The Bad Boys of Eden (79 page)

Chapter Seven

Oscar Zamani Spencer had been born more than rich.

He’d been born one of the privileged few.

In his choice of careers, both of them, he’d been surrounded by people who wanted to be the best. In Eden, he’d had a blast developing an exciting new menu and teaching new skills to a first-class team.

Eden had also given him plenty of down-time to edit his cookbook. But more importantly, to think.

Usually when Oscar had down-time he preferred to enjoy solitary pursuits; listening to music, reading, things that permitted his creativity to relax.

He was anything but relaxed now.

No one knew where she was, who she was.

Emma Ludlow was not, apparently, a guest of Eden.

The Master was off island and no one knew when he was due to return.

Now Oscar strolled along the sand and wondered if he’d dreamed the whole fucking thing. Maybe the events of this morning had just been a figment of his overwrought imagination? His fingers fiddled with the hair tie on his wrist. The hair tie he’d found in his bed. She’d been no dream. She’d been real alright. He hadn’t dreamed the way she laughed, that mysteriously smoky sound that had flowed like molten honey over his heated skin. He hadn’t dreamed that he’d been burying his face in the glistening dark copper of her hair either, or the way it glowed in the sunlight that flooded his bed.

God, she’d been so soft, so giving, as she’d whispered desperate promises in his ear as he’d filled her over and over. Promises that even now had tiny aches rushing over his flesh. He needed her to whisper those words, look at him, touch him, like that again and again.

So where the hell had she gone?

And how had she left the island since, according to Connie, no flights or boats had arrived or departed for two days.

So like the good soldier he was, Oscar considered the facts.

She was divorced.

He found the reality of that fact hard to grasp.

In his mind he’d imagined the beautiful Emma swanning around Washington, D.C. Hosting high-powered cocktail parties, intimate dinners, for her Senator husband. Pressing the flesh, working all the angles.

Living the fucking dream... just as her mother had planned.

If he lived to be a hundred, Oscar would never forget the way Catherine Ludlow had told him her daughter had married and was on her honeymoon. He'd never forget the triumphant malice in her polite voice, the sneer on her thin mouth, or how her grey eyes filled to the brim with a loathing she reserved purely for him.

Bottom line - in spite of his background - he wasn't good enough for Emma.

And all because his maternal grandmother had been African.

Bigots.

Oscar knew the world was full of them. But Emma's mother was in a league all of her own. A woman who faithfully attended church every Sunday, who quoted carefully selected passages from the Good Book, who talked about tolerance, diversity and inclusion. But at the rotten heart of her was a racist determined to do everything in her power to ensure no man of colour would marry her daughter.

Oscar didn't like the darkness in his heart, in his soul. He wasn't a man who lived in the past, or a man who let it affect him in the present. He'd moved on and made something of his life, of himself.

Heart pumping now with more than adrenaline, he shoved Catherine Ludlow from his mind and turned to stare out over the empty vastness of the ocean. He let the lace of the foam cool his feet and soothe the hurt in his heart. He'd loved Emma Ludlow. Totally. And because he'd done the right thing, fulfilled an obligation, a duty, he'd lost her.

Now he frowned as another thought slid into his brain.

Why hadn’t Nico, or more importantly Alexander, told him Emma’s marriage was in trouble?

Then he winced, remembering how he’d refused to discuss Emma when the subject had been brought up by his friends, how he’d refused to even hear her name, refused to deal with his feelings.

Oscar thrust frustrated hands through his hair, used her hair tie to hold his hair back.

How could he have been so bloody stupid?

Fuck it.

Deal with it, he ordered himself.

He spun around to jog over the sugar white sand to his cottage.

He hit the power shower, set it on cold, then forced himself to concentrate on his plans for what was left of the day.

For the next two evenings he was on duty in the kitchens, working with an excellent staff. And preparing whatever Eden's pampered guests desired.

He couldn't wait to begin.

She tried to sleep.

Even closed the blinds, placed a Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

After all, she’d just had six hours of hot monkey sex, orgasmed four... or was it five times. She should have been exhausted. But her whole body burned... all of it... inside and out.

Abruptly Emma sat up, switched on the light, took a sip of water.

