by Julia James
Their faces lit up disbelievingly, and Tara knew she could not take back her words. She was glad to have said them.
It was the only gladness she felt that day. What else had she to be glad about? That tearing feeling seemed to be clawing at her, ripping her apart, her throat was still choked, and that heaviness in her lungs, in her limbs weighing her down, was still there as she sat back in the chauffeured car, as she was whisked to the airport, as she boarded her flight.
He had booked her first-class.
The realisation made her throat clutch, telling her how much things had changed since her arrival.
My whole life has changed—because of Marc...
It was not until a fortnight later, as she checked her calendar with sudden, hollowing realisation, that she knew just how much...
* * *
Marc stood on the terrace of his penthouse residence in one of Manhattan’s most luxurious hotels, staring out over the glittering city. His meeting was over, and the client was pleased and satisfied with what Bank Derenz had achieved for him. Now, with the evening ahead of him, Marc shifted restlessly.
There was something else he wanted.
Someone.
I want Tara—I want her here with me now. To enjoy the evening with me. I want to take her to dinner, to see her smile lighting up her eyes—sometimes dazzling, sometimes teasing, sometimes warm with laughter. I want to talk about whatever it was we used to talk about, in that conversation that seemed to flow so freely and naturally. And, yes, sometimes I want to spar with her, to hear her sometimes deadpan irony and those sardonic quips that draw a smile from me even now as I remember them...
And after dinner we’d come back here, and she’d be standing beside me, my arm around her, all of Manhattan glittering just for us. And she’d lift her face to mine, her eyes aglow, and I would catch her lips with mine and sweep her up, take her to my bed...
He could feel his body ache with desire for her, the blood heating in his veins.
With an effort of sheer will he tore his mind away from that beguiling scene so vivid in his head. He must not dwell on the woman he had left sleeping that morning, her oh-so-beautiful body naked in his bed, her glorious hair swathed across the pillow, her high, rounded breasts rising and falling with the gentle sound of her breathing.
It had been hard to leave her. Hard to reject her plea to come with him. Harder than he’d wanted it to be. Harder than it should have been. Harder than it was safe to have been—
But the safe thing for him to do had been to leave her. He knew that—knew it for all the reasons that had made him so wary of yielding as he had...yielding to his desire for her.
And the fact that he wanted to yield to it again, that his body so longed to do so, that he wanted to phone her now, tell her a flight was booked for her and that she should join him in New York, must make him even more wary.
It isn’t safe to want her. It isn’t safe because it’s what she wants too. She asked outright—asked to come with me, wanted more than what we had in France. How much more would she have asked of me? Expected of me?
That was the truth of it. The harsh, necessary truth he’d always had to live his life by.
His eyes shadowed, thoughts turbid. He was making himself face what he did not want to face, but must—as he always had.
If I bring her here...keep her with me...how can I know if it’s me she’s choosing or Banc Derenz?
That was the reason he now turned away from the plate-glass window overlooking the city far below.
His thoughts went back to when he had last set eyes on her, sleeping so peacefully in his bed. He had slipped past her, to the bedside table, where he had placed the farewell note he had scrawled. And his gift for her.
The gift that would part him from her for ever. The gift that he’d left, quite deliberately, to tell her that what they’d had was over.
To tell himself...
* * *
Tara leant against the window frame of her bedroom at the cottage, breathing in the night air of the countryside. So sweet and fresh after the polluted traffic fumes of London. An owl hooted in the distance, and that was the only sound.
No ceaseless murmurings of cicadas, no sound of the sea lapping at the rocky shore, no scent of flowers too delicate for England...
No Marc beside her, gazing out over the wine-dark sea with her, listening to the soft Mediterranean night, his arm warm around her, drawing her against his body, before he turned her to him, lowered his mouth to hers, led her indoors to his bed, to his embrace...
She felt her heart twist, her body fill with longing.
But to what purpose?
Marc was gone from her life and she from his. She must accept it—accept what had happened and accept everything about the life she faced now.
Accept that what I feel for him, for the loss of him, is not what I thought I would feel. Accept that there is nothing I can do about it but what I am doing now. Accept that what I’m doing is all that I can do. All that can happen now.
Her expression changed as she gazed out over the shadowy garden edged by trees and the fields beyond.
How utterly her life had changed! How totally. All because of Marc...
She felt emotion crush within her. Should she regret what she had done? Wish that it had not happened? That it had not changed her so absolutely?
How could she regret it?
She gave a sigh—but not one of happiness. Nor of unhappiness. It was an exquisitely painful mix of both.
I can think of neither—feel neither. Not together.
Separately, yes, each one could fill her being. They were contradictory to one another. But they never cancelled each other out. Only...bewildered her. Tormented her.
She felt emotion buckling her. Oh, to have such joy and such pain combined!
