“What do you want me to do with him?” the guard asked, after the silence had stretched a second or two.
Him. The pronoun was infectious. It was as if the use of his name wasn’t necessary. Everyone automatically knew who was being referred to. He hovered in the forefront of people’s consciousness whether he was physically present or not.
She rubbed her brow wearily. “Tell him I’ll be finished in a couple of minutes and will come down.”
Once out on the pavement, she looked around for him.
It was a quiet neighbourhood and there were few people out this late. The street was lined with parked cars and she finally saw David leaning against one, four or five spaces away.
She walked over to him. He was propped up against the bonnet of a beaten-up Chevrolet, with flaking paint and frank gray patches of undercoat. The car was at odds with his immaculate double-breasted business suit and the polished black leather shoes thrust out against the concrete curb and she had to suppress a smile.
He watched her approach with a neutral face and a wary expression in his eyes. He was expecting her to be hostile. And she would have been but for the insight into his state of mind. Her hostility would have been provoked by her own guilt and the risks he was running by contacting her here.
“I wouldn’t have recognized you,” he said, his gaze running from her low-heeled court shoes, over the black two piece business suit, up to the neat French knot she used to contain her rebellious hair during working hours.
She opted for good humour, hoping to unsettle him by reacting unexpectedly. “The car doesn’t suit you. I had you pinned as a BMW man.”
David’s eyebrow rose. He put his hand out on the rusty hood. “You don’t like it?”
“I’ve nothing against Cavaliers,” she said honestly. “Even that one. I used to own one just like it. It just doesn’t match your personality.”
“That’s good,” he said, standing and stepping up onto the pavement. “My car is around the corner.”
She laughed. “I’m glad I was wrong about the car, then.”
“What is so important about my personality that you don’t want it changed?”
She sobered quickly, the humour draining from her veins. “Don’t.”
“Don’t?” He stood in front of her, his bulk blocking her view of all but him. The heavy satin wave of his hair gleamed in the subdued glow from the streetlight overhead, shadowing his eyes. “Don’t what?”
She shook her head. “Don’t play games with me, for a start. Don’t get onto tricky subjects like that, either. Not now.”
He studied her. “You’re going to fight me every step of the way, aren’t you?”
She didn’t pretend not to understand. “It doesn’t have to be a fight. All you have to do is stay out of my life. If you won’t—”
“Or can’t?” he suggested.
She sighed. “You know it will be a fight, then.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re too honourable for it to be anything else but a battle. Right to the bitter end.”
She shivered.
“You agreed we have to talk,” he reminded her.
“Now?”
“Now. We’re both busy people. And there isn’t a more private time than past the witching hour, when the rest of the world sleeps.”
She nodded. “Yes. Let’s have it out, once and for all.” Suddenly she was eager to finish it, beckoned on by the prospect of peace of mind.
He led her toward a charcoal gray BMW and as he was unlocking the passenger door, murmured, “You were right about the car. Does that mean you’re right about me?”
He turned his head to look at her and as he was leaning to open the door, his face was level with hers, suddenly very close. She could discern individual eyelashes, dark against his skin and the shadows of his chin and jaw. There were other shadows under his eyes. Subtle ones caused by lack of sleep, perhaps, or stress. They hadn’t been there last week.
His scent was clean and wholly male. It coaxed her memory into unfurling images of his lips touching her wrist, the feel of his hand holding hers. And she recalled with a rush of heat the brief moment he had held her in his arms and she was enveloped by his jacket, his body, when the scent had been headier.
Some change in her expression must have betrayed her feelings. David said in a low voice, “I hope you are right, if that look in your eyes is an indication of how you feel.”
She felt compelled to reach out and brush back that rebellious lock of hair on his forehead again. Previously, the action had precipitated two kisses. The first had been small yet wildly arousing. The second had branded her soul. So now she battled the compulsion, clenching her fist until her nails dug into her palms. She would go with him but she could not—would not—allow her self-control to relax.
She had a battle to win.
Chapter Five
David reached past her to flick switches and the room lit up, making Anastasia draw a breath in surprise and pleasure. She found herself turning around in a full, slow circle to take in her surroundings.
David had brought her to his home. The decision had been a practical one.
“I can guarantee no interruptions,” David had said. “Can you say the same if we go to your place?”
Now, they stood in an enclosed area which reminded Anastasia of a courtyard blended with a conservatory, surrounded on all four sides by the house itself. But it was part of the interior of the house, a large, central well that rose up to the level of the roof. The middle of the roof was punctured by a large skylight that, in summer, was opened to coax the cooling breezes inside. But now, in winter, the skylight protected the area from the elements, while allowing—during daylights hours—warming rays of sun to fall on the tiles below.
Nearly every room on two levels opened out onto the central area, the rooms on the upper floor led onto a balcony that ran along all four sides of the court.
The court itself had terracotta tiles and was furnished with a simple setting of wickerwork lounges, easy chairs and occasional tables, made enticingly comfortable with numerous scatter-cushions in a glowing range of jewel colors and eclectic patterns and prints. In the very center of the court was a small square pond, built with a low wide wall all around, at the ideal height for sitting on.
