by Tessa Radley
No, no, don’t think about it!
So Rebecca said the first thing that came into her head. “Both you and Savvas dance well. Did you attend lessons?”
“Forget about how well Savvas dances, you little troublemaker,” he ground out. “I want you to stay away from him, he’s too young.”
Troublemaker?
Why the hell not. What did she have to lose? Rebecca blocked out his disparaging voice and, humming the refrain of the waltz, let her body brush his, heard his breath catch and repeated the fleeting brush of body against body.
“Theos. Stop it!” The hand on her waist moved to her shoulder, a manacle, holding her at bay.
She resisted the urge to sag in his arms as despair overwhelmed her. Forced herself not to crumple, to stay tall and straight and move lightly, with grace, on feet that felt leaden. She gave him a mocking little smile. He glared back, more than angry now.
His disgust, his distrust, seared her.
What was she doing? She sagged against him, the struggle going out of her. His body tightened, then firm hands pushed her away, holding her at a distance. The ache inside intensified. What was she trying to prove? Damon was right. This was wrong. However much he’d hurt her, however much she felt he deserved her bad behaviour, Fliss’s wedding was not the place for it. Nor was it worth losing the only thing she had left—her self-respect.
But there was no reason she shouldn’t needle him just a teeny-weeny little bit.
Her spine stiffened. She shot him a swift upward glance. “Savvas told me he’s twenty-seven. That’s three years older than me. I’d say he’s the perfect age for me.”
“Listen to me!” Damon sounded at the end of his tether. “My brother is light-years younger in experience. No match for a woman like you.”
The words stung.
“A woman like me?”
Anger swirled through her at the injustice of it all.
Damon Asteriades didn’t even know what kind of woman she was. How could he be so blind? How dare he fail to recognise—refuse to recognise—what lay between them? He should not be marrying Fliss today—or any other woman for that matter. Damn him, there was only one woman on earth he should ever have contemplated marrying. Her.
There. She’d admitted it.
Admitted what lay at the heart of her pain. What he’d always refused to recognise. And now it was too late.
He was married.
To her best friend.
Yet still this thing…this force…burned with a life of its own, bigger than both of them. And sometimes, like now, she almost convinced herself he was aware of it—even feared it. Experimentally Rebecca let her fingers slide along the shoulder of his wedding suit, over the fine fabric of his white shirt collar, until she touched the bare skin of his neck. She thought—dreamed—she detected the smallest of shudders.
“Shame on you! You know nothing about me,” she whispered and blew gently into the soft hollow beside his clenched jaw. “You never chose to find out anything about me.”
He started. “For God’s sake! What’s to find out? I know more than I ever wanted.” Bitterness spilled from him. “You’re a black widow. You grasp and demand and devour and leave nothing behind.”
“That’s a—”
“Lie? Is it? But there’s nothing to disprove my words, is there? You married Aaron Grainger for his fortune, and when everything was gone you drove him to suicide.”
She gasped. “You know, no one has ever dared say that to my face before.” Helplessly she flapped the hand that a moment ago had stroked his neck. “I heard the rumors existed, but I never thought anyone of substance believed them. I certainly never thought you the type to believe gossip.”
The hand on her waist tightened. The tempo of the music quickened. The dancing speeded up, building to the finale.
“Yes, but I’ve got more than gossip to go on, haven’t I? Haven’t I?” His face was pressed up against hers now. She could see her reflection glittering in his eyes, could smell the heat of his fury. “I know exactly the kind of woman you are. The kind that kisses her best friend’s man, begs him to—”
“Shut up!”
He spun her around, pulled her close to avoid another couple. “You promise sin and desire and deliver nothing but carnal delight. I know the temptation you are. Only last night—”
She froze in his arms and came to a sudden jarring halt.
