by Tessa Radley
“T.J.” She paused meaningfully, “His name is T.J., remember?”
“Okay, when was T.J. born?”
Her heart pounding, she told him. And then told herself it didn’t matter. There were no inferences he could draw because T.J. had been a couple of weeks premature—although the obstetrician had said it was no cause to worry, joking that if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn T.J. was overdue by a couple of weeks.
“Don’t play me for a fool. I can add. It all fits together. You dated my brother after my wedding, had his baby and kept it from him…and from me. What kind of woman are you?”
She wanted to scream, to pound her fists against his chest. How could he get it all so wrong? Instead she counted to five, then spoke in a slow voice, the way she did when T.J. was being particularly contrary. “You’re jumping to conclusions—”
“So what else is there? That you were sleeping with other—”
“No!” She put her hands over her ears and bowed her head.
Damon grasped her arms and pulled them away from her face. He wanted to see her eyes. “Listen to me.” This time Rebecca was going to listen to him, she wasn’t going to block him out. This close he could feel the soft, moist breath from her ragged breaths, smell the exotic, feminine scent of her body.
Her wrists were slim in his large hands. With a sense of shock he became aware of her fragility, how much stronger he was. Strange, because she’d always challenged him, never given an inch, so he’d never been aware that this more delicate side of her existed. The last time he’d been this close to her, last night, he’d been so overwhelmed by forbidden emotions, so busy fighting a losing battle. Making love to her…
“No.” With one sharp movement she twisted her wrists out his grasp.
She was hotly furious, he realised and drew a deep, calming breath. “Rebecca, I could not let my mother discover the truth. It might upset her. In her medical state, it could trigger a heart attack. It could even kill her.”
“Truth?” She laughed, a hard, angry sound. “You wouldn’t recognise the truth if it hit you in a bar fight.”
“I prefer not to brawl in bars,” he said with a calmness he was far from feeling.
Rebecca looked mad enough to hit him. No hint of fragility remained. With her fisted hands, her chin pushed pugnaciously forward and her long hair dishevelled, she looked beautiful. Desire twisted inside him. Even now he wanted her.
She uncurled her fingers, sighed and pushed her hair behind her ears. “I wish I’d never come back, never gotten involved with you. I know I’m not blameless.” She paused, looking oddly hesitant after her burst of fury. She opened her mouth. “Look, I owe you an—”
“Tell me,” he cut across her, unaccountably hurt by the words she’d thrown at him. “What are you going to tell Savvas? What do you think this will do to Demetra?”
“Listen to me, Damon. I like Demetra, dammit!”
“You claimed to love Felicity like a sister. She was your best friend, yet you did your damnedest to break us up.”
“Because I knew you were wrong for each other. Because I thought she—”
He snorted. “Because you thought you were right for me?”
“No! Yes. Oh—”
“See? You can’t even answer a simple question truthfully.”
She flinched, the last colour draining from her lily-white skin until she looked waxen. And just like that the fragility, her vulnerability, knocked the heart out of Damon’s anger and frustration, leaving remorse in the vacuum that remained. With shock he realised that he was in danger of becoming twisted around her long, elegant fingers. Panic ignited in his brain, scattering his thoughts. He was no different from her wretched husband.
He gulped in air and rallied what remained of his tattered shreds of sense together, but the alarm and fear refused to go. “After last night was I supposed to fall for your tricks? Declare undying love, like Grainger—”
“Leave Aaron out of this! You know nothing—”
“That’s what you keep telling me—I know nothing. Nothing about Felicity. Nothing about Grainger. Nothing about you. But, you forget, I do know you.” He pressed his body up against hers, vividly aware of the bed that waited behind her. She was soft against him, her lush breasts full against his chest. He inhaled sharply. Her scent was fresh and incredibly sexy. He nudged closer still. Resenting her. But turned on, too.
“Stop it, damn you.”