She felt her hand clutch what she was holding, then made herself open her palm, gaze down at what was within. In the darkness the vivid colour of the precious gems was not visible, yet it still seemed to glow with a light of its own.
It was a complication she must shed.
I should never have taken it! Never kept it to remember him by!
She felt the emotion that was so unbearable, buckle her again. For one long moment she continued to gaze at what she held. Then slowly, very slowly, she closed her hand again.
She had kept it long enough—far too long. It must be returned. She must not keep it. Could not. Not now. Especially not now.
The emotion came again, convulsing her, stronger than ever. Oh, sense and rational thought and every other worldly consideration might cry out against what she was set on—but they could not prevail. Must not.
I know what I must do and I will do it.
With a slow, heavy movement she withdrew from the window, crossed over to the little old-fashioned dressing table that had once been her grandmother’s and let fall what she held in her hand.
The noise of its fall was muffled by the piece of paper onto which it slithered. That, too, must be returned. And when it had been the last link with Marc would be severed. Almost the last...
She turned away, her empty hand slipping across her body. There was one thing that would always bind them, however much he no longer wanted her. But she must never tell him. For one overwhelming reason.
Because he does not want me. He is done with me. He has made that crystal-clear. His rejection of me is absolute.
So it did not matter, did it? Anything else could not matter.
However good it was, it was only ever meant to be for that brief time. I knew that, and so did he, and that is what we both intended. That is what I must hold in my head now. And what he gave me to show me that he had done with me, so that I understood and accepted it, must go back to him. Because it is the right and the only thing to do.
And when it was gone she would
get on with the life that awaited her now. With all its pain and joy. Joy and pain. Mingling for ever now.
* * *
Marc was back in Paris. After New York he’d had the sudden urge to catch up with all his affairs in the Americas, making an extensive tour of branches of Banc Derenz from Quebec to Buenos Aires, which had taken several weeks. There had been no pressing need—at least not from a business perspective—but it had seemed a good idea to him, all the same, for reasons he’d had no wish to examine further.
The tour had served its purpose—putting space and time between those heady, carefree days at the villa and the rest of his life.
Now, once more in Paris, he was burying himself in work and an endless round of socialising in which he had no interest at all, but knew it was necessary.
And yet neither the tour of the Americas, nor his current punishing workload, nor the endless round of social engagements he was busying himself with were having the slightest effect.
He still wanted Tara. Wanted her back in his life. The one woman he wanted but should not want.
With the same restlessness that had dominated him since he’d flown to New York a few months ago he looked out over the Parisian cityscape, wanting Tara there with him.
He glanced at his watch without enthusiasm. His car would be waiting for him, ready to take him to the Paris Opera, where he was entertaining two of his clients and their daughter. His mouth tightened. The daughter was making it clear that she would be more than happy for him to pay her attention for reasons other than the fact that her parents banked at Banc Derenz. And she was not alone in her designs and hopes.
He gave an angry sigh. The whole damn circus was starting up again. Women in whom he had no interest at all, seeking his attention.
Women who were not Tara.
He shut his eyes. I’ll get over her. In time I’ll forget her. I have to.
He knew it must happen one day, but it was proving harder than he had thought it would. Damnably harder.
It was showing too, and he was grimly aware of that. Aware that, just as he’d been when Celine had plagued him, he was more short-tempered, having little patience either for demanding clients or fellow directors.
A bear with a sore head.
That was the expression he’d used to Tara.
Who was no longer in his life. And could never be again. However much he wanted her. Because he wanted her.
That was the danger, he knew. The danger that his desire for her would make him weak...make him ready to believe—want to believe—that his wealth was not the reason at all for her to be with him.
He’d believed that once before in his life—and it had been the biggest mistake he’d ever made. Thinking he was important to Marianne. When all along it had only been the Derenz money.
And the fact that Tara valued the Derenz money was evident. Right from the start she’d been keen on it—from that paltry five hundred pounds for chaperoning Celine back to her hotel to the ten thousand pounds she’d demanded for going to France.
And she had taken those emeralds he’d left for her. Helped herself to them as her due—just as readily as she’d helped herself to the couture wardrobe he’d supplied.
Oh, she might not be a gold-digger—nothing so repellent—but it was undeniable that she had enjoyed the luxury of his lifestyle, the valuable gifts he’d given her. And that was a danger sign—surely it was?
If I take her back she’ll get used to that luxury lifestyle...start taking it for granted. Not wanting to lose it. It will become important to her. More important to her than I am. And soon would it be me she wanted—or just the lifestyle I could provide for her?
He felt that old, familiar wariness filling him. Restlessly, he shifted again, tugging at the cuffs of his tuxedo.
What point was there in going over and over the reasons he must resist the urge to get back in touch with her, to resume what they had had, seek to extend it? However powerful that urge, he had to resist it. He must. Anything else was just too risky.
