d taken her aback. He undid his jeans and pushed them down so he could step out of them. He hadn’t bothered with boxers so his erection thrust up. He suppressed his satisfaction as he saw her eyes widen at the sight of him. Her deadened look disappeared. Her cheeks flushed. Yes, he still wanted her. Now she knew it.

He twisted his leg to show her the place on the outside of his thigh where the glass had gone deep. The scar was old and jagged but still angry-looking.