Billionaire Bosses Collection. Кэрол Мортимер
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Was that how the Fletts talked about him when he wasn’t around? Saying that he should grow a conscience rather than sending obligatory birthday gifts and making an obligatory Christmas visit during which he couldn’t wait to escape back to his life?
Considering how he’d withdrawn from them, he couldn’t blame them.
He wanted to forgive and move on.
He wanted to shelve his pride and bring the whole thing out into the open.
But every single time he wanted to broach the painful subject of how he’d felt at being shut out, and how their rebuttal of his overture had hurt, one image stuck in his mind.
His dad, elbows braced on his precious piano, head in his hands, crying. Big, brusque Frank Flett never cried, and to see his father so broken had left a lasting legacy.
It had been just after they’d finally told him the truth—a year after his dad had been given the all-clear. Twelve freaking months, on top of the six months Frank had battled the disease that could have claimed his life, when his family had shut him out because they didn’t want to distract him, or thought he couldn’t handle it, or some such rot.
He’d been livid, and seeing his father’s tears had reinforced what they thought of him as nothing else could.
If his dad could still cry when he was cancer-free, how bad must it have been during the long battle of surgery, chemo and the rest?
A battle he’d been excluded from because they’d deemed him not responsible enough to handle it.
His hands unconsciously clenched into fists and he inhaled, forcing himself to calm down before any of his bitterness spilled out.
‘What’s wrong?’ Tom’s perceptive stare bored into him and he glanced away.
‘Nothing.’
‘Like hell.’ Tom paused, made an exasperated sound. ‘Is that why you keep running? Because you think I got trapped, gave up a dream, and you don’t want the same to happen to you?’
Archer’s tension eased as he saw Callie strolling towards the bar, her pale lemon floral dress swishing around her calves, making her look ethereal and pretty and all too ravishing.
What could he say?
The truth?
That he didn’t dare trust an incredible woman like Callie? That even now, after the incredible reconnection they’d shared last night, first at the beach and later at his house, he was absolutely terrified of giving in to the feelings she evoked?
He settled for a partial truth. ‘You know I wanted out of Torquay, and surfing was my ticket out. No harm in following your dreams.’
‘Unless it interferes with what you really want.’
Archer glared at his brother, not liking the direction this conversation was taking.
‘How would you know what I really want?’
‘Because I see the way you look at Callie.’
He hated Tom’s condescending smirk as much as his homing in on his innermost fears.
‘And I’d hate to see you throw away a chance at real happiness because you’re stuck on some warped idea that being in a relationship means giving up your freedom.’
That was not the only thing being in a relationship meant. Reliance, trust, love, they were all a part of it too, and those were the things or, more to the point, the loss of those things that ensured he’d never let Callie get too close.
She’d almost made him slip once before.
Not this time.
‘You’ve been watching too many chick-flicks after Izzy’s in bed,’ he said, wanting to wipe the infuriating, know-all expression off Tom’s face. ‘I like my life. I’m doing what I want to do, so lay off.’
‘Truth hurts, huh?’
Archer swore. ‘How about you concentrate on getting your own love-life in order and leave me the hell alone?’
He stalked off a few paces. Not far enough to escape Tom’s taunt.
‘Who said anything about love?’
He strode faster. He might be able to outrun his brother’s annoying chuckles, but he couldn’t shake the insistent little voice in his head that focussed on that one little L-word and its disastrous implications.
* * *
Callie’s head ached.
Bad enough she’d spent the last twenty-four hours over-analysing her impulsiveness in tumbling into a physical relationship with Archer—now she’d inadvertently joined the unofficial Archer Flett Fan Club.
Ever since she’d arrived at the party she’d been bombarded with glowing recommendations from every female family member. And the interrogation from the Flett females was truly frightening.
They wanted to know everything.
And she didn’t know what to tell them. What could she say? That she’d handed Archer her heart eight years ago, he’d trampled it, and now she’d foolishly come back for more?
Uh-uh. So she’d glossed over her relationship with Archer as being old friends catching up while he was in Melbourne. Interestingly, Shelly had revealed what a refreshing change she was from Archer’s usual dates, ‘snobby, plastic, citified bimbos’, who wouldn’t mingle let alone talk to his family.
She’d wanted to pry, but Archer’s mum had shot Shelly a warning look and she’d clammed up. Not that Callie wanted to acknowledge the twinge of jealousy, but considering how warm and welcoming Archer’s family had been towards her, she was surprised he’d bring that type of woman home.
That was another thing. His interaction with his family. Something was definitely off.
He’d been nervous about attending this party. She’d seen it back at his place, subtle signs that his usual confidence was rattled: pacing the balcony while she’d been getting ready, sculling caffeine drinks, absentmindedly changing TV channels without watching any show.
When she’d asked him about it he’d laughed it off, but she’d known there was more to it when he’d taken his sweet time getting out of the car when they’d arrived and then remained on the outskirts the entire party.
She’d seen him talking to his brothers, but beyond a perfunctory greeting for his parents he’d kept his distance from them.
Which begged the question why?
She’d ask later—add it to the million other questions buzzing around her brain. Questions she should have asked before falling in lust with him all over again.
One thing was for sure: Archer’s family wanted him to stick around for a change. No way would she break the news to them that there was more chance of her winning the next surf pro classic than Archer Flett putting down roots.
He was a confirmed nomad, and in a way it added to his charm. His impulsiveness, his spontaneity, his live-for-the-moment attitude. What they’d done on the beach...the memory had her running a chilled glass across her forehead. It did little to cool the scorching images replaying like a naughty film.
Archer peeling off her swimsuit, exploring every inch of her body with strong, sure hands, kissing her everywhere...
‘You can get arrested for looking like that.’
Archer’s whisper fanned her ear, sending little pinwheels of sensation ricocheting through her as his arm slid around her waist, anchoring her to him.
As if she’d want to run. Her surname wasn’t Flett. More was the pity.
‘Like what?’
He growled at her faux innocence. ‘Like you’ve spent the day in bed and you can’t