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.
She was totally diverted. Frowning at it. ‘That’s not a life-saving scar.’
‘No.’ It had been a life-taking scar. A constant reminder to him of that day of youthful folly and painful helplessness. The kind of day he’d determined never to experience again. The mistakes he’d never repeat, the inability to do a damn thing…
‘I don’t really want to talk about it either.’ He pulled back his leg. ‘So, I win on the scar stakes.’ He shut out the memories, shut away the emotion. No room for that kind of emotion here. Only fun—a fling with the sexiest woman he’d ever seen.
They’d just forget their wounds for a few moments. He reached out to her, touching his fingers to the back of her hand, sliding up her arm, stepping closer. But she held back, stiff, head away, not melting into his embrace. He thought he knew why. So they weren’t going to be able to forget the scars just yet—at least not hers. He kissed the corner of her mouth. Spoke right into her ear.
‘Sienna, for the record. You are not ugly. Your scar is not ugly.’
‘I don’t think I’m ugly.’ She pulled back and he saw vehemence in her eyes. ‘That’s not what worries me. It’s more that people take one look and start acting like I’m going to collapse in a corner any moment. When I wear a low-cut top, I see their curiosity. People look at me, then quickly look away thinking either I’m a circus exhibit or I’m on borrowed time.’
‘And are you?’
‘Well, I might be able to do the splits but it’s going to take me years to learn to juggle.’
‘You can do the splits?’
The