by Caro LaFever
Excitement bubbling inside her, she turned on the shower. A quick wash. A fluff of her hair so it spiked and curled around her head. A touch of mascara and lip gloss, and she was ready for the dress. Slipping the slinky gown over her head, she tugged it into place. The silk wrapped lovingly around her breasts, slicked down across her waist, and hugged her hips.
My, my.
Every move she made was going to get her noticed.
She glanced into the mirror. Her slight smile turned into a wide grin. She was going to swing her hips in honor of her dear mum and also swing them to catch a certain man's attention.
Swish, swish, swish.
She sauntered into the bedroom and stopped.
“You’re ready,” the certain man said from the opened doorway.
She met his gaze, remembering another time where she'd presented herself for his inspection and been shot down.
A ping of sudden anxiety made her straighten her spine.
The fighter inside made her lift her chin.
His perusal leisurely slid from her wide eyes down to her mouth, making it tingle. The scrutiny continued over the skin of her neck across her silk-covered breasts, making them tighten. The silver gaze turned molten as he continued to concentrate on her. Sliding across her waist, the curve of her hips, down the length of her legs. To her silk-covered toes, making them curl.
He gave her a wry grin, dimples flashing. “No shoes. Are you planning on playing the part of Cinderella tonight? Or perhaps you wish me to carry you to your ball?”
Not a putdown. But no compliments either.
Emotions tumbled inside her.
This intense desire she felt for him even through the old fears. The leftover anger she held because of his dismissive attitude towards her when they'd first met. The contrasting emotions mixed and tangled with the appreciation she felt for his patience during the last few days. Then there was the gratitude for what he was doing for her pop battling with the old resentment because he'd used her father as a weapon against her.
Yet none of those emotions could compete. Compete with the one, overwhelming emotion shining through the morass in her head and heart.
No. No.
The man who caused all these jarring emotions inside her swung his tuxedo jacket over his shoulder and leaned on the doorframe. A slight frown appeared, drawing his dark, satirical brows down. “What’s wrong?”
“Not a thing.” Jerking her attention away from the jumble of confusion roiling inside her, Darcy slid on a pair of matching high heels. It couldn’t possibly have happened, she told herself. She couldn’t possibly be such a stupid git.
She gritted her teeth in a smile and threw it his way.
His frown deepened. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking I’m ready to go.” She pushed her smile even wider.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Feeling great.” She gestured to her feet. His earlier teasing questions came back to her and she grasped onto them as a way to turn the conversation. “See? Got my dancing shoes on. I’m definitely not the kind of girl to play Cinderella, you'll be happy to know. I'm sure you're even more relieved to find there's no need for you to carry me. Anywhere.”
A clipped silence fell.
“Si,” he finally replied, his scrutiny no longer warm. “I’m delighted to be reminded of your independence.”
She forced herself to keep meeting his gaze, even knowing she'd thrown cold water on the evening. But she didn’t know how to put every one of her emotions in perfect order so she wouldn't blurt out stupid sentences designed to tick him off.
He slipped his jacket on, taking his time as he adjusted the sleeves, buttoned the coat. When he glanced over, his eyes were as opaque as glass. “Shall we?”
The silence in the limo was deafening. Darcy clutched her small tote with tight fingers and frantically tried to think of something to say. Something that would smooth over whatever this was that had come between them. This pulsing wall of distance, one she'd erected with her words. The realization clunked inside her. Suddenly, she wanted so much to return to the moments in the closet, when he’d been smiling, warm, wanting.
“We’re here.” His tone frosted her soul.
Rather than focusing on him, she focused on her feet as she climbed from the limo. Wherever here was, she didn't want to be. There would be no fun or frolic for her tonight. Not with the Great Man back in all his cold, arrogant glory.
She glanced up only when he began to open the door.
To an art gallery.
A gasp escaped her as her gaze fell on a very familiar painting highlighted in one of two front windows. “T-t-that's, that's…” her words stumbled to a stop.
“Yours.” He continued to hold the door open as several people swept into the noise and laughter of a gallery opening. He looked down his nose at her. “Are you going to come in?”
With a gulp, she stepped into her dream world. Given to her by this man. A flurry of feelings fluttered in her belly. Feelings entirely opposite of what she’d been experiencing only seconds before. “H-h-how…how—”
“Quite easily.” He slipped her coat off and gave it to an attendant. “I’m in the business of making things happen.”
His arrogance should have fired her temper. Instead, the fire lit something deep inside, melting her fears. “I had no idea.”
“That is the general description of a surprise.” He adjusted his necktie, not meeting her inquiring gaze.
Her heart drummed in her chest, hope and anguish and fear and dreams colliding inside her. “Why?”
He finally glanced her way, yet his eyes gave away nothing. They were like two pieces of impenetrable metal. “You have talent. It should be displayed and acknowledged.”
