Dangerous Attraction

by Melinda Cross

  His eyes narrowed, then seemed to go cold and blank, so that all she could see in them was a reflection of her own face.

  ‘Sorry.’ He held his hands up in quick, mocking surrender. ‘I won’t touch you again…until you ask me to.’

  Rebecca felt the chill of the enamel door through her robe and pushed away, straightening her shoulders, trying to muster up some sort of indignation through all the other emotions clamoring for attention. ‘You really are living up to your reputation as a bastard, aren’t you?’ she hissed. ‘Johnny Rivard must have been hopelessly stupid ever to trust you!’

  The blood rushed to his face and twin fires seemed to flare to life in his eyes. ‘Johnny was not stupid!’ He forced the words out one by one between clenched teeth, and Rebecca didn’t doubt for a moment that he was totally unaware of his hands on her shoulders, fingers pressing so deeply into her flesh that she wondered if there would be bruises in the morning.

  She had never seen anger in so pure a form; she had never seen the effort of suppressed violence change a man’s face so abruptly; and the truth was, it terrified her. And yet through the terror crept a thin thread of awareness that he wasn’t angry because she’d insulted him—he was angry because she’d insulted Johnny. She frowned up at him, confused. It didn’t make sense. Why should he defend so hotly the memory of a man he’d supposedly disdained?

  ‘You’re hurting my shoulders,’ she said quietly.

  In the next instant he jerked his hands away and his face went horribly pale. ‘My God,’ he mumbled through stiff lips. ‘I didn’t know I had that much feeling left.’ And with that he turned on his heel and walked stiffly from the room, like a man trying not to run.

  Rebecca stood motionless long after he’d gone, trying to focus on that single moment when she’d been frightened, trying to tell herself that a man capable of putting harsh hands on a relative stranger was probably every bit as callous and self-serving as the villainous Marcus Flint in Charity Lauder’s book.

  But for some reason she wasn’t entirely convinced.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS still morning in California when Rebecca finally rolled out of bed, but the Vermont sun had almost reached its zenith. She squinted at the fierce light pouring through her bedroom window, and thought this must be what vampires felt like when they were caught in the burning rays of the sun.

  ‘You’re not a morning person, Becca,’ she grumbled, shedding her nightshirt.

  It hadn’t helped that she’d lain awake until nearly dawn, reliving the disturbing scene in the kitchen. Even then her rest had been troubled by dreams in which Marcus kept changing his personalities, so rapidly that her subconcious could barely keep track. In the last one he had been wearing her father’s face, and she’d wakened abruptly, heart pounding, to find the bedside clock ticking close to eleven.

  She pulled on a fresh pair of jeans, a white cotton sweater that seemed shocking against her California tan, and her trustworthy tennis shoes. Remembering what Marcus had said about her looking like a kid, she ruffled her short hair in a vain attempt to achieve some measure of dignity. It didn’t help much, but a little eyeliner and lipstick did. There, she thought, backing away from the mirror, assessing her reflection, deciding she looked very old indeed.

  She had to fight the impulse to remain in her room until Victor arrived. She wasn’t afraid of Marcus exactly, but she was leery of spending any more time alone with him. In addition to those rapid-fire temperament changes that kept her totally off balance, he had a very troubling knack for making her think about things she’d rather forget, talk about things she never wanted to give voice—and sometimes he made her feel things she most certainly did not want to feel.

  She frowned into the mirror at that, then shook her head, erasing the expression. It wouldn’t happen again. There wouldn’t be an opportunity for it to happen. Victor would be here—might already be here, for all she knew—and together they would listen to whatever Marcus had to say, and then leave.

  Buoyed by the prospect, she bounced down the grand staircase like the child she was trying so hard not to look like, heading straight through the broad central hall to the kitchen:

  Marcus’s head jerked up as she breezed through the door. ‘Well. Good morning.’ He was standing at the stove, stirring something in a big cast iron skillet, the very picture of contented domesticity she hadn’t been able to imagine last night.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said carefully, her eyes darting around the kitchen, looking for Victor.

