by Diana Palmer
She sipped her coffee quietly.
Joe, watching, seemed to sense her sadness. “Does it hurt so much, seeing him with her?” he asked tersely.
Her eyes closed. “It was nine years ago,” she shot back. “I’m over him.”
“Are you?” He took a swallow from his glass of brandy. “It doesn’t look it.”
Her green eyes flashed as she looked up at him. “Don’t. Don’t put our friendship at risk. You’re trespassing on memories you have no knowledge of.”
“They must not have been good ones. He’s forgotten easily enough,” he added, gesturing toward Marc, who was nuzzling his dark face against Lana’s hair as they spoke to another couple.
She bit her lower lip. “Stop it!”
He took a deep breath. “Look...”
“You look,” she shot back, furious. “I’m going to get some air.”
She put down her cup and went out onto the terrace, breathing in the soft, sultry night air, glancing down on the city and the gleaming silver ribbon of the river as it wound around toward the horizon.
Why couldn’t Joe leave it alone? Why was he so angry about her relationship with Marc? They were only friends. And he’d better accept that fact or she was going to stop going around with him. He was nothing more than a friend—he never would be—and she’d made that clear to him over and over again. Yet here he was, behaving like a jealous lover. Her heart was too shattered ever to be put together again and risked with a man. She’d thought Joe understood that.
She turned, strolling aimlessly between the huge potted plants and stone benches, only vaguely aware that the others who had been on the patio had gone back inside, that she was alone.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Marc asked suddenly, coming up beside her with a smoking cigarette in his hand. He spared the skyline a glance before he turned to study Gaby, much more thoroughly this time. “You’ve changed.”
“I’m older,” she reminded him. She leaned back against the cool stone of the balcony, breathing deliberately to keep him from seeing how his unexpected appearance had disturbed her, set her to trembling. She searched his hard face for traces of the young man she’d once loved. “So are you.”
“I had nine years on you, even then,” he reminded her. He took a draw from the cigarette and dropped it to the floor to grind it under his heel. “I was twenty-six to your seventeen. Why are you dating my brother?” he threw at her without warning.
Just like old times, she thought. Marc always had been blunt. “Why shouldn’t I?” she asked.
“You know damned well why not.”
“You surely don’t imagine I’m doing it for revenge?” she asked, laughing nervously.
“What other reason could you have?” he replied. “We both know Joe’s not your style. He never would be. He’s a marshmallow.”
“And you’re a knife,” she shot back, staring at him blatantly. “You even cut like one. I like your brother. He’s real. You never were. I only imagined you.”
“That was nine years ago,” he reminded her. “And it’s over. It was over before it ever began.”
“Do forgive me for trying to compromise you, Marc.” She laughed lightly, her green eyes shooting sparks at him as she folded her arms over her breasts. “I was very naive, remember.”
His face went harder. “Yeah.”
She tilted her head back so that her soft hair fell like a waterfall down her back. “I’m not green anymore, though,” she said softly. “So you don’t have to worry about your little brother. I’ll take good care of him.”
He hadn’t expected the frontal attack, and she caught the tiniest flicker of his eyelids. He reached for another cigarette. “There are plenty of other men in New York,” he said shortly.
“I like Joe,” she responded, hoping that her words would hurt Marc. She turned toward the apartment, but he caught her arm, holding her just in front of him. His palm against her skin was torment, bringing back memories of gentler touching, of silvery pleasure. His dark eyes stared angrily down into her shimmering green ones, and she had images of a dam held in tight control. She remembered all too well what he was like when that dam broke, how violent his passions were.
“Leave Joe alone, honey,” he said softly, too softly. “He’s not for you.”
“What will you do if I don’t, Marc?” she asked defiantly. “Send over some nocturnal visitors?”
“Nothing quite so permanent. I wouldn’t like to see you hurt. Not that way.” He reached up and caught her long hair, propelling her close against his massive body. He’d always been big, but now he felt like a mountain, and her body throbbed in instant response, a response she couldn’t prevent.
“Don’t,” she protested.
“Aren’t you curious?” he whispered, searching her face. “I am. I want to see if you’ve changed flavors, if you’ve aged, like good wine.”
His wide, sexy mouth was poised just above hers, and she was blind and deaf and dumb to the whole world outside. She could breathe him, taste him, and the feel of his huge body was like a narcotic. Old memories came unbidden, washing over her like fire, making her ache with remembered passion.
“Soft,” he breathed as his hands smoothed down her arms, coaxing her against his body. “You smell of roses in the darkness, just as you used to when you were a silky little virgin and I wanted to take you—”
“Well, don’t expect me to fall at your feet these days, Mr. Stephano,” she almost spat at him, using every ounce of her willpower to keep from throwing herself at him. He was the enemy. She had to remember that. She even managed a tight little smile as his mouth hovered over hers, tempting it.
“Can you keep it up?” he mocked, rubbing his lips delicately against hers in a shiver of sensuous pressure. “Can you hold out against it? I remember that most of all, that your body belonged to me from the first moment I touched it. Do you remember when that happened, Gaby? In the park, under the old oak?” he whispered against her open lips.