As if he would do this for any starving artist in London. But he wouldn't have, would he? He'd done it for her. However, it seemed whatever impulse prodded him to do this for her had been swept away by her odd attitude earlier this evening.
A lump of guilt stuck in her throat.
After all this man had done for her father, and now this. She'd been flippant, dismissive. She’d shut an emotional door in his face and he knew it and didn’t like it. Had she hurt him? Could it possibly be that Marc was feeling some of the same emotions she was?
She peered at him.
His face was blank as he looked back at her. Still, something in the way he stood, tense and ready for another blow, gave her courage. She’d let fear—fear of rejection, of what she was feeling for this man—rule her.
Which wasn't worthy of her or him.
She stepped close to him once more and slipped her hand around his neck.
His big body stilled and then stiffened as she tried to pull his head down to hers. “No.”
“Yes,” she insisted, willing to fight through his rejection instead of letting it put her off.
His eyes were no longer frosty. Rather a burning light had appeared. “Carita. Why do you choose the most inopportune times to touch me?”
“I don't know.” She tried to tug his head down again. “Call me perverse.”
“I have other names for you.” He stared at her. Hard. “What happened earlier? What were you thinking?”
She didn't want to go there. How could she explain the jumble of emotions inside her? The only thing she wanted at this moment was his closeness. She wanted to relish this moment. Waving his questions away, she didn’t look at his face. “I don't know what you mean.”
“Not true.” One male finger slid under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “I want to know.”
“Why? What does it matter?”
“It matters.” His silver eyes never left hers.
“I…I…”
A flash of light cut off her attempt at an impossible explanation. Both of them jerked their heads around. Cameras flashed once more.
The ancient fear blasted every thought from her head except one.
He would find her.
And the consequences.
“Smile,” he ordered.
Following his order was impossible. Her lips felt like icicles.
Lights flashed once more.
Horror screamed in her brain. She might have escaped his notice when the New York photos were released, but she doubted she'd be so lucky if and when her picture hit the London tabs. She'd watched him as a kid, poring over the tabloids, laughing at celebrity antics. If he was still alive, he'd see her. If he saw her, she knew, knew, he'd come after her.
“Enough.” Marc’s arm was the only warmth penetrating the chill coursing through her.
She trembled, a cold mist of sweat breaking out on her skin.
Within seconds, he'd ushered her away from the cameras and into the center of the gallery. A glass of champagne was thrust in her hand. The liquid slopped over the edges as her hand shook, yet as he led her deeper into the crowds, away from the cameras, the panic began to subside. His arm continued to stay around her waist, a hot brand of ownership and, somehow, consolation. Dimly, she recognized he was greeting people, his voice rumbling at her side, giving her another source of comfort.
All at once, they were around a corner, into a private alcove.
“What the hell is going on?” he snarled.
The fear was so old, so deep she had never been able to articulate it to anyone. Not after her first attempt had been met with contempt and ridicule. The instinct to stuff it down was too ingrained in her to give her any possibility of answering his question. Plus, she didn’t want to think about this, didn’t want to ruin this amazing surprise he’d planned for her.
She needed to focus on the positive. As usual.
Forget the danger lurking in wait. For now.
She took a sip of champagne, not meeting his glare, trying to put the pieces of herself back in place before he saw anything to latch on to.
“Answer me.”
Closing her eyes for a minute, she pulled the last bits together, pasted a smile on and made sure the ugly memories were blanked. Lifting her head, she met his steely stare. “Nothing's going on.”
An Italian curse ripped from his mouth. His eyes were sharp blades attempting to rip through her mind.
The courage and fight she'd learned as a kid came to her rescue. “S-s-seriously. I'm fine.”
She was. Almost. The trembling had stopped and the fear was fading for now. If only she could stop her stuttering, she’d present a perfectly composed picture to the world and to him. Eventually, she would have to confront the demon from her past. She knew it in her gut. But not now. Now was about convincing this man all was well and trying to enjoy the night he'd planned.
Leaning over, his hands splayed on the wall behind her and his head dipped to hers. “Tell me what you are afraid of.”
She threw him a jaunty grin. “I'm afraid you're going to keep me in this alcove all night instead of letting me out to have some fun.”
His jaw clenched. “Tell me why you were shaking in front of the cameras.”
Suddenly, she wanted to tell him. Tell him everything. For the first time in years, she wanted to believe someone would listen and would believe. How wonderful it would be to lay this ugliness at his feet and let him fix it, exactly as he’d fixed her pop. The yearning swept through her, a wash of pure need. “Marc—”
“Most women would love the attention.” His mouth tightened as if he were trying to figure out a particularly irritating puzzle. “Most women love the cameras.”
Most women. He saw her as just another woman. Her throat hardened around her confession. The yearning turned to instant chalk dust on her tongue.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.” His harsh breath fluttered her bangs.
“Excitement?” She batted her lashes, reverting to her usual illusions was the only thing she could do at the moment. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t feel. “Surprise?”
