by Miranda Lee
Nathan had demonstrated a jealousy and possessiveness over her from the start, suggesting that, while he might not love her, he did like 'owning' her. Since their marriage, he'd molded her into the sort of wife that suited him, a sexually submissive little doll whom he could dress as he fancied, parade in public on his arm, then bring home and make love to as he pleased.
Well, he wouldn't be 'making love' to her any more, she vowed with an intense bitterness that kept the despair at bay. Their marriage was over as of this moment. She would never go back to him. Never ever!
Gemma strode on, around the next corner, heading towards she knew not what. But the ramifications of the decision she had just made were not long in sinking in. Would Byron give her the sack once he found out she'd left his precious adopted son? Even if he didn't, where was she going to live now? She had no real friends, no one she could turn to, except perhaps ...
Damian had said she could rely on him if ever she needed a friend.
Gemma slowed her step. Why was she so loath to call Damian Campbell? Was it just pride that was stopping her, or something more complex than that? Nathan's own warnings about his enemy no longer held water, did they? One couldn't believe a thing he said. And yet. ..
Gemma sighed her confusion, halting completely on the pavement, putting the suitcase down. Momentarily, she closed her eyes, the events of the day threatening to overwhelm her. She felt so alone, so alone and so wretched. Tired too. Yes, suddenly, she felt dreadfully tired. Emotional exhaustion, she supposed.
Opening her eyes, she glanced around and there, on the next corner, stood an old hotel. What she needed was a quiet place to lie down. Somewhere she could simply sleep for a while. Nathan was not expecting her back in Sydney till the following afternoon. He was not expecting her to call tonight. This gave her over twenty-four hours to decide what action she was going to take. Wearily, Gemma picked up her suitcase again and began walking in the direction of the hotel.
What would have happened, she wondered grimly as she carefully crossed the street, if she had stayed in Lightning Ridge and come back as originally planned?
Gemma shuddered to think that she would have innocently gone back home to her husband's bed, unknowing of his treachery, unsuspecting of how callously he had betrayed her over the weekend, how he would go on betraying her.
Innocent. Unknowing. Unsuspecting.
Well, she wasn't innocent any longer and she would never be unknowing or unsuspecting again. From this moment on, Gemma Whitmore would place her trust in one person only.
Herself.
CHAPTER THREE
CELESTE surveyed her wardrobe with some concern on the Monday morning, moving outfit after outfit along the racks in her dressing-room, mulling over the effect each one would have on Byron Whitmore. What could she wear that wouldn't inspire contempt in his eyes?
Or lust.
At this last thought, Celeste brought herself up sharply. What on earth was the matter with her, caring what Byron thought, or felt? It was her own feelings she had to worry about. Her own lust. Or desire. Or whatever people called it these days.
She'd read somewhere recently that lust had a chemical basis, hormones or such sparking off endorphins in the brain which in turn impelled one's body to mate with the object of its desire without any reference to logic or common sense. A mindless animal thing, in other words.
A mindless animal thing was all she could possibly still feel for that man, she'd decided bitterly after her run-in with Damian at the weekend. Nothing else. Certainly not anything finer or deeper. She'd been silly even to consider such a possibility, let alone worry about it!
Since this was the case, she reasoned ruthlessly, then the person who needed protecting was herself, not Byron. How better to protect herself than to dress as provocatively as she always had, thereby ensuring his lust and contempt?
Celeste knew full well that the holier-than-thou Byron Whitmore would not contaminate himself by touching someone who epitomized everything he despised. She was safe, as long as she ran true to form. Whereas if she came out looking unexpectedly demure, shock might make him vulnerable to the primitive desires she knew still lurked in that staunchly high-principled soul of his. She'd seen the lust in his eyes the night of the ball as surely as she had felt her own.
A canary-yellow dress jumped out at her and she drew it from the rack, smiling. If that didn't put some fire in his veins and disgust into those beautiful blue eyes of his then her name wasn't Celeste Campbell.
Made of stretch jersey wool, the yellow sheath fitted her like a glove and finished mid-thigh. The high rolled neck and long tight sleeves practiced reverse psychology by being more provocative than the lowest-cut, most revealing style. Perhaps this had something to do with the way it clung, projecting a subtle promise rather than overt promiscuity.
Subtle?
Celeste laughed. There was nothing subtle about that yellow dress if it was worn without a bra and only tights underneath-the ones with built-in panties which had not a single ridge to reveal their existence. She had worn it that way to the races one day and caused a minor sensation. Celeste remembered the occasion with wry affection because her photograph had been splashed across all the Sunday society pages and she felt confident
Byron would have seen them. There was nothing that made her feel better than the knowledge she might have upset Byron's equilibrium. It was not simply a matter of a woman scorned having her revenge, as her brother probably believed.
It was a matter of justice. Byron had to be punished for what he had set in motion with his merciless ambition. She shouldn't have to be the only one to suffer.
