Modern Romance May 2019: Books 5-8

by Cathy Williams

  She was standing there, breasts heaving, eyes fired with retaliation, looking so incredibly beautiful that with a single impulse he could have swept her up into his arms and buried his mouth in hers, feasting on those lush, silken lips…

  And he dared not—dared not do anything of the sort. It would be madness. All he could do was what he did now. School his features, take another breath…

  He held up a hand, silencing any utterance she might be going to say. He needed to say his piece first. ‘OK, so I dropped a bombshell…went off-script. And OK…’ his expression changed ‘…if I must I can accept that you acted on impulse to give credibility to what I’d just thrown at you.’

  His breathing was still heavy, but he forced it back. Went on with what he had to say.

  ‘But from now on, although we’ve told Celine we’re engaged, we absolutely must not let Hans think so!’ He took another ragged breath, ran his hand through his hair. ‘Or he will believe it.’

  His mind slewed away from the prospect of Hans believing that he and Tara were engaged to be married…the hassle and misunderstanding it would lead to…the absolute impossibility of it ever being real, Hans would not understand.

  That was what he must cling to now—the fact that his outburst of sheer exasperated temper, when he had been goaded beyond endurance by Celine, was for her consumption only, serving only to convince her to give up any hopes of an adulterous affair with him.

  ‘So,’ he said now, ‘are we clear on that? We’ve let Celine think we are engaged—that I’ve proposed to you and you’ve accepted—but, as you so adeptly persuaded her, that I am waiting to tell my old friend Hans myself, and we’ll be announcing it formally later on. And on that basis…’ he took a final heavy breath, his eyes skewering Tara ‘…we’ll get on with the rest of this damn evening. Which I am not looking forward to—Celine’s appalling friends and their even more appalling party to endure!’

  He held out a hand to Tara, not wanting her to say a word…not wanting her to do anything but meekly go along with what he was paying her to do—acting the part of his fiancée.

  For a moment it looked as if she was going to argue with him—something no employee of his had ever dared to do. And Tara was no different from any other employee—that was what he had to remember. What she had to remember.

  Then stiffly, ignoring his outstretched hand, she marched to the door, pulled it open.

  He caught up with her, and they walked down the stairs. ‘Smile,’ Marc urged grimly, sotto voce, ‘you’re my secret fiancée, remember!’

  He saw her mouth set in a smile—tight, but there, even if it was totally at odds with the glacial expression in her eyes.

  As they walked into the salon he saw Celine was already there, looking gaudy in a new gold lamé gown, Hans, totally ignored by her, stood dutifully at her side.

  A basilisk glare shot from Celine to Tara beside him, far stronger than any animosity she’d displayed so far towards the woman she perceived as getting in her way. Marc’s mouth compressed tightly. Well, maybe his announcement and Tara’s outrageous kiss had hit home—even if he was still furious that she’d had the temerity to do such a thing off her own bat.

  His simmering anger—and the prospect of a party with a bunch of Celine’s friends—made him stiffer than ever in his manner, and his ‘Shall we set off?’ was made through gritted teeth. His jaw tightened even more when he felt Tara slip her hand into his arm. And nor did his black mood improve when they boarded a yacht lit up like a Christmas tree, music blaring and the deck heaving with just the kind of people he disliked most—those who showed off their money as conspicuously and tastelessly as possible.

  Celine, however, was clearly in her element, and she swanned around, discarding Hans as soon as she could, knocking back champagne as if it was water. Marc watched her flirting openly with other men and did his best to keep talking to Hans and to avoid as much as possible any contact with anyone else.

  Including Tara.

  He was burningly conscious of her standing at his side, not saying a great deal—partly because of the noise of the party and partly because he was quite deliberately talking business with Hans, attempting to block his friend’s view of his wife, currently cavorting on the small dance floor with unconcerned abandon with some man. He had no idea who and doubted Hans did either.

