by Diana Palmer
That feeling lasted until the next morning. When she got to work, she found Ryder pleasant and courteous, but as distant as he had been when they'd come home from Arizona. Every time she came close, he withdrew. He'd said it was because he wanted her so badly, but she felt there was much more to his odd attitude. She only wished she knew what it was.
They left for Paris on the following Monday. Ryder's brotherly attitude had left Ivy in the dumps, and only the excitement of the trip kept her buoyed. Seeing Paris had been one of the big dreams of her life. Even now, she could hardly believe that she was actually going there, and with Ryder. They said that anything was possible in Paris. Perhaps the City of Lights could melt even his hard heart and help her win it.
He checked them into one of the ritzier hotels downtown near the Champs-Elysees. She could walk out on the balcony and see all of Paris.
The smell of baking bread, and the faint, foreign smell of the city, drifted into her nostrils as she stared out over the wrought-iron rail toward the lighted Eiffel Tower. Far away, the silver ribbon of the Seine flowed lazily through the city with its barges and boats, and nearby were the spires of Notre Dame cathedral. It was magic. She closed her eyes and could almost hear peasants singing the Marseillaise in the streets, hear the excited cries of the crowds on those long-ago days when the monarchy in France had gone to the guillotine.
There was such history here, such a presence. It was all she'd hoped for and more.
"Quite a view, isn't it?"
She turned at the balcony door to see Ryder standing behind her. His coat and tie were off, his collar unbuttoned. He looked as tired as she felt.
"It's the most beautiful view I've ever seen," she agreed. "Ryder, you look so tired."
"Jet lag. Aren't you tired? Or is your age a point in your favor?" he added with faint sarcasm. "I'm ten years your senior, after all. My stamina is a little strained."
"Don't be like this," she asked gently. "We're in Paris." She started to move toward him, but he held up a big hand.
"No, you don't," he said shortly. "When you're back in one piece again emotionally, maybe. But not now. I don't want you on the rebound."
"What?" she stammered.
"You loved Ben. I don't want any leftover emotion from you. So keep it cool, honey." He turned and left the room before she could say a single word.
But if she hadn't got the message from what he said, his behavior would have punctuated it. He did everything but hold a knife in front of him to ward her off. He did it nicely, although there was a coldness in his manner that she'd thought was gone until they came home from Jacksonville. Now she didn't know what he wanted from her. She wondered if he knew himself. If only she could tell him how she felt about him. She had a feeling that it would clear up all the misunderstandings and misconceptions and pave the way toward the future. But she couldn't get up the nerve.
Ryder, meanwhile, was having problems of his own. He'd held in his own guilt about Ben until it was tearing him apart. Ivy didn't know that an order of his had sent Ben's father to his death, or that it was the reason Ben had started drinking. He'd hired Ben out of guilt, and subconsciously maybe he'd even moved aside for him with Ivy out of that same sense of responsibility. If Ivy blamed herself for what Ben had become, he could imagine that she'd blame him more. She'd loved Ben, and he was responsible for what Ben was. Indirectly it was his action that had caused the chain reaction, that had given Ben a drinking problem and caused him to be cruel to Ivy. He hated knowing that. He hated even more the thought of having her find out one day.
Keeping his hands off her was hell. He couldn't stop watching her. She seemed so at home in Paris. Perhaps it was because of her French ancestry. She looked as if she belonged among the relaxed, happy citizenry, her dark hair and eyes and her exquisite complexion helping her to fit right in.
She seemed to glow, except when she looked at him. He knew she was puzzled and hurt by his attitude, but he hadn't been kidding about his loss of control when he was around her. He didn't want them to slip too soon into a physical relationship before Ivy had time to get over Ben.
His intentions, however, took a step backward on their second day in Paris. Unfortunately, a very handsome young French businessman attending the conference got a look at Ivy and complicated Ryder's life.
