by Marsh, Susan
He was a different animal now. A man who lived for his work. Perhaps Marcus had been right to give it all away. Ruthless, but right. If only the old devil could have warned him. Even at the end, on his deathbed, he hadn’t said a word. Would the hurt ever ease?
He dragged the letter from his pocket. It was developing tatters, after two weeks of him carrying it about, transferring it from suit to suit of clothes, almost as though he needed to keep it with him for fear of forgetting. He spread it open, and was staring blindly at its grim message when out of nowhere a horror sprang into his mind, something that tore at his gut with such ferocious savagery, it was all he could do to hold in the pain.
The letter. That other devastating letter. The one that had come after Sandra’s funeral. From her lover, expressing sincere sympathy for their joint loss.
Thoughts of it had crept up on him before, a million times. But, as if he’d been anaesthetised from it until this moment, the full sickening measure of that betrayal slammed him as if for the first time.
How had he hidden the truth from himself for so long? Why hadn’t he realised? Why, in the teeth of all the evidence, had he clung to the myth he’d created about her? He battled with the question of his astounding willingness to accept lies, then his fatigue seemed to settle into his bones.
It occurred to him that even if his conscious mind had avoided the full import, other parts of him must have absorbed it to the full. The truth had seeped like acid down through the layers, through his heart and soul and into his very guts, destroying all the places where love and trust and hope had dwelt, leaving him empty.
All the stresses and strains of sleepless, anxious nights since the bleak little funeral on that green hillside mounted into a black towering wave, poised to crash over him.
For the first time he contemplated letting it all slide. Allowing the corporation to break up, selling off the assets, escaping to somewhere …
It was clear enough what he had to do. He needed to set the wheels in motion. Call his lawyer. Arrange for the press conference.
In the meantime, though, he’d phone down for a bottle of Scotch.
CHAPTER NINE
THE CHATEAU BLEU appeared quiet, its soft lights glimmering. Cate paid off the taxi and hurried through the entrance. Almost at once she was surrounded by uniformed security men. After a brief, heated exchange, in which she had to produce her ID and only just avoided being frisked, Timmins was called to identify her. He flicked a number on his mobile, waited for what seemed like for ever, listened impassively, then snapped the phone shut. Just as he was putting it away it rang. This time, after another interminable conversation, during which he kept turning to look at her muttering things she couldn’t hear, she was allowed to pass.
Upstairs she put her bag down outside Tom’s door, wondering if she’d need it, conscious of the sudden violence of her heartbeat. She wiped nervous hands on her skirt, felt her mouth go dry. What if he’d carried out his threat and called off his merger? How furious was he likely to be? She’d been through enough for one night, with Steve trying to talk his way back in.
She raised her fist to knock, but before she could make contact the door opened. Tom Russell stood there, frowning and looking vaguely dishevelled. From somewhere in the background came the deep sombre strains of a cello. He stood staring at her with a strange light in his eyes, and there was an electric, insane instant when she was actually tempted to rush into his arms, but thank God inhibition held her back.
‘Ah,’ he said, blinking his black lashes. ‘My girlfriend.’ She was disconcerted to see a fiery little glow in the depths of his eyes, as if he were fuelled up on something. Anger?
‘I’m sorry I was delayed, Tom. Honestly.’ She was so afraid of the answer she hardly dared ask. ‘Is it—am I too late?’
He had a slightly rakish appearance. His five o’clock shadow was strongly in evidence, and, although he’d changed into the sort of well-cut casual trousers and shirt any billionaire about town might wear, say on a date with—in his case—an aeronautic physicist, his clothes were a little crushed. The shirt hung loose, its sleeves rolled back to reveal his sinewy forearms.
She noticed too that his hair was mussed, with a tendency to fall forward on his forehead, as if someone should smooth it back for him. He might have been any guy having a relaxed evening at home. Any thrilling guy, that was, with a body to make a woman’s knees go weak and billions flowing down the drain because she was late.
The suspense was killing her. She met his gaze, her adrenaline building. ‘Well? Did you call off your merger?’
