She finally let his eyes go and the dip of lashes curled a shadow on her cheek. Golden light from the table candles danced across the planes and hollows of her face. She was bewitching. Too bewitching.
‘I know. I’m not that naive. I’m just so used to being the only one batting for Team Devine I suppose I find it hard to understand the motivation of anyone who would want to help just for the sake of it.’
And just when he’d thought he had her all figured out… It wasn’t just her words—her tone, just for a moment, had been so soft, vulnerable. And he felt again that sense of responsibility she stirred in him. She really must have had a raw deal somewhere along the line.
‘Not everyone in business is cut-throat, Tara.’
‘But most are.’
‘Is that why you project such a ball-breaker image?’
She shrugged. ‘I project who I am. I told you: I don’t play games. It’s just that some people deserve to have their balls broken. And others…’ she slanted a flirty look right at him ‘…deserve to have their balls…’
He turned right round to face her. ‘Are you seriously going to finish that sentence?’
She threw her head back and laughed. A laugh from her soul that washed through him like a fierce warm wave. And then he was really in trouble.
He reached for her. No way he couldn’t. Took the back of her neck in his hand and pulled that mocking mouth right down. Crushed it. Over and over and over. He thrust his tongue in so deep that he stilled her and felt her go limp in his arms.
He held her close, then closer still, as he dragged her to him across the leather of the seat and pressed his body into hers, feeling every curved inch of flesh. Took both hands and cupped her jaw, still not letting her up for air, and kissed her more. Skimmed one hand over her collarbone and laid it flat against her chest, his fingers almost circling her throat.
And he felt her respond. Heard her respond. She liked that—oh, yes. He pulled his mouth back and stared deep into glazed eyes that had fluttered open. He searched her, shared the air that she was drawing in and out, and felt like the mad man he knew he was around her. She was so dangerous for him. Dangerous but irresistible. He had to have her again. Had to take it to the next level with her. Not intimacy, or love, or any of that romantic stuff. Just pure animal lust—because he recognised it in her.
She was tuned in to him so well that he was going to give her the best time of her life. And maybe then she wouldn’t feel quite so all alone.
He stood up, threw some bills on the table and reached for her hand.
‘Come on—we’re going home.’
But she sat there. OK, she was still in a state—as was he, a very painful state—but she made no move, didn’t even look up at him.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, Michael. It’s not happening.’
He trailed his eyes right round the bar. He saw people laughing, people chilling at the aqua-lit pool. Waiters walking past, professionally oblivious. A party next to them of elegant middle-aged women who clearly recognised him. And then his gaze fell down to Tara. She sat there, golden head dipped. Arms stretched, holding on to the edge of the seat. Knees locked together.
‘You don’t want to do this? You don’t think we have explosive chemistry?’ Seriously, in his life he had never known such off-the-charts detonations when he’d just kissed someone.
‘It doesn’t matter about the chemistry. What matters most comes before and after the chemistry.’
He looked down at her. Kissing him like she was pouring her soul into his and then saying thanks, but no thanks?
‘I didn’t figure you for a tease, Tara.’
‘But I figured you as an everyday player who wants to take a woman to bed—only if the important people don’t see, of course—and then, once he’s played, he tosses her back. He doesn’t give a damn about how that makes her feel. And, Michael…’ She looked right up at him and the fire was back. ‘I am way better than that.’
She stood up.
‘Just because you caught me in a vulnerable moment just now because some other guy let me down…this time over money, but, hey, who’s counting? Just because I got a little stressed about it all. It doesn’t mean I would ever, ever go back there with you. Why would I repeat anything that made me feel dirty and worthless?’
Sometimes he really did not understand women. ‘I really hate to think that you felt dirty after what we did, Tara. We do have chemistry. You want to call it something else, go right ahead…’
‘Chemistry doesn’t give you the right to treat me like you did—and probably will again if I let you.’
Her eyes were glazed with tears but they flashed blue fire and her mouth shaped her anger. For the second time nothing could stop him. He took a fistful of her hair, twisted it and drew her fast and close to meet his mouth. One long, silencing kiss and one tug of his wrist to let her know her words were empty nonsense. And she buckled. At the knees.
He held her, turned his mouth to her ear and felt her shiver to her core. ‘Say what you want. Act like you don’t want it. But we both know this is happening again. And the next time you’ll be begging. Screaming for it. And you won’t feel dirty or worthless. You won’t feel angry. You’ll feel more alive than you’ve ever felt in your life. Understood?’
He scooped her under his arm and walked her to the elevators. She didn’t fight him, but he knew he had winded and wounded her. If he’d made her feel any of those things then he’d more than make it up to her. Even though he knew, sure as he knew his own name, that she wasn’t going to roll over and let him.
SIX
There was no doubt that the beauty gene ran deep in the Cruz women. Tara flicked through pages of photographs, each one showcasing yet another even more sultry dark-eyed, dark-haired goddess. Photos from decades past of women—a few even in the traditional dark bridal colours, wearing mantillas and looking in some cases as if they were going to a funeral rather than a wedding. She could pick out clear family traits—the long, graceful neck and the high, wide brow. Open features, easy loveliness—and, more than anything, elegance and intelligence.
