The Determined Virgin

by Daphne Clair

'I guess that's some compensation for you.'

  'Yes.' She wished she could have confided in her fa­ther, told him about Gabriel and the ambivalent, unfa­ miliar feelings he evoked, asked for advice. But although she talked to him about her daily life, hoping some of it entered his poor, damaged mind, his rare responses were irrelevant or inappropriate, and if she seemed troubled he would become agitated, distressing them both. She said, 'I've brought some sketches for you to look at. I'll show you when we get there.'

  The restaurant he had chosen overlooked the harbour. They were seated by a window where people passed by, and beyond the roadway distant lights lit the dark waters of the Hauraki Gulf with shimmering golds, reds and greens.

  While they waited for their meals, Rhiannon allowed him to top up her glass with the velvety red wine he'd ordered, and pulled out a couple of sketches. 'They're just ideas,' she said. 'I'm not ready to commit to any­ thing yet.'

  Gabriel flicked her a glance, and his cheek momen­ tarily creased. 'I realise that.' Glancing at the pages she'd handed over, he said, T never asked how you came to take up mosaic in the first place.'

  'I dropped a rather beautiful platter soon after I took over my grandmother's shop, smashed it beyond repair.' She paused, remembering. She'd been shaking and verg­ ing on tears at the inadvertent destruction, and a woman in the shop had stepped in with practical help. 'A cus­ tomer suggested using the pieces in a mosaic. She vol­ unteered to show me how, and once I began I was hooked on it.'

  'Making a work of art out of something beautiful but...damaged?'

  His gaze was almost uncomfortably percipient, as if he could see more than she was willing to expose. 'I don't always use broken pieces,' she said hurriedly. 'I can work with cut tiles, like the classical mosaic artists.' She'd taken some classes at an art school and learned varied techniques, tried them all.

  'Which do you prefer?'

  'Abstract patterns often work best with random shapes, but pre-cut tiles are good for precision and for­ mality.'

  Gabriel quirked an eyebrow at the evasion, but said only, 'I guess precision and formality are sometimes what you need.'

  They weren't words that would appeal to him, she guessed. 'Your mosaic will be adventurous and bold,' she assured him. 'To reflect your outlook.'

  He cocked his head, regarding her with narrowed eyes. 'Am I that easily read?'

  Ducking the question again, Rhiannon said, 'Your ad­ vertising people have developed an image for Angelair and fixed it in the public mind.'

  'And that's the image you have in your mind, of me?'

  'You are Angelair, aren't you?'

  'I'm a man, Rhiannon. Not just a company.'

  She hastened to placate him. 'You can't help stamping your personality on the company you own.'

  'As you've stamped yours on Mosaica?' he countered.

  'I suppose, yes,' she agreed somewhat reluctantly, and reached for her wineglass.

  Gabriel said blandly, 'I must have another look at the decoration around the Mosaica doorway.'

  He was much too clever for comfort. Rhiannon lifted her glass so hurriedly that wine spilled over her hand and onto the table.

  'Oh!' Hastily she put down the glass.

  Gabriel snatched up a napkin and took her wrist in strong fingers, wiping her hand dry. Then he signalled a passing waiter and said to him quietly, 'We need a little cleanup here.'

  When the man had fixed the spill and gone, Rhiannon was sitting with the napkin clenched in her lap. 'Thank you for the rescue,' she said.

  'Did you get any wine on your clothes?'

  'No.' Carefully she put the napkin the table. 'I'm sorry.'

  'Why? No harm done.'

  'I feel stupid.'

  'You're not stupid, Rhiannon. Far from it.'

  Rhiannon carefully picked up her glass again and drank the little wine that remained. When she'd put it down and licked the taste from her upper lip, she found Gabriel watching.

  As his gaze tangled with hers she had a curious feeling that time hung in the balance, and their surroundings faded away. Then he slowly picked up the bottle and poured more wine for her.

  Shaking off the bizarre impression, she said, 'What do you think of the drawings? They're only roughs but if you like the basic ideas I'll keep refining them.'

  He turned his attention to them, and Rhiannon told herself to relax.

  The wine helped, and the fact that the food when it came was delicious—fresh, and superbly cooked and presented.