Ivy was flattered by the man's attention. After two days of alternate freezing cold and brotherly lukewarm behavior from Ryder, it was almost a relief to find a man with a raging interest in her, even if it was focused mostly on her looks. She responded to it without realizing what it would do to Ryder.
The Frenchman was Armand LeClair, and he spoke English almost as fluently as he spoke French.
"Ivy," he savored her name, sitting close beside her during a brief lull while the speaker prepared his notes. "It is a delightful name. Very pretty. Like you, mademoiselle."
"You're very kind," she replied, smiling shyly.
"I am honest," he corrected. "You are free for lunch, yes?"
She glanced toward Ryder and barely escaped blanching at the expression on his face. He looked murderous, and the way he was staring at her companion didn't bode well. He'd been talking to another businessman while everyone was being seated. Now he'd returned, to find himself supplanted by a younger, obviously smitten foreigner, and he didn't like it. He couldn't have made his disapproval more obvious if he'd fired a gun.
"You'll have to ask my boss about that," Ivy said evasively, and dropped her eyes, leaving Ryder to deal with the gentleman.
She didn't know what was said. But the young man actually flushed as he got quickly to his feet, murmuring something that sounded vaguely like an apology.
"Pardonez-moi, mademoiselle," he said fervently, and perfunctorily kissed her hand before beating a hasty retreat with a wary glance at Ryder as he departed.
"Did you tell him you were a hit man or something?" Ivy asked, all eyes as he sat down in the chair the Frenchman had vacated.
He didn't answer her. He was obviously still smoldering. "You're here to work, not to get involved with amorous playboys," he said shortly.
"Was he a playboy?" she asked curiously, refusing to let him needle her.
He shifted restlessly and seemed to relax a little. "Yes," he replied. "His people are well-to-do. Titled, in fact."
"How flattering that he noticed me, then," she murmured demurely.
"Flattering, hell!" He glowered at her. "Unless you want to see him knocked senseless in front of your eyes, don't encourage him again."
Her eyebrows arched in sheer surprise. "Ryder!"
"You just don't understand, do you?" he bit off. "My God…!"
The speaker's voice blared out from the microphone, cutting off Ryder's heated reply. He crossed his long legs and glared straight ahead, but he was still bristling. She could almost feel him vibrating.
She didn't understand. Well, that was an understatement if she'd ever heard one. He was violent about her, and probably that violence should have frightened her, but it didn't. It was oddly flattering, that he didn't like other men flirting with her. It could, of course, be a purely physical jealousy…
Her mind dismissed the unpleasant thought. She had to start thinking positively. He was very protective of her, he loved kissing her, he wanted her madly and he was jealous. That had to add up to more than just desire. She was just going to have to work a little harder, that was all.
He didn't make it easy. After the workshop, he took her to lunch and translated the more useful remarks he'd memorized from the workshop. He did it rapid-fire, watching her scramble to get it all down on paper and apparently even enjoying her discomfiture.
"You're being vicious," she muttered between mouthfuls of a delicious chicken-and-rice entree.
"Of course I'm being vicious! I bring you to Paris, and the first chance you get, you start appropriating natives!"
"I was not trying to appropriate him," she shot back, and her black eyes glittered in a face reddened with temper. She pu
t her fork down. "He asked me to go to lunch with him. Just that. He was a nice, kind young man."
"He was a wolf looking for a woolly appetizer," he countered doggedly. "A man knows when another man's hunting, honey. It's an inborn instinct."
"I wasn't going to go out with him," she protested.
"Weren't you? I arrived in the nick of time to prevent it unless I'm blind."
"You sure might as well be blind," she raged. "You alternately freeze me out and turn on the heat. One day you're Mr. Cool, the next day you're Romeo, and the day after that you suddenly discover that you harbor brotherly feelings for me! It's like swimming in a blizzard!"
"You're shouting," he observed.
She took a deep breath and tried not to see the amused looks she was getting. With her long hair smoothed down her back, and the neat navy-blue dress with white collar she was wearing, she looked very young and very pretty. Not to mention very angry.