“A hundred years ago,” she retorted, jerking against his hold.
“At least.” He was playing, toying with her; that cruel smile told her so. But her body began to ache at the sweet contact with his huge, hard-muscled torso, as it hadn’t in many long years. If he kissed her now, she knew she’d melt onto the floor. She had to prevent him from doing that. She had to hold on to her sanity despite the fact that her knees were rubbery and her breath wouldn’t come.
He trailed a long, lean finger down her throat. “If you don’t leave Joe alone,” he whispered huskily, “I’ll come after you, Gaby. And he won’t want what I leave behind.”
“You don’t even know what you left behind nine years ago, do you, Marc?” she taunted, feeling her anger come to her rescue. Her green eyes flashed as she arched her body away from contact with his and went rigid in his arms. “You threw me out like a used rag!”
His face went stone-cold at that accusation. He stared down into her eyes quietly, searchingly. His hands on her bare arms tightened, and she thought vaguely that she might have bruises if he didn’t stop...
“And for money,” she continued, her eyes burning with unshed tears, the years of impotent rage all bursting behind a swell of emotion. “For five thousand dollars. That’s all it took to buy you off!” His face had gone white, but she hardly registered it; she saw him only through a blur of fevered anger. “I loved you! I would have died for you! And you sold me out for money! You used me!”
“Gaby,” he said hesitantly, as he slowly released her. “Gaby, you don’t understand. You don’t know how it was.”
“I know,” she scoffed, her voice breaking, and even then she smiled as she rubbed viciously at an escaped tear. “I know all too well. You were ambitious. You wanted to get up in the world. And you did. Don’t you want to thank me for all this, Marc?” she asked, sweepi
ng her arms around toward the opulent apartment. “I was the price you paid for it!”
“Your own parents sold you out, not me!” he returned hotly, dark eyes flashing, his face like stone.
Her lower lip trembled, and her eyes felt as if they had sand in them. Her throat was full of thorns. Beside her slender hips, her fists clenched. “I’ve hated you,” she whispered. “For so many years I’ve hated you. I wouldn’t even go down the street where you used to live, by the garage where you worked. I thought you loved me.”
He seemed to have a hard time answering. He stared down at her, his dark eyes half-hidden under his eyelids, his jaw taut. “You were just a kid,” he said finally.
“Just a kid,” she echoed. She drew in a steadying breath. “Yes, I was. Young and trusting and stupid.” She glared at him. “I hear your new woman is loaded.” She smiled slowly. “How much will she be worth when you throw her over?”
“Damn you!” he burst out, his face livid with anger, dangerous.
She avoided his sudden movement just as Joe came out onto the patio. Marc glanced at his brother with eyes that barely saw through their fury while Joe approached them, oblivious to the scene that had just transpired. Marc lit a cigarette and Gaby sat shakily on a stone bench a few feet away. Joe joined them with two glasses of champagne.
“Talking over old times?” Joe asked, a note of anger in his voice. He gave his brother a narrow glance before he sat down beside Gaby. “Here you go, love,” he told her. “I’m sorry,” he added softly.
“So am I,” Gaby said, although only Joe understood the hidden meaning as she glanced past him at Marc. “Won’t Miss Moore be missing you?”
He glared at her. “No doubt she will. Go easy on the sauce, Joe, you know how it hits you in the head,” he said, cautioning his brother.
He turned and strode back inside, while Gaby sipped champagne as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She was still shaking inside, but she didn’t let on. She listened to Joe and answered his questions and put on the best act of her career.
But later, at home in the darkness, she relived her shame and guilt. How could she still feel desire for Marc after what he’d done to her? She’d have to keep him at a safe distance from now on. She wasn’t giving up that contract, not even for him. And if he wanted her to stop seeing Joe, let him tell his brother the truth. Let him tell Joe that he’d allowed himself to be bought off, to give up the woman he’d sworn eternal devotion to. Let him show his only brother what an unscrupulous, conscienceless, mercenary man he really was. And on that thought Gaby cried herself to sleep.
* * *
HER FATHER WAS at the breakfast table when she went down early the next morning, before she was to do the second set of stills for Motocraft, Inc.
“Fancy seeing me here!” Jack Bennett told his daughter with a grin. He was middle-aged now, balding, and a little overweight, but his eyes were as green as Gaby’s. “I’m the other tenant, remember me? I live here occasionally.”
She laughed. “Nice to have you home! Sorry I wasn’t here when you got in. I went to a party.” Gaby hesitated a moment before continuing. Should she tell her father that she had gone with Joe? Until now she had made it a point not to let him know she was once again in contact with the Stephanos.
“I... I went with Joe Stephano,” she said at last.
He seemed to freeze. “Stephano?”
“Yes. He and big brother Marc own their own company now. Motocraft, Inc., the parts and transmission company that’s been franchised. I’m doing all the publicity work for it. It was all decided before I knew who owned it, but it’s too late for them to back out now.”