  Gabriel said, 'I like your ideas a lot, but how do you get from the Russian icon to a design like this? What's the creative process?'

  She tried to explain as best she could, and when she looked down at her wineglass, was surprised to find it was almost empty again.

  Gabriel refilled it and asked, 'Shall we order another bottle?'

  'I don't think so. Obviously it makes me babble.'

  'You weren't babbling.' But he put the drawings aside and was soon fascinating her with a hair-raising account of recently getting a package to a Red Cross team in a war zone. Even Gabriel, as managing director, had been directly involved in pulling strings across several borders to ensure the safety of both package and courier.

  Rhiannon said, 'Surely that's beyond your contract?'

  'We pride ourselves on going the extra mile. There's no point in breaking our necks, maybe even risking a plane and pilot, to drop off a parcel at a deserted, shot- up airfield in the middle of a wasteland, and then wash­ ing our hands of it.'

  'Don't you ever give up?'

  He looked at her rather pensively, his eyes bluer than usual. 'When I put my mind to something giving up is hardly an option. If I can't get what I want one way, I'll keep trying others until I find the one that works.'

  Rhiannon looked down at her wine, her fingers curling about the stem of her glass. A series of goose bumps rose on her skin.

  'What's the matter?' Gabriel inquired softly.

  'Nothing.' Deliberately she shook away the intrusive feeling. Paranoia would get her nowhere. Gabriel's de­termination went with who he was and what he'd done with his life. If he wasn't born with it, he'd had to de­ velop it somewhere along the way. She shifted her gaze to him. 'You're very successful.'

  His eyes searched her face, but he said only, 'So are you. I respect that.'

  The comment warmed her. True, she had no desire to own a multi-million-dollar company as he did, but she'd come a long way since taking over a poky suburban handicraft shop as a nervous, inexperienced teenager.

  She'd learned to deal with pushy salesmen, volatile artists and the odd aggressive customer or supplier, in­stead of falling apart and allowing them to walk all over her. Although she might feel sick afterwards, she could hold her own now and it became easier every time.

  And she had avoided having to deal with men on a personal, intimate level.

  Gabriel left her in no doubt that he was heading in that direction. Unknown territory for her, and more than a little scary.

  She'd fought a long, lonely emotional battle, and won—put the nightmare behind her and made herself a solid, ordered life. But each new conquest revealed yet another problem, new demons to overcome.

  Maybe Gabriel was the one to help her fight them. The archangel who would send the last of them to the underworld and finally set her free.

  Involuntary she smiled, wondering how he'd feel about being so described.

  A questioning eyebrow lifted in return. 'What are you thinking?'

  Rhiannon shook her head. 'Nothing.'

  Nothing she could tell him. Nothing she could tell anybody. The fleeting urge to engage Gabriel in her per­ sonal battle was a momentary weakness. This was her own private war, only to be won by her own strength and courage. No one could do it for her. She'd been down that road once and it was a dead end.

  They lingered over coffee, but Rhiannon declined a second cup, and Gabriel looked at his watch. 'Do you fancy a short walk?'

  The night air would be cool
and refreshing, and she could do with the exercise after that meal. Walking at night was something she'd used to enjoy but didn't dare to do on her own.

  As they crossed the road during a break in traffic, Gabriel caught her hand, and retained it when they gained the path on the other side.

  Rhiannon didn't protest. She remembered the first time he'd touched her, covering her hand with his after she'd hurt herself on the stairs.

  As they had been then, his fingers were warm and strong but his clasp was not so tight that she couldn't have tugged free. She found herself concentrating on the novelty of it, trying to analyse the experience and failing. She was feeling strangely floaty, and wondered if that was caused by the amount of wine she'd had. Usually she limited herself to less than two glasses. Somehow tonight she'd let herself be persuaded into three, not even including the one she'd spilt. Which probably meant Gabriel had drunk less than she had. A tiny suspicion nagged, but she deliberately ignored it, remembering her recent resolutions.