Another curse came from him.
Diverting his attention using some of her mum's old tricks, didn't seem to be doing the…trick. Still, she was game at keeping going. It was the only thing she could do. Wrapping her hand around his warm neck again, she tugged his mouth to hers.
He went completely rigid.
His lips were cool to her touch. A determined rejection.
Darcy was more than determined, though. She was desperate. Desperate to stop this intrusive conversation. Desperate to forget what lurked in wait. Desperate to lose herself in the heat and comfort this man provided rather than confront the realization he apparently saw her as just another woman.
Her tongue slipped across his lips, slid across his grim mouth. Her teeth nipped at him, begging for a reaction.
Finally, she felt his control slacken, the heat from his body surging. He held onto his rejection, still she knew she was close to cracking through the wall he’d built against her. How she wished for more experience at this kissing thing. She'd seen her mum kiss often. Yet it wasn't the same thing as doing it herself.
Well, duh, her mind dimly sassed to her.
So in place of experience, she offered him her passion, her need. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, tasted the essence of him mixed with champagne. Her tongue danced across his teeth, delved deeper into him, asking, pleading for him to join her in this dance of desire.
Abruptly, his hands came down in a violent movement of need to grip her shoulders. Lifting her, he plastered her to his chest, taking over the kiss with a ravaged groan. His lips firmed on hers, took control. Swept her into a passion she'd never dreamed existed. In the last tiny piece of her mind that was coherent, she realized she'd never understood anything about this. Anything about sex or desire or need or love.
Love.
Yanking her mouth from his, she gasped. “Bloody hell.”
The word, the emotion she’d tried to ignore earlier this evening, vibrated in the deepest pit of her soul.
Denial came flooding after it.
No. No. No.
It was impossible.
She wouldn’t be like her mum. She couldn’t be like her mum.
Love would destroy her. Precisely like her mum.
She pushed him away, every old fear making her stronger than she looked.
It was enough to get his attention, yet he didn't let her go. Rather, he scowled down at her with frustrated male hostility. “Are you crazy?”
Quite possibly. But she wasn't going to admit it. “Let m-me go.”
“This seems to be a reoccurring pattern with us.” Icy distaste dripped from each word. “One that is not to my liking.”
“Too bloody bad.” She pushed once more.
He dropped her against the wall like a sack of flour and then turned to stare at the crowd swirling beyond the alcove.
The air between them chilled to freezing. She began to tremble once more. Wrapping her arms around herself, she leaned on the wall and tried to put the pieces of herself back together once again in a matter of seconds. An impossible task.
A low curse came from the man before her.
She took a deep shuddering breath. “I'm s-sorry.”
A harsh laugh was his only response.
“I really am,” she whispered. The old fear wrapped around the new fear, turning her melted heart into cold concrete.
“Hot and cold.” He turned, his face like granite. “It is not a game I like playing.”
“I understand. It's j-just that—”
“And I won't play it anymore.” Every one of his words bit into her. “The next time you make a move, Darcy.”
She stared down at the parquet floor.
“Look at me.”
He wouldn't even allow her that protection. Yet, she owed him something for her confusing behavior. Stiffening her spine, trying to find her fighting spirit again, she peered, met his gaze and notched her chin out.<
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“Si,” he murmured. “There's my girl.”
“I’m not your girl.” She stated every word as if she meant it. But the sure knowledge of what lay within her, what she would find if she even took one peek into her deep emotions, ate into her like acid. The realization edged each of her words with a brutal, hard tone.
One male hand slammed down on the wall behind her. The finger sliding across her jaw was as light and supple as a feather, though. It slipped to her curls, gently sliding through her hair. His words, however, were ruthless and harsh. “I will not fight any more battles with you. They have all been won by me. Except for this last one.”
She turned her head away from him, observed the laughing crowd swirling in the outer room, mere meters from where they stood. Yet it felt as if the two of them were alone, on an island of desire and anger. An isolated place filled with conflicts, contradictions, and confusion.
Leaning close to her, his lips touched her ear as his words came. “I will win this last one too, carita,” he said. “The next time you make a move, and we both know you’ll make one, there will be no going back.”
With a gasp, she turned her head and stared right into his blazing eyes. “What do you mean, n-n-no going back?”
His lips barely moved, but her skin felt every word. “We will finally have sex,” he promised, his tone sibilant. “I’ll give you exactly what you've wanted from me since the first moment we met.”
Fearful excitement rippled over her body. She wanted, and yet, dreaded. She tried to find some cheeky words to throw him off and gain a measure of control. Nothing tripped off her tongue or stirred in her mind.
“Nothing to say?” He stepped away, never taking his gaze off her face. “Then let us return to my original plan for this evening. Attending your first gallery opening.”
His big hand reached out and took her elbow in a tight grip.
And pulled her into her future.
Chapter 10