Merger? Tom wondered. He leaned against the door jamb and stared at her eager, anxious face through a mild alcoholic haze. Maybe he was drunker than he thought, but the news of her arrival had rocked his grim doubts off their foundations and illuminated his heart like a solar burst.
He dragged a hand through his hair to give the new reality time to align itself. She was here. She’d never have come back if she’d betrayed him.
He’d been wrong.
His heavy spirits caught an up draught of light, clean air and soared straight up through the stratosphere.
It seemed incredible now to think of how he’d doubted her. Surely those clear, luminous eyes were incapable of concealment. Seeing her again in the flesh, in her glorious, womanly flesh …
He tried not to stare at her breasts, but that little glittery triangle drew his eyes to the gorgeous swells like magnets. His hands itched with the need to feel their soft resilience. For some reason, the satin inset only made his mind jump to another triangle, the forbidden one hidden tantalisingly under her clothes.
He felt his loins stir and forced himself to concentrate on her face.
That was hardly easier. Tonight her eyes were of the deepest aquamarine, in echo of the dress. Her lashes seemed longer, her lips a richer ruby-red. His own lips yearned with the memory of their yielding sweetness. He wanted to plunge his tongue into that moist, wine-sweet cavern and fill up his senses with the taste of her.
He no sooner imagined that voluptuous possibility than, with that amazing synchronicity, almost like some sort of thought transference, he saw her pupils dilate. At once he knew with a gut-deep, primeval certainty his instincts were right. She could feel the pull as irresistibly as he could. Suddenly he felt as sure and smooth as top-class tyres on a new-laid road.
When he spoke his voice came out deeper than a cave-dweller’s. ‘You’re late.’
Cate, prepared for the worst, felt her insides clench. ‘I know. As I said, I was delayed. You didn’t—you didn’t call off your merger, did you?’
She tried to read his expression as he surveyed every inch of her from beneath heavy brows.
‘That’s quite a pretty dress,’ he growled. ‘It looks as if you’re going somewhere.’ Then he smiled. Such a sexy smile.
Sweet, joyous relief flooded through her. This wasn’t the response of an angry man. And a sensual little quirk stayed in one corner of his mouth, as if he just might be pleased to see her.
Boosted by the flirty signals, her nerve bounced back. ‘Well, I am. Here.’ She pointed to the floor. ‘Though God knows why,’ she added, rolling her eyes.
‘We both know why.’ He took the bag from her and pulled her inside. ‘So what kept you?’ he demanded. ‘What could possibly have been more important than your deal with me?’
Despite the severity of his tone he found a strand of her hair that needed smoothing from her face, and her ear tingled in shameless pleasure. She probably wouldn’t have resisted if he’d started stroking her neck.
‘Well, in case you’ve forgotten, I had a story to file. I was delayed getting back to the newsroom … remember?’ She glowered at him. ‘I was running so late I missed my train … I was late for my grandmother … I had to wait absolutely ages for a cab … Do you have any idea what Sydney’s like for mere mortals on a Friday night? Not everyone gets driven about in limos, you know.’
‘Still very passionat
e, I see.’
Passionate? She looked narrowly at him. This was hardly the sort of word tossed about lightly by a sophisticated beast she was moving in with for the night. That hot spark lurking in his eyes was unsettling, but he seemed steady and controlled, his speech as crisp as ever. Or was it?
‘So what else happened to delay you?’ he said. ‘What other insurmountable obstacles stood between you and your lover?’
He’d managed ‘insurmountable’ and ‘obstacles’ very well. Almost too well. As if he’d taken care not to allow any blurring around the edges of the words. And then there were the words themselves.
Examining him minutely, she said, ‘You mean apart from the hot coals and the swim across the harbour? Wasn’t that enough?’ She smiled at him. ‘Anyway, I was afraid you’d think I’d ratted.’
She started to move down the hall, and when he didn’t immediately follow, flashed a glance back at him. He was watching her with a small frown, and she felt a sudden anxious lurch. ‘You didn’t—you didn’t throw in the towel on your merger, Tom, did you?’