  But, for all his efforts to ignore Tara, he could still catch her elusive fragrance, hear the rustle of her gown as she shifted position, and he knew that he wanted only to turn his head so his eyes could feast on her…

  Was it the hypnotic rhythm of the music, or the champagne he’d imbibed to get him through this ordeal, or the oh-so-occasional brush of her bare arm against his that was building up inside him a pressure he was finding it harder and harder to resist?

  He didn’t know—only knew that Tara standing beside him was a torment.

  I want her. I should not want her, but I do. It’s madness to want her, and I know it—and it makes no difference. Whatever it is about her, she makes me forget all the rules I’ve lived my life by…

  ‘Marc, cherie, dance with me!’

  Celine had abandoned her partner, was sashaying up to him. Her eyes were glittering and the overpowering scent of her perfume was cloying. She leaned towards him, as if to lead him out onto the dance floor.

  ‘Dance with Hans,’ he answered shortly. ‘I’m about to dance with Tara.’

  The moment he said it he regretted it. The last thing he needed to endure was taking Tara out on the dance floor. But it was too late. Celine’s eyes flashed angrily at his blunt refusal as he turned to Tara.

  ‘Mon ange? Shall we?’ His voice was tight, and the expression in his eyes warned her not to refuse him.

  He saw her stiffen, saw her obvious reluctance to be taken into his arms and danced with. It fuelled his anger. He reached out, helping himself to her bare arm, and guided her forward. Stiffly, she looped her arms around his neck, barely touching him, and his hands moved to rest on her slender hips.

  He could feel the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her gown. Feel, too, how stiffly she was moving as they started to dance. He made himself look down at her face, which was set in stark lines, as if dancing with him were the most repugnant thing in the world.

  ‘Celine is watching us,’ he gritted. ‘Let’s make this a bit more believable, shall we? After all,’ he added, ‘we’re an engaged couple now, aren’t we? So give it all you’ve got, mon ange.’

  His taunt was deliberate, and she knew it—he could see by the sudden flash in her eyes. It gave him a perverse satisfaction to see it, to know with every male instinct in him that there was only one reason why she was reluctant to make this look real.

  And it was not because he repelled her…

  It was time to make that clear to her—and if it helped convince Celine too…well, right now he didn’t give a damn about Hans’s benighted wife or keeping her away from him. Right now only one intention fuelled him. Consumed him…

  His hands at her hips drew her towards him, closing the distance between them, and one palm slid to the small of her back to splay across her spine. The supple heat of her body was warm beneath his palm.

  For a split second, he felt her resist—as if she would not give in to what he knew from the tremor that ran through her and the sudden flaring of her eyes her body was urging her to do. Then, with a little helpless sigh in her throat, her resistance was gone and she was folding against him, her hands tightening around his neck, her eyes gazing up at him.

  He felt her breasts crest against his chest—felt his own body reacting as any male body would react to such a woman in his arms! A woman who was driving him crazy with wanting her, being denied her…

  His splayed hand at her spine pinioned her to him and his thighs guided her in the slow, sensual rhythm of the dance. He heard her breath catch again. Her lips were close to his, so tantalisingly close. He felt his head dip…wanting so badly to feel that silken velvet he had tast
ed only once before. He hungered for it with a desire that was now surging in him, to taste her again…to sate himself on her…

  He pulled her more closely against him, knowing that she knew—for how could she not know just how very much he desired her…?

  His lashes dipped over his eyes. He said her name—low and husky with desire… Relief was flooding through him—relief that finally she was in his arms, in his embrace, that she was pressed as closely to him as her body would be were he making love to her…

  The rest of the world had disappeared. Hans, Celine, the whole damn yacht had disappeared. Only Tara was here—the woman who had stopped the breath in his lungs the first time he’d set eyes on her. The woman he wanted now more than any other woman.

