by Anne Marsh
Skin a dark sunset gold, so smooth and soft and warm, it’d been a challenge to keep from touching her when we were platonic teenage friends, when what we’d had between us had been too unique, too sacred to mess with. Adulthood had brought further challenges but, with more restraint, I’d had a better handle on it.
Or so I’d thought...
I shifted in my chair, forcefully reminding myself why Savvie Knight, the only person who’d made it onto a list of one labelled Friendship, no longer resided there. The memories kept tumbling through my mind as relentlessly as the pictures flowing up the screen.
She’d disparagingly called herself a mongrel. I’d thought her stunning beyond words.
Lucky enough to have the noble blood of African chiefs and the integrity of not one but two accomplished professors flowing through her veins. I’d listened with unbridled jealousy, sprawled at the foot of her teenage bed, as she’d offhandedly rattled off tales of her African heritage alongside vexed recounting of interminable Sunday family dinners where her parents had deigned to be present. Had had the audacity to ask her about her day, her month, her year.
So what if there’d seemed to be an underlying discontentment over her family’s single-mindedness about her life? I’d never drilled her over the details because I’d been too busy wondering why she wasn’t just...thrilled to have a caring family in the first place.
Experiencing that unique bond, even from the fringes, had been unparalleled. A reason to safeguard what we’d had.
It’d taken a full year of friendship to confess that Mortimers didn’t do Sunday family dinner. That we could barely tolerate one another even at Christmas. That birthday presents were often organised by executive assistants and presented by delivery men and one was lucky if one received a card. That to my memory and before she’d died, I’d never received a birthday or Christmas present directly from my mother, nor from my father.
That I’d swap my life for hers in a heartbeat. Hand over the multimillion trust fund with my name on it for a slice of the life she took for granted.
But all of that was before she’d shown her true colours.
Before she’d turned her back on me and married Daniel Fucking Wallis.
The name was enough to dispel my useless reminiscing and restore righteous bitterness to its rightful place. Enough for me to hit the X that closed the page and for my hard-as-rock erection to subside.
I slammed my laptop shut and veered from my desk. Across the bay my gaze flitted past skyscrapers and Singapore’s breathtaking Gardens by the Bay, with its hanging gardens and fifty-metre-tall supertrees, to the one building I’d placed my personal stamp on.
Originally named The Diamond Bay, but later changed to The Sylph, a better fitting name.
An iconic building already racking up international architectural awards.
My baby. My special once-in-a-lifetime project.
The one my ex-best friend wanted a piece of.
Savannah might not be my enemy in the true sense of the word but, after her singeing betrayal and dismissal of me from her life, we weren’t friends any longer. After my parents and family, she’d been the third and final strike.
My days of accommodating foibles and betrayals were behind me. She needed to be set straight on that score once and for all.
By this time tomorrow she would know in no uncertain terms that it was a mistake to resurface, to attempt to touch a place in my life that belonged on a crap pile of history.
* * *
I should’ve arranged lunch in my office just as I’d planned.
I knew I’d made a mistake even before the buzzer sounded in my Marina Bay penthouse apartment. I’d talked myself into the argument that geography didn’t matter.
Straight. Sharp. To the point before zàijiàn. Sayonara. Goodbye.
Easily accomplished in any language and as effective here as in my office half a mile away. So I’d arranged for my executive chef to prepare lunch here.
In my private space.
Where she could read into it. Where signs of my existence were everywhere. Where everything now seemed...way too personal.
Clever, clever Bryce.
I grimaced at the very vocal inner voice and pressed the button that activated my private lift. The ding sounded in seconds. My stomach muscles tightened as I pulled the door open and awaited my first glimpse of Savannah in three and a half years.
The lift doors parted.
My first reaction was a filthy curse at the internet for the shoddy portrayal of the woman who would turn heads wherever she went. Because the real-life version was so much better than the pitiful digital imitation.
Vibrant. Vivacious. So fucking beautiful.
Dressed in a blush-pink floaty top and skin-tight, chocolate-coloured leather trousers, she was a magnificent vision, powerful enough to slacken my jaw before I caught myself and pressed my lips into appropriately neutral, downright unfriendly lines. Her curvy hips and endless legs were balanced on sky-high heels matching her trousers and, with that combined with her bouncy curls and flawless make-up, I felt my breathing fracture into useless silent hiccups as I stared.