“Make me.” He wedged a thigh between hers, intensely conscious of the brevity of her shorts, the softness of her bare legs. He was breathing hard. “No more winding me around your little finger—”
A broken laugh escaped her. “You? Around my little finger?”
“Yes,” he murmured, caught in her spell. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” He pressed his hips up against hers.
She toppled onto the bed with a cry.
He dropped down beside her.
He intended to kiss her. A hard kiss. A punishing kiss for making him want her this much, for confusing him, for turning his life inside out.
But that was before he read the stark bewilderment in her eyes. This close the hurt in her dark, slanting eyes dominated his vision. They seemed to drill down into his heart. God knew what she saw there. The thought killed all desire stone cold. Instead he felt weary, tired and very uncertain.
Yet under the exhaustion, the confusion, he desperately wanted to salvage something. He didn’t want to lose her. Not again. Not when he’d only just found her.
“So what happens now?” he asked.
“God!” There was annoyance in her voice. “You are such a bastard.”
He tried to smile. “Don’t say that to my mother.”
“This is not funny, damn you.”
“No, it’s not.” At once it all came rushing back. Rebecca. Savvas. T.J. With a sigh he sat up, slung his legs over the edge of the bed and dropped his head in his hands. “What a mess!”
Frustration closed around him like a suffocating red mist. He fought it. He banged a fist on the bedside table. The lamp rattled. Her purse slid off, fell with a thud onto the floor. Behind him he heard her breath catch.
He turned. Her eyes were wide.
Remorse filled him. “Rebecca, I would never hurt you—”
“I know that.” She blew out hard. “The sound gave me a fright.”
He knew it was more than that. She was on edge. And he wasn’t helping matters. He was losing control, frightening her. Frightening himself. A sigh tore from his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Her eyes were velvety again. She’d forgiven him. Their eyes held. Her tongue tip appeared. Pink. Provocative. It flicked across her bottom lip. His heart started to pound. Without thinking, he bent toward her. Her breathing quickened. She wasn’t going to rebuff him. Much as he probably deserved it.
Then her eyes glazed over and the pink tongue disappeared. “Damon, this is not a good idea. We need to talk.”
She was right. They needed to talk. And he needed to pull himself together; he was too far under her spell for his peace of mind. Damon pulled away, stood and bent to pick up the purse he’d knocked off the bedstand. It had fallen open. Inside a photo of a handsome dark-haired man confronted Damon. The stranger faced the camera, his hands tucked into the pockets of faded jeans; he wore a reckless smile and the devil glinted in his eye.
“So who is he?” He held up her purse. “Another foolish lover?”
“Stop it!”
“Why? We both know how attractive you are to my sex.”
Rebecca simply looked confused.
“Oh, please.” He’d been aware of her ripe, taunting sensuality the first time they had met. Was it possible that she had no idea of the sexuality she projected? She had to be aware of it. Or perhaps not. He sighed. “Perhaps you don’t deliberately lure them to you, perhaps it is just the unusual chemistry of beauty and that subtle challenge your very existence offers.”
&n
bsp; “So I’m no longer a little scheming bitch then?”
He paused, detecting hurt, a hint of aggression as if he’d wronged her in some way. He’d never called her that. Or had he? He tilted his head, trying to remember. “Let’s just say you’re not slow to take advantage of the qualities nature endowed you with.”
She glared at him from the bed.
“But you haven’t answered my question. Who the hell is he?” The burning curiosity astounded him. Damon wanted to find the stranger, tear him to pieces. How dare she carry another man’s photo in her purse when she made love to him like a wicked angel? “What’s his name?”
“James.”
“And where is he now?” he was driven to ask.
“Dead.”
The answer jolted him. Rebecca no longer glared at him. Her face wore a faraway expression, remote, and her eyes were lifeless. He wanted to shake her, kiss her, tell her to focus on him, that he lived.
