The Wedding Party Collection. Кейт Хьюит
Читать онлайн книгу.
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