She glanced up at Michael, who was pouring coffee for them both and eyeing her carefully. And he had the male version of all of that in spades. Damn him.
She still hadn’t got over the scene at the SkyBar. Him kissing her so publicly and then dragging her off like a caveman to the elevator. She’d more than put him straight when she’d got her breath back—and he’d more than backed off. Right to the corner of the elevator. And then he’d kept a respectful distance for the rest of the evening. Or at least pretended to. She still wasn’t sure of him or his motives…
And she still didn’t know how she’d got through it. Emotions she hadn’t felt for years had been on a rolling boil and she’d really struggled to keep a lid on it. Tears! Why? She hadn’t even shed a tear in her darkest moments. She’d got her act together and got out. Never looked back. So why was it all bubbling up now? Just when she could see the light at the end of the tunnel—just when everything was stacking up in her favour. OK, most things… She could cope with the Dutch Ronnies of the world letting her down—all she had to do was hunt hard enough and another couple would roll along in the next limo.
But the intensity…
She flicked another glance up at Michael—he was still studying her on the quiet. The cut of his jaw was serious and he was definitely holding back. The intensity of this man was unravelling layer upon layer of stuff that she’d thought was buried for ever. It wasn’t that he directly reminded her of her grandfather. It was more that she hadn’t met anyone—not one single person—who made her stop and question herself, who made her wonder even for a second if what she was doing was completely and utterly correct.
Since she’d left home she’d known that what she was doing was on the money. Getting the courage to leave had
been easy. Keeping the courage going had been easy. But suddenly, just when she could almost touch the prize, she felt she didn’t even know if she had any right to claim it. He had unsettled her so much—made her feel so confused about herself. Had unleashed so many old ghosts that the urge to run was building higher and higher.
She was going to give Angelica until the end of the day and then she was heading home. She had to. For her own sanity.
‘See anything inspiring?’
She felt the now familiar rush and whoosh of adrenalin as Michael settled himself beside her on the floor, extending long legs in dark denim out in front of him.
Her knees were tucked to the side, wrapped in cute cropped trousers and low-heeled slingbacks. Between them lay the piles of photos and photo albums. He was a foot away, but still the energy zinged and it was as if his hands were touching her. She budged slightly over…away.
‘Yes. So many traditional elements could be incorporated.’ She turned more pages. ‘It’s just a pity Angelica isn’t here to give her view.’
He sighed—and did he actually move another inch closer?
‘Honestly? She can’t be too much longer. I think this is a record. Usually she indulges for a few hours. A day—and a night—is pretty extreme stuff even for Angelica.’ He leaned forward and started to sort through some albums. ‘Have you got any of my mother?’
She hadn’t wanted to say. Yes, her second wedding—to Angelica and Fernanda’s father, a respectable Spanish politician—was there, and it was everything she had expected. She’d been a classic Spanish bride of her time. But the wedding album Tara had really wanted to see—the man who had won her nineteen-year-old heart, Michael’s father—was missing.
She handed him the album she had and he quickly scanned it.
‘You’re not in any of them.’
The words were out before she could stop herself.
‘No. I’m not. I wasn’t there.’
He sounded matter-of-fact again. So she could probe?
‘How old were you?’
He continued to flick pages. ‘Not sure. Teens. Maybe seventeen. Sixteen?’
‘And you weren’t invited?’
He half laughed at that and a little tension bubble popped. ‘I really don’t remember.’
She turned to him and frowned. ‘You don’t remember? I don’t buy that, Cruz.’
He shrugged and paused on a couple of pictures. ‘It looks like it went well. Looks like it flowed exactly as my mother would have planned it. Which would have been like a military operation. And genuinely…’ He looked right at her with the gaze that captured her every time. ‘Genuinely, I don’t remember if I was wanted there or not.’
‘Wanted there? Are you serious? Why not?’
Who wouldn’t remember whether they were invited to their own mother’s wedding? Unless they were so spaced out at the time… Those were the rumours, of course. The pretty boy, the child star had gone out of control. With a mother who had been more interested in solving other people’s problems than her own.
He and his girlfriend had been the sweetest little toxic twosome. He’d been the European face of the biggest soft drinks company in the world, and then he’d hit the skids. Oblivion. At least he’d made it out alive…
‘Ah, it wasn’t the best of times for me. Truthfully? She may have wanted me there, but I was in no fit state to know that, and if she didn’t want me it would have been for the same reasons—that I’d let her down, turn up high or drunk or both. Probably bring some totally inappropriate girl or even a whole bunch of inappropriate girls. So it was for the best that the most important day of her life was spent without the carnage that I’d have created.’
He was speaking in that matter-of-fact way again. Tara didn’t know if she would have been able to pull off nonchalance like it—ever. He seemed to major in it. But she couldn’t see it from his mother’s point of view. Surely any mother would want her own son to be at such an important event? Surely it wasn’t all about appearances?
