by Tessa Radley
“No, you don’t plan elaborate occasions anymore, you run a little sweetshop.” He made it sound as if she’d come down in the world.
Rebecca ignored the taunt. “Did Soula tell you that she called me a fortnight ago to ask me to do the wedding?”
He inclined his head a small degree.
“And I told her that I had a business to tend, the ‘little sweetshop’, as so you quaintly put it. I can’t up and leave—even if I wanted to.” By the curl of her lip she hoped he got the message that she intended to do nothing of the sort. Never again would she put herself in Damon’s range. “I’m sure your mother is more than capable of putting together and organising a wedding. She’s a resourceful woman.”
“Things are not as you remember. My mother…”
“What?” Rebecca prompted, something in his lowered voice, his taut expression, causing unease to curl inside her. She let go of the back of the armchair that she’d been clutching onto for support and stepped forward into the secluded circle that the seating created.
He hesitated. “My mother suffered a heart attack.”
“When? Is she all right?”
Damon’s face hardened. “The urgency of your concern does you credit—even if it is two years too late.”
“Two years? I didn’t know!”
“And why should you?” A red flush of anger flared across his outrageously angled cheekbones. “You are not among our family’s intimates. I never wanted to see you, speak to you, again. You got what you wanted. You destroyed—”
He broke off and looked away.
Anguish slashed at her. Rebecca bit her lip to stop the hasty, impetuous words of explanation from escaping. “Damon…” she murmured at last.
He turned back, and Rebecca looked into the impassive, tightly controlled face of a stranger.
“Then pirazi.” He shrugged. “What the hell does it matter? The past is gone.” He spoke in a flat, final tone from which all emotion had been leached. “All that counts is the present. My mother thinks arranging the wedding will be too much for her, given the state of her health.”
“Why doesn’t the bride’s family assist?”
“Demetra came out on a visit from Greece and met Savvas here. She doesn’t have the contacts—nor the inclination—to organise a function of this magnitude. As for her family—they live in Greece and will be flying out to New Zealand shortly before the celebrations, by which time it will be far too late.”
Rebecca met his eyes. The restless force that lay behind the Aegean-blue irises still tugged at her.
Oh, God.
How could he still have this effect on her? Hadn’t she learned a thing in the past four years? Apparently not. But she knew that to give in to his demand would be folly. The risks were too high.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry…”
His eyes sparked again. “Spare me the polite niceties. You’re not sorry at all! But consider this—I’ll make it well worth your while, pay you more than that.” He gestured to the cheque on the table. “Then you can get someone in to run your little sweetshop.”
He was throwing cash at her. Rebecca wanted to laugh in his face. Money didn’t motivate her, whatever Damon thought.
“I don’t think you could pay me enough to—”
“No need to bank my cheques any longer? Got another rich fool at your beck and call?”
The fury was back in full force.
This time Rebecca did laugh.
Damon bulleted to his feet and grasped her shoulders. “Damn you!”
His aftershave surrounded her, hauntingly familiar, a spicy mix of lemon and heat, mingling with the sexy scent of his skin. Then, just as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he dropped his hands from her shoulders as if he couldn’t bear to touch her and swore softly, a string of Greek words, the meaning evident from his intensity. “I must be mad.”
Resentment smouldered in his eyes as he sank back into the armchair and raked both hands through his rumpled hair.
And suddenly all the triumph Rebecca had expected to feel fell flat. She gave a quick glance around the shop. Still they had excited no attention. Unnerved by the powerful undercurrents swirling between them, Rebecca plopped into the armchair opposite him.
Hidden now by the high wingback armchair and the shielding palms in tall urns, she felt as if they’d been transported to another world that contained just the two of them…and the uncomfortable tension that lay like a tangled thread between them.
Damon sat forward, breathing hard. “Rebecca, my mother needs your help. I am asking you, please?”