“I’m sorry.” But he wasn’t at all sorry that the man she’d cared for was dead. He didn’t need that kind of competition. And then he realised what he’d thought….
Competition. He stalked to the window and stared blindly into the falling dusk. When had it all become a competition? When had it become so important that Rebecca’s attention be taken up with him and only him?
And why did anyone else matter? He had her now. What did James…Aaron…even Savvas matter? Now there was only him. And he had no intention of letting her forget that.
“Forget James.” He swung back. In two long strides he was back on the bed beside her. He pushed her flat and followed her down. He didn’t dare name the dark, hot emotion that coursed through him, making him determined to eradicate the memory of the other man, this James.
He kissed her with dark, sexual purpose. She jerked as his mouth took hers. His mouth softened at once. And it all changed. She gave a mewing groan and responded. No holds barred.
There!
Fierce triumph filled him. He reared up and stared into her aroused face, flushed with passion. “Did James kiss you like that? Did you feel that same wild abandonment that you feel with me?”
“Get away from me!”
“Admit it’s good.” He leaned to kiss her again. She pummelled his chest.
“Get off me.”
He let her go and sat up. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Her red top had ridden up, revealing the creamy skin of her midriff. He forced his gaze away before his thoughts scattered. “He couldn’t have meant anything to yo—”
“Why? Because I devour men like some black widow? Twist them around my little finger like trophies in some cruel game? Because I’m incapable of love?”
“Hell.” He couldn’t meet the reproachful challenge in her gaze. Something tugged inside him at the thought of her loving this James. He didn’t want her loving anyone…except him, he realised bleakly. He wanted her to save all that passion, all her smouldering ardour, for him and him alone. No man should mean anything to her, not while she made love with him with such sweetness.
He was jealous.
But before he could examine how in God’s name that had happened, he saw the tears spill onto her cheeks, and his heart tightened.
Rebecca who never cried.
Who had now cried twice in as many days.
Rebecca who gave as good as she got was sobbing her heart out…
She had loved this man, this James.
The realization devastated him. He turned away, needing to think about how he was going to deal with this latest discovery.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. This time it was true. He didn’t want to see her pain.
“Why? Because I loved someone? Or are you sorry for James? Maybe I drove him to suicide, too? Is that what you believe?”
He flinched at the acid words.
“Well, let me tell you this. He didn’t commit suicide. James was ill, terminally ill. But the funny thing is that he died in a car accident. A merciful release, everyone told me. But you know what? It doesn’t make it any easier. I miss him.” And she started to cry again, great wrenching sobs that make his heart tear.
“Shh.” Damon was beside her in a flash. Pulling her into his arms, he leaned back against the padded headboard, cradling her.
“Aaron, James—both dead.”
She sounded utterly desolate.
“Hush,” he repeated, at a loss of how to resolve this. How could it be that a wealthy man, a man responsible for the livelihoods of thousands, a man who prided himself on his control and who was admired as a business leader, a negotiator, a solution maker, didn’t know how to deal with the grief of the woman in his arms?
“Aaron, then James and then Fliss, too. Everyone I love dies.” She shuddered. His body vibrated with the force of it. “Yesterday T.J. nearly died, too.”
She wanted him to believe she’d loved Aaron? And James? Perhaps in her own fashion she had. And what about Savvas? Perhaps she wasn’t a woman who could only have one great love, as his mother had.
He tried to tell himself none of it mattered. But it did. It mattered very much. He desired her—wanted her with an endless yearning—even if he had to slay the shadows of a whole slew of ghosts in her past. Rebecca was the woman she was today precisely because of the relationships that had shaped her. Relationships with other men. They were part of her. If he wanted to keep her, he’d have to live with that, accept it, or he’d have no peace. He’d be torn apart every time he held her, made love to her.
She was still weeping, great tearing sobs that pierced him to the soul. He held her tightly. Tried to think of something to say that might help her deal with the loss of this…James. The loss of her husband.
