Читать книгу Black Widow Bride - Tessa Radley - Страница 7

Almost four years later

Tuesday morning started badly. Rebecca overslept, and by the time T.J. managed to wake her, his insistent little fingers squeezing her cheeks, the dazzling almost-summer sun was already well up in the cloudless Northland sky.

T.J. was querulous as she hurriedly dressed him. Guilt took over. Yesterday she’d stayed home, taken him to the doctor for the earache that had plagued him over the weekend. Last night he’d cried a little before finally dropping off to sleep, leaving Rebecca to toss and turn for most of the night listening out for him. But he’d slept through.

Promising herself that she’d cut her workday short and spend the afternoon with him, Rebecca rushed him out the door and strapped him into the car seat, while he grumbled incessantly.

The whole drive over, Rebecca tried telling herself that Dorothy—T.J.’s caregiver and a former hospice nurse—was far better qualified to look after T.J., that she wasn’t deserting her baby when he needed her most. To no avail.

Dorothy, bless her kind heart, took one look at T.J.’s mutinous expression and opened her arms wide, promising he could watch a Thomas the Tank Engine DVD so long as he drank some juice and ate sliced mango and apple first. T.J.’s face brightened instantly and Rebecca heaved a giant sigh of relief.

After Rebecca handed over T.J.’s medication, Dorothy fixed her with a sharp glance. “Don’t you worry yourself about this young man. He’ll be fine. You stayed with him yesterday when he needed you most. Today you can fix your attention on Chocolatique.”

The understanding beneath the brisk words made Rebecca’s throat tighten.

As if sensing her volatile, emotive state, Dorothy murmured, “Now, now, Rebecca, off with you, and don’t forget to bring me those almond truffles I’m so addicted to when you collect our boy.”

“Do I ever forget?” Rebecca gave the older woman a fond smile.

The glow of good humour that Dorothy generated stayed with Rebecca all the way to Chocolatique. There, on the threshold of her business, all remnants of pleasure evaporated and she came to a shocked, gut-wrenching halt.

Him.

Damon Asteriades sprawled across the wing armchair nearest the door, showing total disregard for the designer suit that he wore with the casual abandon of the very wealthy. In a flash, Rebecca took in the highly polished handmade leather shoes, the open jacket and loosened tie, incongruous in Tohunga. At this time of year the town was populated by European backpackers in T-shirts, shorts and sandals. Up, up went her eyes over the finely carved mouth…up…until his chilling narrowed gaze propelled her into action.

She crossed the threshold, apprehension parching her mouth, and croaked, “What are you doing here?”

“The one good thing I remember about you, Rebecca, was your polish, your semblance of manners. Has living up here in the back-of-the-beyond stripped the last veneer of civilisation from you?”

Rebecca stared into the brutally handsome face, at a total loss for words.

He straightened. “I have a matter I need to discuss with you.”

“With me?” Rebecca’s heart lurched. What was he doing up here in Tohunga, hundreds of kilometres north of Auckland? Had the day of reckoning, the day she’d been dreading for more than three years, finally arrived?

Damon gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Do you see anyone else?” His dangerous pirate face was unreadable, harder than ever, new lines bracketing his full mouth, but it lacked the killing anger she’d expected.

“What do you want with me?” And immediately wished the tense, hasty words unsaid. Don’t panic, she told herself. Keep it calm, polite. Don’t let him see the dread.

He didn’t answer. Instead his unnerving gaze swept her from head to toe.

“You haven’t changed.”

It didn’t sound like a compliment.

Rebecca knew she shouldn’t allow him to rattle her. There was nothing wrong with her appearance. The sundress was well cut and appropriate to the warm October spring morning, her long ebony hair secured in a neat French twist. Unless her emotions gave her away, he would see only a well-groomed woman in total command of herself and her surroundings.

She took her time returning the inspection. The suit would be Italian. Armani perhaps. The unbuttoned jacket revealed a white shirt. It would be made of the finest silk, she remembered, hand tailored for him. Fitting the muscled body beneath to perfection.

Wrenching her gaze away, she stared into cool blue eyes. “So what do you want?” Certainly not her. He’d never wanted her. But T.J.…well, T.J. was another story.

