The Other Man. Karen Van Der Zee

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      “Are you ever planning to come back home for good?”

      He leaned lazily against the counter, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Not a great need for tropical pediatrics in the temperate Northwest, is there?” Faint amusement in his voice.

      She shrugged lightly. “No. But I suppose you could teach or write, or both.”

      “I’d rather practice medicine, with a little writing on the side for a change of pace.”

      They were having a calm, simple conversation, yet she felt shaky with tension. There was so much she wanted to say, so much to explain, but she could not find the words. Her mind seemed to have shut off, as if overloaded with emotion and stress. Then again, why would it matter to him at this point? He had the life he wanted and a wife who shared it, and the past did no longer matter. She wondered where his wife was.

      “And what are you doing with yourself these days?” he asked politely.

      She moistened her lips. “I’m a teacher. Kinder-garten. Five-year-olds.”

      His eyes narrowed slightly. “Really?”

      Had she seen a glimpse of surprise in his eyes? She nodded. “I…I love it. It’s vacation now, though, so I’m not working,” she went on, feeling ridiculously nervous, as if she were making an un-comfortable confession. “Usually I volunteer in the summer and work with special programs for mi-grant kids, but…eh, not this time.”

      Why was she saying all this? Because she wanted his approval, to show him she was not merely a lady of leisure, driving a Porsche and living off her deceased husband’s money. She was a person in her own right, a person who had matured and made something of herself.

      He studied her. “You look good,” he said bluntly. “You lost that scrawny look.”

      To her mortification, heat rushed to her cheeks. She’d been thin at eighteen, working too many hours, eating too little food. She’d filled out a little in the past twelve years, she knew. She’d gained some weight and rounded out in all the right places.

      “I’m not a teenager anymore,” she said, as if he didn’t know. Why did she have to sound so stupid?

      The years of separation yawned between them. How did she bridge that gap of time—all the events and changes that had taken place in the years stretching between then and now? Was it even possible? Did she want to?

      “You’re a woman now,” he agreed, his gaze sliding over her body with seeming clinical as-sessment. Hidden behind the cool gray something stirred that set off a tingling in her body.

      Her heart throbbed in her throat. She swallowed painfully. “I was very young when we knew each other, Aidan.” It was more than a statement—it was a plea for his understanding.

      “Eighteen.” His voice was stone hard. “Old enough to marry Marcos whatshisname.” His eyes were gunmetal gray as he stared at her with a sudden cold anger that made her heart turn over.

      There was nothing she could say to that, nothing that would make any sense to him. Yet she did not want to be affected by his anger. She had come to peace with her own past and she didn’t want to be dragged back into it by his anger. Only she was, whether she wanted to or not. It was as if a storm had tipped her little boat upside down and she was hanging on for dear life, trying not to drown in the turbulent waters.

      She wished she were not affected by him so. She didn’t want to feel that churning hunger inside her, that pull on her senses just being in his presence.

      After all these years, it was still there—the same magnetism, the same power.

      What had she hoped for? That her memories were only the feelings of an eighteen-year-old? Romanticized, idealized? That perhaps now that she would see him with the eyes of a mature, grown woman, he would somehow seem diminished, that his strength and male appeal would not seem nearly as devastating to her now as it had been before? She’d been wrong. It was still all there and more. He exuded a raw, wild sensuality that she hadn’t known or recognized before and to which she reacted in-stinctively now. Maybe it had not been there then, or maybe it took a mature woman to sense it.

      In the silence she saw his face relax, take on again the look of cool detachment. He waved at a chair. “Sit down.”

      She sat down. “How did you know I was married?” she asked, clasping her trembling hands in her lap.

      He shrugged. “Somebody sent me the an-nouncement that was in the newspaper. I don’t re-member who.” He refilled his glass with water. “I seem to remember his name was Spanish. Mexican?”

      “Yes. Marcos Silva. He was born in California, but his parents came from Mexico.”

      “What did he do for a living?” He tipped his glass back and took a long swallow of water.

      She watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed the water. “He was an architect. He de-signed private homes for people.”

      He nodded. “A much better choice than I, I’m sure. Your mother must have approved.” A wealth of meaning hid behind those coolly spoken words. Hot indignation flared through her. She forced herself to stay calm.

      “She never knew him.”

      His brows quirked fractionally. “I see.”

      No, you don’t, she almost said. No, you don’t see a thing, Aidan! She fought the impulse to ex-plain, to make him understand, but she knew it would all sound wrong and he was in no frame of mind to accept her words. Pride kept her silent.

      She did not know him this way, those cold eyes, the hard mask of his face. This was not the same man she had once known—not by a long shot. So why then did he still ignite a fire in her blood? Why then did he make her heart race? He was not the open, enthusiastic young doctor she had so loved when she was young. Why then did she still feel the vibrations? Still the yearning? Was it merely a reaction to long-ago memories, rather than the present reality?

      She glanced away, out the window, seeing from the corner of her eye that he pushed himself away from the counter. He came toward her, towering over her, and fear assaulted her. He was too close, too potently male, and she felt exposed and vul-nerable. He reached for her hands and pulled her to her feet. She was trembling on her legs as she looked into his face, so close, so very close. The heat of his bare chest radiated onto her arms. She felt his breath on her face, smelled the male scent of him—clean sweat, warm, damp skin, salty sea air.

      Her body tingled and ached and she couldn’t find air to breathe. She wanted to put her mouth to his chest and taste him, lose herself in his nearness. No! No! She didn’t want to feel this terrible hunger, this aching need for something she’d tried for years to forget. Panic assaulted her and she fought against it. No, no!

      She struggled for air as his eyes locked with hers, felt her heart slam into her ribs and then his mouth was on hers. Firm and hard and sensual. The kiss did nothing to assuage the pain, nor the panic, nothing to melt tension. It started a fire inside her— a fire fed by the still-familiar taste and smell of him, the feel of his hot mouth, his hard body pressed against her.

      No! No! She fought ancient instincts, struggled against him, tore her mouth from his. Finally, he СКАЧАТЬ