The image of her lovely little baby girl swam before her eyes for a moment before she ruthlessly forced it down, down into the depths of darkness, hopefully never to surface again. She'd trained herself not to think about that any more, for what was the point?
She'd done all that she could, had tried to find her baby. Tried and tried and tried. In the end, she had had to put the search side and go on with her life. Either that, or kill herself, or go mad.
Her decision to put the past behind her and go on living had been a brave one. Of course, that didn't mean she no longer suffered, or that she was totally successful in blocking those crippling memories. This was the second time this year she had lapsed. The first time had been when she'd seen that damned opal. How could she not have started thinking about the past when confronted by a piece of it? But confronting an inanimate object was nothing compared to confronting the man who'd set all the horrors in motion.
Celeste shuddered, then stiffened and straightened, using every ounce of her iron will to smooth the pained anguish from her face. Her tiger's eyes, which had mirrored intense distress for a second, now flashed with the type of coldly glittering lights that would have terrified any enemy.
Celeste only had one enemy within reach these days.
Byron Whitmore.
If I wear the matching yellow sandals complete with three-inch heels, she decided with icy determination, I should meet him eye to eye. Well, not quite, she conceded drily as she draped the yellow dress over her arm and picked up those same yellow sandals.
Byron stretched the tape measure to six feet four. If that wasn't daunting enough, he had shoulders like axe-handles and legs any football player would kill for. Top that off with a classically handsome face which was ageing better than Cary Grant's and you had a man so damned attractive it was downright unfair!
What irked Celeste as well was that Byron's sex appeal was not dimmed by his possessing the sort of chauvinistic attitude to women that sent feminists into a right flap. Yet, for some weird and wonderful reason, most women responded to his strongly male stance very positively. They became coy in his presence. Coy and fluttering and feminine. She herself had been guilty of such a reaction in the old days, as had dear sweet Irene. Oh, yes, Irene had been putty in his hands, quite the reverse of the hard-edged sarcastic bitch everyone else had known her to be.
&
nbsp; Thinking about the way she herself had blindly responded to Byron in the past hardened Celeste's heart towards him in the present. Unfortunately, her emotional toughness did not seem to spill over into other areas. Her mind and body were running their own races, recalling things she would rather not recall.
Byron, kissing her in his office when she'd been only seventeen. Byron, making love to her. Once again in his office. Byron, making love to her yet again. Not in his office. On the billiard-table. At Belleview. Two years later ...
For a few tormenting moments she could almost feel how it had felt when he made love to her. God, she would have done anything he wanted. She had done anything he wanted!
Celeste squeezed her eyes tightly shut, detesting herself for the wave of heat flooding her body. But when her nipples actually hardened, her eyes flung open wide in shock.
Furious with herself for her lack of control, Celeste swept back into her luxurious bedroom, dumping her clothes on the huge round bed before heading for her equally luxurious bathroom. Arousal quickly gave way to other more satisfying emotions, a vengeful smile curving her generous mouth as she slipped the silky robe from her shoulders and snapped on the shower taps. God, but she was going to enjoy making that bastard's loins itch today. It was the least she could do in the face of her own damnable desires.
Celeste's bitter resolve lasted right up till the moment her taxi pulled up in front of the court-house and she saw Byron walking down the street towards her. Her immediate flutter of nerves mocked her determination to be ruthlessly seductive in his presence, her instantly churning stomach bringing with it both irritation and dismay.
What in God's name was the matter with her? This was Byron Whitmore here, the man who'd almost destroyed her. No mercy, Celeste. No mercy!
Damn, but he did look good in that black suit.
Distinguished and handsome, yet incredibly sexy.
She couldn't take her eyes off him. The driver curtly announcing the fare snapped Celeste out of her emotional confusion. She handed him over a note, told him brusquely to keep the change, then began to alight from the back seat, just as Byron drew alongside. Their eyes met as she swung the door wide and presented her long legs to the spring sunshine.
Byron halted mid-stride to glare at her, his blue eyes soothingly derisive as they raked over her, taking in everything she'd wanted him to take in. This was familiar ground to Celeste and she indulged in a smug smile. With her self-confidence restored, she uncurled her tall athletic body with the sensuous grace of a Siamese cat, swinging the door shut behind her before turning to face her foe.
'Good morning, Byron,' she said huskily, that confidently sensual smile firmly in place.
Byron seemed to stiffen under its impact, which only made her sense of satisfaction increase. She reveled in the way his eyes followed her every movement as she soothed the tight skirt down over her hips, then adjusted the brim of her wide straw hat.
'For God's sake, Celeste,' he snapped at last, blue eyes glittering. 'You're going to a trial, not the races.'
So! He had seen those photos of her in the paper. Good.
'Looking at you,' she returned silkily while she idly played with the gold rope necklace hanging between her breasts, 'one might have thought we were off to a funeral. Truly, Byron, you should never wear black. Grey's your color. And you shouldn't scowl like that. It's bad for your health. Gives you high blood-pressure. A man your age has to worry about such things.'