Mine was the only apartment on this floor, a request I’d worked into the architect’s plans when I’d built the luxury complex. It meant that, with over seventeen thousand square feet to play with, the distance from the lift to my front door was substantial. Long enough to broadcast any nerves from my visitor.
There were none.
She effortlessly projected an ingrained confidence and inner strength I’d secretly envied for a long time before finding my own rightful place in the world. She’d exuded that same vibe on her debut runway show, earned herself positive adoration and cemented herself on the fashion landscape in one fell swoop.
That had been my one and only attendance of her show, and I’d silently watched, smiled proudly and applauded her then.
I wasn’t applauding now as I watched Savannah saunter towards me, that heart-stopping smile curving her luscious lips.
I stayed put, let her come closer, looked deeper into her stunning eyes to spot the first signs of wariness.
Three feet from me, she stopped. ‘Hello, Bryce.’
I shoved my hands into my pockets and narrowed my eyes, almost deluding myself that minimising my vision would lessen her physical impact. ‘Hi, yourself.’
‘It’s good to see you,’ she murmured and I gritted my jaw against the evocative effect of her voice. Warm honey. Sultry nights. Hot tangled sheets. The stuff of a thousand wet dreams.
All forbidden best-friend territory.
Except we weren’t best friends any more. Hell, we weren’t even friends.
So I raised an eyebrow, deliberately, but didn’t answer. The faintest flush stained her cheeks.
A little appeased at that reaction, I waved towards the open door. ‘Come in. Lunch is just about ready and I need to get back to work within the hour.’
She studied me for one second longer, either reacquainting herself with my face or assessing my mood before walking past me into my personal domain. My involuntary swallow at the rich, flowery scent that trailed her was annoying but I gave myself a pass, extracting a hand from my pocket long enough to shut the door before I jammed it back into safety.
I arrived in the living room to find her examining every square inch of it. Yeah, definitely the wrong move, bringing her here. When she was done, she faced me with another tentative smile.
‘Your place is amazing. Very stylish. Very...suave.’
I nodded briskly, totally dismissing the pulse of warmth that attempted to steal through me. ‘Thanks. Would you like a drink? I have white wine chilling. Or I can offer you something else?’ No reason not to be civil before the takedown began.
She shook her head. ‘White wine is fine, thank you.’
My living room was a wide, open space with the
dining table tucked beneath a slanted floor-to-ceiling glass wall. Currently at a setting that dulled the blinding sun’s rays by a fraction, the glass threw back a dozen perfect reflections. Through one, I saw her staring after me as I went to the silver ice bucket set up on its pedestal next to the dining table. Saw her avert her gaze as I plucked the Chateauneuf from the ice and turned around. I uncorked the bottle, poured two glasses and returned to the living room.
‘Sit down, Savannah.’
Watchful honey-gold eyes ringed with lush eyelashes met mine as she accepted the wine. ‘Are you sure you want me to?’
I froze. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I wasn’t imagining it. You’re cold. And distant. And seriously pissed off with me for some reason. So why invite me to lunch, Bryce?’ she demanded.
One thing I’d forgotten about her. Savvie always shot from the hip, no holds barred. But I was determined to do this on my terms. I shrugged. ‘It seemed as good a time as any to set a few things straight.’
She tensed. ‘Things like what?’
I shook my head. ‘Not until we’ve eaten.’
‘I’m not sure I want to break bread with someone who’s going to spend the whole meal glaring at me.’
‘You’re a grown woman, Savannah. I’m sure you can take it.’
‘I can. But do I want to? There’s such a thing as free will, you know?’ she challenged without losing an ounce of warm seduction from her voice.
It really was the most maddening thing.
Irritated, I shrugged again. ‘You’re the one who reached out. You’re the one who wanted to see me. And unless I’m mistaken you want something from me, correct?’
She opened her mouth, most probably to deny my crisp assessment. Something stopped her response, something apprehensive that raised my hackles. ‘Fine. Let’s eat,’ she replied abruptly, heading across the room before I could respond, but she paused when she reached the table.
The table was set at perpendicular angles, one place at the head and the other at ninety degrees. I dragged my gaze from the tight, plump globes of her arse and the waist I knew I could span with my hands, and pulled her seat out. After casting another furtive glance at me, she set her suede clutch on the table and sat down.
