To his credit, Alan kept the sarcastic comments to a minimum, actually listening as Tony told him everything.
“Your back must be getting better,” Alan said. He had yet to comment on Kyra, and Tony had to smile. Leave it to Alan to tackle the easy problems first. “I mean, if you’re running around being this Zorro character—”
“So what? I’m supposed to head back home and tell the chief ‘Hey, put me back on payroll. I saved a kitten from a tree’?”
“You told me the kitten got away.”
“Very funny.” But Alan was right. He’d been coping with his back these past days. It wasn’t great, but he’d been coping, ignoring the pain to play the hero, to live out his fantasy.
“You know what I’m saying,” Alan said. “So you’re not back on active? Big deal. You can work a desk. Or get another job. That consulting firm. Hell, they’re nationwide. You could live anywhere in the country—even Texas,” he added in a very Alan-esque way of steering the conversation around to Tony’s real problem.
Tony ran his hands through his hair. Maybe therewereother ways to be useful. Maybe he didn’t have to be out fighting fires. Maybe he could even get some satisfaction behind a desk.
But that didn’t change the most basic fact. “I can’t help her, Alan. She needs a deep pocket. A businessman. Someone with more money than I’ve ever seen. Someone who can keep a family legacy alive.” Frustrated,he clenched his fist. “This is the woman I love, and there’s not one damn thing I can do to help her.”
Even as he said it, he had to wonder. Why hadn’t he told her he loved her? Were his reasons really that noble, or was he just afraid of the pain he’d feel when she aimed those sad eyes at him and still chose Harold?
It was a risk. She might turn him down, might hang tooth and nail on to that foolhardy plan of hers. But dammit, he had to try.
He drew in a deep breath and said goodbye to Alan.
It was time for Michael and Tony to go have a talk with the woman they loved.
* * *
SHE WOKE UPconfused and not rested at all. Weird thoughts and images had danced in her dreams, and she’d spent the night tossing and turning. She wanted to call Mona, but her friend would just say that her insomnia was the product of typical Kyra-guilt—she loved one man, was sleeping with another, and yet planned on marrying another one altogether.
But that wasn’t it, not exactly. Stretching, she grabbed her notebook from the bedside table and trained her eye down the list she’d made before trying to sleep. Every reason why she should marry Harold was neatly printed down the left side of the page—her family, the business, security, stability, and more. All there in black and white.
On the right side, she could only put one reason not to marry Harold—Tony.
No contest. The pros clearly won out, though she was having a few niggling hesitations about following her list rather than her heart.
Still, something else was bugging her—that déjà vu feeling she’d been having for the past couple of days.
Annoyed, she rolled over, burying her head under the pillow. She’d left the Do Not Disturb sign up, and the maid hadn’t changed the sheets. Now she breathed in Michael’s familiar scent.
Very familiar.
She sat up, confused, as an image danced on the edge of her memory. The boat. When she’d play-wrestled Tony for the brownies. That scent. She knew it, was smelling it right now on her sheets: Obsession.
Coincidence, or more?
“Now you’re being silly,” she whispered. Her imagination was clearly running wild.
Or maybe not so wild. She nibbled on the edge of her thumb as her mind sifted through clues. The patch over his left eye and Tony’s scar. The evening beard and Tony’s freshly shaved face. Michael’s insistence on the dark.
But that was silly. Tony had been off the island the night she met Michael, or at least that’s what he and Stuart had said. A constructed alibi?
Maybe.
Except Tony had a bad back, and she and Michael hadn’t exactly been calm in the lovemaking department. But even then…
She frowned. Even then, Michael had been careful. The first time they’d made love, she’d been on top. And the other times…she sighed, her body remembering his touch. Yes, he had been careful.
She recalled the soggy dishtowel she’d found on the floor by her bed. Melted ice, perhaps? Maybe even being careful, his back had paid the price.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she sat up straighter. It was true—it had to be. The man she loved and the man she made love with were one and the same.
