by Amii Lorin
Eyes wide in disbelief, she stared at him for several seconds. The self-assurance, the powerful drive, the pure, unadulterated arrogance of this man was beyond her comprehension. Throat dry, she whispered, “My father was right. You are a swine.”
“No name-calling, Tara.” The tone gave a soft warning.
Beyond the point of heeding any warning, soft or firm, she laughed cynically. “Name-calling? I couldn’t force past my lips the names I’d like to call you.” Tears of anger, frustration, bitterness, blurred her eyes. Grimly she added, “You, in your exalted position of the male, may think that today no one really gives a damn. But then you didn’t have to stand and listen to your father, in so many words, call you a wh-whore.” Her throat had closed, and she barely managed to get the last word out. Gulping air quickly, she stifled a sob, saying, “You don’t have to listen to the snickering innuendos of the people in your office or the dirty suggestions of Terry Connors.”
“Tara!”
Alek had remained standing behind his desk from the time she’d entered his office. Now, moving with the lithe swiftness of a large mountain cat, he was around the desk and in front of her, his long-fingered hands grasping her shoulders painfully.
“I’ll kill him,” he snarled.
“And my father?” she cried wildly. “And every other man who’ll think I’m fair game from now on?”
“Stop it,” he commanded harshly, giving her a hard shake.
It was the last straw. All the fight went out of her and the tears that had been threatening for the last five minutes overflowed and ran down her flushed cheeks. Emotionally strung out, she suddenly felt too tired to care anymore and she stood, dimly studying the faintly embossed pattern on his tie. The pattern swirled and swam and she closed her eyes. She heard him sigh deeply, felt his hands loosen their hold on her shoulders, slide around her back. She felt the muscles and sinews in his arms tighten as he gathered her close. A strange feeling of being safe, protected, blanketed her numbed mind. Wearily, she rested her forehead against the hard wall that was his chest and, crying freely, released the misery that gripped her throat.
“Tara ... don’t.”
The harsh tone of a moment ago had been replaced by a soft entreaty. He lowered his head over hers in yet another strangely protective gesture, and she felt his lips move against her hair. His head lowered again and now, his lips close to her ear, his words penetrated the mistiness.
“Dusha maya, Tara, ya te lyoob-fyoo.”
He’d said those same strange words once before, yet it wouldn’t be till much later that she’d wonder about their meaning. For now the words had a somehow soothing effect, and she shivered as a momentary peace enveloped her.
Vaguely she became aware of a tiny, nagging voice that told her that she should not be inside toe warm, protective circle of his arms. But it felt so right, as if she belonged there more than anywhere else in the world. In the effort to silence that tiny, insistent voice, she turned her head and felt her slightly parted lips make contact with his taut, rough jaw. In bemusement she heard his sharply indrawn breath.
“Don’t cry, pansy eyes. Nothing on this earth is worth your tears.”
His tone, more than his words, was a gentle seducement. Warm, liquid gold flowed over and through her, seeming to enclose the two of them in a soft, golden world of their own. Without conscious thought her hands slid inside his jacket and she felt vague resentment against the material of his shut that denied her fingers the feel of his skin.
At her touch he went still, then his one hand moved up and under her hair, fingers spreading, to cradle her head. Slowly he turned her face to his, his lips brushing her cheek lightly, his breath tickling her eyelashes. Time seemed suspended inside that golden circle, and with a soft sigh Tara relaxed, allowing her arms to slide around his waist.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she murmured, forgetting and not caring, for the moment, why.
“You shouldn’t be anywhere else. You belong exactly where you are.” Soft, his tone is so soft, she thought. It was an inducement that drew her farther into that magic circle.
“Tara.”
A hoarsely whispered groan, and then his mouth covered hers, gently, sweetly silencing that tiny nagging voice of reason.
His kiss was a tender exploration of her mouth, making no demands, asking nothing of her. At first she lay passive in his arms, her bruised emotions soothed by the glow of contentment stealing through her. But ever receptive to gentleness, tenderness, she was soon responding, her lips making an exploration of their own.
