Part 6 (1/2)
”You run, Donovan. Things get bad and you deflect and then you run. You don't explain, you just do whatever the h.e.l.l you want.”
An eyebrow lifted as she looked straight at him. ”Do you hate me for what I did?”
The question came out of nowhere, and for a moment Jack wasn't sure what to say. And for a guy who was used to using words to get his point across, that wasn't a good place to be in. He watched her closely. Watched the play of emotion flickering in her eyes which were now gla.s.sy.
Did he get into this now? Did he open that can of worms?
”Would it matter if I did?”
She blinked rapidly and nodded, her voice barely a whisper. ”Yes. It would matter.”
”Why?” he asked without thinking.
Tense, Jack moved a few inches back, rolling on his heels as he stared down into a face that he would never forget. A face that belonged to the woman who'd walked away from him all those years ago. It was all her. h.e.l.l, she'd refused to talk to him when he'd driven all the way to Nashville from Florida to confront her, and then she'd threatened to have security throw him out of the G.o.dd.a.m.n hotel when he refused to leave.
He shouldn't have to remind himself that he'd moved on and had no desire to revisit their past. So why was he asking her the one question he shouldn't care to know the answer to?
He felt that slow burn of anger again, and eyes flat he watched her, his wine gla.s.s held so tightly he was surprised it didn't shatter in his hand. This is how he needed to be with her. Hard and uncompromising. It's what she deserved.
”Jack,” she said roughly. ”Let's just eat. A trip down memory lane isn't going to be good for either one of us.”
She was right. He had no desire to rehash a past that was totally f.u.c.ked.
”Let's eat,” he said abruptly, turning toward the patio.
Spell broken, Jack was back on his game. Even though his appet.i.te had pretty much vanished, he'd eat his steak, drink his wine and do whatever it took to forget about her. No way was he letting Donovan James get under his skin again.
Chapter Eight.
The next day Jack was aloof, his political game face on. He answered a few questions about his campaign, but it was painfully obvious he wasn't interested in conversation. Polite or not. So Donovan gave up.
She spent the day pretending to read the Huxley book, and Jack spent the day out on the water. No shared meals. No conversation. There was just nothing.
And yet the entire day she was hyper-aware of every move he made. Her eyes followed him from behind her over-sized Gucci's, and even the silent treatment did nothing to abate her need to watch him.
Lunch and then dinner came and went. He made himself pasta and salad (Mary kept the fridge and pantry well stocked), and then he'd eaten alone on the patio.
Jack was right, Donovan was hopeless in the kitchen, so she settled on a peanut b.u.t.ter sandwich, a soda, and a chocolate bar for dessert. Which she ate down on the dock because there was no way she was going to sit on the patio with Jack and take his silent treatment.
When he left for a walk around the island just as dusk was falling, Donovan escaped to her bedroom and now, nearly twelve hours later, after a third night of next to no sleep, her nerves were wrung so tight that a headache was burrowing inside her skull.
Tomorrow Roger and Mary should return, and Donovan prayed that they'd come sooner. She hadn't been able to write. Hadn't picked up her guitar since Jack arrived and the slow, s.e.xual burn that wouldn't go away was driving her crazy. How could two people who hated each other so much still have that connection? She knew he felt it. She'd seen it in his eyes.
All of that coupled with the tension and the sleepless nights were making her cranky, and she contemplated hiding out in her bedroom for the day. But then the more she thought about things, the more angry she got.
She paced her room, worrying her lower lip until it was raw and finally she realized how ridiculous she was being. She scooped up her towel and book (why oh why hadn't she brought at least one People Magazine?) and opened her bedroom door.
She strode out into the main room, ready for whatever side of Jack Simon she was going to get, only to find the place deserted.
Huh.
”Jack?” she called out softly. But nothing. Only the breeze coming in through the open windows, making the wind chimes sing.
Donovan downed two headache tablets, grabbed her stuff, this time she tossed in her notebook and pencil, and headed down to the beach. Her spot was vacant. The beach was vacant. In fact it seemed as if the entire island was vacant.
Glancing over to the dock, she noticed the second boat was missing and lips pursed, she began to unpack for the day.
”Could have at least left me a note,” she muttered. ”Maybe I wanted to use it today.” Not really but still. ”Hope a G.o.dd.a.m.n shark finds you,” she said, eyes on the water and then glanced around. ”Jesus, Donnie. You're starting to sound as crazy as you feel.”
That was an understatement.
She was b.i.t.c.hing about a boat she didn't even know how to drive, and she was talking to herself. Falling into her beach chair in a huff, she reached for her notebook instead of the book-that-she-would-never-read.
Her notebook was for writing songs. For getting words down that she could put to melody. But as she stared out over the water, feeling more lonely than she could ever remember feeling before, she began to think of a lot of thinks that she'd pushed to the back of her mind. Dark things. Painful things. Secret things.
Taking her pencil out of her mouth Donovan sighed, and after a few seconds she began to write. What ended up in the pages weren't words meant for music. Nope. They carried a lot more weight than that. They were words meant to tell a story. The sad story of Donovan and Jack.
And the night it all went to h.e.l.l.
By mid afternoon she'd filled more than twenty pages, her cursive writing small and neat. She was spent, emotionally drained, and glancing down at the paper, it was no wonder. Everything was there. Every sad and sordid detail.
Getting stuff out was supposed to make you feel better, but right now, in this moment, she felt nothing but overwhelming sadness for the life that she could have had. A life that she wanted. A life that she thought about every single day.
Tired and hungry Donovan, headed up to the house. By the time she showered and prepared herself the saddest looking salad ever (she'd tried to get the caramelized walnut thing happening but burnt them instead), the sky was blocked out by yet another storm rolling in.
Determined not to dwell on Jack, she ate her salad on the patio and tried to ignore the empty chair across from her. And the empty dock for that matter, which was even harder to do, because big fat raindrops began to fall just as she was finis.h.i.+ng up her dinner. Along with the rain came thunder, and a bolt of lightening ripped a hole in the sky. She barely made it inside before a deluge fell from the stormy clouds.
Now Donovan was the kind of girl who loved the rain. When she was little she used to run around and try to catch drops on her tongue, and if it was thundering and lightening, even better. Her gramps, G.o.d bless him, used to call her the little witch. Her mom? Just plain stupid.
Of course things changed the summer she turned twelve and witnessed her cousin Zack get hit by a bolt that came at them without any warning.
The smell of burning flesh was something she'd never forget, and her cousin Zack had never been the same. Lucky to be alive, he suffered third degree burns and lasting neurological defects, including seizures. Another thing her mother had blamed Donovan for.
”Can't you ever listen? You know that trouble always finds you, and now your cousin is gonna be a vegetable, and that's all your fault.”
So yeah, Donovan wasn't a fan of lightening and Jack Simon was a fool to be out on the water in such a storm. He, of all people, knew better. What the h.e.l.l was he thinking? Was he so p.i.s.sed at being stuck on this island with her that he had to take the boat out into the Caribbean to get away from her?
Whatever, she thought. But whatever didn't make her feel any better because an hour pa.s.sed and no Jack. And then another. Still no Jack.
By this time it was dark outside, and her bandaged foot was killing her from all the pacing she'd done. Up and down, back and forth. Across the patio where it still rained and then back inside. But she couldn't stop. Worry had her nerves jumping like a Mexican bean, and her stomach was just as bad, tied up in knots that would make Christian Grey proud.
Jesus. It wasn't fair that she still cared so much.
Where was he? Was he hurt? Had the storm somehow overturned his boat? Was he somewhere out there in shark infested waters, trying to keep his head above water?