“To the island now, sir?”
“Thanks, Dave. Thompson will be waiting for us.”
In the darkened cabin Connor levelled a shadowed stare in her direction and a tentative frisson of anticipation licked at Holly’s body. He adjusted his headset and gestured to Holly to do the same. She shook her head in denial. She had no desire to hold a conversation with him in this shining display of wealth and prestige, not now while her nerves were so raw. It would take every last ounce of composure to gather her thoughts together for the coming discussion.
To her knowledge Connor had never brought a female guest, who wasn’t family, to the island he’d bought after his divorce. A short flight from the central business district, she knew the island was his oasis of peace and tranquillity—a haven he guarded fiercely.
By the time they circled the island and landed Holly felt about as brittle and tightly strung as overstretched fencing wire. One touch, one word, and she’d splinter into a million shattered pieces. She eschewed Connor’s assistance to exit the chopper, preferring to make it on her own, albeit unsteady, legs. She ducked and walked as quickly as she could towards the looming two-storied silver-grey stone house several yards in front of them.
Holly counted no less than three chimneys reaching into the twilight sky above the steeply peaked slate-shingled roof.
“This is your home?” she asked, annoyed that she couldn’t keep the awe from her breathless voice.
“It’s my house. It takes a family to make a home.” Connor’s jaw tightened as he ejected the words from tensely drawn lips.
Family. How cruelly ironic they both seemed to want what they didn’t have. Although, given her current disposition, he’d have his family within the next year, but where would she feature in all that? And did she want to feature anywhere?
Holly clenched her fingers into tight fists, welcoming the physical pain of her nails as they embedded in her palms. The sharp contrast of the tangible discomfort balanced the mental torment that battered at her senses. She didn’t want to go down that road. Too much remained unanswered in her life—far, far too much. Right now she had to get a grip on controlling her own destiny—whatever that might be.
Eight
Atall gentleman with silver hair waited at the edge of the patio to greet them.
“Thompson, this is Miss Christmas, who will be staying with me.”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll take Miss Christmas’s things up to the master suite—”
“I don’t have a bag.” Holly interrupted, adding silently, I don’t have anything. No possessions. No choice. Nothing.
“I’m sure we can accommodate your needs for one night,” Connor gave Thompson a look that demanded an affirmative answer.
“Certainly we can,” the other man carried on smoothly, not even a wrinkle of curiosity or concern marring his expressionless features. “I’ve prepared drinks on the patio for you. Dinner will be brought through in about fifteen minutes if that’s all right with you, sir.”
“Sounds fine, Thompson. Thank you.” Connor pulled out a comfortably cushioned patio chair, “Sit down.”
It was more of a command than an invitation. She accepted the chair he offered and gazed around her apprehensively. This really was some place. A subtly lit pool glimmered deep turquoise green over to her left, while cleverly positioned up-lights cast a glow over rough-hewn stone blocks, making the house seem more like a living thing than a building. Subtropical native palms and ferns clustered in the garden while hints of colour could be picked out in the soft night light from lush red begonias and bromeliads strategically planted for effect.
“The garden is beautiful,” she blurted, as she accepted a flute filled with sparkling golden liquid. She lifted the glass to her lips, then hesitated. Should she even be drinking alcohol? Lord, she had no idea what she should be doing. While she denied wanting the child, and would do anything to undo the fact that she’d fallen pregnant in the first place, some instinct halted her hand.
“It’s sparkling grape juice, no alcohol.” Connor sipped his own glass as he leaned back in his chair. “Do you like gardening?” Connor tilted his head to one side. Shadowed as he was, she couldn’t make out his expression.
“Well, if I had time I’m sure I would.”
Connor forced himself to hold his tongue at her stilted response. Time? She’d have plenty of time in the coming months, he’d make certain of that.
He suddenly realised that even though, as his PA, she’d basically run his days, and many of his weekends, for the past three years, he still knew little about her. Nothing bar what made her eyes deepen and darken in exquisite pleasure and how the cool satin of her skin heated to his touch and flushed a delicate rose in the height of passion. His groin tightened in flaming response—a response he ruthlessly quashed with sudden loathing at his own unbridled reaction.