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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.