  ‘Ham and eggs, fruit, and blueberry muffins, if you can stand the repetition.’

  She smiled weakly, glancing at the wooden table, disappointed to see it set only for two, but none the less entranced with the setting. Sky-blue linen mats cradled the same delicate china they’d used last night. Heavy silver nested in thick linen napkins, and crystal goblets sparkled in the light, waiting to be filled. There was a canapé dish of melon slices and brilliantly red strawberries, and a squat silver vase that sprouted a festive bouquet of late yellow chrysanthemums. All for ham and eggs on a kitchen table, she mused.

  ‘Help yourself to coffee. This will be ready in a minute.’

  She sat down and poured herself a cup from a sterling service set to one side, watching him at the stove.

  He looked almost happy. He might have been dressed in a villain’s color today—he wore a black turtleneck over black jeans—but he hardly looked the part with his dark hair in boyish disarray and his gray eyes bright with concentration. His mouth, she noted with some dismay, was more fascinating than ever, with those sharply sculpted lips playing with the thought of a smile, if not the reality.

  He carried the skillet to the table, divided the contents evenly between their two plates, then sat down with a sigh.

  ‘Eat,’ he commanded, snapping his napkin on to his lap.

  The silence in the great house was so deep that the sounds of the meal they shared seemed exaggerated. The wake-up call of hot coffee burbling into a cup, the gentle, almost musical scrape of silver on fine china…Rebecca cocked her head and listened as she chewed.

  ‘The music of the meal,’ Marcus said, watching her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What you’re listening to. My mother used to call it “the music of the meal”.’

  Rebecca smiled involuntarily. ‘It’s a lovely metaphor. Your mother should have been a writer.’

  His brows moved in what passed as a nod, and he went back to eating.

  ‘And I’m beginning to think you should have been a chef. This is delicious.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it. It’s my penance for flying off the handle last night.’

  She could feel his eyes on her, and wondered if he was waiting for some form of absolution. She got up abruptly and went to the refrigerator. ‘Milk?’ The moment her hand touched the metal handle, she realized that this seemingly harmless action—going to the refrigerator and bringing back the carton of milk—would somehow alter her status in this house as a guest. She had taken a liberty a real guest would never take, and, worse yet, she’d put herself in the position of having to serve him, as he had served her.

  ‘Thank you.’ He pushed the carton upward just in time to keep her from pouring milk over the rim of his glass on to the table.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, thoughts still fixed on the terrible mistake she had just made. She sloshed milk into her own glass, then sat down quickly, keeping her eyes averted.

  ‘More coffee?’

  She nodded absently, her brow furrowing as she watched the column of steaming brown leave the silver spout and stream down into her cup.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Her eyes shot up to his, and her frown deepened. This polite small talk was all wrong; so were these cozy meals together, and the glaring absence of any discussion about the book that had brought her here.

  Damn Victor anyway, for missing that plane yesterday. If they’d arrived here together the interview would have been over by
now, and she would be on her way back to her pleasantly solitary existence in California. As it was, Victor’s absence had forced both of them into false roles of host and house guest—roles they definitely shouldn’t be playing.

  ‘You’re still angry about last night.’

  She looked up at him and wished immediately that she hadn’t. His gaze was penetrating and steady and very nearly hypnotic. ‘There shouldn’t have been a last night,’ she said carefully. ‘I shouldn’t be staying here, and you shouldn’t be fixing me meals and drinks and making idle conversation…’

  ‘I don’t recall any idle conversation…’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  He leaned back in his chair and cradled his cup against his chest, gray eyes fixed on hers. ‘I know precisely what you mean. You don’t want to fraternize with the enemy.’

  She looked up at him silently for a moment. ‘I don’t want to compromise my objectivity.’

  He made a short, sharp sound. ‘You think I’m trying to bribe you? With what, for God’s sake? Ham and eggs?’

