Black Widow Bride. Tessa Radley
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 purred, 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