Keep On Loving You

Simone, baby. Had Mac stiffened? Because he nuzzled her hair now. “Shh, shh, shh,” he said, his voice low, slumberous.

The sound of it was mesmerizing, yet there was still that alertness inside of her, her guarded heart keeping its barriers high and strong. But as time passed and he breathed deeply and slowly behind her, it was impossible not to melt a little against his heat.

His mind is on another woman, she reminded herself, which sent her wiggling again.

Zan’s arm hitched her closer and his breath tickled her ear, raising goose bumps along her neck. “Rest, Mackenzie Marie,” he said. “Rest.”

Mackenzie Marie? Zan knew it was her he held?

He knew it was her. But the thought didn’t give her any ease at all. Because as she lay wrapped in his arms, a new, uncomfortable awareness grew. Someone else was most definitely sharing the bed with them—and it wasn’t Simone.

Instead, it was the ghost of her past love for him.

Her breath caught. Oh, how she wished it wasn’t true, but there was something here beyond the tepid remains of a former friendship. Though she had recovered from his leaving her ten years before, though she was sure she was telling the truth when she asserted she was over Zan, with him pressed close to her back and his arm tucked under her breasts, her heart beat in an erratic rhythm and her skin felt both tender and much too warm.

What they’d once had no longer could be dismissed from her mind and memory. With his return, it was resurrected as a renewed, palpable presence in her life.

She swallowed a humorless chuckle. It turned out the Elliott mansion—or perhaps just Mac herself?—was haunted, after all.

She could only hope the ghost would disappear when Zan once again went away.

* * *

ZAN CAME AWAKE by degrees, with each passing moment a new muscle screaming at him, protesting that he was conscious, that he was breathing. Had he been hit by a truck? He’d seen the aftermath of such an accident, but—

Something stirred in his arms.

He blinked, wincing at the pain in his eyelids, and took in the back of a woman’s head. Her dark hair. Inhaling, he breathed in her scent.

Mac.

What the hell?

Snippets came back to him. Running into her and Brett at Oscar’s. His own pleasure at the meeting. Her frosty attitude.

The antagonism had disappointed him. The only good thing he’d considered about coming back to Blue Arrow Lake under the circumstances was the chance to reconnect with the Walkers. If he had to be bound to someplace for a couple of weeks, at least it was where the companions of his childhood were firmly rooted.

But Brett, and then Mac, hadn’t been particularly welcoming.

Yeah, it had stung.

So he’d stood to leave, and then... It went blurry after that. He remembered the dizziness, the sudden heat followed by the sudden cold. Mac again, grabbing him before he could get out the door.

I have a few things to say to you.

But it went mostly blank after that, so he could only suppose he’d looked sick enough that even a hostile Mac took pity on him...and somehow ended up in bed with him.

Now, at the thought, another muscle was making itself known. A morning erection was nothing new, of course, but this one was starting to ache like a sore tooth. With his body curved around Mac’s, if he didn’t take a stern stand with himself he’d be grinding into her most excellent ass at any moment.

A fine way to reestablish a friendship with her...not.

Willing himself not to move, he shifted his gaze out the window, where he could see the blue sky and an even bluer lake, surrounded by peaks bristling with dark evergreens. In his mind’s eye he saw the day he’d first arrived here, a boy trudging up the steps beside the grandfather he knew, but not well. In a just-the-facts style, the man had pointed out the amenities—the billiards room, the in-home theater, the Olympic-size pool in its glass capsule a few steps from the main house. Then there’d been the boathouse and docks. The speedboat he’d be able to drive at twelve, the small sailboat he could learn to maneuver straightaway, the paddleboat they could buy if Zan wanted one.

He’d wanted nothing but to return to the house at the beach. It had been spacious but not showy. The ocean views grand, as had been the life he’d led as the youngest of three kids. He’d skateboarded with his big sister and boogie-boarded with his older brother, and his mother had made cookies and his father had good-naturedly cursed the grill that seemed to burn everything he’d laid upon it.

The community of Blue Arrow Lake had seemed as alien as the moon to him, as void of warmth, until that boy in his class at school had said, “You fish?” and Zan had found a way to hang on.

