Mary-Anne, oh, honey, it wasn’t like that!
The singing stopped the same time the foot-squeaking ended. “Hello, Tal. Nice shorts—more casual than the Flying Doctor, Navy or Nighthawk getup. You do get around, don’t you?”
Great, now he’d upgraded from dream to hallucination. Her songs did that: he’d spend the next few hours creating scenarios where they’d meet again. So many years wasted in insane hope, hearing her voice, turning around so damn fast he got dizzy only to meet emptiness, the darkness of ghosts taunting him.
She’d never come to him. They were both different people now. He sure as hell was different—as was she. A reversal of lives. The cruelest joke ever played on a man.
But it didn’t stop his body from lighting like a blowtorch, filling with instant heat, his heart bounding up into his throat with useless, stupid hope against hope. From praying that this time it would be real—it would be her, his Mary-Anne, standing in front of him, with that sweet, high-lipped smile of hers.
Can it, O’Rierdan. She’s never coming back to you.
“Well, I see you’re as rude as ever. Don’t you say hello to old friends anymore?”
Well, that was new to his reunion scenarios…. In his dreams she’d been furious, smacking him as he deserved, or running into his arms and kissing him senseless. But the gentle amusement in this voice confused the hell out of him. He really was losing it…
“Aunt Sheila would be ashamed of your manners—and Uncle Dal would clip your ear, boyo.”
He frowned, blinked slowly beneath his hat. He’d all but forgotten that silly joke of hers. “Mary-Anne?” he croaked.
“Either that or your worst nightmare, O’Rierdan.”
The silver-gold shimmer of laughter rocked his soul. Now that his prayers had finally come true—she was here—what did he do, yell at her for taking so long, or pin her beneath him and love her until he’d slaked half a lifetime of aching fantasy?
Uh-huh. One look at the scars on his face and leg and she’d be begging him. Yeah, that was gonna happen.
“G’day, Mary-Anne.” He didn’t have to lift his hat to see her: she was a tattoo burned on his brain, seared on his soul with a branding iron. She’d lived and breathed, gasped and moved beneath or above him in his dreams every night in hot, vivid color, since he was sixteen. He lifted his knees to hide his hard, primed body, ready for her to say the word. Man, he hurt already, and she’d only been here a minute. “So Anson’s bringing out the big guns to make me answer his summons? He must be desperate to convince you to come to me.” He heard the guttural rasp in his voice, the hot, essential male-to-female thrust-and-parry he’d only ever known on this gut-deep level with her.
Another soft ripple of laughter, full of heart and soul and fire. “That’s what I said, but even though we’ve never worked together, we both know Nick. Never say die.”
“Yeah.” He grinned beneath his hat. Man, he loved her laugh—almost as much as he’d loved the gentle touch of her silky-soft fingers on his skin, as innocent and sensual as the kisses they’d shared as boy and girl. The unbidden fantasy was so intense he almost felt the tender glide of her hands…the kisses so saturated in love they filled all the empty places inside.
Can it, O’Rierdan. It wasn’t going to happen—and he didn’t want her here, re-igniting hungers that he’d never explore. Who are you kidding? They’re in permanent ignition, ready to explode. “Tell him you tried. Want a drink before you go?”
He could hear the grin in her voice. “I’m booked in at the local B and B for three days, so cut the rude stunts. I outgrew being hurt at them by the time I was about twelve.”
Despite the roaring inside him, the exploding Molotov cocktail of fury at his life and her expected rejection, he chuckled. Ah, it felt so good to talk to her outside the bondage of sleep. Never, in all their long history, had she let any of his gauntlets lie unchallenged, defusing his quick rages with a smile. It was refreshing after a year of overdone kindness born of pity and the sidelong glances of people unable to handle imperfection. And having her finally here, with him in the flesh, made him feel like more of a man than he had in years.
And what good is that going to do me? He’d spend the whole time she was here in knife-edged, gut-gnawing hunger. Variety might be the spice of life, but right now this particular life had all the pepper it could handle.
So find out why she is here and get rid of her. Fast. “So spill. What does he want from me? Whatever it is, the answer’s no, but what the hell, I can listen for a few. Entertainment’s kinda self-made in these parts.”
He heard the shrug in her voice. “Sure. But I’d like that drink. In private. I’m booking your services for the afternoon.”
His laugh sounded rusty from disuse…and its feel-good release unleashed hungers he’d worked long and hard to lock away in darkness. Yet the response in kind came, dragged from him against his will. “Baby, watch your terminology. There could be a journo behind any shrub, if they know you’re here. I can see the headlines now. Verity West Writes A New Song. ‘I go for banged-up bush pilots and pay them for their services.’”
She laughed again, its pure sound vibrating with the serenity his soul had hungered to know the past ten years—yet he heard the stress beneath. So it wasn’t any easier for her to face him than it was for him to know she was here… “Well, at least I know you, and you’re my age.”
“I’m more attractive, too,” he remarked blithely, hiding his pounding heart. Mad, crazy—totally certifiable—but the hope wouldn’t go away. She didn’t say no or retreat behind embarrassed silence at the thought of being with him…
He heard the sorrow in her voice as she replied, “Nick only told me about your accident two days ago. If I’d known—”
Sudden cold rage made him grit his teeth. “Yeah, right. We both know you wouldn’t have come. Anson must’ve painted you into a corner to get you to come here. But it’s a good revenge, seeing Tallan O’Rierdan, walking freak show, huh?”
“Oh, grow up, Tal,” she snapped.
His hat suddenly flew over the sand, leaving his unprotected face exposed to her gaze. Refusing to back down, he stared up at her, blinking against the harshness of the hot sun and its silver reflections off the water and bright sand all around. “Well?” He knew what she’d see: the destruction of the face women once compared to a blond-haired, brown-eyed, living angel.
Yeah, right. An angel with pink puckered scars down the left side of his face, perfect on the right. Sorta like those half-man, half-woman carnival freaks people used to pay to gawk at in horrified fascination.
Come on, Mary-Anne, do it. Gulp. Cry. Turn away. Just do it and get the hell away from me!
But he couldn’t drag his gaze from her. Oh man, she was more beautiful in real life than in her promo and society shots, or even his most erotic dreams. Her vivid, wildly curling hair fell free, tumbling over her shoulder blades and full, sweet breasts. Her face glowed pale and soft-freckled in the tropical sun, dominated by a sweet, high-lipped pink mouth, sleepy cat’s eyes and a delicately wide jaw, lending feminine character and strength to a pretty face: the vividness and fire she’d once had in abundance beneath her shyness. She wore a loose tie-up flowered cloth as a skirt and a sapphire-blue bikini—striking against her silky skin, glowing hair and eyes. A floppy straw hat half fell over her face, flat sandals on her feet. A smudge of zinc cream covered her pert nose to stop further freckling.
Lovely. Entrancing. His girl as he’d always wanted her, fat or thin, shy recluse or world-famous ice queen, because she’d never been an iceberg for him. Just natural, unadorned, innocent Mary-Anne, who took in all strays and came out of her habitual hiding with both guns blazing to take a passionate stand for the rights of any underdogs she took into her heart.
His