by Amii Lorin
MORNING ROSE, EVENING SAVAGE
Amii Loren
Chapter One
Tara’s fingers flew over the computer keyboard, her eyes steady on the letter she was writing. So intent was her concentration, she didn’t hear the office door open and she glanced up with a start when the morning mail was dropped onto the corner of her desk.
“Coffee’s just about ready, Tara,” Jeannie, the young assistant and head coffeemaker, caroled brightly. “I’ll be back with it in a minute, okay?”
Fingers hovering over the keys, Tara nodded and returned the smile of the pretty, eager teenager.
“Yes, thank you. I’m just finishing the last of the letters David left me to do. I can take a few minutes and relax with my coffee while I go through the mail.”
Jeannie nodded and bounced out of the office and Tara went back to the keyboard. She finished the letter, printed it, then flexed her fingers and arched her back in a stretching motion.
Glancing at the clock, she noted it was nine forty and she’d been writing steadily since eight. On entering her office at her usual time, a few minutes before eight, she’d found a post-it note stuck to her computer screen on which her boss had scribbled:
Tara,
I have an early appointment. Please process these letters I dashed off last night, if you can decipher them. I should be in the office around ten.
David
Tara smiled to herself. Decipher had been the correct word. Though David’s architectural drawings were a beautiful sight to behold, one might suspect from his handwriting that he was a doctor.
Tara had come to work for the young architect on leaving business college four years ago and the atmosphere had always been informal. From the first day it had been Tara and David, never Miss Schmitt and Mr. Jennings. There had been a smaller staff at the time as David had just begun receiving recognition for his work, but as David’s reputation grew, so had his staff. Yet the informality remained.
Jeannie delivered the coffee and, after taking a careful sip, Tara gave a small, contented sigh. From the very first day she had considered herself fortunate in finding this job. She enjoyed the work, earned an excellent salary, and, perhaps the best of all, she had made firm friendships with David and his wife, Sallie.
Sallie had acted as David’s personal assistant until she was in her seventh month of pregnancy with their first child. She had remained in the office one week after Tara started to show her the office procedure. In that short time they discovered a rapport that grew into a strong bond between them.
As for David, Tara freely admitted to herself that, if he had not been married, she would have made a play for him. David Jennings was one of the few men Tara really liked. His looks were commonplace. Tall and thin, almost to the point of gauntness, he had thinning, sandy-colored hair and wore dark-framed glasses. His manner was gentle, with a smile that could melt the core of an iceberg. At the same time he was a brilliant architect and an unabashed workaholic.
Tara rose and walked around the desk to ease her cramped legs, then stood with her back to the door as she flipped through the mail. The office door opened then closed quietly and Tara went stiff at the sound of the new familiar, deeply masculine voice of David’s newest, and so far most important, client. “I understand you’re looking around for a prosperous man to marry. Would I fill the requirements?”
Shock, followed by swift anger at the softly insolent tone, stiffened her spine even more. Jerking her head up, she turned swiftly to glare into the handsome, mocking face of Aleksei Rykovsky.
“If you are trying to be funny,” Tara snapped, “you are failing miserably.”
Eyes as deeply blue and glittering as sapphires roamed her face slowly, studying with amusement the high angry color in her creamy cheeks, the flash of sparks in her dark brown eyes, the way she flipped back her long silvery gold hair in agitation.
“Not at all,” he finally answered in a silky smooth tone. “I am completely serious. Have I been misinformed about your avowed intention to marry a man who is—uh—well off?”
Tara was not a small girl, standing five feet nine in her three-inch heels, yet she had to tilt back her head to look into his face. And what a face, she thought sourly. For any one man to possess such a devastatingly rugged handsomeness was unfair to the rest of the male population in general and to the whole of the female population in particular. The face was the icing on the cake, being at the top of a long, muscularly lean body that exuded pure male vitality and sensuousness. And as if that were not enough, a full head of crisp, blue-black wavy hair was a blatant invitation to feminine fingers. Too bad, Tara thought in the same sour vein, his personality is a complete turnoff. She did not appreciate the masterful type.
“No,” she finally managed to answer, forcing herself to meet that steady blue gaze. “You have not been misinformed.”
“Well, then,” he drawled, “all we have to do is set the date.”
Tara felt the flash of angry color touch her skin. If there was anything she hated more than an arrogant man, it was to be made the object of his humor. She breathed in deeply, trying to keep a rein on her growing temper. For David’s sake, she could not afford to antagonize this man.
“You’ve had your little joke for the day, Mr. Rykovsky,” she said through stiff lips, “now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do and—”
“Morning, Tara.” David’s cheerful voice preceded him into the room. The rest of him followed, a warm smile lightening his otherwise nondescript face. “Have any trouble with my chicken scratches?”
“Not too much.” Tara smiled at her boss, sighing in relief at his appearance. “They’re all ready for your signature.”