And people to hang on to until he finally surrendered to his itchy feet and restless soul and turned his truck down the mountain.

The woman in his arms stirred now.

Zan kept himself completely still, though he was supremely aware of the softness of her breasts just above the band of the arm he’d flung over her.

Then she froze, too, as if suddenly aware of their positions. He was naked and she looked as if she was wearing his flannel shirt, but their bare legs were tangled and their position was almost as intimate as two lovers’ could be.

“Zan?” she whispered, her head still turned away from his.

“You crawl into other ill men’s beds often enough that you don’t know?”

In an instant, she’d flipped over to face him, her expression indignant. “I didn’t crawl, I’ll have you know! You manhandled me onto the mattress.”

His smile even hurt, but that didn’t stop it from spreading. “Sorry. I hope I’m not contagious. But if so, I promise to take off all your clothes and—”

“You did that yourself, too!” she said, scowling at him. Then she put her cool hand against his forehead. “Fever’s gone.”

He caught her fingers in his, kissed the back of her hand. “Yeah. Thanks. I’m not a hundred percent, but I know where I am now. Who I’m with.”

Her gaze shifting away from him, she tugged her hand from his clasp. “Um...”

“This is a first,” he said. “We never woke up beside each other, did we?” While they’d made love dozens of times, they’d never had the luxury of spending an entire night together. Maybe he should have coaxed her down the hill at some point and booked a hotel room, he thought, frowning. Why hadn’t he done that?

“I beg to differ,” Mac said now. “I recall several times waking up with you in that old tent we pitched in our backyard.”

He nodded, conceding the point. “When we were kids. All of us packed in there, Brett, you, Poppy, Shay and me. It smelled like mildew and Poppy screeched at every critter scurry.”

“Our scaredy-cat.”

“When we finally stumbled into your kitchen in the morning your mom would make cheesy scrambled eggs and bacon. I’ve had some good meals in my life, but those breakfasts were the best.”

“Yeah,” Mac said, reaching out to brush his hair back. Then her eyes went wide, as if bothered by her own offhand, clearly unplanned intimacy. “Um...why don’t I make those for you now? Could you eat?”

His stomach growled in response. “What do you think?” And he watched her roll off the bed. He was sad to see her go, but happy to have one of his oldest friends heading down to the kitchen, where they would share a meal.

By the time he got down there himself, however, freshly showered and shaved and feeling somewhat close to human, Mac had that chip squarely rebalanced on her shoulder; he could tell by the wary way she eyed him as he entered the room, her cell phone to her ear. “He’s here now, Brett. We’ll eat some breakfast, and then I’ll be off to work.”

After ending the call, she slid her phone into her pocket and turned toward the pan on the stove. “Cheesy eggs,” she said, spooning them onto plates. “OJ and bacon out already.”

He glanced over to see the small breakfast table in the nook had been set. Taking both plates from her, he carried them over himself. Once they were settled on the place mats, he pulled out her chair for her.

Mac’s brows shot up in surprise. “Manners?”

Showing her he had them might dull her at-the-ready thorns and render her a little more approachable. He was serious about wanting to reconnect with the Walkers, if only for his short time in their mountains.

Noting the two pain reliever tablets set by one of the glasses of orange juice, he smiled a little. “Taking care of me some more?” he asked, scooping them up. “Is that what you do—nursing?”

She made a face. “Hardly.”

Odd that she didn’t elaborate. “Well? Should I guess?” He cast his mind back to her childhood ambitions. “Snake charmer? Fortune-teller?”

At her snort, he tilted his head, considered the lovely angles of her face and the crystalline quality of her blue eyes. “Fashion model?”

She rolled them. “No.”

He waggled his brows. “Lingerie model?”

A flush pinkened her face. “I clean houses.”

“Clean houses.”

“Yes! There’s nothing wrong with honest work, you know.”

“I never said there was.” Jeez, she was so touchy now. “You clean houses. Good for you.”

“I run my own business,” she mumbled, gaze on her plate. “Maids by Mac.”

“I’m not surprised, Mackenzie Marie.”

Her head came up, her eyes narrowed. “What? That I clean up other people’s messes for a living?”

“That you’re a businessperson. That you’re in charge.”