In every conceivable space that would not obstruct movement or hinder a nice perspective, was an abundance of greenery. Palms, vines, ferns and bromeliads. Broad dark green glossy leaves, delicate emerald petal shapes, trailing lines of verdant hearts, variegated spears, lush grasses.
Anastasia took it all in and sighed.
“You like it,” David stated.
She looked at him. He was resting on the back of a lounge, one leg hitched up, the other leg thrust out to maintain balance. His arms were crossed. He had remained silent for the long moments she had surveyed everything, giving her time to look properly.
She shook her head admiringly. “It’s perfect,” she said honestly and for the first time in many years she was speaking from personal taste, rather than giving her professional opinion.
His smile was warm, sharing the delight he had gained from showing her his home.
“Did Hugh design this?” she asked.
He stood up. “No. It was my idea, which I stole almost directly from Central America. Hugh drafted it for me, all the while telling me it wouldn’t suit the climate here.”
“That sounds like Hugh,” she agreed. “But it isn’t cold in here, so perhaps he was wrong.”
“Would you like a drink? I have a bottle of white wine in the fridge, or do you prefer red?”
“I’m not used to drinking much of anything at all. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
He nodded and crossed the court to a door, emerging a few minutes later with two stemmed glasses and an ice bucket with a bottle inside.
“You’re all alone here?” she asked him when he settled on one of the sofas and busied himself with opening the wine bottle.
“Ye
s. I have a lady who cooks and cleans and looks after the plants for me while I’m away—she comes nearly every day and I’d be lost without her. But mostly I look after myself. It’s much easier. When I’m not in China, I come and go at odd hours and could stay away for days at a time. I’d drive a more permanent house staff up the wall inside a week.” There was a wicked glimmer in his eyes as he spoke.
She smiled.
“Sit down,” he told her. “Get comfortable.”
She sat but couldn’t relax. He was sitting only three feet away from her and his presence was acting like a burr. She was suddenly afraid to begin the discussion. It seemed so clinical and hard-nosed to review and consider a situation that was so fraught with feelings, no matter how wrong or complicated the consequences.
David held out a glass to her. She took it, carefully avoiding contact with his fingers. He cocked his head in reaction. “How was your week, Anna? Was it anything like mine?”
“What was yours like?”
“Terrible,” he said gravely. “I barely slept. I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”
She looked down at her glass. “I see,” she murmured.
“And your week?” David repeated.
“Fine, thank you.”
“Liar.”
She looked up then, straight into his eyes. “What do you want me to say? That I dreamed of you all week? Even if it were true, I would hardly tell you. I’m here to finish this, so I can get on with my life. There is no point in dragging it out any longer than necessary with open heart discussions.”
He shook his head a little. Admiration, or disbelief? She didn’t know which.
“You have had a rough week, then.”
“Can we just get on with this?”
He studied her a moment longer before nodding agreement. “All right. Let’s get on with it, then.” He threw the cork he had been playing with onto the table. “I’m not really interested in dissecting what happened on the river with the intention of laying blame. Inserting moral or ethical judgment with the benefit of hindsight is a waste of time. Yet I refuse to walk away and pretend it never happened.”
“You did exactly that on the night,” Anastasia pointed out.
“Yes and it took every ounce of will I had to do it,” he shot back. “But it was what you wanted and you were just a beautiful stranger then. I’ll admit I was worried about your fiancé. I wondered whether he truly valued the prize he was getting. I spent the next twenty-four hours hating him, imagining some dull businessman who would marry you, have two children with you and go back to his office while you were stuck in a nice suburban house, pining away through lack of appreciation.”
David looked down and away. “When I saw you sitting on that bench at the party, my first thought was that some entity was trying to tell me something about my future—giving me a second chance to get it right.” His voice grew thick with loathing. “Then I realized who your fiancé was and how I had been hating my best friend.” He looked up then and she saw a shadow of pain in his eyes. “The bitterest realization was that I’m right about the future he’ll give you, Anna.”
“Maybe that’s the future I want.”
“It will kill you. It will leach out any spark of life and enthusiasm in you through sheer bloody boredom.”
“Better that than to die from reckless ardour,” she snapped back. “Do you realize what you’re implying about Hugh? How can you sit there and do that? He’s your best friend.”
“Which means I know him too well.” David ran his fingers through his hair. “This isn’t easy for me, Anna. I’ve been wrestling with it all week. I can’t sit back and allow you to ruin your life and maybe Hugh’s too.”
“He will never regret marrying me,” Anastasia said. It was a promise she had made herself some time ago, about the same time she had decided that Hugh was the ideal man to provide her with the life she wanted.
“No, probably not. But he will never understand you, either and that will make him unhappy. Hugh’s a good man and he’s not stupid. He will be able to sense that you’re unfulfilled and hate himself for not being adequate enough for you.”