The muscles in Byron's jaw convulsed as though he was clenching and unclenching his teeth. He seemed to be doing the same with his hands. His eyes, however, kept flicking back to her chest where she could feel her braless nipples growing more erect by the moment. Far from being disconcerted by this as she had been earlier on, Celeste found that her own arousal fuelled her to be even more outrageous.
'Did you know that owning a, pet can lower your blood-pressure?' she purred. 'It has something to with the stroking. You look like you could do with a pet, Byron. Not a dog, though. A cat. A nice soft sensual cat that enjoys a lot of stroking ... '
Their eyes locked, Celeste lifting a saucy eyebrow at him while she awaited Byron's reaction to her provocative words.
Those beautiful blue eyes of his blazed for a second before they turned icily contemptuous. Celeste smiled her satisfaction with the way the encounter was going.
Byron was so predictable.
'Thank you for the advice, Celeste,' he bit out, 'but I think I know what clothes suit me after all these years. As for my blood-pressure,' he went on drily, 'it's just fine. I have no need of a cat, nor any other artificial method of relaxation.'
'Really?' Her smile was a deliciously sarcastic curve. 'Oh, I see! Silly me. I did hear you were getting married again. I forgot. Yes, you're right, there's nothing to compare with mother nature's natural relaxant, is there?'
Byron's frozen stare unnerved Celeste for a moment. 'I am not getting married again,' he said coldly. Celeste thought she hid her reaction very well.
'You're not?' she said airily. 'Well, there you are. People say you should only believe half of what you see and none of what you hear.'
'Where you're concerned, Celeste,' he returned frostily, 'I believe everything I see and add considerably to all that I hear.'
Her laughter was light and flirtatious. 'You're such a flatterer! Shouldn't we be going inside?'
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and began walking up the never-ending steps. He automatically fell into step beside her, Celeste suddenly finding his nearness claustrophobic, which was rather perverse. Hadn't she wanted to tease him, to inflame his unrequited desire for her?
'You came in a taxi,' he remarked on the way up. 'What happened to your Rolls?'
'Nothing. It's in the garage at home. It's simply minus one chauffeur.'
Byron slanted her .a sardonic glance. 'What happened? Didn't he come up to expectations?'
'Obviously not. Didn't your fiancée?'
Byron ground to a halt. 'Catherine was never my fiancée.'
'
Oh? What was she, then?' Celeste was unnerved by the pleasure she found in the word-was.
'A friend.'
'A close friend, from all reports. And quite a deal younger than you.'
Byron's handsome face darkened. 'At least she wasn't on my payroll!'
'You think women like that are free?' Celeste countered caustically. 'I'll bet she knew what you were worth, right down to your last dollar. And I'll bet she thought an affair was a down-payment on a more permanent contract.'
'Then she thought wrong.'
Celeste heard the harsh note in his voice. 'What happened, Byron?' she queried softly, moving closer and reaching out to touch him on the wrist. 'Did you find out she was a mercenary gold-digging bitch? You poor darling ... ' Her fingernail slid down his sleeve, over his cuff and on to bare flesh. 'Better to stick to the devil you know in future, don't you think?'
For a few excruciatingly tense seconds, Celeste thought he was actually going to drag her into his arms and kiss her. His eyes were like hot coals on her softly parted lips, his chest rising and falling with visibly unchecked passion.
But Byron did not let her down. He gathered himself superbly, giving her the coldest look while he lifted her hand from the back of his with obvious distaste.
'I'd appreciate it if you would keep your hands to yourself,' he drawled. 'I don't know where they've been.'
Celeste's heart contracted fiercely at this open insult. You'll keep, Byron, she thought savagely. You'll keep.
Outwardly, she delivered a silky smile. 'Shall we adjourn to courtroom six?'
'By all means,' he returned, just as smoothly. Courtroom six, however, was not where they ended up. Instead, they were shuffled into a waiting-room where there was nothing to do but wait till they were called to the witness stand. The minutes ticked away with endless tedium, Celeste finding it difficult to remain in the same room with Byron without the soothing comfort of his ongoing contempt. A
silently brooding Byron was far too attractive to her recently renewed desire for him.
Celeste contemplated starting a conversation about the night of the ball, and the robbery, and what he was going to say in the witness stand. But that would lead to talk about the Heart of Fire. And while she would have liked to question Byron again over how that rotten opal had come to turn up again, she couldn't bear dredging up any more memories today, certainly not those memories ...
'Tell me, what's happening with your family?' she asked Byron so abruptly that he jumped in his seat.
He eyed her suspiciously. 'Why would you want to know about my family?'
Her shrug was nonchalant. 'Why not? They're my family too, in a roundabout sort of way. Besides, I'm fed up with that old feud nonsense between the Whitmores and the Campbells. We should let bygones be bygones.'