“Oh,” she said, her expression evening out.

“You always were a bossy little thing,” he added.

“Oh!” She tossed her balled-up paper napkin at him.

He laughed. “Tell me everything about everyone. About Brett and Poppy and Shay. And anyone else I used to know.”

“Does that mean you’ve missed us?”

“I...” Christ, had he?

Instead of waiting for him to answer, she began to talk. It was grudging at first, he decided, but soon her voice warmed as she filled him in on her brother and sisters. In a few minutes he knew about Brett’s landscape business and his wife, Angelica, about Shay with a stepdaughter-to-be and the builder she was about to marry. Finally, he heard about Poppy, her little boy, Mason, and Ryan Hamilton, former actor-turned-producer whose bride she would become in a few weeks.

“How could all this have happened?” he wondered aloud.

“Ten years,” Mac said, her demeanor cooling again. “It’s been ten years. Maybe if you’d bothered to stay in contact, none of this would come as such a shock.”

He hadn’t wanted to stay in contact. At the time, it had seemed smartest to leave without backward glances.

“So...you?” Mac gathered up their plates and took them to the sink.

“Let me do that,” he protested, but she ignored him.

“Pay me back,” she said. “Your last ten years?”

Exciting. Challenging. Wearying.

“Something about a documentary?”

At his puzzled glance, she explained. “I heard you talking to Mr. and Mrs. Robbins at Oscar’s yesterday. Earth Unfiltered?”

“Oh. Yeah. In my travels, I stumbled upon the crew in their early days. Joined them. Learned a hell of a lot, at first from just humping shit from place to place, then I did more. Research, camera work, a little writing.”

“Wow.”

It had been wow so much of the time. But there’d been arduous treks, long delays, bad reactions to strange foods...and, finally, a pervasive sense of dissatisfaction. “Traveling to remote corners of the world has a way of making one feel small. And unconnected.”

Mac was looking at him funny. He tried to make a joke of it. “Did I just say that out loud?”

“A person can feel alone anywhere,” she said, then turned her back to put the plates and utensils in the dishwasher.

A weird vibe entered the room. Zan rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to dissipate the sense of needle-toed fairies dancing over his skin. Christ, he’d thought conversation would get him comfortable with Mac, bring them back to friendly footing. But so far...

“Who’s Simone?” she suddenly asked.

“What?” It came out like a squawk.

“Simone. You talked about her in your sleep last night.”

Simone. Zan squeezed shut his eyes, saw her golden tan, her wild, streaky hair, heard her throaty laugh. They’d been two of a kind, each recognizing the other instantly. Wanderers. Adventurers. Nomads.

People tied to no one.

“Zan?”

He cleared his throat. “She was part of the documentary crew the last couple of years. We were...coworkers.”

“Lovers.” She didn’t say it like a question.

“For a time we shared a bed on occasion.” He glanced up at Mac, but her back was still to him. “For a very short time. Neither one of us was interested in anything remotely permanent.”

Mac’s head bobbed in a nod. “Where is she now?”

He hesitated.

“You wanted her to come back.” She shut the dishwasher door with a clack. “That’s what you said last night, anyway.”

Oh, shit.

“She can’t. She died.” He winced, hearing the bald way he’d said the words when Mac stiffened. “I’m sorry to put it like that. It’s just...”

Mac turned and leaned back against the counter, regarding him with serious eyes. “It’s just...what?”

“It was such a random thing. The act of a moment.” Zan scrubbed his hand over his face. “We’d been to the Russian steppes and the Sahara Desert and the Solomon Islands. Cozied up to tribal warlords and run from violent warthogs. Scaled slippery waterfalls and explored deep, bat-filled caves. We ate things that make my belly cringe thinking about, not wanting to offend our hosts. Any one of those things could have ended in death.”

Mac reached for a fresh glass, filled it with water, then brought it over to him. Grateful, he took a long swallow. “It was in Berlin. We were walking to lunch, the lot of us. Simone was trailing behind, looking at her phone, checking the weather for our next day’s flight. As mundane as that.”

“And?”

“And she stepped off a curb without looking. A truck took her out. The driver couldn’t stop in time—there was no time.” He closed his eyes. “No time left for Simone.”

