His mistakes were his own. He took responsibility for his past. Atonement wasn’t something to parade around for others to applaud. Receiving praise diminished the power of anything he might have done right.
Speaking of atonement …
He tugged the leather briefcase from beside the sofa. His driver had left the essentials. He pulled out his tablet computer to check for an update from Salvatore on Celia.
Because, with memories of that kiss still heating his blood, he sure as hell wasn’t going to fall asleep anytime soon.
Celia kept her eyes closed even though she’d woken up at least ten minutes ago after a restless night’s sleep. Her white-noise machine filled the room with the sound of soothing waves. She snuggled deeper under the covers, groggy and still so sexually strung tight her skin was oversensitive to the Egyptian cotton sheets. Just one kiss, and she was already burning up for Malcolm Douglas again.
The thought of facing him was mortifying—and a little scary. What if she walked out there, lost control and plastered herself all over him again?
Last night’s kiss had rocked her to her toes. And the way Malcolm hadn’t pressed her to hop right into bed together? That rattled her even more. But then, he hadn’t pressured her as a teenager, either. She’d been the aggressor. She’d known him for years. They’d shared a music teacher, even performed at recitals together. But something had changed when they both came back from summer break, entering their sophomore year.
Her friend had gotten hot.
The other high-school girls had noticed, too. But she’d been determined. He was hers. No one had ever denied her anything, and she could see now how that had made her all the more determined to win him over. Her selfishness had played a part in how recklessly fast she’d pursued him.
She’d justified her actions by noting the interest in his eyes. Except, he’d insisted he didn’t have the time or money for dating. He’d told her they couldn’t be anything more than friends. She’d told him she didn’t need fancy romancing. She just wanted him….
After they’d been dating for five months, she’d feared she was losing him. His mother had been filling out applications for scholarships for him to attend a special high school for the arts. Celia understood Terri Ann Douglas wanted the best for her son, but it seemed the push for him to attend school out of town had more to do with getting him away from Celia than obtaining a better music education.
Or at least that was how it had appeared in her self-centered teenage mind.
Already she’d felt as if she barely got to see him between his job and their music lessons and their eagle-eyed parents. Still, they’d stolen time alone together to make out, talk, dream—make out some more. Their make-out sessions had grown hotter, as hot as possible without going all the way.
She recalled every detail of that whole day, the day she’d lost her virginity. She remembered what she wore—pink jeans and a rock-band T-shirt. What she ate—cereal, an apple and not much else, because she wanted to keep fitting into those jeans.
Most of all, she remembered what it felt like stretched out on the backseat of her car with Malcolm, parked by the river at night. She’d already pitched her shirt and bra onto the floor, along with his shirt, too, because there was nothing like the feel of her breasts against his bare chest. Her hand tunneled down his pants, and he was working the zipper on her pink jeans. They’d already learned how to give each other orgasms by stroking to take the edge off the gnawing need.
Except, that night she’d been selfish. Scared of losing him. And most of all, she’d been stupid.
They hadn’t used a condom.
Although she’d still needed him to finish her with his hand afterward because it hadn’t been anywhere near as earth-shattering as she’d expected. Not the first time.
But she hadn’t gotten pregnant then, either. Which made them all the more reckless over the following weeks when Malcolm had been deliciously determined to figure out exactly how to bring her to that earth-shattering release while buried heart-deep inside her….
Celia snuggled deeper under the covers, cocooning herself in memories. The good—then the bad when everything had fallen apart. For years she’d told herself maybe he hadn’t loved her as much as she’d loved him. That they’d only become a couple because she’d gone after him, and what red-blooded teenage boy said no to sex?
But last night, the way he’d played that song made her realize she’d only been trying to ease her guilt over how much she’d cost him, how much their breakup had hurt him, as well.
Now this new insight complicated the trip to Europe.
In the harsh light of the morning, leaving with him seemed like a reckless idea, and she didn’t do “reckless” anymore. She’d left behind impulsiveness when she’d passed over her baby girl to parents who could give her all the things Celia couldn’t. The pain of loss had pushed her over the edge.
She had to be smarter this time, to be careful for her own sake, and for his. Just the thought of seeing him once she walked into the living room sent butterflies whirling in her stomach.
Damn it. He hadn’t even been back in her life for twenty-four hours, and desire for him had flipped her world upside down. She hadn’t helped matters with that impulsive kiss, brought on by nostalgia. She couldn’t let sex cloud their judgment again. She wanted—she needed—her peaceful existence. To make that happen, she had to stay in control while facing her fears and guilt in order to move on with her life.
She flung aside the covers and clicked off her white-noise machine, the sound of waves ending abruptly, only to be replaced by a different buzz coming from outside. Frowning, she went to the window and parted the wood shutters.
Oh. My. God. Her breath caught in her throat. She stepped away fast.
Her lawn was absolutely packed.
Cars, media vans, even tents with clusters of people underneath filled her yard and beyond, overflowing onto the sidewalk. She slammed the shutters closed and locked them. Her home had been invaded, and she was damn certain it had nothing to do with her stalker.
Apparently, Malcolm had about a million of his own.
She snagged her cotton bathrobe from the foot of her bed. Sprinting for the door, she yanked on her robe and knotted the tie on her way to the living room.
Only to stop short again.
Malcolm was sprawled on the sofa wearing only his jeans, with the blanket twisted and draped over his waist. Her mouth dried up. The muscles she’d felt ripple beneath his shirt were all the more magnificent uncovered. Damn it all, why couldn’t he have gone paunchy and bald? Or why couldn’t he have at least become a totally arrogant jerk?
All right. He was a bit arrogant, but not at all a jerk. And the six-pack abs didn’t show the least sign of paunch. His hair was so freakin’ magnificent his fans named that signature lock of hair over the brow—calling it “The Malcolm.” Men everywhere were letting their hair grow long over their foreheads because their girlfriends begged them to. Malcolm’s fans.
His fans.
Damn. Not two minutes after vowing not to let the attraction derail her, she’d failed. She’d been so caught up in gawking at his naked chest that she’d forgotten about the sold-out audience on her lawn. Celia knelt by the sofa, her hand falling lightly on his shoulder.
His warm skin sent sparks shimmering through her.
She snatched back her hand. “Malcolm? Malcolm, you have to wake up now—”
He shot upright off the sofa. His arm whipped from under the blanket, a gun clasped in his hand and pointed at the ceiling.
A gun?
“Malcolm?” she squeaked. “Where did that come from?”
“It’s