The bitter sweet memories of how she and Oscar had come together, how he'd kissed her, touched her, the need in his deep voice and how he'd made her
feel
, weakened her now. And she fought like a tiger to beat those feelings back, to recover that sense of serenity she’d found on Eden.

She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms around her waist as she rocked back and forth desperately trying to keep gnawing desire at bay. But those feelings just would not be contained.

A whimper escaped from her throat.

How could she forget how good he felt under her hands, as he slid inside her, filling her in a way that had hurt so good. He’d tasted, all of him,
so
good. And she admitted she wanted more, much more. God, the way she’d rubbed her slick body against his, without restraint, made her whimper again.

Stop it! Her mind shouted loud and clear as the fire deep in her belly flared to life.

Stop it
!

She simply would not, could not, let this happen to her again. For three years she’d outsmarted, ruthlessly ignored, any desire, any need, for a man.

Not now... now that need was set ablaze inside her too quickly, wrenching, writhing, in such a way that she couldn’t get a grip on her emotions, her feelings.

She couldn’t get it to stop.

With a despairing moan, Emma rolled to lay under the comforter, curled into the foetal position and desperately tried to lose herself in sleep, to calm her frantic thoughts.

After all she'd been through, she’d only just found herself again.

The problem was that she didn’t trust her heart.

And she certainly didn’t trust Oscar.

He’d walked away from her once.

And his leaving had been the catalyst for the disaster that followed.

Why had she let herself have sex with him... again?

Had she learned nothing?

Memories, unrelenting memories, spun into her mind with a speed that had her squeeze her eyes tightly shut. The moment she'd discovered she was pregnant with Oscar's baby. The intense mix of fear and a wild happiness. Her mother's utter dismay. And then the pain of loss weeks later, as she'd miscarried. Along with her mother's obvious relief.

Emma knew there was no point in re-living the bad times.

Oscar had moved on, forgotten her.

Then they'd met this morning.

And she'd lost her mind.

Desire and a chemistry that could not be denied had overthrown common sense. But there was no doubt he'd been as affected as her, maybe even more so if that was possible. He couldn't seem to help himself.

They'd made wild and passionate love.

It meant nothing more than that.

So she shouldn't read anything more into it.

What was to stop him repeating the past, drawing her in and then walking away?

She shook her head.

Why hadn’t she asked him what he was doing here?

What had happened to change him, the tattoo, the hair, like that?

Too many questions and no answers now crowded into her busy brain.

Emma didn’t know where to turn, what to do with herself.

Then a little voice whispered softly in her mind, told her to use these feelings, to write them down, to get them on paper and out of her head.

She leaped out of bed, raced to her laptop and began typing.

All her thoughts, all her fears, poured from her fingers.

Hadn’t she learned the hard way that having sex, even hot sex, with a man meant nothing? Certainly not love, commitment or marriage. Three years ago Oscar, she reminded herself, hadn’t wanted a wife, or even a partner, he’d only wanted a booty call to scratch an itch. Emma had to hand it to him, he’d been clever. Three years ago she’d have done anything he’d asked. Anything. Even been an acceptable society wife, a woman who could juggle all the balls in the air expected of women today; wife, sex siren in the bedroom, earth mother, homemaker, career woman.

It had taken her years... including marriage to a monster... to finally accept that taking every promise or compliment from a man literally had been more than stupid.

Both Oscar and Richard had given her a clear-cut view of today's man. They could not be trusted. Once a woman handed them her heart, handed them the power to hurt, that woman was completely lost.

Emma finished typing, her fingers stiff, her head pounding as she closed her eyes with fatigue.

Oscar Zamani wasn’t looking for anything more than good sex.

What had happened between them this morning had been utter foolishness on her part and an error of judgement on his that wouldn’t happen again. And even if Oscar
was
looking for a lover, she wasn’t.

Emma Ludlow answered to no one, certainly no man. She answered only to herself and that was the way she wanted it. With a renewed sense of purpose, she clicked on her story file and got back to work.

When she was deep in a story, it was easy for Emma to let worries and cares slip away, even thoughts of Oscar and hot sex.

And when it came to plotting crime, Emma covered all the angles. With the psychopath in this story, she wanted something the killer could use that would be speedy, something that would be hard, if not impossible, to trace. Poison. A nice quick-acting poison.