  Rebecca tightened her lips against a smile. He’d made it sound ridiculous. ‘I don’t think you’re trying to bribe me,’ she said evenly, ‘but let’s face it. You’re the bad guy in the screenplay I’m writing. We shouldn’t be socializing.’

  His only movement was a slight narrowing of his eyes. ‘If you’ve already predetermined that I’m the villain in this piece, why the hell did you come here?’

  The blue in Rebecca’s eyes flashed a little. ‘Because you threatened to stop production of the movie and sue for libel if I didn’t,’ she snapped.

  His expression didn’t change, but two angry patches of white appeared at the sides of his mouth. ‘I see. It never occurred to you to question Charity’s version of what happened here last winter? Your journalistic instincts didn’t suggest that you should investigate her story?’

  ‘I’m not a journalist, I’m a screenwriter. It’s not my job to…’

  ‘So you’re going to put your name to a lie,’ he said hotly, and coffee sloshed over the rim of his cup as he banged it down into its saucer.

  Rebecca focused on the rivulets of brown trickling over the white porcelain, her lips pressed tightly together, her heart pounding in her ears. ‘I don’t want to talk about this right now. I think we should wait for Victor…’

  ‘Then we’ll probably never talk about it. I don’t think your producer’s coming.’

  She raised her eyes slowly to look at him.

  ‘You had a phone call earlier. Gloria somebody—Mr Madden’s secretary, I believe. It seems his son is in the hospital.’

  Rebecca’s head shot up, her expression stricken. Victor had an even dozen family photographs on his desk, eight-year-old Tony’s uneven grin shining from each one.

  Marcus frowned at her expression and added quickly, ‘She said it wasn’t too serious. A broken leg from a playground accident…’

  Rebecca’s eyes fell closed in relief.

  ‘But there was a chance of a concussion, so they’re keeping him in hospital for a day or two, and apparently Mr Madden feels he should stay with him until he’s released.’

  ‘Of course he should.’ She nodded busily, applauding Victor’s decision in her heart—parents should always be there for their children, always—yet dreading the consequences for her.

  ‘She left the hospital’s number. He’s expecting your call.’

  Rebecca looked at the kitchen door with unmistakable longing.

  Third door on the left,’ he told her with a faint nod. ‘The number’s on a pad by the phone.’

  She nodded jerkily, then got up and hurried from the room.

  The third door on the left opened on to an office dominated by a large, cluttered desk. Behind it a bank of mullioned windows framed a stand of rosy maples marching up a hill. She pulled the big leather chair close to the desk and eased into its cushy seat, her eyes jerking from notepad to phone as she pushed buttons frantically. The hospital front desk put her on hold, and saccharine violin music assaulted her ear. She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair, her eyes touring the huge desk while she waited to be connected to Tony Madden’s room.

  There were photographs on this desk, too, their polished glass and frames a standout in the confused clutter around them. Rebecca’s fingers slowed their drumming, then stopped entirely as her eyes darted from one picture to another, following a crude chronology of a friendship.

  Two scrawny young boys, arm in arm in the street of some city’s tenement district, gap-toothed grins mugging for the camera; the same two boys a few years later, smiles now intact, bodies maturing, posing in football uniforms. On and on the photographic story went, following Marcus Flint and the boy she recognized as a young Johnny Rivard through high school, college, and finally to the front door of this very house.

  The last photograph was larger than the rest, and Rebecca recognized it as the engagement picture Charity had used on the dedication page of her book—with one small difference. In the book, the photo had been a joint one of Johnny and Charity; but Charity’s half of the picture had been torn away from this print, leaving only her disembodied hand showing on Johnny’s arm.

  Rebecca braced her arms on the desk and leaned forward, studying the photographs more closely, thinking that their arrangement on the desk formed a crude shrine of sorts.

  ‘Becca? Becca, are you there?’ Victor’s brusque voice cut off the violin music, startling her a little.

  ‘Victor! How’s Tony?’