Rebecca swallowed the bitter, coppery taste of pure terror.

Chocolatique was her business, she reminded herself, coming closer.

And he was the interloper.

Yet Chocolatique, with its familiar comforting fragrance of chocolate, the warm red and amber tones of the cosy, elegant decor she had spent days selecting, failed to dispel Rebecca’s fear.

Vaguely she registered that the shop was humming. With the exception of the one empty armchair opposite Damon, every seat in the shop was taken. Even the booths, carefully divided by screens and lush palms in pots to maximise privacy, were full. Yet the rise and fall of busy chatter failed to muffle Rebecca’s unwanted awareness of the man who watched her as though he expected her to turn tail and run.

Oblivious to the tension, Miranda, her assistant, smiled a greeting from behind the spotless glass counter where dozens of delicacies containing chocolate in some form or another were displayed on hand-painted ceramic platters. It was still too early for the busloads of tourists who stopped in on their route to Cape Reinga for refreshments and to sample and purchase the delicately decorated chocolates several local women produced. For the sake of her regular customers who came each morning for cups of rich chocolate or mochaccino, Rebecca forced a smile.

“Rebecca…”

The rich, rough velvet of his voice caused tingles to vibrate up her spine. She shivered as every muscle in her body tightened. How did he do it? One word, and she reacted like a cat to its master’s touch.

But she was no pet.

She was a woman. Her own woman. Damon Asteriades no longer held any power over her. She no longer fancied herself in love with him. So she flashed him a careless smile. With deliberation, she folded her arms across the high back of the empty armchair opposite him, determined to show herself—him—that he had no longer had any effect on her. “Good morning, Damon. I would recommend—”

“I am done.” He cut her off, and the newspaper across his knee rustled as he set it aside and leaned across the coffee table toward her. From her vantage point Rebecca couldn’t help noticing the thickness of his silky black hair, the breadth of his shoulders under the fine fabric of his superbly fitting suit.

Then his fingers brushed hers and she gave a tiny, breathless gasp.

Before she could snatch her fingers away, he slid a rectangular piece of paper into her hand. Automatically she took it, then glanced down.

Instant déjà vu.

It was a cheque issued from a premier account, the bold gold print signifying that the bank deemed the signatory to be of great importance. Closer investigation revealed an obscene number of zeros, an amount far in excess of—she glanced at the empty coffee cup and crumbs and smudges that were all that remained of a slice of chocolate cheesecake—what he’d ordered.

“You appear to have overpaid,” she said drily.

“For breakfast? Perhaps.”

“For whatever,” she retorted, his confident, lazy tone making her hackles rise. But she couldn’t stop herself from glancing back at the plate in front of him. Chocolate cheesecake for breakfast? Her mouth twitched. But then, Damon had always had a sweet tooth.

“Ah, but that is not payment for ‘whatever’ as you so colloquially put it.”

His words wiped away all residue of humour. Something in the way he watched her, the unwavering concentration, caused blood to rush to her face and her heart to start hammering. His full, gorgeous mouth twisted, and she tensed.

“No. The cheque is not for services rendered. At least not the kind that you clearly have in mind, koukla, if your flushed cheeks and bright eyes are anything to go by. Avaricious women never were much of a turn-on for me.”

Humiliation scorched her. The worst of it was the knowledge that his words held more than a grain of truth. Clever, astute Damon had read the hope that had flooded her as her heart thudded—the hope that for once he’d experienced the same intense, hot flaring awareness she had.

Naturally the coldhearted bastard didn’t feel a thing, while she trembled from the aftershock of the raw want that blasted through her, leaving her nipples tight and her body weak.

Damn him to the fires of hell.

She wasn’t going to cower behind an armchair, she decided. She wasn’t scared of Damon Asteriades. Nor did she fear the effect he had on her. That was nothing more than lust. Her heart was safe.

Stepping around the chair, she thrust the cheque back at him. “Take this and shove it!”

She told herself she could withstand his powerful magnetism. Because lust without love meant nothing—except bitter emptiness.

Instead of taking the cheque and ripping it up, he laid it very deliberately, faceup, on the small round table between them in a gesture loaded with challenge. “Now the negotiations start.” He gave her a hard smile, but his glittering eyes held no humour. “Don’t forget—I know that women like you are always on the lookout for easy money, for a wealthy benefactor.”