He hated begging—she could see it in the tight whiteness of his clenched fists. Strangely she didn’t enjoy seeing him in this position. She imagined Soula’s strength diluted by physical weakness, knew what it must have taken the proud woman to ask for help a second time.
Then she thought of T.J., of everything that could go wrong.
There was no choice. “Damon…I…I can’t.”
“Can’t?” Now the contempt was palpable. “Won’t, I think. I don’t remember you being vindictive, Rebecca. Strange, because I thought that in this cat-and-mouse game between us vengeance was my move.”
Her heart stopped at the brooding darkness that shadowed his face. “Is that a threat? Because if it is, you can go,” she said, her voice low, her spine stiff. “And when you leave, please don’t slam the door behind you. Now get out.”
There was a long, tense silence.
Damon didn’t move.
Rebecca’s nerves screamed with tension as she held his fathomless gaze. When she decided she’d finally gone too far, speaking to wealthy, powerful Damon Asteriades as though he were nothing but a hooligan, he spoke at last.
“Is that my cue to say ‘Make me’?” he asked gently, then leaned back in her armchair in her shop.
If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought him completely at ease. The act was so good, in fact, that when his gaze swept from her face, over her body, down the length of her legs, discomfiture followed.
“You couldn’t evict me—even if you wanted to,” he continued, his gaze minutely examining her slim frame.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop playing games, Damon.” Weariness infused Rebecca, followed quickly by impatience. “And lay off the long, lingering looks. I’m aware that you wouldn’t want me if I was the last woman on Earth—”
“If you were the last woman on Earth, I’d say the men remaining would face a fate worse than death.”
“Oh…” Her growl of frustration made him give that cold smile she hated. She loved seeing him laugh properly, his teeth flashing white against his tanned skin, revealing the sensual curve of his mouth. But this travesty of a smile never touched his watchful eyes.
“You’ll have to learn to master that short fuse one of these days, Rebecca. Your eyes are flashing, your cheeks are scarlet. Again. At a guess, I’d say you’re angry enough to…bite.”
A further flush of heat swept her at his soft, suggestive words. “Bite?” she retorted. “Ha, you should be so lucky.”
The smile stretched, revealing even white teeth. “I have no idea what any man would see in you. You are a vixen, a hellcat.”
At least that made a change from the tired old labels of “black widow,” “money-grubber”…
“Of course you wouldn’t recognise my worth! You go for passive women you can dominate, force your will on.”
“We will leave Felicity out of this.” His voice was icy, his smile gone.
She widened her eyes. “Now why would you assume I was speaking of Fliss? She finally found the courage to stand up to you, to do what she wanted—”
“Be quiet.” The whisper was a warning.
But Rebecca paid no heed. “No, I’m referring to the women you’ve been seeing for the past two years. Dolls, all of them.”
“Ah, Rebecca, you disappoint me! You’ve been reading cheap gossip rags. I can assure you, the magazines got it wrong. They are not dolls,” he pur
red, his mouth softening in a way that revealed masculine satisfaction and made her hands ball into fists.
“You’re right, they’re not even dolls. They’re no more than cardboard cutouts. All identical. Skinny and blond and—”
“Jealous, Rebecca?”
Anguish exploded within her. Beyond thought, she drew back her right arm. His cool, narrowed gaze acted like a dash of freezing water and halted her intention to land the blow.
Coming rapidly to her senses, Rebecca peered around the edge of the armchair. Still no one watching. Thank God. Peace of mind, serenity and respect had been hard-earned in this small town. She wasn’t going to let them be ripped away by one tempestuous public outburst.
Grimacing, she turned back to glare at him. “One day…” she muttered.
“You’re not the first person to contemplate my untimely demise with great pleasure,” he drawled.
She stared at him, shaken by the shock wave that went through her at the thought of a world without him in it. Reluctant to examine the implications of that realization, she hurriedly stood and scooped up his empty plate and cup and saucer with shaking hands.
He was on his feet instantly. “Retreating, Rebecca?”
I have to. But she remained mute, averting her face.