‘Maybe your memory is clouded? Maybe your mother did want you there but you got caught up in…I don’t know…stuff—the stuff you did?’
He shook his head and smiled at her indulgently. ‘I’m not hurt, if that’s what you’re getting at. I was out of control. I was all about me—as selfish and hell-bent on a crazy cocktail of self-destruction and self-promotion as it was possible to be. Don’t think that my mother hadn’t tried to reach me—of course she had—but I was out. Out for the count.’
Tara knew the crazy cocktail he was referring to. Her own life could be said to currently resemble a ‘lite’ version of that. But only she knew that her self-destruction was more fiction than fact. His past, from what she had picked up on, was more of an Armageddon than any of the little sham-pagne celebrity after-parties that she tripped up at.
‘She must have been out of her mind with worry about you.’
He pulled one of those impenetrable faces. Smiled at an image of his mother, standing with regal elegance oozing out of every pore of her perfectly postured body. He trailed his finger round her face and nodded—a tiny nod.
‘I’m not judging her. She had every right to get her life back on track after losing my dad like that. Then all the heartache of coming back to Spain and building bridges, re-establishing herself.’
Tara said nothing. Not sure if he wanted to keep talking. And not sure any more if she wanted to listen. It was all getting a bit too much like a therapy session. And she wasn’t prepared to man up and go next.
‘Any photos of that wedding—of your mum and dad?’ She desperately wanted to see those. To see the young Maria Cruz before she became the grande dame of Spanish society. To see the man who had won her heart: Michael’s father.
A mirthless laugh. ‘It wasn’t that kind of wedding. No white dress or morning suits. No bridesmaids catching the bouquet. Not a chance. It was an elopement—Spanish wealth and class meets London East End. A match made in heaven—ending in hell.’
Bittersweet desolation. It was there in his voice. His usual black and white, here-are-the-facts tone had darkened and she was sure there was still something very, very raw in there.
Tara fought an urge to reach out and touch him. He was so close. The sinew of his bronzed forearm bunched and stretched as he flicked through more albums—but there was no way he was really looking at the pictures. Still, she didn’t probe, or reassure, or offer any kind of solace. But it was getting harder. He was getting easier.
He put down the albums, stretched out his legs, seemed to lean a little closer—but maybe that was just her imagination.
‘They were your classic explosive relationship. Fire and passion, uprooted lives and lost friends and family. And all for what? A fantastic sex life and a baby?’
‘You?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘And then it all fell apart. He’d had enough. Or at least he said he’d had enough. He worked for some very well-connected people—and I don’t mean the royal family. So, whether he was trying to protect her, and me, or whether he really had had enough of her…’ He shrugged, tipped his head back onto the leather seat, stared into nothing. ‘None of that really matters because she was shipped home, back to Papa, and ten days later he was dead.’
Tara felt a stabbing heat in her eyes. She reached for his arm. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her fingers closed over warm skin and muscle and she kneaded softly. He didn’t budge. Didn’t notice. Kept his head straight ahead and his eyes on who knew what? It was as if she wasn’t even there.
Finally… ‘Don’t be. It’s nothing to do with you. Barely anything to do with me. And it’s well in the past. So there’s no need for analysis or sympathy.’ He turned then and his face was almost weary.
Her fingers stilled. He kept his eyes on her. And it came again—that huge swell of strange emotion—as if he could s
ee right inside her and she could see right into him.
‘The one thing I did take from it, though, is that no amount of passion is worth ripping your family apart for. Everything fizzles and dies. Family is what holds us together.’
Tara instantly retracted her hand. Family is what holds us together. The words rolled round her mind. He really thought that? Then he’d had a totally different experience than she. In her book, family was what drove people apart. Not one single member of the Devines from back home had ever called, written or visited. Not one. For all she knew they could all be dead and buried.
‘So what about your family? You never really mention them.’
She simply stared. How could she begin to tell him about that lot? Where to even start? Oh, I had a wonderful grandmother, who was a victim of domestic abuse by her husband until she died. And she bore it like Joan of Arc. And instead of being taken to task for his outrageous behaviour he was left to fester and get worse. Everyone ignored it. Everyone excused him. No one wanted to know. And no one was safe, not even children. And all the while her mother, with her own crucifyingly low self-esteem sat back and let him.
Heaven help her if she ever asked about her father. That was tantamount to war crime. All in all, they were a perfect family. You couldn’t make it up.
‘Tara?’
‘My family?’
‘Yes. Your family? Got any? You know—brothers? Sisters? Skeletons in your closet?’
She just couldn’t form the words. Her eyes continued to be held by his but her lips wouldn’t shape any words. What words were there? No way she was going to start offloading any of that drama to anyone. Least of all Michael Cruz.
‘You OK?’
He had shifted right round to face her now. His elbow rested on one leg, bent at the knee, his other arm lay along the leather cushions. His inscrutable face was showing interest. And she wished to hell it wasn’t.
He reached out for the hand she’d placed on his arm. But she jerked it up and away.
Dressed to Thrill Page 8