Oh, how the barb hurt. “Get out of Chocolatique,” she whispered, her lips tight. “I am not for sale. Ever.”

He stared at her without blinking, then said very calmly, “You are overreacting. Whatever made you assume I’d want to buy you?”

How could she ever have loved this man? Believed that he might learn to love her back if he only knew her? Beyond speech, Rebecca glared at him, anger chopping through her, churning in her stomach. His gaze dropped and her breath caught in her throat.

The formfitting sundress splashed with red-and-white hibiscus flowers on a black background had seemed such a good idea earlier this morning, cool in the humid Northland climate. Yet now she felt exposed, naked. She refused to fold her arms and hide the puckered nipples that still pressed against the cotton fabric.

Her body switched treacherously to slow burn as those eyes traced the curve of her breasts, then lowered to the indent at her waist, making her feel like some concubine on the auction block. Except there was nothing sexual in his carefully calculated assessment.

Damon was putting her down, she told herself fiercely. This was his way of underscoring the fact that while she still desired him beyond reason, he detested her absolutely. She spun away and retreated so the high back of the empty armchair once again formed a solid barrier between them.

Had anyone else noticed the humiliating interaction? A glance toward the counter showed that Miranda was handing a customer a large box of truffles tied with a red organza bow, while one of the full-time waitresses Rebecca employed carried a tray laden with steaming cups and muffins to a secluded booth on the other side of the shop. No, she concluded, no one in the room was aware of how she felt—no one except Damon.

Resentment and desire smelted together, twisting tighter and tighter inside her until she wanted nothing more than to swing around and let rip and rage at him. But she refused to grant him that satisfaction. She would far rather see him flip, lose all control and go up in flames.

Her lips pursed at the wishful image. Little chance of that happening. Damon was a total control freak. But she needed to find out what he wanted, what had brought him and his chequebook here. And the best way to find out was to provoke him. Carefully.

She swivelled to face him. “So what are you doing in Tohunga?” And raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Slumming?”

With some satisfaction, Rebecca heard the impatient breath he blew out.

“You are not going to get under my skin, woman. I promised my mother…”

“Promised your mother what?” She pounced on his words, the fear she’d refused to recognise easing.

He gave her a resentful look. “My mother, for some reason, holds you in high regard.”

“I’ve always liked her, too. Soula has style, good taste and isn’t as prejudiced as some.” And she smiled demurely as fury flashed in his vivid blue eyes.

Through gritted teeth he said, “Savvas is to be married. My mother wants you to arrange the wedding.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t do weddings anymore,” Rebecca replied without a hint of apology, her confidence returning at his bald request.

The blue eyes spat sparks and an almost-forgotten exhilaration filled her. For the first time since she’d known him she had the upper hand, and she relished it.

“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 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 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 forecourt 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.

He slammed the driver’s door harder than he’d intended and stuck the key in the ignition. The ring of his cell phone interrupted his angry musings, and he jabbed a button on the cell phone where he’d just secured it against the dashboard. “Yes?” he demanded.

“Will she do it?” Savvas asked.

There was no need to ask to whom Savvas was referring. Reluctant to report his failure, Damon responded, “How is Mama?”

“Feeling dizzy again. The doctor is concerned about her. He says she worries too much, that she must take things easy.”

“Or?” Damon knew there had to be a consequence. Dr. Campbell was not given to fussing unnecessarily.

“Or she could have another heart attack, and this time…” Savvas’s voice trailed away.

“And this time it might prove fatal,” Damon finished grimly.

“Don’t talk like that!”

“It’s the reality.” Damon could almost see his brother crossing himself superstitiously at his words.

“You know, Damon, sometimes I wish I’d never asked Demetra to marry me. This damn wedding—”

“This from the man who preaches true love?” Damon cut in mockingly, disturbed more than he cared to admit by the idea that Savvas might be having second thoughts.

“No, no. I don’t mean that I would forgo having met Demetra or falling in love with her. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I meant I should have moved her in with me.”

“Vre, the family would never have stood for it. Thea Iphegenia would’ve fainted in horror.”