The doors of the elegant salon were opening and a staff member stood there, presumably to inform Marc that his car was awaiting him. But the man had a silver salver in his hand, upon which Marc could see an envelope.
With a murmur of thanks he took it, then stilled. Staring down at it. It had a UK stamp. And it was handwritten in a hand he had come to recognise.
He felt a clenching of his stomach, a tightening of his muscles. A sudden rush of blood.
What had Tara written? Why?
His face expressionless, belying a melee of thoughts behind its impassive mask, he opened it. Unfolded the single sheet of paper within and forced his eyes to read the contents.
The words leapt at him.
Marc,
I am not going to cash your cheque. What started out as a job did not end that way, and it would be very wrong of me to expect you to be bound by that original agreement.
Also, but for different reasons, I cannot keep the beautiful necklace you left for me. I am sure you only meant to be generous, but you must see how impossible it is for me to accept so very expensive a gift. Please do not be offended by this. I shall have it couriered back to you.
By the same token, nor can I accept the gift of all the couture clothes you provided for me. I hope you do not mind, but I gave them to the maids—they were so thrilled. Please do not be angry with them for accepting.
I’m sorry this has taken me so long, but I’ve been very busy working. My life is about to take me in a quite different direction and I shall be leaving London, and modelling, far behind.
It was simply signed with her name. Nothing more.
The words on the page seemed to blur and shift and come again into focus. Slowly, very slowly, the hand holding the letter dropped to his side.
His heart seemed to be thumping in his chest as if he’d just done a strenuous workout. As if a crushing weight had been lifted off him. An impenetrable barrier just...dissolved. Gone.
He stared out across the room. The member of staff was standing in the doorway again.
‘Your car is ready, Monsieur Derenz,’ he intoned.
Marc frowned. He wasn’t going to the opera. Not tonight. It was out of the question. A quite different destination beckoned.
The thud of his heartbeat was getting stronger. Deafening him. The letter in his hand seemed to be burning his fingers. He looked across at the man, nodded at him. Gave him his instructions. New instructions.
An overnight bag to prepare, a car to take him to Le Bourget, not the Paris Opéra. Regrets to be sent to his guests. And a flight to London to organise.
As the man departed only one word burned in Marc’s head, seared in his body. Tara!
She had taken nothing from him—absolutely nothing. Not the money she’d earned, nor the couture wardrobe, nor the emerald necklace. Nothing at all! So what did that say about her?
Emotion held in check for so many punishing weeks, so many self-denying days and nights, exploded within him. Distilled into one single realisation. One overpowering impulse.
I can have her back.
Tara, the woman he wanted—still wanted!—and now he could have her again.
Nothing he had ever felt before had felt so good...
CHAPTER TEN
TARA WAS WALKING along the hard London pavements as briskly as she could in the heat. Summer had arrived with a vengeance, and the city was sticky and airless after the fresh country air. She was tired, and the changes in her body were starting to make themselves felt.
She’d travelled up from Dorset by train that morning and gone straight to her appointments. The first had been with a modelling agency specialising in the only shoots she’d be able to do soon, to see if they would take her on when that became necessary. The other, which she’d just come from, had been with her bank, to go through her finances.
<
br /> Now that she could no longer count on the ten thousand pounds from Marc, it was going to be hard to move to Dorset immediately. Yet doing so was imperative—she had to settle into her new life as quickly as she could, while she was still unencumbered. She would need to buy a car, for a start—a second-hand one—for she would not be able to manage without one, and she still hadn’t renovated the kitchen and the bathroom as planned.
She’d hoped that her bank might let her raise a small mortgage to tide her over, but the answer had not been encouraging—her future income to service the debt was going to be uncertain, to say the least. She was not a good risk.
It would have been so much easier if I could have kept that ten thousand pounds...
The thought hovered in her head and she had to dismiss it sharply. Yes, keeping it would have been the prudent thing to do—even if Marc would never know why—but as he could never know, she could not possibly keep it.
It was the same stricture that applied to her destination now, and her reason for going there. Yes, the prudent thing to do now would be to sell the necklace, realise its financial value, and bank that for all that she would need in the years ahead. But she had resisted that temptation, knowing what she must do. It was impossible for her to keep his parting gift!
Her letter to him, which he must have received now, for she had posted it from Dorset several days ago, had made that clear. Perhaps he was accustomed to gifting expensive jewellery to the women he had affairs with—but to such women, coming as they did from his über-rich world, something like that emerald necklace would be a mere bagatelle! To her, however, it was utterly beyond her horizon.
If he had only given me a token gift—of little monetary value. I could have kept that willingly, oh, so willingly, as a keepsake!
Her expression changed. More than a keepsake. A legacy...
She shied her mind away. She could see her destination—only a little way away now. The exclusive Mayfair jeweller she was going to ask to courier the necklace back to Marc. They would know how to do it—how to ensure the valuable item reached him securely, as she had written to him that it would.