“I said shut up,” she huffed. “Or do you want me to cause that scene you’re so terrified of? Here, on Fliss’s big day?” Standing dead still on the dance floor, no longer able to move, she watched the realization dawn as he became aware of where they both stood, of what calamity had nearly befallen them, and watched the mantle of iron control drop into place as the next melody began.
“I must be mad,” he bit out, his voice full of self-disgust, and he reared back as though he feared she might contaminate him.
The sheer force of his words released Rebecca from the insanity that held her rooted to the ground. If he was mad, then she must be trapped in the same madness.
Damon was married. Untouchable. Better she remember that. Shrugging out of his arms, she spun around and stalked away. He let her go.
And she didn’t dare look back.
Two
Almost four years later
T uesday morning started badly. Rebecca overslept, and by the time T.J. managed to wake her, his insistent little fingers squeezing her cheeks, the dazzling almost-summer sun was already well up in the cloudless Northland sky.
T.J. was querulous as she hurriedly dressed him. Guilt took over. Yesterday she’d stayed home, taken him to the doctor for the earache that had plagued him over the weekend. Last night he’d cried a little before finally dropping off to sleep, leaving Rebecca to toss and turn for most of the night listening out for him. But he’d slept through.
Promising herself that she’d cut her workday short and spend the afternoon with him, Rebecca rushed him out the door and strapped him into the car seat, while he grumbled incessantly.
The whole drive over, Rebecca tried telling herself that Dorothy—T.J.’s caregiver and a former hospice nurse—was far better qualified to look after T.J., that she wasn’t deserting her baby when he needed her most. To no avail.
Dorothy, bless her kind heart, took one look at T.J.’s mutinous expression and opened her arms wide, promising he could watch a Thomas the Tank Engine DVD so long as he drank some juice and ate sliced mango and apple first. T.J.’s face brightened instantly and Rebecca heaved a giant sigh of relief.
After Rebecca handed over T.J.’s medication, Dorothy fixed her with a sharp glance. “Don’t you worry yourself about this young man. He’ll be fine. You stayed with him yesterday when he needed you most. Today you can fix your attention on Chocolatique.”
The understanding beneath the brisk words made Rebecca’s throat tighten.
As if sensing her volatile, emotive state, Dorothy murmured, “Now, now, Rebecca, off with you, and don’t forget to bring me those almond truffles I’m so addicted to when you collect our boy.”
“Do I ever forget?” Rebecca gave the older woman a fond smile.
The glow of good humour that Dorothy generated stayed with Rebecca all the way to Chocolatique. There, on the threshold of her business, all remnants of pleasure evaporated and she came to a shocked, gut-wrenching halt.
Him.
Damon Asteriades sprawled across the wing armchair nearest the door, showing total disregard for the designer suit that he wore with the casual abandon of the very wealthy. In a flash, Rebecca took in the highly polished handmade leather shoes, the open jacket and loosened tie, incongruous in Tohunga. At this time of year the town was populated by European backpackers in T-shirts, shorts and sandals. Up, up went her eyes over the finely carved mouth…up…until his chilling narrowed gaze propelled her into action.
She crossed the threshold, apprehension parching her mouth, and croaked, “What are you doing here?”
“T
he one good thing I remember about you, Rebecca, was your polish, your semblance of manners. Has living up here in the back-of-the-beyond stripped the last veneer of civilisation from you?”
Rebecca stared into the brutally handsome face, at a total loss for words.
He straightened. “I have a matter I need to discuss with you.”
“With me?” Rebecca’s heart lurched. What was he doing up here in Tohunga, hundreds of kilometres north of Auckland? Had the day of reckoning, the day she’d been dreading for more than three years, finally arrived?
Damon gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Do you see anyone else?” His dangerous pirate face was unreadable, harder than ever, new lines bracketing his full mouth, but it lacked the killing anger she’d expected.
“What do you want with me?” And immediately wished the tense, hasty words unsaid. Don’t panic, she told herself. Keep it calm, polite. Don’t let him see the dread.
He didn’t answer. Instead his unnerving gaze swept her from head to toe.