To her intense relief his expression and the posture of his big, lean frame relaxed. ‘Never,’ he scoffed, waving his hand. ‘Why would I do that? I knew you’d be here.’ He caught up to her, a touch of swagger in his step. He slipped an arm around her waist and murmured into her ear, making it tickle. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ she retorted, smiling, though the giddy blood rushed up to her neck. ‘Because you’re so irresistible?’
‘Well, you haven’t resisted very hard so far, have you?’ He broke into a grin that was pure, sinful sex.
There was whisky on his breath, and a recklessness in his smile that charmed her to her entrails. This cocksure cowboy was a million miles from the icy, driven despot who’d thrilled and threatened her in the cathedral.
He swept her with him into the dimly lit sitting room and left her there while he went to deposit her bag.
She looked around her with a small shock. She had been aware from the first of the austere music leaking through the front door. Now she noticed that the apartment had an atmosphere of desolation, perhaps because the blinds were all open and darkness, punctuated by the hard glitter of the city lights, pressed against the glass. Apart from the bright foyer, the lighting inside the rooms relied on a single lamp on a sofa table in the sitting room, combined with a weak glow issuing from the kitchen.
A plasma screen flickered soundlessly across from a sofa. Had Tom been watching the news channel in the dark—endless silent images of misery and disaster? She bit her lip. The sense she’d had at the memorial service of his tightly controlled restraint returned with greater force.
For some reason the memory floated into her mind of the waste-paper bin she’d seen, crammed with the clothes he’d worn at the memorial. At the time she’d been shocked by the sheer wanton waste. Now she realised there was a deeper significance to his disposal of them. Why hadn’t she understood? It seemed obvious now that his clothes must have felt tainted by the occasion.
She turned when she heard his step behind her.
‘Is there some guy breaking his heart over you tonight, Goldilocks?’ Though his tone was casual, his eyes were alert.
Startled, she thought of Steve, attempting yet again to reopen the lines of communication, then she shrugged and grinned. ‘There may be one or two who’d like to murder me. Can you imagine?’ She fluttered her lashes.
He reached out and traced his long, lean fingers from her eyebrow to her jaw. ‘They’re all too late,’ he said softly. ‘I get first refusal on murdering you.’
His voice was as caressing as his lazy, sensual touch, and scorched a shivery yearning path through her interior.
He inclined his head, grazing her cheek with his as he closed his eyes to inhale her perfume. ‘Ah-h-h … sexy.’ Then just as she anticipated his kiss he released her, leaving her breathless and aroused. His careless, light-hearted mood was irresistible, but she wasn’t sure she could believe in it. Not here in the semi-dark, with music to wring the soul.
Did Tom Russell’s easy laugh conceal deep, unsheddable tears? He was such a strong, assured man the idea needed getting used to, although Gran always said sons could suffer badly from the death of a father. And she’d read often enough that men weren’t as well equipped for the release of grief as women.
She indicated the television monitor. ‘Were you watching something?’
He shrugged. ‘Just keeping my eye on the news. To see what breaks.’
To learn if she’d broken the story, she guessed with growing dismay at her part in his distress, watching him pick up a remote control and click the television off. To find out if she’d betrayed him.
Her eye fell on a whisky bottle and glass standing on the coffee table in front of the sofa. The liquid level in the bottle was at about the three-quarter mark. She looked around again at the dimly lit rooms, the stark windows open to the night, and felt moved. This was no scene of celebration. More like a wake. Had he had any food this day? she wondered.
She felt the heat of his gaze scorch her bare arms and legs. Awareness warmed her, and as though he’d read the tremor in her blood his mouth edged up a little at the corners. She remembered well how those lips had tasted. How she’d burned.
‘That really is a pretty dress, Cate.’ Seduction gleamed in his eyes. ‘Why don’t you take it off?’
She looked wonderingly at him. ‘Are you drunk, Tom?’