“I’m sorry.” Mac’s voice was low. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He was sorry that Simone was gone, too. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

And how sorry was it that he wanted to turn into Mac’s body so badly. Bury his head between her breasts and bury his sadness in the familiarity of her body. Lose himself in his lust for her that apparently hadn’t dissipated in ten years.

Hold her as if she was more than just an old, old friend.

CHAPTER FOUR

AS SHE CLIMBED out of her shabby sedan, Tilda Smith glared up at the gathering clouds, hoping a challenging stare would stave off the predicted rain...at least for the time it would take her to collect the groceries stored in the backseat and cart them up the walkway and steps that led to the fancy house.

She took another quick peek at the place, exhorting herself not to be intimidated by its amazing lakefront location, its immense size, the wealth that it testified to. The area surrounding Blue Arrow Lake had been home her entire life and the divide between the haves and have-nots something she’d breathed in like the clean mountain air.

Most locals didn’t resent the rich who had homes on the choicest coves or the most stupendous mountainsides. Without them, what jobs would they have? The way things were, there was a need for grocers and Realtors and restaurateurs to serve the needs of the affluent who came up the hill with their inherited fortunes or with the money they made from TV or tech or investing other loaded peoples’ dollars.

Most locals didn’t feel the least bit used by the well-heeled whose lawns they tended, whose food they prepared, whose houses they cleaned.

A few locals, though, ended up providing services of an entirely different nature. And to Tilda’s mind, they were used.

She pushed that thought away, along with the pang of grief that accompanied it. Neither were productive and she didn’t have the time or energy for anything beyond what would keep her solvent—making her rent, filling her gas tank, filling her belly and paying for the online courses that were her only way of getting an education beyond her high school diploma.

At twenty-one, she was on track for getting her degree in biology in another six years.

Shoving a long swathe of her wavy brown hair off her shoulder, she bent to scoop up the grocery bags. Her boss at Maids by Mac, Mackenzie Walker—whom Tilda also counted as a friend—had passed over a list and the cash to pay for the items. She understood that Tilda didn’t have the extra to float the purchases until getting back to the office and handing over the receipt.

She shut the back door of her car with her hip and gave a cursory glance at the upscale vehicle she’d parked beside. Only two things interested her about automobiles: Did they run or didn’t they? But it was hard not to admire the gleaming black finish and tinted, smoky windows of the luxury ride. By comparison, her dented two-door with its faded paint looked like something that had been abandoned in a weedy, empty lot for an untold number of years.

Exactly what Roger Roper had claimed when he sold it to her, as a way to account for the astonishingly low mileage.

Tilda had known he was lying—she figured he’d fooled with the odometer—but the price had been right, and so far it had been kind to her.

Unlike the weather. As she moved toward the front door, big, cold drops shook out of the overhead clouds, leaving fat dots on her ragged jeans and on her faded green long-sleeved T-shirt. It read Blue Arrow Lake down one arm and the hem was unraveling, but it was good enough for her work as a maid.

Sometimes, if the homeowner was present, or if she took on a side job for a local caterer, she wore black pants and a white blouse as a “uniform.” But her helping with food service was irregular and the places she cleaned for Mac were usually empty during the week and used only on the weekends. So most often when working, Tilda dressed just one stage above rags, to prevent an errant product spill or a particularly grungy task from ruining a choicer piece of her meager wardrobe.

Now rain found the hole in her right sneaker, the one over her big toe.

An expert at ignoring things that caused her discomfort—from mere nuisances to actual anguish—she continued on, not even wishing she’d selected her other pair of work shoes for the day.

At the front door, she juggled the bags to free a finger and press the bell. It started up an intricate set of bonging notes, a classical tune, she supposed, that someone might learn to recognize in a college music appreciation class or even through the speakers in an elevator.

But Tilda would never register for a course so impractical.

And she’d never been in an elevator in her life.

It was weird, that, but true. She tried not to think it was because she wasn’t born to rise above her station.

Then the door swung open and her mind fogged.

Her expectation was to find on the other side an old friend of Mac’s who also was a former flame. He was recovering from the flu, she’d said. His cupboards were nearly bare. Tilda’s job had been to do a bit of marketing and to deliver it to the man—whose name was Zan Elliott.