Hmm.

Today she was introducing the killer to Cole, heaven help him. Georgia Bailey was a jaw-droppingly beautiful, sophisticated, sensuous, sexy bitch. A bitch who would tie her detective hero in knots. A bitch who, ultimately, needed to go out with a bang, rather than a whimper.

But before all that, today's challenge for Emma was to find just the right poison.

Something exotic.

Something rare.

Maybe something plant based.

Emma was mulling over a couple of ideas when, without warning, her focus slipped.

*  *  *

Her mind spun her on a sly little side-trip right back to her disastrous marriage. She hadn’t been in love with Richard. Maybe fiercely attracted, but attraction was not enough, so she'd had no business marrying him in the first place. It was all very well blaming her mother for steamrolling her into what had turned into an unmitigated disaster. But Emma had been a grown woman, for God's sake. A woman who should have done a basic background check on a man she'd known nothing about.

How the hell could she have been so stupid?

Emma thrust the heavy weight of her hair back from her face, and wondered where the hell she’d put her favourite hair tie.

She'd paid for her mistake.

In spades.

And it was time to move forward, and put the past where it belonged.

In the past.

*  *  *

Now Emma used her own life experiences as she threw herself into how her hero meets the woman who would change his life, and destroy his trust in all women, forever.

Night slid seamlessly into her room.

Emma didn't notice it.

She didn't notice the grey light of dawn hovering on the horizon.

Nor did she notice that her shoulders screamed or her fingertips were numb.

By the time she collapsed face down on her bed, eighteen hours had passed. But Emma couldn't give a hot damn. She'd burst right through the plot, given it a couple of surprise turns readers wouldn't see coming. Hell, she hadn't seen them coming herself. So it was a happy but utterly burned out author who sank like a stone into sleep. Blissfully unaware that by writing through the night and most of the morning, she'd set in motion a chain of events that would change her life.

Forever.

Chapter Eight

The head chef stood in the castle of Eden’s state-of-the-art kitchen, long legs apart, muscled arms folded, a stony stare pinning Mika to the spot.

It was eight-thirty in the evening and the young waiter felt as if he was about to pass out.

A trickle of cold sweat slid down Mika’s back.

His heartbeat hammered too fast against his ribs.

On the whole, being part of the service crew and working for Oscar Zamani was a pretty good gig. Chef might be one big scary bastard with hands the size of a dinner plate, but he was a cool guy, usually. Chef was also passionate about food reaching dining tables and rooms piping hot. Customer satisfaction was key. So how the hell was Mika going to explain the return of not just one, but two trays, untouched, from a suite in the tower?

"Just to be clear, Mika. You are telling me that the trays were simply left in the hallway?" Oscar wanted to know, his deep voice no more than a growl. His inflection was pregnant with disbelief, as if Mika had left a newborn unattended among a pride of lions. The tone had Mika's knees knocking.

"Chef, the... the note on the door said, 'Please knock. Leave the tray in the hall.' So I did. Twice."

"Note?" Mika jumped as Oscar barked the word, held out his hand.

Thanking sweet baby Jesus that he'd had the bright idea to bring the note with him as proof, Mika dug his hand into his vest pocket. Placed the folded piece of paper onto Oscar's huge palm.

Eyes never leaving Mika's, Oscar opened the paper, flicked his eyes down to read.

Silence.

With great care he folded the note and tucked it nice and safe in the top pocket of his crisp white chef jacket.

Dark eyes rose and pinned Mika to the spot.

"Name?" Oscar asked in a soft voice.

Because his black bow tie felt too tight, Mika cleared his throat.

"E.J. Byron."

Oscar frowned.

The name rang a very distant bell.

"Man, woman?"

"No idea, sir. Never seen him."

Oscar turned to survey the staff manning a kitchen gone too quiet, all that could be heard was the steady drip, drip, drip of a tap.

He raised his brows in silent query.

Everyone shook their head.

