The Rock by Monica Mccarty Read Free Book Online Page B

at all.
    But he did blame her. He blamed her for being sweet and kind and so generous and funny that he couldn’t help falling in love with her. He blamed her for being so damned beautiful it hurt just to look at her. He blamed her for deluding him into believing that he was someone worthy not only of friendship but of love. For making him believe that he was her equal in all the ways that mattered. For all the years he’d wasted waiting for something that was never going to happen.
    He wasn’t mad at all.
    She put her hands on her hips the way she always did when she was angry with him. “I’m more than familiar with your black moods, Thom MacGowan, so don’t try to intimidate me with your scowling. I know when you are mad about something.”
    He stood, letting his arms fall to his sides. “As you pointed out, a lot has changed in five years. Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” He took a step toward her, looming over her in the semi-darkness. “Maybe you should be intimidated. I’m not distracted by silly jokes anymore.”
    The deep suggestiveness of his voice hinted at exactly what might distract him now.
    Her chin jutted up, but the flutter of a pulse below her jaw told him that she was not as unaware of his meaning as she wanted to be. He felt a surge of distinctly primal satisfaction. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    No doubt she didn’t mean it the way it came out, but her words only fueled his temper, which like the rest of him was already too hot. The soft, subtle scent of her perfume wrapped around him in a sensual haze, stoking—or maybe he should say stroking—the flames of desire that made his body harden.
    He stepped back. “Aye, it’s ridiculous, all right. Which is why you should get the hell out of here.”
    It took her a moment to realize what he meant. “I didn’t mean . . .” She scowled. “You know what I meant—that you would never hurt me—but you seem determined to misunderstand me. And don’t speak like a churl.”
    “Don’t you mean like the son of a smith? I may not speak French—or whatever other languages you converse in now—but I understand you perfectly. Which is why we have nothing to say.”
    She pursed her mouth, clearly trying to exercise patience in the face of his rudeness. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, Thommy.” Hurt feelings? If a hole could have opened in the middle of the floor to swallow him up, he would have welcomed it. Was two weeks ago not humiliating enough? She’d crushed his dreams, made him feel like a fool for thinking he could matter to her, and she acted like he was an overly sensitive schoolboy. “But you caught me off guard. I had no idea you felt . . . like that.”
    It embarrassed her even to say it. He suspected his face was as red as hers, and his teeth were gritted so tightly he was surprised he could speak. “That was obvious. But you need not worry that I will trouble you with those feelings again. I was mistaken.”
    She instantly brightened. “Then we can forget all about this and get back to normal?” She smiled. “I’ve missed you, Thommy. There is so much I want to tell you about France.”
    Years ago, he would have listened happily to her stories—actually, he had. Although he had no desire to see France or any of the other places she spoke of when they were younger, he would have traveled there, lived there, whatever she wanted, if that would have made her happy.
    Now he stared at her in disbelief. Did she think his feelings were so shallow and malleable that he could turn them on or off like the wick from an oil lamp?
    “How do you propose we get back to normal, Elizabeth? I’ve been waiting for five years for the lass I’ve loved for as long as I can remember—who I thought loved me—to come home.” Her eyes widened at the word “love,” but he didn’t stop. “And when she does come home, it’s to learn that everything I thought was wrong. Not only does she not return those