She snorted her disbelief. ‘Will you please warn Carla too? I think it’d be a good idea if you told her all that I told you tonight.’
‘You want Carla to know?’
‘It seems only fair.’
‘No.’ He refused to be a party to her shutting herself off from people. ‘If you’re truly her friend, Mia, then you tell her.’
With that, he spun on his heel and left.
* * *
Dylan stumbled down Mia’s front steps, feeling as if he’d descended a drop of a thousand feet. He put out a hand to steady himself, but there was nothing to grab on to. He stood there swaying, praying he’d find his balance soon.
What had just happened?
Idiot!
The word screamed over and over in his mind, but he didn’t know why.
What was so idiotic about anything he’d done tonight? Mia might think him an idiot for punching Percy Struthers, but the man had deserved it. Given the chance, he’d do it again! And he wasn’t an idiot for refusing to be labelled as another Johnnie Peters either.
Pain shot into his jaw from clenching his teeth too hard. He was nothing like Johnnie Peters!
He lurched over to his car and flung the door open, but he didn’t get in.
He wasn’t an idiot for fighting against Mia’s mistaken view of herself. She wasn’t weak! She was one of the strongest women he knew.
Stronger than Caitlin.
He froze. Where had that come from?
But... Mia was stronger than Caitlin.
His mouth dried, and his heart was pounding so hard it sent nausea swirling through him. Mia was exactly the kind of woman who’d go the distance with a man—who’d take the good times with the bad, who’d weather the storms. Mia wouldn’t turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble. If things got tough she’d dig her heels in and wait it out.
Idiot!
It finally hit him why that word kept going round and round in his mind. He collapsed on to the car seat. He’d been telling himself all this time that what he wanted with Mia was an affair, but that was a lie.
He wanted it all. He loved her. He wanted a chance to build a life with her.
His vision darkened. He raked his hands through his hair. All this time he’d thought he’d been keeping his heart safe...and yet the whole time he’d been falling in love with her.
His hands clenched about the steering wheel. He would not give up! Mia had told his uncle that he, Dylan, made dreams come true. Was there the slightest chance on earth that he could make her dreams come true?
If he wanted to win her heart he had to find out.
THE STORY DIDN’T break on Monday or Tuesday. It didn’t break on Wednesday or Thursday either. There wasn’t a single item in the newspapers about Dylan, let alone any shady ex-convict women he might be dating.
Not that they were dating.
Even if he’d made it clear that he’d like to be.
Mia’s wilful heart leapt at the thought, avoiding all her attempts to squash its exuberance.
She’d finally gathered up the courage to ring Carla on Tuesday night. Carla had claimed she didn’t care about Mia’s history—that she only cared about the kind of person Mia was now. Mia had even believed her.
She hadn’t seen Dylan all week. He hadn’t dropped by Plum Pines during her lunchbreak. He hadn’t rung her for no reason at all other than to talk nonsense until she started to laugh in spite of herself. He hadn’t even rung to talk about the wedding.
Despite her best intentions, she missed him.
She didn’t just miss him—she ached for him.
On Friday morning, when it was barely light, she rushed the one and a half kilometres to the nearest newsagent’s to buy a newspaper. Again, nothing.
Saturday dawned—the day of her dinner party—and still no scandal broke. She could hardly imagine what strings Dylan had pulled to hush up the story. Could she start to breathe more easily?
It didn’t make the memory of their encounter with the photographer fade, though. She physically flinched whenever she recalled the moment Dylan had punched the other man. Was he crazy? He could have been hauled off in a paddy wagon and thrown in a cell overnight! All because someone had called her a bad name.
Couldn’t he see that for the rest of her life there’d be people who’d be happy to call her bad names? What would he do—punch them all on the nose?
Dylan deserved better than that.
So do you.
The thought whispered through her and she had to sink down into the nearest chair. Her heart thumped, the pulse in her throat pounded and her temples throbbed.
There are worse things than prison.
Dylan was right.
Shame, sharp and hot, engulfed her. She’d stolen money from people—people who hadn’t deserved it. Knowing she was capable of that—living with that knowledge—was the worst thing of all. She’d willingly spend another three years in prison if it would rid her of the taint. But it wouldn’t. Nothing would. Saying sorry to the people she’d hurt, doing her jail time, being a model prisoner, having the counselling—none of that had helped.
The only way she could ensure she never did something like that again was to stay away from people as much as she could.
Heat burned the backs of her eyes. She pressed a fist to her mouth. She wanted to believe Dylan—believe that she’d changed, become stronger, that no one could manipulate her now. His face rose up in her mind...a beautiful dream she’d kept telling herself was out of reach. Her every atom yearned towards him.
With a half-sob, she closed her eyes. She couldn’t reach for that dream until she was certain she’d changed.
But how could she ever be certain of that?
* * *
Mia glanced at the plate of nibbles she’d set on the coffee table—some nice cheese and fancy crackers, along with some fat feta-stuffed olives. Should she add some grapes to the platter?
She clasped and unclasped her hands. She wasn’t serving an entrée—just a main and a dessert...and these pre-dinner nibbles.
She peered into the refrigerator to check on the individual crème-brûlées she’d prepared earlier. What if they’d spoiled?
They hadn’t.
She glanced at the wine. What if she’d chosen the wrong sort? She knew nothing about wine. The man at the liquor store had been helpful, but still...
What if nobody wanted wine? What if they wanted something she didn’t have? She’d stocked up on mineral water and cola. She’d filled umpteen ice cube trays, so there’d be plenty of ice, but... She hadn’t thought to buy port. What if someone wanted an after-dinner port? Or sherry!
She twisted her hands together. What if she ruined the veal scaloppini?
We’ll call out for pizza.
What if she spilled a whole bottle of wine?
We’ll mop it up.
What if—?
Relax.
The voice in her head sounded suspiciously