David grinned at the other man as she handed him the letters. “Every busy man should have a Tara in his office, Alek.” Then, turning, he walked to the door of his own office. Before following, Alek leaned close to Tara and whispered, “I can think of a better place to have you.” Then he moved quickly up behind David, who turned and said, “Alek and I are going to be closeted the rest of the day, Tara. I don’t want to be disturbed unless it’s something you think absolutely must have my attention.”
Struck speechless by Alek’s whispered words, she nodded dumbly, then stood still, watching the door close. Tara’s thoughts exploded. How dared he, that—that arrogant, overbearing, conceited—words failed her. Unclenching her hands, flexing stiff, achy fingers, she made a concentrated effort at control. The emotions raging through her were an equal mixture of anger and humiliation. Anger at his audacity at using her to sharpen his—to her mind—twisted wit. Humiliation at the fact that the basis of his attack was true: she had promised herself she’d marry a prosperous man. And although it was ten years since she’d made the vow, she had not changed her mind in the least.
Legs still shaky, Tara walked slowly around her desk and sank into her chair. In a burst of activity she got busy with the work at hand only to pause moments later to stare unseeingly at her computer screen.
She had been fifteen when she’d made that vow, a not unusual thing at that romantic age. Most young girls have been known to declare dreamily that they will marry rich men. But, unlike other girls, Tara had had no dreams of a Prince Charming with gold-lined pockets. Quite the contrary. She had viewed the prospect realistically. A handsome Prince Charming she didn’t need; actual wealth she didn’t need.
What she had decided she wanted was a reasonably prosperous man and, of equal importance, one who would not be a tyrant. She had already, at the tender age of fifteen, seen enough of the type of man who, to feed his own ego, had to be forever boss. She had seen him in her male teachers, in the fathers of most of her friends, and in her own father.
Tara shuddered as a picture of her mother thrust its unwelcome way into her mind. Trying to dispel the unwanted image, she got to work. She was only partially successful, for throughout the rest of the day, incidents and scenes from her childhood flashed in and out of her mind. And her mother was in every one: her beauty fading over the years; her bright eyes growing dim and shadowed with worry; her flashing smile turning into a mere twist of once full lips that had felt the bite of teeth too often; and, possibly the worst of all, shoulders starting to bow with the weight of hardship and far too little appreciation.
Not for me, Tara had told herself while still in her ninth year of school. Not for me the scrimping and scraping to make ends meet but rarely even coming close. Not for me the tyrant who would be absolute master in his home, punishing his wife for his own inadequacies.
She had indulged in no wild dreams or flights of fancy, but had planned carefully and well. She had been blessed with beauty of both face and body and she nurtured it rigidly, getting plenty of rest and exercise and being very careful of what she ate. She had worked at baby-sitting and as a mother’s helper from the time she was thirteen, giving most of her earnings to her mother, but always managing to put aside a few dollars for herself. At sixteen she got a regular job working part-time after school in the winter and full-time in the summer. She paid a rather high board at home and hoarded the rest of her money like a miser. She studied hard, receiving high grades in school. After graduation she had applied at and was accepted into a highly reputable business college in Philadelphia. She bolstered her funds by working part-time at a department store. It had not been easy. In fact it had been very difficult. But it had paid off. When she left business college at twenty-two, she came home to Allentown an excellently trained administrative assistant.
She was hired for the first job she applied for, the one in David’s office. That had been three years ago. The first two of those years she lived at home, wanting to ease the burden on her mother. But the situation became increasingly more impossible. She found it harder to accept her father’s dictates. She was no longer a green girl, but a well turned-out, highly paid young woman and she could no longer bear being told when to come and when to go, when to speak and when to be silent. A few days after her twenty-fourth birthday she packed her things and left her father’s house for good.
She did not actively hate her father. Herman Schmitt did the best he could within the range of his own knowledge and understanding. What his firstborn daughter resented was that he’d never made an effort to widen his vision past what he’d learned of life from his own straight-laced, Pennsylvania Dutch parents. And more important still, she resented his marrying a lovely, laughing, blond-haired girl and turning her into a nervous, drawn-faced, gray-haired, timid mouse.
No. No. No. Not for Tara this type of man and life. Over the years her resolve had strengthened. It had not taken long for her co-workers and few close friends to ascertain her goals. She rarely dated and then only with carefully selected young men. She was wise enough to realize one had little control over the unpredictable emotion called love. So she operated within the premise that she could not become vulnerable to the wrong man if she had no contact with him. None of the men she’d dated over the years had left an impression on her, and at the present time she wasn’t seeing anyone.
She had no idea who had enlightened Aleksei Rykovsky as to her intentions. Who it was did not even matter. What did matter was that that hateful man had used it to amuse himself at her expense.
Tara had felt an immediate antagonism toward him from the day, a few months ago, that David had introduced her to him. He wore his breeding, wealth, and self-confidence like a banner. Arrogance etched every fine, aristocratic feature of his dark-skinned, handsome face. This man, she had thought at once, was probably the most bossy of any boss she had ever met. She hadn’t liked him then; she liked him even less now.
The afternoon wore on, her thoughts and memories occasionally jarred by the sound of a low, masculine voice that sometimes filtered through the closed door.