The kiss seemed to go on forever and ended much too soon. She murmured a soft protest when his mouth left hers, and she buried her face in the curve of his shoulder. Light as snowflakes, his lips touched her closed eyelids then moved to rest against her temple. Strong fingers gently massaged the back of her neck and for a few seconds Tara drifted in a gold-hued void that knew no thought or pain.
His words broke the golden spell, allowing the tiny voice to become a shout. “You’re getting yourself upset over this, Tara, when it could be settled so simply by marrying me.”
What do you think you’re doing? the now shrill voice of her conscience demanded. What happened to that sense of outrage that filled you on hearing Terry Connors words? What about the fine, bright flame of fury that propelled you to this confrontation? A feeling of intense self-betrayal shot through her and she shuddered in self-disgust.
Alek misinterpreted her shudder as a sign of surrender, and he murmured, “Well, Tara?”
Tara drew a deep breath, took one step back, and pushed her hands hard against his chest. Unprepared for her action, his hold broke, and she was free of the reason-destroying circle of his arms.
Turning quickly, she ran for the door, her hand groping for the knob. Flinging the door open, shame and guilt strangling her throat, she whispered, “No” to his commanded, “Tara, wait.”
Blindly, she ran past his wide-eyed, incredulous secretary, along the hall, down the narrow stairway, and out the entrance door as if a pack of wild dogs were snapping at her ankles.
Trembling almost uncontrollably, she drove straight to her apartment with one thought pounding in her head. Get home, be safe. Get home, be safe.
Still running, she dashed up the steps and along the short hall to her apartment. Gasping for breath, she unlocked the door; dashed inside, slammed it shut, double-locked it, and leaned back against it.
On shaky legs she stumbled across the room and dropped onto the sofa. What in the sweet world was the matter with her? Never had she experienced this cloying, panicky feeling. She felt her throat close; then her eyes filled and with a murmured “Oh, Lord,” her body fell sideways onto the cushions and she was crying, sobbing like a child, hurt, alone, lost.
For over an hour Tata lay in a crumpled heap, the wracking sobs and tears slowly dwindling to sniffles and an occasional hiccup. Gradually awareness crept back and with a sigh she pushed herself upright. She had to call David.
David’s voice was a reassuringly normal sound in a world gone suddenly very abnormal.
“I’m sorry, David,” she sniffed, “but I won’t be back today, I’m not feeling well.”
Instant concern colored David’s warm voice. “What’s wrong, Tara?” A short pause, then: “Honey, have you been crying?”
“No, no,” she reassured hastily. “I think I’ve had a sudden allergic reaction to something. I’ve been sneezing like mad and my eyes have been watering and I look a mess.” Well, she thought, grimacing, the last part’s true.
“Are you sure?” He sounded skeptical. “What could have brought this on?”
Tara cast about frantically and grabbed at the first thing that came to mind. “I’m not sure, but I think it must be the roses I’ve had on my desk the last few weeks.” Would he buy it? she wondered. He did.
“More than likely. Have you seen a doctor?”
“No. I—I don’t think that’s necessary. I’ll take an allergy capsule.”
“Well, if it doesn’t help you get better by tomorrow morning, get yourself to a doctor. Don’t worry about the office but call me and let me know how you feel.”
“All right, David, I will. And thank you.”
“For what?” he snorted, then warned. “Now take care, Tara, I mean it.”
“Yes, sir,” came the meek reply. “Oh, and David, would you do something for me?”
“Anything I can.”
“Would you call and stop delivery on the roses? The name of the florist is on the box in my wastebasket.”
“Sure thing, honey. Be good and get well.”
He hung up. Tara smiled gently as she replaced the receiver. David hated saying good-bye and so he never did.
