Page 45 of The Rebel

‘How many foster parents did you have?’

I expect him not to answer and evade anything personal as usual, but to my surprise he meets my curious gaze.

‘Three. When my dad dumped me with Social Services, I was six. That first home was really crappy. The parents were only fostering for the money, so it was pretty brutal, with two older siblings who’d been shunted between homes too many times already. I hated it…’

A lump forms in my throat at the thought of this amazing man being abandoned by his father so young. I remain silent, expecting him to do the same after revealing so much but once again, he surprises me.

‘I was there until I was ten, then got moved to another home, with much better parents who already had three kids of their own, but…’

‘But?’ I prompt.

‘But by then it was too late. I’d become too hardened, too sceptical, too cut off from everyone.’ A vein throbs at his temple as his jaw clenches. ‘They were okay people but couldn’t tolerate my shitty behaviour, so I eventually got shipped off to my third home in Melbourne, a really nice family who got through to me a little. I lived with them for a few years, then Pa discovered I existed.’ He shrugs as if his childhood ordeal means little. ‘You know the rest.’

Actually, I don’t. I don’t know why he’s beating himself up by sticking around doing a job he obviously loathes. I don’t know why he’s so reluctant to keep his charity work secret. And I sure as hell don’t know why I feel more for this damaged man than I should.

‘Let me guess. The Adlers are one big, happy family.’

He doesn’t sound bitter. In fact, he sounds almost curious, like he actually gives a crap about me. Wishful thinking.

‘Yeah, I guess I’m one of the lucky ones. Mum and Dad still idolise one another, and my two younger sisters are in long-term relationships.’ I hook my fingers into devil horns and place them on my head. ‘Since I quit my engagement, I’m the baddie of the family.’

He reaches for my hand and I let him clasp it, his warmth a comfort. I’m still a topsy-turvy mess over the realisation that I’ve somehow moved beyond sex and actually feel something for Hart, but his firm grip brings me back to the reality of how much I like him touching me.

‘It’s okay to walk away when something isn’t right for you. Sometimes, strength in our convictions is all we have.’

Such a simple proclamation with such profound results.

He’s right.

Why has it taken me so long to realise it?

And why do I need him to spell it out to make me believe it?

‘Thank you.’ I turn towards him, slip my hand out of his, and cup his face.

‘For what?’

‘Telling me what I needed to hear.’

Our gazes lock and I know in an instant that he feels it too. This. Whatever this is.

It’s bigger than sex and island flings and work.

It’s tenuous and fleeting but it’s there just the same, binding us when neither of us wants it.

‘Hart…’ I search for the words to make him understand that we’ve moved beyond fuck-buddies, but before I can speak he slams his mouth onto mine, hard and fast.

I would’ve fallen if he didn’t haul me against him, pinning me between his thighs. I’m mad at him for silencing me this way, for his cowardice in not wanting to confront the obvious, but my momentary struggle is for show only, because the second his lips sear mine, I’m gone. Swept up in a tide of passion and unwilling to surface.

I open my mouth to lodge a mock protest and he takes it as a blatant invitation to sweep his tongue into my mouth. With a resigned groan I meet him halfway, our tongues tangling as his hands slide under my skirt.

He plucks at my thong, toying with the elastic, before ripping it clean away. I’m embarrassingly wet, so turned on by his powerful display of control that I want to lie on his desk and spread my legs for him.

He wrenches his mouth from mine and stares at me like I’m chocolate mousse, lemon meringue pie, and sticky date pudding all rolled into one.

‘Turn around.’

I swallow a moan and do as he says.

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