“Yet they turn a blind eye to the women you escort, Damon. They don’t accuse you of sinning.” Savvas’s complaint filled the car’s interior.

“That’s different. I’m a widower. And anyway, I choose women of the world, not maidens with marriage written all over them, like your Demetra,” he told his brother, his mouth twisting. He stared unseeingly through the windscreen into the golden glow of the late Northland afternoon. Felicity had been his last foray into respectability. It would be a cold day in hell before he tried it again.

“Maybe it would’ve been better to marry in court, present Mama and the family with a fait accompli. But now it’s too late—the big Greek wedding is already in production. Damon, I fear it might kill Mama.”

“Savvas, Mama wants this wedding. Desperately. Can you deprive her of it?”

His mother asked for so little. And gave them so much. Instead of retreating into tears and grief after his father’s unexpected and devastating death, she had battled beside him as he’d wrestled for control of Stellar International. She deserved happiness, contentment.

Stupidly he’d thought his marriage would secure that.

He twisted the key. The Mercedes roared to life.

“Mama says she wants to hold a grandchild in her arms before she dies,” Savvas was saying. “Demetra wants to start trying for a family as soon as the honeymoon’s over. But first we need to arrange the wedding.”

His mother lived for her family. Family looked out for family. That was his mother’s creed. Cold, bitter rage twisted inside Damon’s heart. All his mother wanted was to see Savvas wed. Rebecca could pull it off. Easily.

But Rebecca had already refused his mother’s direct request—and now she’d refused him. He wasn’t a man accustomed to refusal. Rebecca would help his mother and organise his brother’s wedding. He’d make sure of it.

With slow deliberation he put the gear into reverse.

“It cannot be easy asking her for help. You hate her. I mean, not that I blame you or anything.” Savvas faltered, then sighed. “Look, there’s something I must tell you. After the wedding I saw her a couple of times and she seemed…quiet. I didn’t see anything of the wild, wicked woman people talk about—”

“Hang on, are you telling me you dated Rebecca while I was on my honeymoon?” The car idled. Damon felt an almost forgotten red tide of rage boil up within him. Hell. He’d told her to stay away from Savvas.

“She’s a very beautiful woman.” His brother sounded sheepish.

“Beautiful?” Damon snorted. “If you like black widows. She’s as dangerous as sin to the unwary.”

“But, Damon, she wasn’t like that!” Then, after a taut pause, Savvas amended hastily, “At least I could’ve sworn she wasn’t like that. She was kind to me. We had some good times.”

Good times? He didn’t like that one little bit. Damon found he didn’t even want to contemplate the implications. Reversing the car out of the parking bay in one smooth manoeuvre, he swung the steering wheel and headed smoothly for the exit. “No, of course she wasn’t like that,” Damon said bitingly. “That’s her game. She spins her web, and the victim steps in.”

There was a long silence. “Well, it’s past.” Savvas sighed more heavily this time. “After what she did, I didn’t contact her again. You’re my brother—how could I?”

Inside the suddenly silent Mercedes, Damon was fiercely glad that Savvas had proved loyal to him and hoped it had cut Rebecca to the quick when Savvas had failed to call her again.

Savvas was speaking again and Damon forced himself to concentrate. “To see her, it must be hard for you. If she comes back to Auckland, it’s going to cost—”

Damon cut him short. “Whatever the cost, I will do it. For Mama.”

He clicked off the phone and swung the Mercedes into the main street of Tohunga. This time he’d do what he should’ve done from the outset: use charm. Rebecca had never made any bones about the attraction he’d held for her in the past. A little flirting, add a couple of handsome cheques and she’d be putty in his hands.

The empty parking space right outside Chocolatique gave him considerable satisfaction. It was all working out. As he entered Rebecca’s shop, Damon straightened his tie, squared his shoulders and pasted a breathtaking smile to his face—one that guaranteed women would fall at his feet.

But Rebecca was not there. Gone for the day, he was advised by her blushing assistant, who kept sneaking him little looks from under her lashes.

Five minutes later, his smile gone, seething with impatience, Damon gunned his Mercedes down the road to Rebecca’s home, determined to be out of this parochial town within an hour. And equally determined that when he left, Rebecca would be sitting beside him—whether she liked it or not.

Whatever the cost.