Tara greeted quitting time with a sigh of weariness, and slid one slim hand under the heavy fall of silver-blond hair to rub the back of her neck. She tidied her desk, covered her computer, slipped into her light-weight suede jacket, scooped up her shoulder bag, and left the office with unusual haste. As she walked to the parking lot, she drew deep lungs-full of crisp October air in an attempt to clear her mind of the afternoon cobwebs. She unlocked the door of her six-month-old blue Camry and, her sense of well-being returning, she slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove off the parking lot and into the crowded line of homebound traffic. In her preoccupied state she didn’t hear the low roar of the engine being started up after hers, or notice the sleek silver Lexus that followed her off the lot.
Fifteen minutes later she had left the heavier traffic and five minutes after that she parked the car on the quiet street in front of her apartment house. Thanking the Fates it was Friday, she locked the car, slung the handbag strap over her shoulder, and hurried across the sidewalk and through the street door of the apartment, unaware of the same Lexus parked two cars away from her own.
Dashing up the stairs, she swung into the hall, heading for her second floor apartment, then stopped dead in her tracks. Leaning against the wall next to her front door was the cause of her suddenly intense headache. Looking for all the world like he owned the place stood one totally relaxed Aleksei Rykovsky.
Tara felt anger reignite and the flame propelled her forward. She stopped a foot from him, brown eyes smoldering. “What are you doing here?”
Dark eyebrows went up in exaggerated surprise. “I thought we had things to discuss.” His voice flowed over her like smooth honey, and she felt a tiny shiver slide along her spine.
“We have nothing to discuss,” she snapped irritably. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired.” She had turned and unlocked the door while she was speaking, preparing to step inside and close the door in his face, when his voice stopped her. “Of course if you’re afraid to talk to me ...”
Tara turned, her eyes frosty, her face mirroring contempt. “I’m not afraid to talk to any man. What is it you have to say?”
“I usually don’t hold conversations in hallways. May I come in?” The taunting amusement in his voice grated on her nerves and, with an exclamation of annoyance, she flung open the door, then spun around and walked into the living room.
On hearing the door close with a soft click, she drew a deep breath for control then turned to watch him come slowly across the room to her.
“What do you want?”
“You.”
Tara’s breath was drawn in on an audible gasp. “Are you out of your mind?”
“No more than most. If I’m not mistaken, I proposed marriage to you today. I came for an answer.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Really angry now, Tara was finding it difficult keeping her voice down. “I told you this morning I don’t think you’re funny. Aren’t you carrying this joke a bit too far?”
“And I told you this morning I was not trying to be funny.” His own tone wasn’t quite as smooth. “I mean it. Will you marry me?”
Tara brushed her hand across her eyes in disbelief. “Why? I mean, why are you asking me to marry you?”
He stepped closer to her, brought up one hand to brush long brown fingers across her soft cheek. “Fair question,” he murmured, “but I’ve already answered it. You’re a beautiful, desirable woman. I want you. Would you let me set you up in an apartment in my building?”
“No.” It was a soft explosive uttered at the same time she moved back, away from his caressing, oddly disturbing fingers.
“I thought not.” He laughed low in his throat, arching one mocking brow at her as she moved away from him. “If the only way I can have you is through marriage,” he shrugged, “I’ll marry you. I should more than meet your requirements of a prosperous man. I’m a very, very prosp
erous man.”
Tara shivered in revulsion. This man’s arrogance was beyond belief.
“Get out of here.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and she was shaking with anger.
“Tara.”
“If you don’t get out of here, I’ll call the super and have you thrown out” Fighting for control, she spoke through clenched teeth.
Dark blue eyes, bright and glittering with anger, stared into hers; then he moved so quickly, she was left speechless. His hands shot out and caught her face, drawing her up to him. Up. Up, until she was almost dangling on tiptoes inches below his face. She could do no more with her hands than grasp his waist for support, and her voice was a barely strangled gasp.
“What do you think you’re—”
Closing the inches that separated them, he caught her open mouth with his, sending a shaft of sensation Tara later told herself was disgust through her body that left the tips of her fingers and toes tingling. His lips were firm, cool, and insistent and, to her horror, she felt her own begin to respond.
Alek’s mouth released her slowly. Then with his lips still almost touching hers, she felt his cool breath mingle with hers as he murmured words in a strange language Tara thought must be Russian. His mouth brushed hers roughly before he lifted his head, and his even more darkened blue eyes stared into her soft brown ones, wide with confusion and a hint of fear. “All right, pansy eyes, I’ll go,” he said softly, then more firmly, “but think about what I said. I could give you a very comfortable life, Tara.”
He released her so suddenly, she almost fell, and before she could form a retort, he was across the room and out the door. Trembling with reaction, lips parted to draw deep, steadying breaths, she glanced around the room as if seeking reassurance from familiar things. No one in his right mind would say and do the things he had, she thought wildly. Moving a little unsteadily, she walked to the sofa and sank into it, resting her head back and closing her eyes. The man had to be mad. The thought jolted her memory back to something David had said months ago.