‘Not yet.’ He dropped onto the sofa and stretched out his long legs, lifting one negligent foot onto the coffee table. In the glow of the lamp he looked more relaxed than she’d seen him all day. He patted the spot next to him in smiling invitation, wickedness in his eyes. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’
She could feel herself sliding. Alcohol had done nothing to diminish his attraction. That bad-boy charm combined with his lean, dark sexiness was enough to tempt a saint, let alone Cate Summerfield. It had been a long time since a desirable man had eaten her up with his eyes.
But there were questions she needed settled. Like where she was to sleep. She’d only seen the one bed, earlier. In the current mood it seemed doubtful he’d have organised anything for her. She needed to know what he had in mind.
The cello wound its poignant song to an end. In the sudden stillness she could hear her own nervy heartbeat.
‘Er … Tom. Where do you want me to sleep?’ Try as she might, there was no concealing the husky awareness in her voice.
He hesitated, the gleam in his eyes piercingly sensual. The silence deepened and grew electric.
Desire rustled in the breeze from the balcony, whispered in her hair, burned in the gaze flickering from her bare arms to her legs, her mouth, her throat and breasts. Her heart skittered into double time. Was this the game she’d come to play? Tempting though it was, how wise would it be to get in deep with Tom Russell? He was no callow boy. Would she be able to manage a quick and easy exit?
He walked across to her and gripped her arms. The seriousness of his lean, strong face startled her. Sincerity rang like steel in his voice, harshened the lines from cheek to jaw, reminding her of the pitfalls of playing with fire.
‘Why did you come back? You know you could have ruined me.’ He searched her face and his voice deepened. ‘Are you really what you seem?’
His intensity trapped her breath and stirred her feminine being at the most primitive level. Her reasons for returning swam confusedly in her mind. She’d kept her part of the bargain. That was why she’d come back, wasn’t it?
‘You know why,’ she faltered. ‘I promised. And you said on the phone …’
‘What did I say?’ He cupped her face, brushed her mouth sexily with his lips. ‘Did I tell you I want you?’
He pushed her, unresisting, against the wall, holding her there while he trailed an exploratory finger from her cheek, down her throat to trace her collar bone. His hand slipped under the satin at her cleavage, his light touc
h sending shivers of pleasure through her as he traced the swell into her bra. He cupped her breast in his warm palm while her blood thundered in her ears.
Against the room’s muted glow his harsh outline was set in relief from cheekbone to sculpted jaw. Though the available light was low, she could see the flex of sinews in his strong neck, see his eyelids grow heavy with sensuality as he caressed her willing breasts with his smooth, lean fingers.
The power radiating from him dragged at her breathing. Heavy heat unfurled deep in her insides and swelled her nipples, igniting her erotic places with a fierce yearning ache.
He was beautiful, she thought, quivering as spears of flame shot through her flesh wherever he touched. Beautiful and dangerous.
He slipped a hand under the hair at her nape. ‘That kiss today,’ he murmured, his voice dark and sultry. ‘I’m not sure it was the best we can do.’
She contemplated his mouth. ‘I knew I could have done better,’ she breathed, ‘but I didn’t want to take a slutty advantage of you.’
He brought his lips down on hers, and it was no tepid kiss. It was a searing demand, his lips confident and assured after the kisses earlier in the day. Her senses surged to the feel and scent and taste of him, familiar to her now. The added tincture of whisky escalated the element of risk, accelerated her excitement.
He tasted each of her lips with such thrilling sensual artistry, her bones turned to liquid and she had to cling to his wide shoulders to support herself. An instant before her brain dissolved in the mists of passion, the thought flashed through her mind … What if she couldn’t control this?
But, aroused, she gave herself up to the sizzling delights. Impressively, the whisky hadn’t dulled his skills. While he seduced her mouth with his lips and tongue with exquisite care, his urgent hands plundered her body with inspired ruthlessness. He made wicked forays under her dress to explore her hips and thighs and stroke her bottom, invoking delicious trails of flame, heightening her fever for more.