  His eyes were holding hers, not relinquishing them, watching her pupils expanding, seeing the dilation of desire in those incredible blue-green eyes of hers…

  His mouth lowered to hers, seeking the sweet, silk velvet of her lips…so hungry to feel them part for him…for her to yield the sweetness of her mouth to his once more… Desire was like molten lava in him…

  And then, abruptly, she was yanking herself away from him, and there was something flaring in her eyes now that was not desire—that was the very opposite of that. She strained against him, dropping her arms from him, removing his hands from her body. She seemed to be swaying as he looked down at her, face dark with her rejection.

  ‘The music has stopped.’

  She got the words out as if each one were a stone. He stared at her blankly, then heard her go on, her eyes like knives now.

  ‘And if you ever try that on again with me I’ll… I’ll…’

  But she did not finish. Instead, with a sudden contortion of her face, she walked off the dance floor, seizing up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and knocking it back.

  ‘A lovers’ tiff? Oh, dear!’ Celine’s voice was beside him, her false sympathy not concealing her spite.

  He ignored her, his eyes only for Tara, clutching her flute, refusing to look at him. His senses were still aflame, afire, and yet as the noise of the party filled the air, as the thud of music started up again, faster this time, he turned to Hans.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said bluntly.

  Ruthlessly, he shepherded them ashore, summoning his driver as he did so, and then piling them all into the limo the moment it drew up.

  Tara had got in first, and was making herself extremely busy with a seatbelt. Her colour was high, her mouth set tight, long legs slanted away from his direction. As he threw himself into his own seat—diagonally opposite Tara—he saw Celine’s gaze whip between the two of them. Speculation was in them as she took in Tara’s withdrawal, her hostile body language.

  Marc shut his eyes. He was beyond caring now. Let Celine think whatever the hell she wanted! His thoughts were elsewhere.

  He wouldn’t get any sleep that night—it would be impossible—but he didn’t care about that either…

  The moment they arrived back at the villa Tara all but bolted up the stairs, and he heard her bedroom door slam shut. Hans also took himself off. Marc made for the sanctuary of his office—anything to get away from Celine, who had gone to help herself from the drinks trolley in the salon.

  He was just pushing open his office door when he heard her call out behind him.

  ‘Marc, cherie—my poor, poor sweet!’

  He hauled himself around. Celine was issuing towards him, a liqueur glass in her hand. Her eyes were glittering as she made for him. Every muscle in his body tensed. His black mood instantly tripled in intensity. Dear God, this was the last thing he needed now.

  ‘Celine, I have work to do,’ he ground out.

  She ignored him. Came to him. Draped one bare arm around his shoulder. Her over-sweet scent was nauseating to him, her powdered half-exposed breasts in the skin-tight gold dress even more so.

  He yanked her arm away, propelled her backwards. She was undeterred. He could smell alcohol mingling with her perfume.

  The glitter in her eyes intensified. ‘Don’t marry that woman, Marc. You can’t! She’s not right for you. You know she isn’t. She thinks she can treat you the way she did tonight. Push you away. You don’t want a woman like that, Marc!’

  She swayed towards him, trying to reach for him again. He seized her wrist, holding her at a distance. His face was thunderous, but she was still trying to touch him, to clutch at him with her scarlet nails.

  ‘You want me, Marc! I know you do!’ she cried, her voice slurring, ‘I would be so, so good for you! Let me show you.’ She swayed again, as if to throw herself into his arms.

  ‘Celine, you are married to Hans,’ he growled.

  Dear God in heaven, was he to endure this now? On top of everything else? Fighting off Celine, with her rampant libido loosened by the alcohol she’d consumed all evening?

  Her face twisted. ‘Hans?’ She all but spat out the name. ‘He means nothing to me! Nothing! I should never have married him! I can’t bear him. I can’t bear him to touch me! He’s old and pathetic and boring!’ Her voice was vicious, cruel. ‘I want to divorce him! Get him out of my life! I want a man like you, Marc—only you!’

  Marc thrust her from him, stepping aside, filled with disgust at her. ‘Get to bed, Celine. Sleep it off. You are the last woman on this earth I’d be interested in, and I wouldn’t be even if you weren’t married to Hans!’