  They strolled along the waterfront, a salty breeze cool­ ing Rhiannon's face and smoothing her hair back. The water lapped at the stones below them, the streetlights turning the small waves to shot satin. A pohutukawa tree brushed Gabriel's hair as they passed under the bowed branches, the fallen red, spiky flowers making a carpet for their feet.

  A night-time jogger passed them, breathing hard, a reflector belt gleaming about his waist, and he was fol­ lowed by a briskly walking couple with a dog. On the road cars whizzed by.

  A wisp of hair blew into Rhiannon's eyes, and she shook it away.

  'You're not too cold?' Gabriel asked.

  'No.' In fact she was deliciously warm, despite the seaborne breeze.

  After a while they stopped, leaning on a seawall side by side to gaze at the moving water, the reflected lights, the faint glimmer of a few stars competing with the brighter glow of the city. Gabriel released her hand and she felt almost bereft.

  'This is lovely,' she said.

  Gabriel turned his head to look at her. 'Would it be too corny to say, so are you?'

  Her heart thudded briefly. She moved, straightening and turning from him. The steady breeze gusted briefly, again blowing hair across her eyes, and she lifted a hand to brush it aside, shivering.

  Gabriel moved closer, took her hand from her face and kissed her almost forcefully, quickly drawing back, but his hand still encircled her wrist. She remained still, a little startled but unafraid, and after a moment or two his other hand went to her waist, bringing her closer.

  He kissed her jawline just under her ear, and slid his lips to her throat, then found her mouth again, this time with care and tenderness, his lips gently parting hers, sending a lick of exquisite flame darting through her.

  She felt her mouth soften under his erotic ministrations. His hand pressed hers to his warm, hard chest and, fol­ lowing blind instinct, she moved closer to him, letting his arm slip further about her waist.

  Then quick footsteps sounded on the pavement, and Rhiannon pulled away as the couple with the dog walked by arm in arm.

  Gabriel gave a soft laugh, releasing her. 'I'll take you home,' he said, his voice thick, muffled. 'Unless you'd like to come to my place?'

  Dumbly Rhiannon shook her head. One day maybe she would say yes, but she was nowhere near ready for that yet. And the kiss, brief though it had been, had set her heart thudding with mixed, disturbing emotions.

  'I didn't think so.' But he didn't sound disgruntled. He turned to the roadway, raised an arm, and a passing cab swerved into the kerb.

  'How do you do that?' Rhiannon wondered, her voice slightly shaky although she'd tried to sound casually flippant.

  Gabriel laughed, the sound easing her disquiet. 'Sheer dumb luck. And maybe because I'm with a beautiful woman. Any cabbie would find you worth stopping for.'

  'It doesn't work when I'm on my own,' she told him as they climbed in.

  'Where to?' the driver asked.

  She should have realised this was coming; her brain must be fuddled by alcohol—and Gabriel's company. If her car was parked in the city she'd have asked to be taken there but, having no bulky materials to carry, she'd left it at home, and caught a bus to save fuel and parking costs.

  By the time she opened her mouth, Gabriel had filled the pause, giving her home address, then he settled back and took her hand in his between them.

  Rhiannon felt her lifeless fingers enclosed again in his strong clasp as the cab made a quick U-turn. Shuddering with shock, she was too paralysed to pull away. It was moments before she could trust herself to speak, rather than scream the question that was racing crazily round and round in her head.

  She didn't dare even look at him, and her voice came out thin and high, against a loud pounding in her tem­ ples. 'How do you know where I live?'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gabriel's fingers tightened on her hand even as she tried to draw it away. He glanced at the back of the taxi driver's head, and after the tiniest pause said, 'Didn't you tell me?'

  'No!' Rhiannon tugged angrily at his hold and at last he let go. She fought an urge to retreat into a corner of the seat and curl herself up in a defensive ball, or tell the taxi driver to let her out right now.

  If she did that, Gabriel would follow her. At least here there was a third person, a potential ally. Maybe.

  She straightened her back, willing herself to stay calm, be rational. It was difficult when her heart was ham­ mering in an erratic rhythm and her mouth was desert- dry. 'I never tell clients my address.'

  Gabriel didn't move. He'd folded his arms and was leaning into his own corner, half turned to face her. In the dark it was impossible to see his expression, the streetlights only intermittently lighting it in quick glimpses, making him a stranger. His voice low and very even, he said, 'I'd hoped I was something more than a client.'