Ryder, his dark suit complementing his olive complexion, was watching her with mingled exasperation and amusement. In a temper, she was vivid—not the shy, biddable little creature he remembered from her girlhood. He very much liked her tempestuous outburst. Not that he was going to admit it to her.
"I don't know what you want from me," she muttered.
"I'll drink to that," he agreed, lifting his wineglass with a mocking smile.
She was having wine, too, although she was carefully sipping hers because she wasn't used to it. Everyone drank wine with lunch, except for an occasional diner sipping Perrier water. Ivy had no taste for what she thought of as plain seltzer, so she'd opted for a light, dry white wine. Now she was regretting it, because it made her temper worse and fractured her credibility.
"If I'm to be just the assistant, why can't I go out on a date?" she asked.
"You're the one who told me you were still in mourning for your husband," he said harshly. "Or was that because I'm too old to suit you?"
She wondered if she'd actually heard him say that. "Too old?" she parroted.
"Handy to flirt with, but not to get too close to, is that it?" he continued, fanning the flames of his temper. "Maybe the young Frenchman is more your style. After all, you married Ben, and he was barely a year older than you—not a jaded, aging workaholic like me."
He looked as if he meant it. Worried, she slid her soft hand over his big one. "Ryder, I've never thought of you as old or jaded."
His jaw clenched. "Haven't you?"
She looked down at the long fingers hers were caressing. Strong hands. No jewelry on them. Flat nails, immaculately clean. "You're the one with the doubts," she said quietly. "I think it's that I don't appeal to you."
His hand turned and clenched hers. "And that is a lie," he said.
"Physically, maybe I do," she said, refusing to look up. "But your world and mine are so different. I never felt—" She stopped, shocked at what she was about to admit.
But he wouldn't let it go. His hand contracted again. "You never felt what?" he demanded. "Tell me!"
She drew in a steadying breath. "I never felt that I was good enough for someone like you," she said miserably. "I was too young, too unsophisticated, and too poor to ever fit in your world."
He was quiet for so long that she looked up, surprising a glimpse of some horrible deep wounding in his lean face.
"You never told me that," he said after a minute.
"You must realize that you're rich," she chided softly. "Ryder, I barely knew which utensils to use in this very exclusive restaurant. If you hadn't ordered for me, I couldn't have read the menu. I don't drink wine as a rule, and I don't know how to act in high social circles. It embarrasses me and frightens me."
"Baby," he breathed huskily, "why didn't you tell me?"
Her spine tingled at the way he said it, at the way he was looking at her. "I didn't know how."
He sighed and brought her hand, palm up, to his warm lips. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize there was a difference between us socially. I've always accepted you as part of my own circle. Mine, and Eve's."
He meant it! Her eyes searched his curiously and were trapped by the same dark electricity that always held her in thrall when he was close. His mouth brushed sensually over her damp palm while he looked at her.
"That was partly why you ran from me, wasn't it?" he asked slowly.
She shrugged and lowered her eyes. "Well…yes."
"So many misunderstandings," he murmured. "Too many. Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever get it all straight."
"We won't…if you keep running away," she said boldly, and couldn't look up as she said it.
"When you can put Ben in the past, and start thinking ahead, then I might stand still. It depends," he added in a dry tone, "on what you have in mind. I'm not easy."
That shocked her into looking up, and when she saw his face, she laughed with pure delight.
"Are you sure?" she replied mischievously. "Eve used to say you had to beat women off with a stick."
"I was younger then," he reminded her, forcing himself to release her soft, warm hand. "Younger and much less discriminating."
"Meaning that you're discriminating now?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," he replied with a mocking smile. "One-night stands are out, for one thing."
"But then, so is marriage," she pressed delicately.
He schooled his face to show no emotion at all. "Marriage is forever," he said. "That's a long time to spend with one woman."