But the person on the other side of the threshold wasn’t him.

Ash Robbins, her inner voice spoke in an appalled whisper. You weren’t ever supposed to see him again.

In her head, the fog cleared and playing cards—each an image of their one night together—were dealt across its surface. But she ruthlessly swept them away even as her skin flashed hot-cold-hot. It would be almost a relief to imagine she might be getting the flu, as well.

But what she was really getting was another look at Ash Robbins. Oh, God. A tidal wave of shame washed over her.

“Tilda!” He said her name and his handsome face split into a wide, white, perfect smile. As if he was happy to see her. How could he be happy to see her? “My God, this is amazing.”

Amazing? It was awful.

And so surprising that she stood like a stone, just staring.

His smile died. A faint pink stain spread across his cheeks. “Uh...” He swallowed. “Remember me? From that night, um, last May? Ash Robbins.”

Wow. She’d rattled golden-boy Ash Robbins, who was twenty-two and the apple of his filthy-rich parents’ eyes. They’d met right after his college graduation and the night before he left for an impressive summer internship in international banking.

She bobbed her head and said, “Ash,” as if he were, like his name, nothing more than a smudge of gray dust on her memory banks. Then she glanced down at the groceries, back up at him. “Can I come in for a moment?”

“Of course, of course. God, you must think I’m a moron.”

No, only the most attractive guy I’ve ever seen. That’s what had caught her attention at first, the night of her twenty-first birthday. His good looks. Only later, when he’d had the waitress deliver a drink and she’d smiled in return had he wandered to her table and introduced himself. His name had let loose her worst impulses.

“Let me take those,” he said now, bending a bit at the knees so he could get his arms under hers. His wrists brushed the undersides of her breasts and an answering shiver rolled down her back.

His gaze jumped to hers. “Sorry.”

“About what?” she asked vaguely, releasing the bags. Let him think his touch was nothing she remembered. That it didn’t affect her in the least.

Ash turned and she shut the door behind them, then followed him across gleaming floors to a state-of-the-art kitchen. Her apartment had a microwave and a single burner she and her roommates plugged into an electrical outlet. But thanks to the job that took her into many of the priciest homes in the area, she recognized the upmarket appliances and their functions.

He set the bags on the island and peered into them. “Uh...”

“I’ll put the things away,” she offered. His privilege probably meant he didn’t know if canned soup belonged in the pantry or the refrigerator. “I am at the correct house, right? This is Zan Elliott’s place?”

“Yeah.” Ash ran his hand through his hair, rumpling the golden-blond waves. “He’s taking a shower. But he knows his friend—Mac, isn’t it?—was sending someone by with groceries.”

“That’s me...not Mac, but the someone with the groceries.”

He smiled, a dimple digging deep in his cheek. Outside, the rain began in earnest, coming down in sheets.

Ash’s dimple. Heavy rain.

It only needed a flat tire to cap out a really crappy day.

“How have you been?” Ash said, as she moved toward the pantry, the soup and a box of crackers in her hands.

“Um, fine.” Small talk? After what had happened that night he wanted to chat?

“I’ve been fine, too—though I’ve thought about you again and again, hoping I didn’t leave you with a bad impression.”

Her head whipped around. “What?”

“I didn’t even wake up to say goodbye.”

It was actually she who’d left without a word while he was sleeping, sneaking out to do the Walk of Shame at dawn—and boy, had she been ashamed. Of course, there had been no getting away from her own conscience, but once the hotel door had locked behind her, second thoughts had been useless.

“No big deal,” she said.

“I wished I’d found a minute to make contact before I left.”

“You had a plane to catch that morning.”

“Yeah.” Once she returned to the bags, he spoke again. “But I also wasn’t my best the night before.”

As if she’d been a saint.

“I don’t...” He cleared his throat. “After a certain point I don’t really remember too much about it.”

Now she turned her head to stare at him. Could it be true?

His hands dived into his pockets and he hunched his shoulders, appearing as uncomfortable as a rich, handsome young man with the world at his feet could look. “Possibly it was that last bottle of champagne I ordered from room service.”