There was nothing she could say to that, nothing that would make any sense to him. Yet she did not want to be affected by his anger. She had come to peace with her own past and she didn’t want to be dragged back into it by his anger. Only she was, whether she wanted to or not. It was as if a storm had tipped her little boat upside down and she was hanging on for dear life, trying not to drown in the turbulent waters.
She wished she were not affected by him so. She didn’t want to feel that churning hunger inside her, that pull on her senses just being in his presence.
After all these years, it was still there—the same magnetism, the same power.
What had she hoped for? That her memories were only the feelings of an eighteen-year-old? Romanticized, idealized? That perhaps now that she would see him with the eyes of a mature, grown woman, he would somehow seem diminished, that his strength and male appeal would not seem nearly as devastating to her now as it had been before? She’d been wrong. It was still all there and more. He exuded a raw, wild sensuality that she hadn’t known or recognized before and to which she reacted in-stinctively now. Maybe it had not been there then, or maybe it took a mature woman to sense it.
In the silence she saw his face relax, take on again the look of cool detachment. He waved at a chair. “Sit down.”
She sat down. “How did you know I was married?” she asked, clasping her trembling hands in her lap.
He shrugged. “Somebody sent me the an-nouncement that was in the newspaper. I don’t re-member who.” He refilled his glass with water. “I seem to remember his name was Spanish. Mexican?”
“Yes. Marcos Silva. He was born in California, but his parents came from Mexico.”
“What did he do for a living?” He tipped his glass back and took a long swallow of water.
She watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed the water. “He was an architect. He de-signed private homes for people.”
He nodded. “A much better choice than I, I’m sure. Your mother must have approved.” A wealth of meaning hid behind those coolly spoken words. Hot indignation flared through her. She forced herself to stay calm.
“She never knew him.”
His brows quirked fractionally. “I see.”
No, you don’t, she almost said. No, you don’t see a thing, Aidan! She fought the impulse to ex-plain, to make him understand, but she knew it would all sound wrong and he was in no frame of mind to accept her words. Pride kept her silent.
She did not know him this way, those cold eyes, the hard mask of his face. This was not the same man she had once known—not by a long shot. So why then did he still ignite a fire in her blood? Why then did he make her heart race? He was not the open, enthusiastic young doctor she had so loved when she was young. Why then did she still feel the vibrations? Still the yearning? Was it merely a reaction to long-ago memories, rather than the present reality?
She glanced away, out the window, seeing from the corner of her eye that he pushed himself away from the counter. He came toward her, towering over her, and fear assaulted her. He was too close, too potently male, and she felt exposed and vul-nerable. He reached for her hands and pulled her to her feet. She was trembling on her legs as she looked into his face, so close, so very close. The heat of his bare chest radiated onto her arms. She felt his breath on her face, smelled the male scent of him—clean sweat, warm, damp skin, salty sea air.
Her body tingled and ached and she couldn’t find air to breathe. She wanted to put her mouth to his chest and taste him, lose herself in his nearness. No! No! She didn’t want to feel this terrible hunger, this aching need for something she’d tried for years to forget. Panic assaulted her and she fought against it. No, no!
She struggled for air as his eyes locked with hers, felt her heart slam into her ribs and then his mouth was on hers. Firm and hard and sensual. The kiss did nothing to assuage the pain, nor the panic, nothing to melt tension. It started a fire inside her— a fire fed by the still-familiar taste and smell of him, the feel of his hot mouth, his hard body pressed against her.
No! No! She fought ancient instincts, struggled against him, tore her mouth from his. Finally, he released her and stepped back. Gwen leaned against the table, trembling violently, gasping for breath.
“What…the…hell…was…that…for?” she managed on a furious tone, finding a frightening well of anger. Anger at herself for feeling the way she did now. Anger because he had no right to do this.
Anger because she was terrified. Nothing but heartache and disaster lay ahead if she allowed this to affect her.
He shrugged, a mocking slant to his mouth. “For old times’ sake.”
“Bastard,” she whispered fiercely.
The sounds of a car driving up. A door slamming. She gulped in more air, clasping the edge of the table for support, struggling for composure.
The door swung open and his wife walked in, clutching a bag of groceries to her chest.
“I’m back,” she said unnecessarily, and dumped the bag on the counter. She wore a topaz blue shirt and white shorts that showed long, lean legs. She glanced at Gwen. “Hi,” she said, and frowned. “Haven’t I seen you before? Oh, yes, the restaurant! Last night.” She glanced questioningly at Aidan, obviously waiting for an introduction.
“I’ve got to go.” Gwen didn’t know where her voice came from. Somehow she made her legs move, forced them to take her out the door and into her car.
Next thing she knew she was out on the road, driving on automatic, going too fast.
He’d had no right to kiss her, to touch her—no right at all. Anger burned inside her. And deep, hot humiliation. He had seen the emotion in her face, sensed the effect he was having on her and he’d taken advantage of it, humiliated her.
“Damn you, Aidan!” she shouted out loud, but the wind whipped away her words.
The sangria was delicious. Alice’s daughter, just back from a college semester in Spain, had made it according to a genuine, unadulterated Spanish recipe, which included generous amounts of cognac.
It was getting late, but the party was still going strong and Gwen was having a wonderful time. Her friends had outdone themselves. Flowers every-where, a pile of birthday presents, wonderful food, a huge, homemade birthday cake.
It was good to have so many friends, to have people care about her and take her seriously. When Marc had died, they’d gathered around her, helping, comforting. And now this. She smiled as she glanced around her garden where they’d all gathered to help her celebrate her thirtieth birthday.
Thirty! It sounded wonderful, as if now she really had grown up and truly was a mature woman. It wasn’t what a lot of women thought when they left their twenties, but she didn’t mind in the least. She liked it.
It was good to feel independent and secure in yourself and to know what you wanted. It was wonderful to be able to make decisions on your own and to feel confident about your choices and abilities.
She was going to sell this house. She didn’t have to ask anyone for permission. She could do it be-cause she wanted to. Because this was no longer her house. It was a place where she had spent a part of her life, a very important part, but that part was over now. Marc was dead and she was no longer a married woman.
She’d sell the Porsche, too, and buy something a little more modest and practical. She grinned to herself. It was wonderful to feel in charge of your own life, to feel so in control.
She had Marc to thank for it all. He had helped her become the person she was now. She closed her eyes for a moment