The sudden grasp on her elbow was firm but not painful. “Sit.”
“No.” She shook off his hold, frantically blinking away the sting of anger and hurt that she refused to let him see. Before she’d realised his intent, he’d taken the crockery from her hands and set it back on the table.
“Sit,” he said again.
“I can’t.” She met his gaze, determined to appear cool and composed. “I’ve got work to do, orders to courier out.” It wasn’t a lie. Chocolatique was a successful operation. In addition to tourists who stopped to taste and buy, she had plenty of customers in Auckland who regularly ordered boxes of handmade chocolates by e-mail and phone.
“Rebecca, I am a busy man.” He sank back into the armchair, crossing his ankle over his knee. The cuffs of his fine silk shirt shot back, and he glanced impatiently at the Rolex on his wrist. “Right now I should be in Auckland finalising a sensitive business deal, not cooling my heels here. But my mother’s health and happiness are more important than anything else in the world. So I ask you one final time to reconsider your position—it will be worth your while.”
Despite his obvious impatience, his tone had changed, the offensiveness now gone, his jaw tight and his lean body coiled and utterly still as he waited for her reply.
It maddened Rebecca that he still thought he had only to wave a leather-bound chequebook and she’d fall into line. Like everyone else did. But not her. Tossing her head back, she gave him a withering look. “You’ve used that line to death, Damon. Four years ago you offered me money to stay away from Fliss—”
“But you couldn’t, could you?” he growled. “Couldn’t bear for her to find happiness, not when you wanted her man.”
“No!” She covered her ears. “I’m not listening to this.”
He came out of the armchair like a spring unwinding, fast and furious. Grabbing her wrists, he thrust her hands away from her ears. “Yes, admit it, Rebecca. Six weeks you let her have. Six weeks before you enticed her away. You were desperate for—”
“No,” she repeated more loudly now that the offensiveness was back in full force. She glared at him. “It wasn’t like that.”
He bent toward her until his nose almost touched hers and his glittering blue eyes filled her vision. “God knows how you convinced Fliss to go with you in the end.”
Perhaps the time had come to stop worrying about his reaction and to tell him the bald, tragic truth. That should stop him in his tracks.
She drew a deep, shuddering breath, and courage came in a rush. “She came of her own accord. I didn’t force her. I told Fliss about my b—”
“Stop! I don’t want to hear your lies. You stole my wife after only six weeks of marriage, and that is something I will never forgive! I will not listen to your lies.” Damon was breathing hard, his eyes dark with anger. “But for you, my wife would still be alive.”
He released her abruptly and she reeled away, realising with shock and horror that whatever she told him, he was not going to believe a word she said. She closed her mouth, rubbing her wrist absently. Rebecca heard his breath catch and his hand shot out.
“Let me see.” The fingers that closed around her wrist were gentle. There was silence. She stood still, tense under his touch as his thumb massaged the spot where he’d held her. Then he said tonelessly, “I am sorry.”
Rebecca stared at his long, tanned fingers resting against her wrist. “It’s okay. There’s not even a mark.”
His voice rose. “It is not okay. I hurt you.” Her head shot up. His beautiful full lips were drawn in a tight line, white and bloodless.
Rebecca bit back a hysterical giggle. He’d hurt her far worse in the past by refusing to believe in her integrity. He hadn’t even liked her. That had hurt. Withdrawing her arm from his grasp, she smiled sadly. “You didn’t—and it doesn’t matter. Really.”
His eyes were a brilliant, unfathomable blue. “So what do you say, Rebecca? Arrange Savvas’s wedding and let’s put the past behind us. Call it quits, hmm?”
She flicked him a glance.
Damon was prepared to bury the old resentments and bad feelings—perhaps there was a chance they could reach a truce. So that one day she would be able to tell him about T.J. And then there was that other temptation…
If she helped with the wedding—not for payment, of course, she couldn’t do that—but to achieve a truce—then Damon might get to know her, might even discover what she’d always known, that they were bound by invisible ties too powerful to ignore. But…
Doubt assailed her.