“You haven’t changed.”
It didn’t sound like a compliment.
Rebecca knew she shouldn’t allow him to rattle her. There was nothing wrong with her appearance. The sundress was well cut and appropriate to the warm October spring morning, her long ebony hair secured in a neat French twist. Unless her emotions gave her away, he would see only a well-groomed woman in total command of herself and her surroundings.
She took her time returning the inspection. The suit would be Italian. Armani perhaps. The unbuttoned jacket revealed a white shirt. It would be made of the finest silk, she remembered, hand tailored for him. Fitting the muscled body beneath to perfection.
Wrenching her gaze away, she stared into cool blue eyes. “So what do you want?” Certainly not her. He’d never wanted her. But T.J.…well, T.J. was another story.
Rebecca swallowed the bitter, coppery taste of pure terror.
Chocolatique was her business, she reminded herself, coming closer.
And he was the interloper.
Yet Chocolatique, with its familiar comforting fragrance of chocolate, the warm red and amber tones of the cosy, elegant decor she had spent days selecting, failed to dispel Rebecca’s fear.
Vaguely she registered that the shop was humming. With the exception of the one empty armchair opposite Damon, every seat in the shop was taken. Even the booths, carefully divided by screens and lush palms in pots to maximise privacy, were full. Yet the rise and fall of busy chatter failed to muffle Rebecca’s unwanted awareness of the man who watched her as though he expected her to turn tail and run.
Oblivious to the tension, Miranda, her assistant, smiled a greeting from behind the spotless glass counter where dozens of delicacies containing chocolate in some form or another were displayed on hand-painted ceramic platters. It was still too early for the busloads of tourists who stopped in on their route to Cape Reinga for refreshments and to sample and purchase the delicately decorated chocolates several local women produced. For the sake of her regular customers who came each morning for cups of rich chocolate or mochaccino, Rebecca forced a smile.
“Rebecca…”
The rich, rough velvet of his voice caused tingles to vibrate up her spine. She shivered as every muscle in her body tightened. How did he do it? One word, and she reacted like a cat to its master’s touch.
But she was no pet.
She was a woman. Her own woman. Damon Asteriades no longer held any power over her. She no longer fancied herself in love with him. So she flashed him a careless smile. With deliberation, she folded her arms across the high back of the empty armchair opposite him, determined to show herself—him—that he had no longer had any effect on her. “Good morning, Damon. I would recommend—”
“I am done.” He cut her off, and the newspaper across his knee rustled as he set it aside and leaned across the coffee table toward her. From her vantage point Rebecca couldn’t help noticing the thickness of his silky black hair, the breadth of his shoulders under the fine fabric of his superbly fitting suit.
Then his fingers brushed hers and she gave a tiny, breathless gasp.
Before she could snatch her fingers away, he slid a rectangular piece of paper into her hand. Automatically she took it, then glanced down.
Instant déjà vu.
It was a cheque issued from a premier account, the bold gold print signifying that the bank deemed the signatory to be of great importance. Closer investigation revealed an obscene number of zeros, an amount far in excess of—she glanced at the empty coffee cup and crumbs and smudges that were all that remained of a slice of chocolate cheesecake—what he’d ordered.
“You appear to have overpaid,” she said drily.
“For breakfast? Perhaps.”
“For whatever,” she retorted, his confident, lazy tone making her hackles rise. But she couldn’t stop herself from glancing back at the plate in front of him. Chocolate cheesecake for breakfast? Her mouth twitched. But then, Damon had always had a sweet tooth.
“Ah, but that is not payment for ‘whatever’ as you so colloquially put it.”
His words wiped away all residue of humour. Something in the way he watched her, the unwavering concentration, caused blood to rush to her face and her heart to start hammering. His full, gorgeous mouth twisted, and she tensed.
“No. The cheque is not for services rendered. At least not the kind that you clearly have in mind, koukla, if your flushed cheeks and bright eyes are anything to go by. Avaricious women never were much of a turn-on for me.”
