Mistress Of Deception. Miranda Lee
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would. Not even Gary had been able to coax such intimacies from her, or such abandonment. Only Alan…
Tears filled Ebony’s eyes, but she dashed them away with the backs of her hands. The time for tears was long gone. Now it was time for action.
Last night had proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that she had no strength against Alan’s sexual power over her. No matter how angry with him she was, he only had to touch her and she was lost.
And it would always be that way, she agonised. Love him or hate him, she was his for the taking whenever he wanted her. It was this mortifying realisation that propelled her not to change her mind from what she had already decided she must do— go to Paris with Gary.
Shivering a little, she slipped out of the warmth of the bed and dragged on her white bathrobe over her naked and vaguely aching body. She flushed guiltily to think it had been herself—and not Alan— who had been the insatiable one last night. Was it because she had known this would be the last time?
Probably. Even now, the temptation to return to that bed, to rouse him from sleep with her hands and lips, to…
A bitter taste filled her mouth. Maybe it was just that she needed to clean her teeth, or maybe it was the self-hate rising from within. Whatever, she suddenly felt unclean, wicked, rotten to the core. She had to get away from him, from Sydney, from Australia. That was the only answer.
Slipping quietly out into the lounge-room, she picked up her telephone and dialled the number she’d written on the notebook resting beside it.
‘The Ramada,’ the hotel receptionist answered.
‘Could you put me through to Gary Stevenson’s room, please?’
‘Certainly, madam.’
Ebony’s eyes flicked anxiously over at the bedroom door while waiting for Gary to answer. She hoped Alan wouldn’t wake up. Instinct warned her she must keep her plans a secret. Alan must never find out, not till she was safely on that plane.
A bleary-voiced Gary finally came on the line. ‘Hello.’
‘It’s Ebony,’ she said quickly, huskily. ‘I need to see you. This morning. Will you be in around nine?’
‘Sure thing, love. What’s the urgency? You’ve already turned me down. Again.’
‘I’ve had second thoughts. Sort of.’
‘Only “sort of”?’
‘We need to talk.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Not on the phone.’
‘Why not?’
She hesitated, then said softly, ‘I’m not alone.’
Gary’s chuckle was dark. ‘So that’s the way it is, eh? What’s the problem? Won’t he take the hint he’s no longer wanted?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I see…’ His sigh was weary. ‘Well, get rid of him temporarily, love, and get over here pronto. If you feel as bad as you sound, then methinks you need a shoulder to cry on.’
A lump filled her throat. ‘You’re so good to me, Gary.’
‘Yeah, yeah, all my exes say that. I’m a good bloke. But tell me one thing. How come in the movies—and I suspect in life—it’s always the bad guy who ends up with the girl? Oh, never mind. I’ll be here when you get here, love. See you.’ And he hung up.
Ebony lowered the receiver silently back into its cradle, but, when she turned, there was Alan, standing in the open doorway, thunder on his face.
‘You can’t marry Stevenson,’ he ground out. ‘You don’t love him.’
She glared at him, standing there in the nude, as arrogant as you please. And as lethally attractive. Not an ounce of fat graced his tall, lean body, a light covering of dark hair giving him a primitive appeal. Put a spear in his hand and he would make a good savage, she thought bitterly.
‘How do you know?’ she said, using her fingers to comb her tangled hair back from her face till it fell into a sleek black curtain down her back.
‘Because you’re incapable of loving any man,’ he stated harshly.
Her short bark of laughter was half disbelief, half mocking. ‘Certainly not a man like you!’
His blue eyes blazed for a second before adopting an expression of cold contempt. ‘Then why keep going to bed with me?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m a masochist.’
‘A hedonist, perhaps, not a masochist. You enjoy pleasure, Ebony, not pain. And you can’t deny I give you pleasure.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of denying it.’
When she moved to brush past him on the way to the bathroom, his hand shot out to enclose her upper arm in a vice-like grip. ‘You can’t go from me to Stevenson,’ he rasped.
She locked eyes with him, aware of nothing but the emotional quaver in his voice. Could that be love talking? she puzzled briefly before dismissing such a stupid notion. No. Not love. Possessiveness. Jealousy. Male ego. But not love. Alan’s heart already belonged elsewhere. If he had a heart, that was. She was beginning to doubt it.
‘I have to talk to him,’ she admitted, then added, ‘I have to tell him personally that I’m not going to marry him.’
There was no way she could have mistaken the relief in Alan’s eyes. But that didn’t prove anything, except he wasn’t ready yet to give up his private supply of free sex. Free in every way. Emotionally, financially and physically. What man would want to give up such a cushy arrangement?
When he went to draw her back into his arms, she yanked out of his grasp and took a step backwards. ‘No,’ she said coldly. ‘I have to shower and dress. Then I’m leaving.’
‘What happened to breakfast?’
‘I’m not having any. If you want some, get it yourself.’
His smile was sardonic. ‘So kind of you.’
‘Oh, but I’m not kind, Alan. There again, you don’t want me for my kindness, do you?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Then don’t complain. You’ve got your way. I’m not marrying Gary. What more do you want from me?’
‘Not a thing,’ he bit out.
‘Then if you’ll excuse me?’
He watched her sweep into the bathroom, black anger in his heart. What more did he want of her? He wanted her to grovel at his feet, to beg him to visit her more often, to suffer from the same type of blind, obsessive need that was even now sending the blood pounding through his veins, making his flesh expand into a tight, painful instrument of torture.
Only an instinct that seducing Ebony this morning might rebound on him in some way made him put that solution to his frustration aside. All he could do was wait for her to leave and then he would plunge his pained body beneath the coldest of showers till he could comfortably face the day ahead.
Meanwhile he would dive back under the bedcovers and pass the time contemplating the many and varied ways he could exact vengeance on this creature who had been tying him in knots for years.
Yes, years!
Four, to be exact. He couldn’t count the first three. She’d spent most of them in boarding-school. And while at fifteen she’d been a budding beauty, her shy, almost introverted nature at that time had protected her from male admiration, his own included.
Not that he would have dreamt of seeing Pierre’s daughter in that light, especially at such a tender age. No, he was not guilty of that, thank God. Still, he remembered