Damon was a wealthy, powerful man. What if he found out the truth about T.J.? She simply couldn’t risk T.J.’s security to chase a pitiful fantasy that she might—might—change Damon’s poor opinion of her.
She sighed. “Look, I told you—I don’t do weddings any more.” Defeat weighed her down. Whatever she’d once felt for him he’d trampled into the dust, making it clear that he despised her. She waved a dismissive hand at the cheque on the table. “Not even for that ridiculously large amount of money.”
“But my mother—”
“Your mother knows I can’t do the wedding. I told her myself!” Soula had sounded fine on the telephone two weeks ago and the heart attack had taken place two years ago. This helpless sense of letting Soula down was just Damon’s manipulation. In his world the end always justified the means. “If you want, I’ll call her and tell her again that I can’t do it.”
Alarm lit his eyes. “I don’t want you—”
“Talking to your mother. I know, I know!” Because he didn’t want her finding out that he’d lied about his mother’s health? Or because he didn’t want Rebecca Grainger, a woman he utterly despised, having anything to do with his beloved mother?
He tried to say something, but she held up a hand, a new burn of hurt searing her at his appallingly low opinion of her, until all she wanted to do was hit back. “So please tell her not to call me again. And I don’t want you bothering me, either. My answer stands.”
His mouth snapped shut, an uncompromising line in that hard, wildly handsome face, while his eyes glittered with menace.
Yes, it was past time she accepted that there was nothing that she could salvage from the past, nothing that would make Damon look at her through kinder eyes.
“Now, you say you’re such a busy, important man—you’d better get back to Auckland.”
Rebecca didn’t wait for his reply. One last reproachful look, then she whirled and bolted through her shop, ignoring the turning heads, until she reached the safety of her rabbit hole of an office behind the large workmanlike kitchen, shaken to the core by their bitter exchange.
Hours after their confrontation, Damon strode across the forecour
t of the chain hotel of which he’d just checked out. Long shadows cast by the row of cypress trees edging the boundary crept like dark fingers across the cobbled pavers, reminding Damon that the afternoon was waning.
Had he heeded Rebecca’s parting shot this morning, he’d already have been back in Auckland, closing the Rangiwhau deal. The CEO had demanded a face-to-face meeting this afternoon. Damon had stalled. Instead of concluding a lucrative deal that would make his shareholders a killing, he’d spent the afternoon closeted in a hotel room, juggling conference calls, working like a demon…all the while plotting how to get Rebecca to change her mind. And trying to rid himself of the ridiculous notion that he’d wounded her.
Impossible. The woman ate men for breakfast.
Damon had a fleeting memory of Aaron Grainger.
A good man. A shrewd banker who’d advanced Damon a hefty, much-needed loan in the nightmarish period after his father’s death. Ari Asteriades had believed himself invincible. He’d made no provision for key personnel insurance, left no liquid funds available. Because of Aaron, Damon had managed to fight off the circling sharks and save Stellar International, keeping control in the family, keeping his tattered pride intact.
Aaron Grainger certainly hadn’t deserved to die broken and bankrupt. Damon had heard the tales about Rebecca’s profligacy. The fabulous designer wardrobe she’d ordered after her honeymoon, the jewels she’d demanded, the expensive flutters at the bookies on the racecourse, the overseas trips she’d insisted on. How she’d convinced a besotted Aaron to support her impulsive business schemes, all of which had demanded huge resources.
And then there had been the story about her lover. A handsome drug addict she’d begged Aaron to bail out of trouble. Rumour had it that Aaron had put his foot down that time. The lover had been history—but only after Aaron had paid off his horrendous debts.
Damon’s jaw tightened. Reaching the Mercedes, Damon opened the trunk and tossed in his overnight bag and laptop case. Aaron should have put a stop to it sooner, before his beautiful wife had driven him to death—and dishonour.
No doubt about it, Rebecca deserved whatever she got.