  Rhiannon took a gulping breath. 'How did you find it?'

  'It's in the Angelair computer system. You told me you'd used our services.'

  Of course. She couldn't lug heavy equipment and materials between the shop and her studio at home, so she'd often received and sent parcels with that address. Espe­ cially before she'd bought the station wagon.

  Icy cold all over, she queried sharply, 'You looked it up?' Maybe he'd done it before. 'Is that how you usually get to meet women?'

  'No!' He sat up. 'I was searching for something else and saw your name.'

  'And memorised my address! You had no right!' she said fiercely.

  After a moment he said, 'I did it without thinking. I'm sorry, Rhiannon. I don't want to upset you.'

  'I'm not upset,' she lied. 'I'm furious! How dare you do that to me? It was unethical!'

  She was right, Gabriel knew. Clients' addresses were privileged information, and he'd skin alive any of his staff caught using one for private purposes. When her name had come up on the list he was scanning, he'd automatically paused and skimmed the address, unable to stop himself, and from that moment it was indelibly fixed in his brain.

  A rare shame invaded his psyche. He'd always con­ sidered himself honourable and honest—it was some­ thing he prided himself on in both his business and pri­ vate life.

  Of course he'd never intended to use the knowledge. Rhiannon had seemed to be waiting for him to tell the driver where they were headed, and he'd recited her ad­dress without giving it a second thought, forgetting how he had learned it.

  'It wasn't deliberate,' he said. 'All I can do is apol­ ogise. Grovel, if you like.'

  'I don't want you to grovel,' she said tightly. 'I just want to keep my privacy.'

  'I promise you, I won't breach it again.' Instinctively he reached out his hand to her, then dropped it on the seat between them, inwardly cursing his inept handling of the situation. 'It was accidental, I swear.'

  Rhiannon's stomach was churning sickly. Old memories chilled her through, so that instinctively she wrapped her arms about herself, hunched into her corner of the cab seat. She needed to think. Prefer
ably away from Gabriel's disturbing presence. She turned her head, star­ ing blindly out the window at the passing streetlights, the darkened houses, the occasional porch light blazing a welcome to late homecomers.

  As if respecting her need, or perhaps mindful of the driver's silent presence, Gabriel too remained quiet and unmoving.

  When the taxi halted outside her house he told the driver, 'Keep the meter running,' and followed Rhiannon along the short path to the door. The street was well lit—she'd made sure of that before moving in—and the small lawn bare of shrubs. A security light came on as they ascended the three steps to the porch.

  Without looking at Gabriel, she put her key in the lock.

  'I guess,' he said, 'you're not going to invite me in.'

  She opened the door a fraction before reluctantly fac­ ing him. 'It was a nice evening, thank you.'

  'It was a terrific evening,' he said regretfully, 'until I put my foot in it. Wasn't it?'

  Her gaze slid away towards the waiting taxi. The driver wasn't visible. Gabriel didn't make a move to leave.

  One lean male finger touched her cheek, then slipped under her chin, exerting the slightest pressure to make her look at him again. His eyes were dark and watchful. 'Don't let my stupidity spoil it.'

  His thumb moved over lips, a light caress that sent an alarming tingle of sensation through her entire body, so that she deliberately stiffened it. Then he leaned forward and dropped a fleeting kiss on her brow. 'Goodnight, Rhiannon,' he said, and in the next second he was strid­ ing back down the path.

  The following day Rhiannon was rearranging glassware on a shelf in the gallery when a voice behind her said, 'Ms Rhiannon Lewis?'

  A delicate freeform vase in her hand, she turned to see a man in a leather jacket holding a sheaf of apricot- coloured roses. The vase slipped from her hand and smashed to pieces on the tiled floor.

  The man stepped back with an exclamation, and Peri shot out from the back room.

  'Hell!' the dismayed messenger said. 'I'm sorry! I didn't mean to give you a fright.'

  'It's all right,' Rhiannon assured him, when she could speak and her heart had settled back into its normal po­ sition. 'Not your fault.'