Suddenly he found it. “When my father died, I was furious with him for leaving us so suddenly. It hurt so much, too. I didn’t know what was worse—the pain or the rage.” It was true. He’d felt deserted by his father. The father who’d been like a god to him. All-powerful. Above death. Damon stroked Rebecca’s hair. “But the pain passes. And for you it will, too. You’re strong, the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”
This time it was Rebecca who pulled away. He tried to hold her, but she wriggled until she’d put distance between them. Turning, she met his gaze, and he flinched at the bleak despair he saw there.
“James wasn’t my lover. He was my brother.”
The revelation struck him like a blow. His breath caught. “I didn’t know you had a brother.” But instantly the pressure that had been building inside him deflated.
James was not her lover.
“We were put in foster care but not together, not since I was ten. But we kept in touch. James grew wild, a real rebel. He went off the tracks for a while. Then later there was a girl…”
“There always is,” he said wryly.
“They fell in love. But she was scared, scared of the wildness in him. Insecurity and fear drove her away. James was devastated. He pulled himself together. They found each other. But then…he felt ill, tired. We thought he had the flu.” She fell silent and shot him an odd glance. Then she swallowed. “James was diagnosed with cancer.”
Damon had a funny feeling that hadn’t been what she had been about to say. But he wasn’t about to challenge her, not now. Not while her renewed pain was so fresh.
“Come. Let me hold you.”
She snuggled against him. “This is so weird. All my life I’d been the strong one. The rock Fliss clung to, the person who fought to get James help, the one who held them when they cried, hugged them when they got lonely. But there was no one to hug me.”
“What about Felicity?”
She shrugged. “Fliss was needy. I’m not going to say more. I loved her. She loved me.”
“But she was draining, too,” he said slowly.
“Yes.”
“What about James—he was your brother. Didn’t he look after you?”
She sighed. “I told you, we were separated. And he got in with the wrong crowd.”
Damon shoo
k his head, wishing he was hearing something different.
“Drugs.” Rebecca sighed. “He got into drugs. He was in a downward spiral.”
“So he was needy, too.”
“Kind of. But his foster parents had a younger teen. They didn’t want him influenced by James.”
“And so…?” he prompted.
“I convinced his foster parents to get him help. It took two years, quite a bit of money—some of which I had to pay—and he cleaned up his act. I was working by then, for Aaron.”
She stared past him with unseeing eyes, the sorrow reflecting only the ghosts of the past. Damon’s throat tightened. He pressed a kiss meant to comfort on top of her head.
“So that’s how you met.”
She nodded. “He asked me out. I said no. After all, what would a wealthy guy like him want with me except for the obvious? I was young, not stupid.”
Damon couldn’t believe she’d placed such a low value on herself. But given her upbringing, he imagined her self-esteem would have been rock-bottom. “No, never only that. Aaron Grainger was a wise man.” Far wiser than he had been. “He saw a woman who was intelligent, funny, smart.”
She looked up at him, doubt in her face. “You think so?”
“I know so.” He swallowed. “Now tell me about Grainger.”
“Aaron wouldn’t take no for an answer. He kept asking.”
Of course Grainger had kept asking—she was beautiful…and young. How young? he wondered. “How old were you?”
“Eighteen.”
Eighteen. Grainger deserved to be shot; he’d been at least fifteen years older. “And then…?”
“Fliss wanted to become a chef. She’d done a couple of local cooking courses, but she wanted to train in France. And James was in trouble again—this was before he got his life back together.”
Damon closed his eyes, suspecting what was coming. He remembered how proud he’d been of his wife’s talents, her Cordon Bleu skills. Never had he realised how they’d been financed. And he’d had the gall to tell Rebecca on one occasion that she should take a leaf out of Fliss’s book, to stop trying to be the world’s greatest entrepreneur and get some skills. As Fliss had.
God, how arrogant he’d been!