Can You Forget?. Melissa James

hell was…Tara?

      But just as quickly those questions fractured into the only truth that mattered.

      The seventeen-year-old with the ultrastraight, ultra-blond hair and low-rise jeans, with the trio of hoop earrings and the galloping filly tattooed at the base of her back…no longer existed.

      Bloody hell, she’d never existed at all.

      She’d simply been an illusion.

      A lie.

      Through the quiet, Peggy’s Celtic music gained tempo, a flute and a drum merging into a staccato rhythm. He’d been about to swipe off his hat. He’d been about to stroll into the room as big as Australia, covered in dust and full of excuses, and charm his way out of discussing the merits of hors d’oeuvres until Andrew arrived.

      But now he lounged in the doorway, and watched.

      And something entirely different streamed through him.

      “Tara.” That was the name she’d given him, the name he’d whispered as she’d twisted beneath him and he’d twined his fingers with hers as his thoughts had drifted to the future.

      It was a damn odd time to smile, but his lips curved anyway, slowly, with deceptive languor. “Oops,” he said with all the remorse of a nine-year-old caught with his hand in his grandma’s cookie jar. “My bad.”

      Her eyes—impossibly, ridiculously blue—darkened. She stepped toward him, photo still in hand, but before she could so much as breathe, he rolled right on.

      “It’s Darci, isn’t it, sunshine?” The endearment, first drawled that long-ago night when she’d sauntered up to him with mischief gleaming in her eyes, sliced deep. “Darci Parnell.” Daughter of Weston Parnell, currently serving as Australia’s ambassador to Britain. At the time, six years before, he’d been serving his second term as president of the International Thoroughbred Racing Federation—the role Tyler’s cousin Andrew now sought to claim.

      Back then, when Darci had claimed to be twenty-three-year-old Tara Moore, Weston Parnell had been one of the most influential men in the Australian racing community.

      Hell, in the entire country.

      Darci had been seventeen. Seven-bloody-hell-teen. Tyler had been twenty-eight.

      Preston Heir Robs The Cradle

      He still had that newspaper, not framed and displayed like the ones chronicling Lightning’s Match and the growth of Lochlain, but tucked inside the bottom left drawer of his desk next to a foreclosure notice, as a reminder of just how steep a price carelessness could demand.

      “I know this must come as a surprise,” she said in that thick, cultured voice, the one that curled through him, even now. “But I thought it best—”

      “You thought it best.” He pushed from the wall and strolled closer, enjoying the way she tried to back up, but had nowhere to go. Except into the Preston-fortified bookcase. “You have a habit of that now, don’t you, sunshine?”

      Color touched her cheeks, not enough to be called a blush, but a flush, much like the night he’d looked down at her through the flickering light of a candle, and seen a soft glow to her cheeks.

      And her chest.

      Now her chin came up. “I knew you wouldn’t be happy—”

      “But why let something insignificant like that stop you, right?”

      “I believe in Andrew,” she said, and for the first time, fire flared in her eyes, not the recklessness of before, but something harder and deeper, wounded almost.

      Tyler just barely bit back the growl that formed in his throat.

      There was nothing wounded about Darci Parnell.

      “He wants to make a difference,” she said. “He’s the only one who can. If Jacko gets elected—”

      “Jacko is your father’s friend,” Tyler reminded her, but the obvious did not need to be pointed out. They both knew of the relationship between Weston and Jackson Bullock. With several newspapers and television stations fortifying his portfolio, Jackson had been more than happy to help his mate squash the bug who’d dared to put his hands on Weston’s precious little girl.

      The memory—the truth of it all—flashed in Darci’s eyes. “And he’s done enough, wouldn’t you say?” Her voice was quieter now, almost sad. “It’s time for fresh blood and new ideas, and that’s what Andrew represents. But he’s got an uphill battle in Jacko’s backyard. That’s why this party at Lochlain is so important. That’s why I didn’t use my name in our correspondence—”

      Why she hadn’t called, hadn’t let him hear her voice. Even with the change, even with all that elegance and breeding, he would have known.

      Tyler didn’t need a mirror to know that the truth of it all burned in the dark green of his eyes. “Some things never change, do they, sunshine? You still color the truth to fit all nice and tidy into your pretty little world.”

      She winced. “Think what you will of me,” she said, and her voice was stronger now. “But I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

      Yes, she was. She was standing in a sliver of sunlight, right in front of the family bookcase as if she had every right to be there. He took the last three steps that separated them and did what he’d been telling himself not to do. He lifted a hand toward the side of her face, and touched.

      He wasn’t sure what he expected…wanted. For her to turn away, twist away. Lift a hand to his wrist and yank it from her face. Tell him to go to hell.

      For her to step into him, lift her own hand to his face, push up toward him, tell him that she was sorry…

      She lifted her eyes to his, but made no move to step away, no move to break contact. The new age music had faded to a low, soft chant, leaving only the sound of their breaths and the burn of the heat.

      “You’ve done well,” she said quietly, and he felt himself stiffen as if she’d used her hands on him, rather than just her voice. “That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

      The words fell into silence for a long, slow heartbeat until the soft music shifted to a new song, this one with a shrill feminine wail.

      He jerked back, broke every sliver of contact, but bloody hell, even as he let indifference fall around him, he couldn’t help but wonder if any of Tara still existed beneath that trim-fitting suit, where he’d once run his mouth down the curve of her back to the little filly—

      “Peggy will get what you need,” he said roughly, as a mobile phone started to ring. Not his. He hated the things, rarely carried one, certainly not one that played Irish rock music as a ring tone. He turned, refusing to look at her one second longer. To let himself wonder.

      He strode toward the partially open door as the phone rang again, and again, the old braided rug muting the sound of his boots. It had been one of his father’s first purchases after moving to Australia. He’d hung on to it all this time, a reminder of what it was like to start with nothing. True, he’d had his name and a sizable trust fund, but back then David Preston had not had the one thing that had mattered to him.

      “Ty.”

      The quiet voice slipped across the office and the years. Time moved forward. Tyler knew that. To get where he was going, a man had to keep his eye on the destination.

      But he also knew the value of looking back. Of remembering—of never letting himself forget where he’d been.

      It was the only way to make sure he never went there again.

      Slowly he stopped, and slowly he turned. And this time he was prepared. He was prepared for the sight of her standing there, the sight of Darci Parnell in her chic little suit, holding the picture of him in her hands, the picture he’d caught her looking at when he’d first walked into his office, of him sitting atop Lightning’s