No Longer Forbidden?. Dani Collins
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but now the authority he projected was ramped to new heights. Rowan felt it as a force that leapt from him to catch hold of her like a tractor beam that wanted to draw her under its control.
Reflexively she resisted. There was no room for quiet defensiveness when she came up against this man’s aura. She instinctively feared she’d drown if she buckled to his will, so she leapt straight to a stance of opposition. Besides, he was one of the few people she could defy without consequence. She’d never had anything to lose with Nic. Not even his affection. He’d hated her from day one—something that had always stung badly enough without him proving it on her twentieth birthday by reacting to her kiss with such contempt. She tried very hard not to care that he didn’t like her. She definitely didn’t let herself show how much it hurt.
“What a lovely surprise,” she said, in the husky Irish lilt that had made her mother famous, flashing the smile that usually knocked men off their guard. “Hello, Nic.”
Her greeting bounced off the armor of his indifference. “Rowan.”
She felt his stern voice like the strop of a cat’s tongue—rough, yet sensual, and strangely compelling. It was a challenge to appear as unmoved as he was.
“If you left a message I didn’t get it. My mobile isn’t working.” She hooked the strap of her empty purse on the stairpost next to him.
“Why’s that, do you suppose?” he asked without moving, his eyes hooded as he looked down on her.
His accent always disconcerted her. It was as worldly as he was. Vaguely American, with a hint of British boarding school, and colored by the time he’d spent in Greece and the Middle East.
“I have no idea.” Needing distance from the inherent challenge in his tone, she slipped out of her light jacket and moved into the lounge to toss the faded denim over the back of a sofa. Her boots clipped on the tiles with a hollow echo, sending a renewed pang of emptiness through her.
It struck her that Nic might be here for the same reason she’d come. She glanced back, searching for homesickness in his carved features, but his face remained impassive. He folded his arms, bunching his muscles into a stance of superior arrogance.
“No, I don’t expect you do,” he remarked with dry disparagement.
“I don’t what?” she asked absently, still hopeful for a sign of humanity in him. But there was nothing. Disappointment poked at her with an itch of irritation. Sometimes she wished … Stop it. Nic was never going to warm up to her. She had to get over it. Get over him.
But how? she wondered, restlessly tugging away the elastic that had kept her hair from blowing off her head on the ferry. She gave her scalp a rub, rejuvenating the dark waves while trying to erase her tingling awareness of Nic.
“Your mobile stopped working along with your cards,” he said, “but the obvious reason hasn’t occurred to you?”
“That everything expired at the same time? It occurred to me, but that doesn’t seem likely. They’ve always managed to renew themselves before.” She used her fingers to comb her hair back from her face, glancing up in time to see his gaze rise from an unabashed appraisal of her figure.
Her pulse kicked in shock. And treacherous delight. The wayward adolescent hormones that had propelled her to the most singularly humiliating experience of her life were alive and well, responding involuntarily to Nic’s unrelenting masculine appeal. It was aggravating that it took only one little peek from him to ramp her into a fervor, but she was secretly thrilled.
To hide her confusing reaction she challenged him, a vaguely smug smile on her face. It wasn’t easy to stare into his eyes and let him know she knew exactly where his attention had been. She’d been drilled from an early age to make the most of her looks. She knew she appealed to men, but she’d never caught a hint of appealing to this one. What an intriguing shift of power, she thought, even as their eye contact had the effect of making her feel as though she stood at a great height, dizzy, and at risk of a long fall.
Deep down, she knew she was kidding herself if she thought she had any power over him, but she let herself believe it long enough to take a few incautious steps toward him. She cocked her hip, aware that her boot heels would make the pose oh-so-provocative.
“You didn’t have to come all this way to bring me new cards, Nic. You seem like a busy man. What happened? Decided you needed a bit of family time?” Again she searched for a dent in his composure, some sign that he craved human contact the way lesser mortals like she did.
His iceman demeanor chilled several degrees and she could almost hear his thoughts. Her mother might have been his father’s lover for nearly a decade, but he’d never once thought of Ro as family.
“I am busy,” he informed her, with his patented complete lack of warmth.
She’d never seen him show affection to anyone, so she ought not to let his enmity bother her, but he always seemed extra frosty toward her.
“I work, you see. Something you wouldn’t know anything about.”
For real? She shifted her weight to the opposite hip, perversely pleased that she’d snared his attention again, even though his austere evaluation was not exactly rich with admiration of her lean limbs in snug designer denim. He just looked annoyed.
Fine. So was she. “These legs have been dancing since I was four. I know what work is,” she said pointedly.
“Hardly what I’d call earning a living, when all your performances involve trading on your mother’s name rather than any real talent of your own. Next you’ll tell me the appearance fee you get for clubbing is an honest wage. I’m not talking about prostituting yourself for mad money, Rowan. I’m saying you’ve never held a real job and supported yourself.”
He knew about the club? Of course he did. The paparazzi had gone crazy—which was the point. She’d hated herself for resorting to it, very aware of how bad it looked while her mother was still missing, but her bank account had bottomed out and she’d had no other choice. It wasn’t as if she’d spent the money on herself, although she wasn’t in a mood to air that dirty little secret. Olief had understood that she had an obligation toward her father, but she had a strong feeling Mr. Judgmental wouldn’t. Better to fight Nic on the front she could win.
“Are you really criticizing me for trading on my mother’s name when you’re the boss’s son?”
He didn’t even know how wrong he was about her mother’s reputation. Cassandra O’Brien had pushed Rowan onto the stage because she hadn’t been getting any work herself. Her reputation as a volatile diva with a taste for married men had been a hindrance to everyone.
“My situation is different,” Nic asserted.
“Of course it is. You’re always in the right, no matter what, and I’m wrong. You’re smart. I’m stupid.”
“I didn’t say that. I only meant that Olief never promoted me through nepotism.”
“And yet the superiority still comes across! But whatever, Nic. Let’s take your condescension as read and move on. I didn’t come here to fight with you. I didn’t expect to see you at all. I was after some alone time,” she added in a mutter, looking toward the kitchen. “I’m dying for tea. Shall I ask Anna to make for two, or …?”
“Anna isn’t here. She’s taken another job.”
“Oh. Oh,” Rowan repeated, pausing three steps toward the kitchen. Renewed loss cut through her. Anna’s moving on sounded so … final. “Well, I can manage a cuppa. Do you want one, or may I be so optimistic as to assume you’re on your way back to Athens?” She batted overly innocent lashes at him while smiling sweetly.
“I arrived last night to stay for as long as it takes.”
His Adonis mask remained impassive. The man was an absolute robot—if robots came in worn denim and snug T-shirts that strained across