Humiliation scorched her. The worst of it was the knowledge that his words held more than a grain of truth. Clever, astute Damon had read the hope that had flooded her as her heart thudded—the hope that for once he’d experienced the same intense, hot flaring awareness she had.
Naturally the coldhearted bastard didn’t feel a thing, while she trembled from the aftershock of the raw want that blasted through her, leaving her nipples tight and her body weak.
Damn him to the fires of hell.
She wasn’t going to cower behind an armchair, she decided. She wasn’t scared of Damon Asteriades. Nor did she fear the effect he had on her. That was nothing more than lust. Her heart was safe.
Stepping around the chair, she thrust the cheque back at him. “Take this and shove it!”
She told herself she could withstand his powerful magnetism. Because lust without love meant nothing—except bitter emptiness.
Instead of taking the cheque and ripping it up, he laid it very deliberately, faceup, on the small round table between them in a gesture loaded with challenge. “Now the negotiations start.” He gave her a hard smile, but his glittering eyes held no humour. “Don’t forget—I know that women like you are always on the lookout for easy money, for a wealthy benefactor.”
Oh, how the barb hurt. “Get out of Chocolatique,” she whispered, her lips tight. “I am not for sale. Ever.”
He stared at her without blinking, then said very calmly, “You are overreacting. Whatever made you assume I’d want to buy you?”
How could she ever have loved this man? Believed that he might learn to love her back if he only knew her? Beyond speech, Rebecca glared at him, anger chopping through her, churning in her stomach. His gaze dropped and her breath caught in her throat.
The formfitting sundress splashed with red-and-white hibiscus flowers on a black background had seemed such a good idea earlier this morning, cool in the humid Northland climate. Yet now she felt exposed, naked. She refused to fold her arms and hide the puckered nipples that still pressed against the cotton fabric.
Her body switched treacherously to slow burn as those eyes traced the curve of her breasts, then lowered to the indent at her waist, making her feel like some concubine on the auction block. Except there was nothing sexual in his carefully calculated assessment.
Damon was putting her down, she told herself fiercely. This was his way of underscoring the fact that while she still desired him beyond r
eason, he detested her absolutely. She spun away and retreated so the high back of the empty armchair once again formed a solid barrier between them.
Had anyone else noticed the humiliating interaction? A glance toward the counter showed that Miranda was handing a customer a large box of truffles tied with a red organza bow, while one of the full-time waitresses Rebecca employed carried a tray laden with steaming cups and muffins to a secluded booth on the other side of the shop. No, she concluded, no one in the room was aware of how she felt—no one except Damon.
Resentment and desire smelted together, twisting tighter and tighter inside her until she wanted nothing more than to swing around and let rip and rage at him. But she refused to grant him that satisfaction. She would far rather see him flip, lose all control and go up in flames.
Her lips pursed at the wishful image. Little chance of that happening. Damon was a total control freak. But she needed to find out what he wanted, what had brought him and his chequebook here. And the best way to find out was to provoke him. Carefully.
She swivelled to face him. “So what are you doing in Tohunga?” And raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Slumming?”
With some satisfaction, Rebecca heard the impatient breath he blew out.
“You are not going to get under my skin, woman. I promised my mother…”
“Promised your mother what?” She pounced on his words, the fear she’d refused to recognise easing.
He gave her a resentful look. “My mother, for some reason, holds you in high regard.”
“I’ve always liked her, too. Soula has style, good taste and isn’t as prejudiced as some.” And she smiled demurely as fury flashed in his vivid blue eyes.
Through gritted teeth he said, “Savvas is to be married. My mother wants you to arrange the wedding.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t do weddings anymore,” Rebecca replied without a hint of apology, her confidence returning at his bald request.
The blue eyes spat sparks and an almost-forgotten exhilaration filled her. For the first time since she’d known him she had the upper hand, and she relished it.