  ‘He’ll be okay. It wasn’t a bad break, was it, Tiger?’ he said in an aside, and, hearing the smile in his voice, Rebecca could almost see him gazing down at his son. ‘But…the thing is, Becca…’

  ‘Victor, don’t worry about it. You stay right there, for as long as Tony needs you.’

  His sigh was genuinely regretful. ‘I’m really sorry, Becca. The way it looks, it’ll be a few days at least before I can get away.’

  Rebecca winced involuntarily. ‘There is no staff here, Victor,’ she said in soft, carefully enunciated syllables.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Flint and I are alone here,’ she enlarged in an undertone.

  ‘Oh. Damn.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I suppose that’s a little awkward, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Victor, you are a master of understatement.’

  A noisy sigh crackled through the wires. ‘Listen, Becca, why don’t you take a few days off, tour New England and visit some of those country inns Vermont is so proud of? I could try to meet you back at Sugar Ridge at week’s end.’

  Rebecca hesitated, considering the offer, measuring her own discomfort against the reluctance she heard in Victor’s voice. He didn’t want to leave his son, and, dammit, he shouldn’t have to.

  She sighed quietly. ‘Why don’t I just handle the interview myself, Victor? That way I can get home sooner, and you won’t have to come at all.’

  ‘Becca, you’re an angel. An absolute angel. I owe you big time for this…’

  Marcus was rinsing dishes in the sink when she returned to the kitchen. He spoke without turning round. ‘I put your plate in the microwave. Turn it on for about ten seconds.’

  She shrugged, did as she was told, then carried it back to the table, sat down, and continued her meal to the discordant accompaniment of Marcus loading the dishwasher. It was a pointed snub from a man who had up to this point at least tried to be the perfect host. As if sensing her thoughts, he finally spoke, but he still didn’t look at her.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I have to get outside, This weather isn’t going to hold much longer, and there are things I have to get done today. I take it I’ll see you in the near future.’ Before she could even think of a reply, he left the kitchen through a back door, leaving Rebecca sitting with a muffin halfway to her mouth, her brows lifted in puzzlement. Almost immediately she heard an outer door slam as he left the house.

  She folded her arms across her chest and made a disgusted fac
e. What was she supposed to do? Chase after him like a cub reporter, taking down notes on the run? Dammit anyway, how did he expect her to get his side of the story if he wouldn’t stay put and start reciting?

  Shaking her head, she poured herself another cup of coffee, then started to butter her muffin. It was a working estate, after all, and there probably were things that had to get done before the first storms of winter. So maybe this evening would be better for talking. And that meant the day was hers.

  The corners of her mouth lifted at the thought.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  REBECCA had no particular destination in mind as she left the house and began walking across the front field toward the little river—just a vague idea about experiencing the countryside so she could draw on it later when writing the screenplay.

  The intensity of sunlight pouring through the house windows had made her choose a light denim jacket instead of her warmer suede, but within a few moments she began to regret the choice. The sky was a deep, deceptively warm blue, and the sun was painting the field a bright gold, but the chilling promise of coming winter was definitely in the air.

  She snapped the jacket closed and raised the collar around her neck as she pushed through the tall, dead grass. With her hands jammed in her pockets and her head down, she watched her tennis shoes crush a path through the dried grass. If I were taking a walk at home, she thought, I’d be wearing shorts and a T-shirt and leaving footprints on wet beach sand.

  She tried to concentrate on that, tried to distract herself with the novelty of this unfamiliar weather and unfamiliar environment, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the disconcerting prospect of having to listen to Marcus Flint’s side of the story alone.not that there could be that much to tell. What could he say, except to deny Charity’s accusation that he tried to seduce her? And what on earth made him think that anyone would believe his word against hers?

  If there was any comfort to be found in the situation, it was that Marcus was beginning to show his true colors. The rage that fed his hunger for revenge was seeping through the cracks of his cordial facade, and Rebecca found it much easier to distance herself from him when he behaved like the heartless, bitter man the book had portrayed.