One Summer At The Beach. Natalie Anderson

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      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.