Читать книгу Diamonds are for Surrender: Vows & a Vengeful Groom - Bronwyn Jameson - Страница 14

Closure, finally, Kimberley rationalised once the initial spear of shock had dulled. The interminable waiting was over. They could mourn Howard’s passing, make arrangements for his funeral service and burial, satisfy the press with final statements, move on at a personal and business level.

Unfortunately it wasn’t that simple.

An initial inspection located only three bodies in the wreckage, meaning one of the men—and the marine police couldn’t even speculate on whether this was passenger or crew member—remained missing. Due to the depth of the water and adverse weather conditions brewing off the coast, the recovery operation could take several days. The process of formal identification would require the use of dental records and DNA matching, which, their police contact warned them, could take weeks rather than days.

Looming over it all was the real and sobering possibility that the lost body might never be found … and that it could be Howard.

The waiting continued. Kimberley appreciated being included in the inner information circle this time, and for that she thanked Perrini. Or she would once they got through the weekend and the incessant phone calls. As the Blackstone PR mouthpiece she’d decided to be more open with the press, in the hope that regular statements and updates would result in more factual stories and less speculation.

So far it seemed to be working. Several business and social commentators had already reported on the prodigal daughter’s return to Blackstone Diamonds, and she’d taken a deep breath and agreed to an interview for a magazine piece at a date to be fixed. Positive press, she reminded herself, when her heart palpitated at the thought of such public exposure of her private self.

“Good start,” Perrini said, in one of their few moments alone. It was late Saturday afternoon and the official gatherings and press updates had given way to the personal. Garth, her uncle Vincent and two of Howard’s yacht club cronies had called at various intervals during the afternoon to offer sympathy and support. None had left. Sonya’s tea had given way to Howard’s best whisky, and Kimberley had retreated to the terrace for a brush with solitude.

That’s where Perrini found her and those small words of praise resulted in an inordinate rush of satisfaction. Perhaps because his expression conveyed more than words, perhaps because she was enjoying their stolen seconds of privacy a little too much. Perhaps because, for a whisper of time, their incendiary boardroom kiss sizzled the air between them.

She liked that it wiped her mind of the deathly images imprinted in the past forty-eight hours, that it melted the icy weight of angst in her stomach, that it focussed everything on this moment, this connection, this enlivening flame in her senses.

“I hope it’s the right start,” she said in response to his comment … and because she couldn’t resist the thinly veiled allusion to what lay unfinished between them.

“It is.” Arrogant, supremely certain, his gaze lingered on her mouth for a telling second before drifting back to her eyes. “I like that you seized the opportunity and ran with it.”

“I gather you’re talking about the magazine article?”

“Of course … unless you prefer to talk about us.”

Did she? Her heart skipped an erratic beat as she met the still intensity of his gaze. Asking too much, too fast, too soon, that look sizzled through her, charging her senses with renewed memories of their white-hot kiss and the press of his body hard against hers. A loud burst of laughter from inside the house broke the connection, reminding her they weren’t alone. Reminding her that she’d given no thought to discretion in those crazy lost-to-the-world moments when he’d lifted her onto a cherrywood sideboard.

And that she’d given no thought to what was next.

“No.” She lifted her chin and shook her head resolutely. “Not yet.”

“When you are ready—” for a scant second his fingertips skimmed the back of her hand, a touch as dark and hot and double-edged as his words “—you know where to find me.”

He left soon after, but those final words and his dark, velvet touch kept Kimberley intimate company throughout a night of little sleep. She woke early, out of sorts with herself for chickening out of that talk, not just the previous evening but ever since she learned of his intentions. He wanted her. Five minutes of hot magic in the boardroom had demonstrated that desire. But on what terms?

And what of tomorrow?

Did she even want to know, when the answer might reveal future needs she could not deliver?

Her heart constricted with an aching trepidation that sent her rocketing out of bed, too antsy to lie still any longer. She pulled on three-quarter yoga pants and a sports singlet, comfort clothes that made her feel no less comfortable in her own antsy skin. She needed to get out, to escape the claustrophobic press of this house and her restless mind.

What she needed was a long, energetic walk. Her mind conjured her favourite jaunt of old, the path that dipped and rose from beach to clifftop between Bondi and Bronte. Open air, the sea breeze on her skin, the challenge of attacking steep rock stairs and on a leisurely return trip, sinking her toes into the silky Glamarama sand …

Yes. That’s exactly what she needed.

It was early, so early that she beat the notoriously early-rising Sonya downstairs. If she left now she might also beat the Sunday crowds who flocked to the popular coastal walk. Although she’d been given carte blanche access to the extensive Miramare garage, she dithered several minutes before jotting a note and grabbing the keys to Sonya’s compact Mercedes.

Fifteen minutes later she parked at the northern end of Bondi Beach and attacked the mile-long stretch of sand at a testing pace. Despite the early hour she wasn’t lonely, passing steady walkers and being overtaken by the serious exercise nuts. At the top of the first steep rise she paused to catch her breath and to absorb the stunning moment of daybreak over the Pacific horizon. Far below, waves crashed and foamed against the dark shelves of rock; far above, real estate battled for a share of the compelling view.

One of those houses was Perrini’s.

Would he be up, enjoying his first coffee on the deck outside his bedroom? Or was he still asleep, long limbs spread-eagled across the king-size bed, covers kicked free by a restless, overheated body?

The image took root in her brain, and she couldn’t pry it loose. Nor could she prevent herself turning back and then taking the detour up the steep hill to the headland. When she turned into his street her heart was pounding, not from exertion but with nervous tension.