She felt her heart sinking. She touched the stem of her crystal wineglass and traced it. "Marriage should be forever, shouldn't it?" she asked pensively. She thought about Ben and what her life would be like even now if he was still alive, and she shivered.
Ryder's face closed up. Ben. Always Ben. He threw down the rest of his wine.
"I have a meeting this afternoon," he said abruptly, his tone pleasant, but all business. "Can you transcribe those notes for me and keep yourself occupied until I get back?"
She lifted her face, puzzled by the sudden mood change. Had it been the mention of marriage that had set him off? Probably so. She could hardly miss the contempt he had for it now, which meant that if she ever made love with him, all she could expect was a brief, casual affair. She knew deep in her heart that she could never live with that kind of lifestyle. She was too programmed by her upbringing to be sophisticated. On the other hand, she was too much in love with Ryder to refuse if he ever asked her. She could have groaned with frustration.
"Yes, I can keep busy," she murmured.
"Not with that damned Frenchman," he cautioned, his whole look dangerous. "I swear to God, Ivy, I wasn't kidding. If I see him within a country mile of you, I'll deck him!"
"Why do you care if I see someone?" she demanded, fighting tears as she stood up. "You don't want me!"
"Oh, hell, yes, I do," he said in a heated undertone.
"That… way, maybe," she said in a wobbly tone, her huge dark eyes brimming with tears. "But that's not enough!"
He glanced around irritably, remembering where they were. "We can't talk about it here," he said tersely.
"We don't need to talk about it at all," she returned. "You be the boss and I'll be the assistant. Let's leave it at that. You say I'm not ready for anything else. Maybe you aren't, either, Ryder." She picked up her purse, assuming a dignity she hardly felt. "I'll go back up the suite and get to work, if you don't mind."
"Go ahead." He watched a particularly lovely French woman walk past. She was giving him the eye very obviously and, just to irritate Ivy, he smiled back. The girl smiled and then walked on slowly. "If I'm late, don't wait up," he told Ivy meaningfully, with a coldly mocking smile.
She glanced toward the woman, who was waiting around the counter with her eyes on Ryder. "I can't but you can, is that how it goes?" she asked, hurt.
"I'm a man," he returned. "What did you expect, that I'd turn down an obvious invitation?"
Tears stung her eyes. "I hate you!" she whispered violently.
He drew i
n a furious breath. "Oh, God!" he ground out. "Go on, will you? I'm here to work, not to pick up women, although I swear I could almost be driven to it sometimes because of you! Get to work!"
She started to leave, hesitated, and turned back toward him, all her longings and fears evident in her lovely face. "Ryder, you won't… ?" she asked softly, glancing toward the woman.
"Would it matter?" he replied, his voice equally soft.
"Oh, yes," she whispered, her face briefly anguished. "It would matter…very much."
He took a long breath and his fingers reached out to touch her soft mouth, devoid of lipstick just at the moment. "I don't know if I'm sorry or glad about that," he murmured. "But at least you understand about the Frenchman now, don't you?" he added pointedly.
She tried to speak, but she couldn't. She had no defenses left. She turned and left the restaurant, trying not to see the lovely French woman who watched her go and then moved toward Ryder.
He sent her packing in a very nice way, although Ivy wasn't around to see it. He had to find something to keep him occupied tonight, or he was going to do something stupid. But another woman wasn't the answer. He wanted only her. That was his whole problem. He muttered a curse and went off to his business meeting, hoping it would take his mind off Ivy and give him a few minutes' peace. With any luck at all, she'd be asleep when he got back to the suite.
Chapter 8
Ivy had a salad for supper and drank a pot of black coffee in the suite. Midnight came and went, and still Ryder hadn't come in. She tormented herself with the thought of him and that French woman. He'd said he wouldn't, but what if he needed a woman so desperately that he couldn't help himself? She couldn't bear to think about it—Ryder's hard, powerful body against that French woman's soft sensuality.