Black Widow Bride. Tessa Radley
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He cut her off, and the newspaper across his knee rustled as he set it aside and leaned across the coffee table toward her. From her vantage point Rebecca couldn’t help noticing the thickness of his silky black hair, the breadth of his shoulders under the fine fabric of his superbly fitting suit.
Then his fingers brushed hers and she gave a tiny, breathless gasp.
Before she could snatch her fingers away, he slid a rectangular piece of paper into her hand. Automatically she took it, then glanced down.
Instant déjà vu.
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