Speaking with David had restored her equilibrium somewhat, and with a firmer tread she went to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. While the coffee perked away happily, she made herself half a sandwich and ate it in grim determination. When the electric pot shut itself off, she placed the pot, a small jug of milk, and a mug on a tray and returned to the living room.
Sitting with the mug of the steaming brew cradled in her hands, she turned her mind to her recent encounter and the events that led to it. She still found it incredible, if not completely unbelievable, that anyone would go to such lengths to amuse himself. In her book, that constituted a pretty weird sense of humor.
“It was no joke, and I was not trying to be funny.”
His words slithered through her mind, and she shivered violently.
“Garbage.” She said the word aloud and then repeated it silently. Garbage. Everything he’d said was exactly that. So much garbage. How she longed to make him pay for what he’d done to her. But how? Reluctantly she admitted to herself that chances of her hurting him in some way were practically nil.
As were her chances of repairing the damage he’d done. How did one combat nebulous hints? Innuendo? Veiled suggestions? She could go to her family and her closest friends and explain exactly what had happened, but would they believe it? Would she if she heard a story like that from someone? Not likely. Oh, yes, he’d been clever. Very clever. So what could she do? Move away? Where? And was it worth it? As he’d suggested, speculation, talk, couldn’t cause her any lasting pain. But he could, an insidious voice whispered deep in her mind.
In sudden renewed fear, almost panic, she argued with the errant thought. How could he hurt her anymore? She didn’t care what he said or did. Wouldn’t care if he dropped dead tonight. The sudden twist of pain that clutched at her heart shocked her.
Frantically she moved about, refilling her coffee cup, walking to the TV to switch it on, anything to still those silly thoughts and emotions.
She watched a few minutes of the news then, much calmer, she decided her only course of action was to put on a bright face and brazen it out. In time the talk would die down, become a ninety-day wonder, and in due time she’d be able to forget it—and him.
But will you? that small, perverse voice demanded.
Chapter Five
The following two days went fairly well. She breezed into the office as usual, gave Terry a frosty smile as usual, talked a few minutes with Jeannie at coffee-break time, and breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief that the roses had stopped being delivered. Chalk one up for her.
On Tuesday evening she’d crept outside and scanned the street for his car. There it was, bold as brass, and it left a somewhat brassy taste in her mouth. Where on earth did the miserable man go after he parked it there? Back in her apartment she pondered on what, if anything, she could do about its presence. Should she call the police and report it as abandoned? And if they checked the license number and found out who it belonged to, then what? Alek Rykovsky was a respected businessman. If asked why his car was parked there, he could say he’d been visiting friends or had lent it to a friend in the neighborhood and he’d be believed without further question. And where would that leave her? Looking pretty damned silly. With reluctance she told herself: Ignore the car.
Wednesday moved along as Tuesday had, and she was beginning to think she’d get through this mess with some degree of composure. She even had an added bonus discovering Alek’s car among the missing. Then the bottom fell out. Craig called. His first words jarred her out of her complacency.
“Look, Tara, I know you’re alone because I happened to know Rykovsky’s at a testimonial dinner tonight.”
“Craig, I—”
“No, don’t bother to explain. I understand. The only thing that makes me mad is that you didn’t tell me the night we had dinner together. He sure as hell isn’t trying to keep it a secret. If you’d told me, I wouldn’t have built up any hopes. And I had.”
“Craig, please, let me explain.”
“Not necessary. You owe me nothing. But look, Tara, if anything happens, I mean, if you split or anything and need a shoulder to cry on, call me, will you?”
Why bother? Why even bother to explain to people who just wouldn’t listen, or wouldn’t believe it if they did?
“Yes, Craig,” she answered softly, a wealth of defeat in her voice.
She went to bed depressed and woke the same way, but plastered a determined smile on her face anyway.
The morning went by without a hitch, and her spirits lifted. In an attempt to keep them up Tara decided to leave the office at lunchtime and treat herself to a fattening lunch of lasagna at her favorite Italian restaurant. She returned to the office a few minutes late but replete in body and restored in well-being.
