‘Such as?’
He shrugged, trying to rid himself of this dark feeling of jealousy that she’d actually been married to someone else. Because he’d never done jealousy before—at least, not until he’d thought that his brother had landed himself the most knockout blonde in the world and that he would have to spend a lifetime suppressing the way he felt about her. ‘Platinum discs. Music awards. That kind of thing.’
‘It’s not a shrine, Zak,’ she said quietly. ‘Nearly all Louis’s stuff had to be sold off to pay for his mother’s medical care and the debts from his gambling and drug habit.’
Her simple words made all his jealousy melt away—and in its place rushed a great wave of protectiveness, so that suddenly he wanted to catch hold of her and tell her that he would protect her. That he would keep all the harsh, dark realities of life away from her door—until he realised that to do that would be to insult her. Because hadn’t she done a pretty good job of overcoming those hardships—all on her own?
The bus began to slow and Emma stood up. ‘We’re here,’ she said, inadvertently brushing against him so that just for one brief moment he caught a drift of roses and vanilla—a scent which transported him back to the lazy bliss he had known in her arms. Gritting his teeth behind a grim smile, he followed her down the narrow stairway of the bus until they were standing on a shiny, rain-soaked pavement.
‘Where are we?’
Emma laughed. ‘It’s Hammersmith—not Mars! But I guess you’ve never been here?’
‘You’re saying that my horizons are limited?’
‘I think we’ve both been guilty of having limited horizons,’ she told him truthfully as she led the way up the stairs at the front of the large and rather ugly red-brick house. People were often surprised when they first saw where she lived—as if they expected the ex-wife of a famous rock-star to be living in some palatial mansion with golden taps and leopard-skin sofas.
But Emma had walked away from her marriage with only the most humble of settlements and she was proud of the home she’d created. The rooms were high-ceilinged and spacious and there were many of the original features still in place. She’d painted the walls a flat, putty-coloured shade, which provided just the right neutral backdrop for each carefully chosen piece of furniture.
Zak looked around, aware of a sense of peace settling over him. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said softly.
She smiled, some of the tension leaving her body—aware that his praise meant a lot to her, whether she wanted it to or not. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. But your taste has never been in any question, Emma—that’s one of the things which makes you so good at your job.’
She looked at him. ‘And what are the other things?’
He shrugged. ‘A fearlessness which makes you stand up to your brutish boss?’
‘You’re not brutish,’ she protested as the last of her anger began to trickle away.
‘Oh, yes, I am,’ he answered. ‘Or maybe I can amend that to the past tense. Was brutish—but not any more. You see—you take the brutishness right out of me, Emma Geary.’
His grey eyes blazed and Emma felt a fierce wrench of longing. It would have been so easy to cross the room and to fall into his arms. To wrap her arms around his neck and tangle her fingers in his thick black hair, the way she’d done so many times before. But something told her that would be the wrong thing to do. That desire had often clouded all the getting-to-know-you bits. And that if they couldn’t do this other stuff—the everyday and often mundane stuff—then they didn’t have a hope in hell.
‘Coffee?’ she questioned as they walked into the sitting room.
Coffee was the last thing he wanted. All he wanted was to kiss her. To somehow make that tight little look disappear from her face. To lose himself in her sweet embrace. And then tumble her down onto that squashy-looking velvet sofa in the corner and make love to her. But Zak recognised that he was going to have to continue to let Emma call the shots, no matter how much his masterful instincts fought against it.
He nodded his agreement. ‘Perfect.’
She turned and left the room, where he could hear the sounds of china being clanked around and cupboard doors being opened and closed. Ordinarily, he might have run his eyes over the books which were lined up on the shelves, but he was finding it hard to concentrate on anything. Even the street scene outside was nothing but a muted blur to his preoccupied gaze.
Minutes later, Emma returned with a tray on which stood a cafetiere of strong dark coffee and she poured them each a cup, which neither of them touched.
She was looking at him and once again he was struck by the dark blue shadowing of her eyes—stark against her pale skin. ‘Did you know that Nat’s in love?’ he questioned, watching her reacti
on very carefully.
‘He texted me something on those lines.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘And do you approve? Or will you be going out of your way to separate them?’
‘Ouch,’ he said wryly, meeting the candid sweep of her gaze and realising that she still hadn’t forgiven him. ‘I guess I deserve that.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Actually, I haven’t met her and I know very little about her—other than that she’s Greek and he’s there with her at the moment.’
‘Then maybe you do approve?’ she ventured.