face had dominated the tabloids, but she’d taken steps to make herself look very different from that girl who’d been considered a media sensation. Her hair had been shorter, straighter, redder, and she’d faced the world with a permanent pout.
Attitude, they called it. Spoiled selfish brat behavior, she called it now. To the tabloidreading public, she’d been considered a “bad girl” who always went right to the edge of trouble, but didn’t quite slip over that cliff. Few had understood how tempting that fall would have been to her. Anything to save her from the life she’d been leading.
She’d been born Summer Hudson, daughter of Glendenning Hudson, one of the richest real estate moguls in Manhattan—a man who partied with film stars and raced yachts for recreation—always firmly in front of the cameras. As a child, her birthday parties had been covered on the evening news, her first ride on a pony documented, her first prom night celebrated. She’d grown up in the public eye.
She knew most people would choke with laughter if she told them it wasn’t easy being rich and famous. But the truth was, it wasn’t. Living life on a constant high of attention was exciting at times, but it quickly became a numbing sort of hell. That public ordeal might have been tolerable if only her private life had given her the support she needed—the support anyone needed. But her father’s insatiable appetite for publicity and acclaim left her with no safe haven.
In fact, she sometimes thought it had driven her a little insane. She did things, said things, ended up with people, who were obviously all wrong for her. Life was a mad, speeding carousel with clown faces coming at her out of the dark, and as it began to turn faster and faster, she knew she had to jump off or it would destroy her.
She’d tried often enough, and each time, her father had found a way to pull her back into the spotlight. Finally, she’d escaped secretly and on her own, using a lawyer friend as her only contact to let people know she was okay, and she’d made her way, with a new identity, to this most remote of tropical islands.
When she’d first arrived she had been exhausted and heartbroken, as damaged as a broken butterfly. She’d thought she would stay for six months or so, heal herself, take a deep breath and go back into the fray a stronger contender.
But it had been so different living here—being a real person, not a media creation; living by her own rules instead of serving as the center of other people’s emotional attachments and needs. Being able to understand that people were dealing with her as a normal person, not as some kind of sick icon.
She’d grown. She’d expanded. She felt as though her heart were bigger now. Her life was bigger. She knew what real joy was. And most important, she knew she would never voluntarily go back.
No, she hadn’t been concerned about him recognizing her, and that was just as well, since it seemed he’d already figured out who she was long before. It might have been nice if he’d let her in on that little secret that first day. Then she might have avoided the opportunity to fall for someone so wrong.
But she had fallen. And then she’d found out who he really was, why he really was there, and her heart had broken in two. Seemingly heedless, he’d left the island. She’d tried to get over him. She’d been stern with herself and attempted a quick recovery. And now she’d realized he’d left her with more than memories. Her world had tilted on its axis. That changed everything. And yet…
Well, now he was back. What next?
As she pulled herself back to the present, she found him leaning forward and looking at her with a strange, intense light in his lush dark eyes. She had the feeling he was looking for something in her he just wasn’t finding and he was losing patience with the search.
“Would you like something to eat?” she asked as a quick distraction.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, and it was lucky. Just the passing thought of food made her queasy at the moment. The last thing she wanted to do was let him see her current condition. That was something she was going to keep from him at all costs.
“Tell me, Shayna,” he said abruptly, “what is it that you want from me?”
She drew back, surprised. His tone was just…unacceptable. That was the word. Who the heck did he think he was, anyway? She stared at him, sending daggers his way. He was, after all, the one who had come back. She hadn’t asked him to.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, a bit of sarcasm showing. “An apology would be nice.”
One dark eyebrow rose and he looked a little startled. “An apology for what?”
Her eyes flashed. “Well, that’s the crux of the matter isn’t it? If you don’t feel there’s anything to apologize for, forget it.”
She knew as the words left her mouth that she was falling into the usual female trap of expecting a man to understand how his actions had affected her. You had to explain these things to them. Saying “forget it” just gave them an out to do exactly that. She bit her lip. Was he going to try, at least?
He started to say something, then changed his mind, as though he was reining in what he’d really like to tell her. She waited, simmering. Of all the arrogant men in the world, she had to choose this one.
But she still reacted to him. When she thought of his kiss, her body warmed with memories. Looking at him now, she could hardly believe it hadn’t been a dream. He seemed cold and somewhat angry. At first she had thought he appeared very much the same, but she’d been wrong. He was like a different person. She put a hand over her mouth, holding back that queasy feeling again, a feeling that was beginning to be a regular around here. Closing her eyes, she swayed, waiting for it to ease. There was no denying the signs. It was only waiting to be confirmed by the doctor.
Finally, he shook his head and gave a short laugh. “Okay, Shayna, here’s the deal. You know who I am, don’t you?” He said it, as though that still surprised him.
“Of course I know who you are.” She frowned, beginning to find this conversation eerily convoluted. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t up for the challenge in his tone. She leaned toward him. “In fact, I know both of who you are.”
His wide mouth was like a slash against his handsome face and it turned up at the corners.
“Both, huh? Are you referring to my wellknown split personality?”
He sounded as if he was teasing, but he had to know what she was talking about.
“Is that your alibi?” she tossed back.
He blinked, and then his eyes narrowed. “Do I need one?”
“You tell me. You’re the one with two names.” She winced. There she went again, talking before thinking. After all, she had two names herself, and he knew it very well.
But, strangely, he didn’t seem to have caught her very obvious mistake. Instead, he just looked puzzled.
“This is fascinating,” he said lightly. “Why don’t you give me a full explanation. What are my two names?”
“Well, first there’s Marco Smith, the man I got to know for two weeks.”
His dark eyes looked bewildered by that name. “Smith?” he repeated, giving it an Italian accent that made it seem all the more phony.
She sniffed, assuming he was just covering his tracks.
“And then there’s Marco DiSanto, the man I only met that last day, before he bid me a careless adieu and flew off into the clouds, never to be seen again.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he told her, shaking his head and frowning. “And anyway, I’m here, aren’t I? Marco DiSanto, in the flesh.”
She cocked her head to the side, pretending to consider the dilemma.
“Where do you want to go with this? Shall we discuss which one I liked better?” She shrugged. “That’s easy. I liked the liar, of course. He was funny and sexy and great to be with.”