The low hum of several voices came from David’s office, and she checked her appointment book to see if she’d failed to write down a meeting. The space was blank, so she decided, with a shrug, this was probably an impromptu thing that David had called during the lunch hour.
She tackled the filing pile from the morning’s work and was busy at it when David’s door opened. Before she could close the file drawer, a hand slid around the back of her neck and long fingers pressed against her jawline, turning her face around and up. Eyes wide with surprise, she saw Alek’s blue eyes glitter with intent, and then his mouth claimed hers. In the few seconds her mouth was held captive she registered the expressions on the faces of the two men who had followed Alek out of David’s office: David’s face was a picture of uncertain concern, Terry Connor’s of positive envy.
The two men stood watching as if frozen, then moved quickly toward opposite doors as Alek lifted his head. But not quickly enough to miss hearing Alek’s words.
“I’m sorry about last night, darling, but the dinner lasted much later than I thought it would, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
The doors facing them closed simultaneously. David’s very gently, the other with a sharp snap.
Tara could have wept in pure frustration. Of course that sneaky Terry would have noticed the absence of Alek’s car last night. That accounted for the speculative look he’d run over her this morning. And Alek? He was covering his tracks.
Seething with instant anger, she ignored the tingle in her fingers and lashed out, “You son of a—!” She got no further, for Alek cut in a silky warning.
“Careful, sweetheart. I told you before, no name-calling.”
“Go to hell,” she whispered angrily.
With a swift jerk he turned her fully around and she had to force herself to meet the blue flame of anger in his eyes.
“You’re walking on very thin ice, my sweet. Take care you don’t break through and find yourself in over your head.” His voice was soft but chilling. “Why don’t you give it up? Turn over your sword, hilt first, and we’ll go on from there.”
“I have no intention of going on to anything with you.” For some reason Tara couldn’t raise her voice above a whisper; she wet her lips, then went on. “So why don’t you give it up? Leave me alone. Stop this madness.”
“Madness? Hardly that.” He laughed softly and planted a tiny kiss at the corner of her mouth. “Just a matter of chemistry. To be blunt, beautiful, you turn me on somet
hing fierce. I’d give you proof, but I don’t think this is quite the tune or the place.”
Struck by the blatant audacity of the fiend, all she could find to say was, “Get out of here before I start screaming rape.”
He laughed again, an easy, relaxed laugh that caused a vague sort of longing deep inside her; then, thank goodness, he walked to the door.
“Okay, kid, I’ll let you get back to work. But I’m not nearly through with you yet.”
After he’d gone, Tara turned back to the file cabinet, then paused with her hand on the drawer handle as an odd thought struck her. Beautiful, sweetheart, kid. The same words Terry had used on Monday morning. Alek had even thrown in darling and my sweet. Coming from Terry’s mouth, the endearments had been offensive, an insult. Why then did they sound so exciting, somehow natural, from the lips of that hateful devil? The thought made Tara uncomfortable, and she pushed it away.
The remainder of the afternoon was a shambles. Try as she would, Tara could not seem to pull herself together, to still her trembling fingers. She made numerous entry errors, kept dropping things, and in the space of a few hours, almost wiped out her beautifully kept filing cabinets.
By the time she left the office, she was on the verge of tears. She ached, literally hurt all over, as if she’d been pulled through a hedge backward. While her teeth were punishing her lower lip as she walked to her car, her mind cried fiercely, Why does he keep on with this? Surely he knew by now how much she disliked, disapproved of him.
Sliding into the car, she slammed the door, jabbed the key into the ignition. She had thought, after that fiasco in his office on Monday ... her hand paused on the key; hot pink color swept her cheeks. She could not, would not, let herself think about that.
Her fingers flipped the key, the engine fired into life, and with unthinking recklessness Tara drove off the lot and into the flow of traffic, ignoring the angry horn blasts from several irate drivers.