  He heard her gasp in stunned disbelief and outrage, but he was turning away from her, plunging inside his office. Slamming the door shut behind him. He leant back against it, slipping the lock. Not trusting Hans’s unspeakable wife not to try and follow him in.

  He swore fluently. Cursing her. Cursing the whole world. Cursing, most of all, the fact that upstairs, in a bedroom he must not let himself go anywhere near, was the one woman on earth that he wanted.

  Who was tormenting him beyond endurance.

  * * *

  Tara woke. Instantly awake after dreams she dared not remember.

  I can’t bear this! I can’t bear this any longer!

  To have to act this role with Marc—only act it! Act it and keep him at bay at the same time. To tell herself over and over again that it was just role-play, nothing more than that!

  Except it wasn’t, was it? She could no more fool herself that she was acting than she could tell herself that he was!

  Memory burned in her of that slow dance to end all slow dances… Their own bodies had betrayed them, shown them that neither of them were acting…

  No! She mustn’t think of it! Must not remember it!

  She was here for one reason only: to protect Marc Derenz from another man’s wife. And she was doing it for money, as a paid employee. Anything else was not real.

  Whatever their bodies told them.

  She hauled her mind away. So what? So what if she could not stop her body’s reaction to him? If she could not stop that electricity surging within her whenever he looked at her, touched her? It didn’t matter—not a jot—because none of this was real.

  And even if it were real, she told herself, her thoughts bleak now, she could not let it be real. She was an outsider to this world. Her life was in England and she was moving to the country, starting afresh, getting out of the fashion world. Out of the orbit of men like Marc Derenz.

  However powerful and devastating his impact on her…

  With a heavy sigh she got up, went through into the en suite bathroom. There was another gruelling day ahead of her. She had better brace herself for it.

  Yet as she headed downstairs a little while later she noticed there seemed to be a different atmosphere in the villa. It was quieter, for a start, and as she crossed the salon to reach the terrace where breakfast was always served she realised she could not hear Celine’s dominating voice yapping away.

  She walked out. There was only Marc, sitting in his usual place at the head of the table, drinking his coffee, perusing the morning newspapers.

  Tara frowned. ‘Where are
Hans and Celine?’ she asked as she took her seat. Her expected sense of awkwardness after the night before had vanished in her surprise at not seeing his guests there.

  Marc looked up. He hadn’t heard her step out on the terrace. His eyes went to her, riveting her like a magnet, then instantly veiling.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ he said.

  Tara’s frown deepened as she reached for the jug of orange juice. ‘What do you mean? More house-viewing?’

  Marc sat back, folded his newspaper and set it aside with a deliberate movement. His mood could not be more different from his mood when he had ploughed up the stairs last night, thrusting the vision of the drunken, vicious-mouthed harpy that was Celine from him, wanting only to seek oblivion from what Tara had so tormentingly aroused in him.

  The news that had greeted him this morning had wiped all that from his mind, leaving only one emotion. And that had brought with it only one decision that now burned in him, just as the memory of Tara kissing him had, of how their bodies had clung to each other in that devastating slow dance…

  With Celine and Hans gone, and Tara tormenting him with his desire for her, there was only one decision he now wanted to make—and to hell with all his endless damn warnings to himself! To hell with the lot of them!

  She was gazing at him now… Tara with her sea-blue eyes set in that breathtakingly beautiful face of hers, her lush lips parted, a frown still on her brow as he answered her question.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  The emotion he felt was in his voice, and he could see that it had registered with Tara as well, for her expression had changed.

  ‘Gone,’ he elaborated now. ‘As in Hans has flown back to Frankfurt, where he will be consulting a divorce lawyer. As for Celine—I don’t know and don’t care. Presumably to find herself a divorce lawyer as well.’

  Tara stared. ‘Divorce?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marc smiled.

  And Tara, to her disbelief, realised that it was a genuine, hundred-carat smile.

  It wasn’t just the shock of what he’d said but the dazzling impact of his smile that froze the jug in her hand. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said weakly.