“Stephano,” her father repeated huskily. “I never dreamed he’d make it.”
“He wouldn’t have, if you and Mother hadn’t bought him off,” she said coldly, and stared into her scrambled eggs, missing the flash of his eyes. “Well, that’s all water under the bridge now. You’d like his brother. Joe’s nice.”
“You’re dating Joe?”
“Why not?” She laughed. “Marc hates it, of course, but Joe’s a good guy, and I enjoy his company. Besides, he’s sort of my boss.”
“I never liked you becoming a model,” her father began.
“Neither you nor Mother ever did, but I’ve proved that I’m capable of supporting myself, and now I want to go on doing it.”
“What about marriage, children?” her father muttered.
“I don’t want all that. My goodness, you know I’m not domestic. I can burn water.”
“You wouldn’t have to be domestic for some men. There’s Peter...”
“Peter Jackson is a very nice man, and he’ll make some woman a wonderful husband,” she said dryly. “But not me. I don’t want to get married.”
“Because of Stephano?” he demanded, lifting his head to stare at her. “Because of that childish affair?”
“You never would listen to me, would you?” she asked quietly. “I was in love with him.”
He averted his eyes. “You were barely seventeen.”
“Some women only love once. He was my world.” She turned away and looked out the apartment window at the busy street below while her father stared blankly into his coffee. “There’s never been anyone else, in any emotional sense. I don’t think there ever will be.”
“Only because it was unfinished, that’s all,” her father grumbled. “If the affair had gone on very long, you’d probably have tired of him.”
“Think so?” She sipped her coffee. “Oddly enough, I think I’d have been hooked for life, so it’s just as well that we never became lovers.”
“You expect me to believe he never touched you?” he scoffed.
“Of course he touched me. But he never seduced me,” she returned, whirling. “He was too aware of my upbringing. He said it would kill my conscience, and he was probably right.”
Jack looked pale. “I thought you were having an affair with him.”
“No such luck.” She laughed. “Oh, well, it’s over, anyway, and just as well that nothing regretful happened. I have to run, I’m shooting a TV commercial this morning. Wish me luck. I’ve worked with this turkey before, and he had me do fifty-five takes on one sentence in the last commercial he filmed with me!”
“Yes,” Jack said absently. “Yes, good luck.”
She got her things together and started for the door.
“Gabrielle?” he called suddenly.
She turned, smiling. “Yes?”
“If things had been different,” he said, “you’d have married that grease monkey?”
“Yes, even if I had to live in poverty above his garage and have ten kids.” She smiled, remembering. “Who knows? See you later.”
“Yes. Goodbye.” He watched her go out the door, and then he slumped in his chair like an old man, staring around the empty room. Empty, like his life. Like Gaby’s. All because he’d listened to his wife one time too many instead of following his instincts. He sighed wearily and finished his coffee while the lines of a song flashed through his brain. “What do I say, dear, after I say I’m sorry?” But it was years too late to say that. He got up and went to work.
* * *
BACK AT THE STUDIO, Joe was waiting for Gaby. He watched while they shot the commercial and then took her to a late lunch in a nearby restaurant.
“Poor baby,” he commiserated as she sipped iced tea. “Thirty-five takes! Wow!”
“He’s killed me,” she murmured. “I’ll have them put his name on my death certificate under ‘cause of.’”
“Want me to get Uncle Michael to go visit him for you?” he whispered under his breath.
She laughed. “I’ll bet Uncle Michael is four feet tall and wears red striped ties.”
“He’s nearly six feet tall, silver-haired and wears a d
iamond stickpin,” he corrected. “And in his day he was what is known as a ladies’ man.”
“My, my, and here I am with you,” she teased.
He laughed, delighted. He sat with his face propped in his hands, staring at her worshipfully. He had a pleasant face, Gaby thought. It wouldn’t stop traffic, and it wasn’t as hard and chiseled as Marc’s, but it was nice all the same. He’d really blossomed in the few weeks she’d known him, and he hadn’t acted jealous since the night of Marc’s party. He kidded with her. He seemed to enjoy her company, but he’d apparently decided not to push their relationship any further than that. She was glad; she had nothing more to give him.
“Well, I’m no ladies’ man,” Joe confessed. “But I’m rich and good-lookin’ and overstocked with charm.”
“You forgot to mention how modest you are,” she prompted.
“Yeah, that too. I’m extremely modest.”
She burst out laughing. “You nice man, you.”
“I try, I try. How about dinner tonight?”
She smiled at him. “Sure, but you’ve taken me out so many times already. Why don’t you come to the house for dinner about five and you can meet my dad.”
“Taking me home to the old man, huh? Well, I guess I can survive. Okay.”
“You’ll like Dad. He’s nice too.”
“He’d have to be, to have a lovely daughter like you.” He chuckled at the face she made. “Five, then.”
“I’ll be ready,” she promised, and wondered what Marc would have to say when Joe told him, as Joe certainly would.
Her father was more nervous than she’d ever seen him that night when Joe arrived promptly at five.