Oscar moved over to a tray, lifted a heavy lid of solid silver. He's never... never had an untouched plate returned to his kitchen. With a righteous fury burning his gut, he surveyed the congealed mess on a delicate plate of white china. His teeth ran over his top lip at the thought of how much planning and effort had gone into making sure the rack of melt-in-the-mouth lamb had been seared to a light pink... perfection. How the broccoli spears had been steamed to al dente... perfection. How the delicate reduction, using the finest claret from Eden's vast cellars and black currants flown in at great expense from the mainland, had excited the palate... perfection. The bowl of now limp green salad seriously annoyed him, too. But it was the mini baked Alaska, meringue made with handmade marshmallow scented with distilled rose water, that lay in a gooey mess of melted double cream ice-cream, which pressed his hot button.

Under the wide-eyes of a staff holding their collective breath, Oscar untied his pristine white apron, folded it carefully, and placed it on an immaculate stainless steel worktop.

He removed his chef's hat.

Placed it on top of the apron.

Turning on his heel, Oscar marched out.

"Omigod," Mika whispered.

The sous chef crossed himself.

* * *

A distant drumbeat boomed out, like thunder, and then echoed from far, far away.

What the...?

The struggle to open heavy lids made her groan out loud as Emma tried to kick-start her foggy brain. It sounded as if the heavy door to her suite was vibrating in its frame.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump
.

Emma stood, swaying on her bare feet.

Stumbling just a little, she shoved her hair from her face.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

A mix of irritation and worry began to simmer in her stomach.

She tripped over a pair of abandoned flip flops and nearly fell flat on her face.

Sheer temper had her kick one out the way as she stalked through the disaster zone that was the sitting room.

She yanked opened the door.

"What the
hell
?" she yelled.

The clenched fist in her face had her body react, arms lifting in defence, before her brain could compute. The trembling started in her feet, by the time it reached her knees, her legs couldn't hold her weight. The only warning she got was the roaring in her ears before Oscar was moving into her.

The world went black.

Thank God for quick reflexes.

Not only had he nearly punched Emma in the face, but he'd caught her just before her head hit the floor. A mix of alarm that he’d all but hit her, combining with an elation that he’d finally found her, had Oscar's heart pounding in his chest. He carried Emma in his strong arms. His Emma. She smelled the same, of flowers, and a very warm and very sleepy woman. A woman who right now was passed out cold. After he'd tossed reams of paper to the floor, he laid her on a couch.

Knelt at her side and just stared at her.

What on earth was Emma doing here under an assumed name?

It didn't make sense, unless... she was hiding from someone?

She wore a short sleeved T-shirt the colour of sand, matching yoga pants slung low on her hips, showcasing a flat belly. Her hair was long, right down to her ass. The day before he hadn’t taken a lot of time to just look at her. Now he had plenty of time to soak her in. Oscar studied her carefully. Her wonderful face was just the same. His brow creased. Nope. Thinner and maybe a little bit sad. And was that a worry line between her brows?

He took a cold hand in his, rubbed limp fingers, patted the back of her hand.

When her eyelids flickered, he blew out a very long, very relieved breath.

"All the way back, baby," he said. "All the way back."

She might not have the striking colouring of her cousins, Alexander's dark chestnut hair and Bronte's ash blonde, but Emma had the Ludlow eyes, a vivid emerald.

At the moment they were dazed and confused as they stared into his.

Then they blinked and that confusion was replaced with a sharp annoyance.

He offered her a smile.

Her response was a stony stare.

Oscar couldn’t find any love or affection in that stare, plenty of ice though.

Ooooookay.

"What do you mean by banging my door like that?"

Well, after the hot loving they’d shared the day before, the welcome was, to put it mildly... disappointing.

Not the ‘
What are you doing here
?’ he'd been expecting.

"You didn't eat."

Blink.

Blink.

"Excuse me?"

"You ordered food," he said in a soft tone, friendly even. "You didn't eat it."

"So what? Who are you, the food police?"

He was a bit more than that. However, she still looked pale, and was obviously snarky, so he held his tongue.

She moved to sit, but he placed a hand on her shoulder to keep her still.

"You fainted. Just sit there a minute until your head clears."

Shoving his hand away, Emma rolled to sitting and held her head in her hands.

"I don't faint," her snap of irritation had him move out of harm's way to sit on the opposite couch. Her eyes met his. "I was asleep and got up too fast thanks to you trying to break down the damn door. What are
you
doing here?"