“And you would be?” she asked dryly.
He thrust himself to his feet and strode a few feet away before turning and facing her. He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, shoving the jacket fronts aside. “I know I can’t let you walk out of my life again, without at least trying.” The heavy lock of hair fell forward and he shoved it aside impatiently. “I’m thirty-three, Anna. Old enough to know that what happened between us last week was…a once in a lifetime thing. It doesn’t happen to everybody. Some poor ignorant fools go through life not even knowing about the potential for…for passion. I let you go once but you turned up in my life again. I can’t ignore that.”
“What if I choose to ignore it?”
He studied her for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he took off his jacket, revealing a snowy white shirt, with the tie already loosened and the collar undone. He dropped the jacket across the sofa arm and held out a hand to her. “Come here for a minute.”
“Why?” she asked suspiciously.
“I want to show you something.”
She lowered her chin and looked from under her brows. “Your etchings, perhaps?”
For a brief moment, a smile flickered in the corners of his mouth. “Nothing so crass. Besides, I have oil paintings in my bedroom, not etchings. No, this is a demonstration of sorts.” He leaned across the coffee table, picked up her hand in his own large one and raised her to her feet. Gently he led her out onto the expanse of terracotta tiles and she followed, curious.
He turned to face her and she was again conscious of how large he was. He made her feel quite insignificant. He let her hand go.
“You’ve probably spent most of last week telling yourself it was a mix of circumstances that made you act as you did. The continuous arguments at home which had lowered your tolerance level—”
“How did you know about the arguments?” she demanded. “I only told you about one argument.”
“Hugh told me. You forget—I know a lot about you through Hugh. More than even Hugh believes he’s told me. So you were under unusual pressure, do you think?”
“Possibly,” she conceded slowly, wondering where he was going with this discussion.
His eyes were gray like the sky on a rainy day, washed and glistening after the shower. She could drown in those eyes.
He smiled. “Let’s say yes, for simplicity’s sake.”
“If you want.”
“And at the moment, you’re at the other end of the scale, aren’t you? Hostile, angry, guilty…and a whole host of other good feelings like those. Yes?”
She nodded reluctantly. “Yes. You can throw suspicious in there too.”
“Fine. The more the better.” He smiled a little. “Your suspicion just rose a notch or two, didn’t it?”
She maintained her level gaze. “I’m waiting.”
“I want to show you that what happened on my boat could happen anywhere else too. That it wasn’t just the circumstances exerting themselves. I want you to see it’s something between us—between you and me, a unique combination you won’t find again anywhere else—especially not in Hugh’s arms.”
“What are you going to do?” Anastasia demanded, her heart beating a little faster.
“I’m going to kiss you.” He smiled. “You see? I’m even giving you advance warning. I don’t want you to plead I caught you by surprise, before you could prepare yourself. I want you to know exactly what is happening here. I want you to feel it happening despite everything you can muster to fight it off. You’re angry, suspicious, hostile. You want me out of your life. We’re not on the river, it’s not a nice romantic summer’s day. In fact—” and he looked up at the glass roof, “it’s even raining. We’re standing, we’re both tired and we’ve both had a hell of week. And you will still respond to my kiss the same way you did last Friday night. In fact, I’d lay bets on your chara
cter, Anastasia and say that now you know who I am and you know that I’m not a murderer in disguise, you’ll surprise even yourself.”
“Don’t bet on it,” she said, finding her jaw clenching tight. “I don’t have to stand here and let you do this.”
“But you will anyway. I saw your soul staring out at me on Friday night, Anastasia. That’s why I know you’ll stand there and let me kiss you.”
Just turn and walk away, she told herself. He hadn’t moved. He was watching her face, reading her mind somehow, giving her time to understand he was right…she was going to let him kiss her.
He stepped closer to her, his large gentle hands cupped her cheeks. His skin was warm. “Ready?” he asked.
His scent, the same smell that had disassembled her mind once before, washed over her. She gritted her teeth together. “No,” she muttered.
“Good.” He leaned down and touched his lips to hers and she watched as his eyes closed and his breath left him in a rush.
She had tried to anticipate her own reaction to his kiss so she could ride it out and emerge unscathed, to laugh at him. She concentrated on comparing this kiss to the memory of that other one, which had grown tattered and gray from overuse in her memory.
He wasn’t holding her to him, this time. In fact there was no contact between them except for their lips and his fingertips, where they rested on the sensitive skin at the corners of her jaw. The lower fingers had slid down her throat a little, resting over the frantic pulse there.
His mouth was moving over hers, tasting her lips. She felt the touch of his tongue. His hands moved up, sliding into her hair, holding her steady so he could explore her mouth properly. She felt his fingers snag in the French knot she had her hair pinned into and felt a tiny thread of satisfaction, which was almost instantly wiped away, as the pins were rapidly removed and her hair dropped down over her shoulders in a heavy rain of locks. She felt him murmur his own satisfaction as his hands buried themselves in the thick waves, his mouth capturing hers more thoroughly.
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