“You might not like everything you remember,” she said.

“Like what?”

She pulled her lips in. She didn’t want to talk about whatever it was that had made him go to South Africa. “Your parents? You didn’t always get along with them, especially your father.”

“I had a feeling,” he said with a shrug.

“What kind of feeling?”

“Gut. Every time I think about my parents—especially my father—I get a cross between heartburn and a nasty ulcer.”

“They aren’t that bad.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “No matter what, they’re still your parents.”

* * *

“Is that your dad?”

Shane turned his head to look. A man who bore an obvious resemblance to Shane, only older, stepped out of his car. What the hell was he doing here again?

As if he’d noticed the stares, he turned. A brief frown crossed his handsome features, then they smoothed into an affable mask. “What are you boys doing out here? It’s a school day, isn’t it?”

“What are you doing here?” Shane demanded.

“Just checking up on your progress at school.”

Shane looked at his friends. “We’re, like, fifteen minutes away from campus.”

“True enough. I finished talking with your teachers and thought I’d stop somewhere”—he gestured at a small eatery on the opposite side of the road—“and grab a bite.”

Fucking liar. He could never make any time to see Shane, but he’d come all the way out here to check up on his progress? Like that made any sense.

Bitterness churned in his gut. Shane already knew where he ranked in his father’s priorities—a couple of places below a decent shoeshine.

Salazar was actually interested in a pretty brunette who lived in the neighborhood. The really shitty thing about it was that the woman was married. The marriage wasn’t on the rocks or anything, from the rumors Shane had heard. She just had an uninspiring husband. But Salazar Pryce didn’t let that kind of detail stand in the way of getting what he wanted.

Shane would have bet his yearly allowance that the woman was waiting for his father in the stupid little café across the road. They’d pretend to have coffee or some bullshit like that…and then they’d go to a hotel.

Suddenly angry, he took a step toward his father. “I don’t care who you fuck, but at least consider the location and the audience,” he hissed. “You don’t care who the pussy’s attached to so long as they spread their legs for you.”

Salazar’s expression didn’t change, but it became tight. “Such language. Is this what my money’s paying for?”

“You chose the school, not me.”

Salazar leaned closer until the tip of his nose almost touched Shane’s. “You think girls give a shit about you?” He smiled nastily. “They want you because you’re my son. Because I give you money. You’re nothing without me. Might want to remember that the next time you’re lucky enough to get laid.”

Shane clenched his shaking hands into fists. How dare he…!

Salazar stepped back, the affable smile once again smooth and relaxed. “Man, I’d better get going. I’m starving.”

That bastard. That total bastard.

Shane blinked away the memory. It had appeared so suddenly, playing in his head like a mini-film. It probably wasn’t something he’d just imagined. It was too vivid and too messed up for that.

“I’ll go ahead and pack too,” Ginger was saying, and he forced a smile.

“Take your time. Ask for help if you need anything.”

“Okay.” She nodded and went upstairs.

Once she was gone from view, he shoved a hand into his hair and dropped onto a couch. When he’d decided to go home, it had seemed like the most logical thing to do. Ginger was obviously worried about the reason—reasons?—he’d left, and he wanted to prove to her it was nothing. And to do that he had to remember.

But the two memories that had come back to him had been ugly. His father was a nasty piece of work, and he… He himself wasn’t that much better.

He dragged in a shuddering breath. He’d dated other women after kicking Ginger out in Johannesburg. He hadn’t been able to sleep with them or anything—there was a wrongness that made him unable to do anything—but shouldn’t he have remembered something about the fact that he was engaged? Shouldn’t he have realized he was doing the same shit his father did when he’d wined and dined those women?

His gaze swiveled to the stairs. Had he ever cheated on Ginger? Had he ever hurt her, made her cry or suffer?

Maybe there was more to Ginger’s reluctance than just the way he’d disappeared. That might be why she kept telling him they couldn’t go back to what they used to be until he remembered everything.

He pressed his fists against his knees. He wouldn’t let her go. She was his. He’d fight for her with everything he had, and by any means, fair or foul.

Chapter Eight

A black SUV took them to the private jet that had brought Ginger to Thailand. She raised her eyebrows; she’d assumed Dane had called it back. Had he been that confident she could bring Shane home?

They boarded quietly. The inside of the jet was luxurious with creamy beige leather on the seats and gleaming faux-marble and wood finishes on the fixtures. A pretty cabin attendant smiled and greeted them.

As she sat next to him, waiting for the jet to take off, Ginger wasn’t sure what was going on with his mood. He’d seemed upbeat and happy until he’d started packing. Now he was brooding.

He’d deny it of course. Shane was very, very good at denying how he really felt because that was how he coped with his dysfunctional family. Some of his siblings were nice, like Mark and Vanessa, but some of them like Dane and Iain were nasty and cold, respectively. Then there were his father and mother, who had to have married specifically to make each other as miserable as possible. They rarely seemed to care how their behavior affected their family. Ginger sometimes felt like she couldn’t even breathe around them, and she’d only spent a few holidays with the whole family. She still couldn’t understand how Shane had lived most of his life with them.

“You’re frowning,” Shane said.

“I’m thinking.”

“What are you plotting?”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Just…” If she’d told him everything about her thoughts he might just decide to stay at the beach house forever. “I just don’t like takeoffs.” Which was true, just not the thing that was bugging her the most.

“How come?”

“I heard that the chances of crashing are greatest during takeoff and landing.”

He chuckled softly. “Is that true or some kind of urban legend?”

“Probably true,” she said primly.

He reached over and linked their fingers together. “Better?”

She turned toward him, her eyes wide. The gesture was unexpectedly sweet, like he used to make when they’d been together. The engine roared as the plane picked up speed. Her fingers tightened, and he leaned close and covered her mouth with his.

The contact sent a shockwave through her system. It was like being pulled into a maelstrom of irresistible heat and delicious sensation. Need pulsed through her, her heart pounding. And underneath the sexual want was a sense of completion—she was with the man who was created just for her. And she clung to that feeling, trying to forget everything else that had been bugging her.