Bingo.

"For the moment, I work here."

Those green eyes went wide. "Security?"

Oscar ran a hand down his jacket.

"Nope. I'm the head chef."

Bewilderment overcame irritation in those green eyes.

She blinked.

"Here? Seriously?"

The way her voice went too high on the second question tickled him.

He couldn't help it, his mouth twitched.

"Seriously."

His response won him another long, hard stare.

"I thought your life was, and I quote," Emma said, her fingers making bunny ears. "Dedicated to the service of our country, to duty, to the military. Apparently, I didn't fit into that life. Something about it being too hard for a woman like me. So colour me confused to find you in Eden, employed as a chef."

Oscar's brows met.

He had indeed sent her a letter.

The contents of his letter now spun into his mind as he wondered how that letter might have been in any way misconstrued or misunderstood.

Confused, he shook his head as he studied the do-not-bullshit-me-pal look on her face.

"You knew my work was classified," he began. "The order to rejoin my team came with a communication black-out. I fought for days for authorization to send you a note. A letter was hand-delivered to your house. I told you I loved you, Emma. I asked you to wait for me."

By the way her eyes went wide he realised he'd shocked her.

Silence.

Emma could not believe that Oscar would sit right there, looking like a rock-star with his long hair, the tattoo sleeve on his strong arm, and
lie
like that straight to her face. To think she'd been carrying a torch for a man she believed was still serving his country in war-torn regions, keeping the free world safe.

A hero.

Instead, here he was, larger than life,
cooking
?

She couldn't believe it.

For twelve months, she'd barely survived living with a man who'd played mind-games that were beyond cruel. She’d barely survived the lies, the way Richard had brain-washed (there was no other word for it) her own mother. Painful experience had taught her to take anything a man said with a pinch of salt. These days Emma Ludlow was no pushover. And now here she was sitting in front of another man who'd obviously kept closely-guarded secrets, too. Since Oscar's military role had supposedly been classified how could she verify the truth if he'd been on a covert mission or not? How convenient for him. Oscar Zamani was just like her ex-husband, a compulsive liar. A user. A breaker of hearts.

Temper now fisted in Emma's stomach.

Did he really believe she was the same naïve girl who'd handed him her virginity all those years ago?

Her legs might be a bit shaky, but now Emma stood, folded her arms.

"There's something very wrong with your memory. Maybe you got hit too hard on the head when you were out in Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever the hell you were. That's if you ever went there in the first place." The way Oscar's face lost colour as he stared at her as if he'd never seen her before, didn't fill Emma with dismay. On the contrary, it only spurred her on. "How do I know you're not a fantasist, a liar? Perhaps you'd like to explain how you went from a member of a crack military team to a chef?"

He looked bewildered, shocked even, as if unable to work out why she didn't believe him.

Now he rose to his feet, all six foot four of him and stared down into her furious face.

These days Emma recognised ill humour in a man.

She took a careful step back.

"I don't understand why you're taking that tone with me, Emma. My mother taught me to cook from the age of ten. Food has always been my passion."

Seriously?

Oscar was part of the Spencer family, one of the wealthiest in England. If ever a man had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, it was the man who was standing in front of her. Cooking had always been his passion had it?

Did he think she'd come off the last banana boat?

Emma didn't believe a word of it.

"So why didn't you join the cook corp.?"

He shook his head as his hands fisted at his sides.

Emma didn't take her eyes from his, didn't miss the signs of hostility, and took another step back. Living with a man who couldn't control his temper had made her wary.

"I joined the military after the seventh of July terrorist attacks in London. I lost my best friend. I couldn't just stand by and do nothing."

He sounded genuine.

Sounded plausible.

And the way his eyes were fixed on hers, he certainly appeared sincere.

But then another man who'd come across as sincere entered her mind. She remembered a dramatic moment from the end of her marriage, how tears had flowed down Richard’s cheeks. How he’d wept that he loved her, right in front of her mother. And her mother had believed every lie. Catherine Ludlow had been holding Emma’s ex-husband, comforting him. Then Richard had stared at Emma over her mother's shoulder and smiled right into her eyes.