I took the other seat, aware that neither of us had taken a sip of our wine. Again she latched on to my thoughts, reminding me of her uncanny ability to do so from our youth. ‘Is it worth making a toast to a reunion or am I wasting my breath?’
I snapped out my pristine napkin with unnecessary force before draping it across my lap. ‘Sure, I’ll drink to something. Go ahead and make a toast.’
She stared at me a taut few seconds. ‘To old friends and acquaintances?’
‘Is that a toast or a question?’
My chef’s arrival in that moment from the kitchen with the first course stalled her answer. My brief to the chef had been simple—my guest loved everything except string beans and had no allergies. The rest I’d left to his culinary expertise. He must have done his own homework because he’d pulled out the stops. The seafood starter smelled incredible even before he’d placed it on the table.
‘Oh, lobster thermidor! My favourite,’ Savvie gushed when the dish was uncovered, eliciting a wide, slavishly happy smile from my usually pompous Michelin-starred chef.
‘Bon appétit, mademoiselle. And if you wish for anything else, don’t hesitate to let me know.’
I swallowed an irritated snort. Jacques was only half French and grew up in Michigan but he loved to emphasise his accent in the presence of a beautiful woman. I uncovered my own dish as Savvie picked up her fork. ‘I suppose we can drink to good wine and great food?’
‘Why the hell not?’
She tensed, her eyes flashing at me. ‘Bryce...’
I reached forward with my glass, clinked hers and took a large gulp. ‘Let’s not invite indigestion to a great meal, shall we? Jacques seems taken with you. You don’t want to upset him, do you?’
‘I don’t want to upset you. You’re more important to me.’
The unexpected response disarmed me for all of two seconds before I rallied. ‘Am I? If I’m so important why have you done such a bang-up job of avoiding me for the last three years? Tell me, if it hadn’t been for that prime piece of real estate you currently covet, would I have heard from you at all?’ I asked with every scrap of bitterness broiling in my gut.
And watched all the warmth leave her face. ‘You think I reconnected with you because of the lease?’ she asked through stiff lips.
‘Didn’t you? Perhaps you should go back and read your email. See how many lines referred to me and how many stated what you need from me.’
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. ‘I was wrong. You haven’t just become cold, Bryce. You’ve also turned nasty.’
The barbs bounced off me. ‘I state things as they are. Sugar-coating is for little boys and girls. If that’s too much for you to handle, we can end this right now.’
Eyes one shade darker with an emotion I didn’t feel like examining stared back at me for several taut seconds. Then she picked up her fork. ‘You’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’m going to eat this starter, Bryce, because you’re right, I don’t want to upset your chef. And because for whatever reason he’s known to prepare one of my favourite dishes even without having met me before. After I do it justice, we’re going to settle whatever it is that’s bugging you—’
‘Are you really going to sit there and plead ignorance, Savannah?’
She flinched. ‘I’m not going to accept blame for anything until the charges are spelt out. But if you think I don’t have a few bones to pick with you too, think again, Bryce James Mortimer.’
For some absurd reason, hearing her say my full name made my stomach flip. Followed swiftly by a twitch in my trousers.
I took another sip of wine, watched as she tackled a bite of succulent lobster before washing it down with a mouthful of wine. Watched her swallow with a little hum of pleasure, a habit she seemingly hadn’t curbed.
‘Is that so?’
‘Hmm, very much so. Now, shut up for a minute and let me enjoy my food.’
She forked another bite of juicy lobster, brought it to her mouth and wrapped her plump lips around it.
Then closed her eyes and moaned with zero shame.
I cursed that thick heft of lust that dropped into my groin and wrapped itself sinuously around my cock. With a disgruntled shift in my seat, I set my glass down and picked up my own cutlery. In silence we polished off the starter, and I watched her charm the chef with effusive thanks as he cleared away and hurried off to fetch the main course.
The main course of creamy chicken risotto with shaved truffles went down a treat with her too, while my appetite dwindled in contrast, and I was staring at Savvie’s lips when she opened them after the last bite and said the one word that knocked dread into my stomach. ‘Truth.’
Copyright © 2019 by Zara Cox
ISBN-13: 9781488048852
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor, Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com