Untamed. Diana Palmer
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Tat, he’s twenty years your senior!”
She couldn’t meet his eyes. “He’s older than I am, yes.”
He felt his muscles tighten from head to toe. She couldn’t be getting involved with the doctor. Surely not!
His silence coaxed her into looking up. His expression confounded her. In another man, it would look like jealousy. But Rourke would never be jealous of her. He hated her.
She moved restlessly. “We should go backstage.”
“Are you going to be here overnight?” he asked as they walked.
“I fly back to Manaus in the morning,” she replied.
“I’m here overnight, as well.”
She didn’t say anything. She knew that he was going to avoid her like the plague, as usual.
“Which hotel are you staying in?” he asked abruptly.
“Why? Do you want to make sure you can get one at least half the city away from it?” she burst out.
He stopped dead. “I’ve got a lot to make up to you,” he said solemnly. “I don’t even know where to start. I’ve done so much damage, Tat,” he added in a husky tone. “Far too much.”
She looked up at him, shocked.
He reached out toward her face, only to have her jerk back from him and avert her eyes.
It hurt more than he’d ever dreamed anything could.
“Tat,” he whispered roughly, wounded.
“Don’t you remember?” she bit off. “You told me...never to touch you. You said that I was repulsive...” Her voice broke. She walked around him and moved blindly to the back, where a man in a suit was motioning to them to get with the other honorees. She didn’t look to see if Rourke was coming behind her. She didn’t want to see him.
He followed her, his heart torn out of his body at her words. Yes, he’d told her that; he’d been brutal with her. How could he have forgotten? He’d hurt her so badly. Now, after years of tormenting her and himself, he finally had a chance to start over with her. But judging by what she’d just said, it was going to be a very hard road back.
* * *
The award ceremony was lengthy. General Machado made a speech. His director of the interior made a longer one. The presenter made an even longer one. By the end of it, Clarisse’s feet hurt. She was glad she was wearing low-heeled shoes.
One by one, the honorees went out to receive their awards, made a short speech and shook hands with the general. Clarisse did the same, smiling up at him as he bent to kiss her cheek, the medal in its velvet case held tightly in one hand.
“Thank you for coming,” he whispered in her ear.
“Thank you for inviting me,” she whispered back.
She shook hands with him and carried her award off the stage.
She waited while the others received their medals. Rourke joined her, somber and quiet. He hadn’t liked the general kissing her. He was fuming inside.
Clarisse saw his expression and felt her heart sink. He was angry at her again. It was familiar, though. Nothing really changed, least of all Rourke’s bad opinion.
* * *
She left her award with her coat in the cloakroom and nursed a rum drink. She’d already refused half a dozen requests to dance. She bristled at the thought of strange hands on her skin, and the dress was low cut in back. So she stood by herself, watching other people enjoy the music on the dance floor.
She felt heat at her back and stiffened. She always knew when Rourke was close. She wasn’t sure how. It was rather uncanny. She turned, her whole posture defensive.
“You’ve never danced with me, Tat,” he said, his voice deep and velvety as he drank in the exquisite sight of her.
She sipped the rum, for something to do. “Have you had all your shots?” she asked with quiet sarcasm.
There was a pause. He drew in a breath. “How about a truce, just for tonight?”
She studied him with apprehension, her face wary, her eyes wide and worried.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said. His face was taut, and not with revulsion. He looked as if he was hanging in midair, waiting for her to answer. At his side, his big hands were curled into fists. “Just for tonight,” he repeated in a voice so soft that she had to strain to hear it.
He’d tormented her for so long. The pain, the memories, were in her wide blue eyes, in her sadness. She bit her lower lip, hard, and twisted her small evening bag into an unrecognizable shape in her cold hands.
He moved a step closer, so that he was almost right up against her. His breath caught as he breathed in the floral perfume she wore, just a hint of it. His hands came up, very slowly, and went to her waist. He was hesitant.
“Trust me,” he said at her forehead. “Just this once.”
“You don’t like me to touch you,” she managed in a choked tone.
His eye closed on a wave of pain. “I lied.” He looked down into her shocked face. “I lied, Tat,” he whispered. “I want your hands on me. I want you close, as close as I can get you.” He drew in an unsteady breath. “Humor me.”
She hesitated. It would start the addiction off, all over again, just when she was thinking that she could finally get over him.
“Come on.” He took the drink from her cold hands and put it on the table. Then he caught the other small hand in his, linking his fingers into hers, and led her into the large room where the orchestra was playing. Couples were moving slowly to a bluesy tune.
He turned and curved one long arm around her waist. He slid his fingers in between hers and rested them over his spotless white shirt. He moved closer and led her, to the rhythm of the music. He could hear her breath catch, feel the tenseness in her young body slowly give way to the seduction of the slow movements.
“That’s more like it,” he said roughly at her temple.
She thought she felt his mouth there. Surely he wouldn’t do that, though, she reminded herself. She should pull away. She should run. He was going to hurt her. This was the way it always was. He was kind, or seemed to be. Then he pushed her away, taunted her, tormented her...
She pulled back and looked up at him with anguish in her face.
“No,” he whispered, wincing as he read the apprehension there. “I meant it. I swear to God, I won’t hurt you, Tat. Not with words, not any other way. I give you my word.”
That was serious business with him. If he made a promise, you could bet money on his keeping it. She searched his hard face. “Why?”
He let out a breath from between chiseled, very masculine lips. His gaze went over her head to the wall beyond. “I...heard some gossip, years ago. Malicious gossip. Long story short, I thought we were related by blood.”
She stopped dancing. She gaped at him. “Wh...what?” she asked, and started to jerk away from him.
His arm curled her into his tall, muscular body and held her there. “It wasn’t true,” he said. “I had it checked out. Your mother’s blood type was O positive,” he said through his teeth. “And your father’s blood type was B positive. I’m AB Negative, like K.C. You’re B positive.” He hesitated. “I had a covert DNA scan done from a sample of your blood. Don’t ask how I got it,” he said when she opened her mouth. “I’m a spy. I have ways. I spoke to a geneticist. There is no way in hell we could be related. Not even in the most distant way.”
She was standing very still. All of a sudden the past eight years made absolute sense. He’d behaved sometimes as if it was tormenting him to be near her, as if he