Black Widow Bride

The whole drive over, Rebecca tried telling herself that Dorothy—T.J.’s caregiver and a former hospice nurse—was far better qualified to look after T.J., that she wasn’t deserting her baby when he needed her most. To no avail.

Dorothy, bless her kind heart, took one look at T.J.’s mutinous expression and opened her arms wide, promising he could watch a Thomas the Tank Engine DVD so long as he drank some juice and ate sliced mango and apple first. T.J.’s face brightened instantly and Rebecca heaved a giant sigh of relief.

After Rebecca handed over T.J.’s medication, Dorothy fixed her with a sharp glance. “Don’t you worry yourself about this young man. He’ll be fine. You stayed with him yesterday when he needed you most. Today you can fix your attention on Chocolatique.”

The understanding beneath the brisk words made Rebecca’s throat tighten.

As if sensing her volatile, emotive state, Dorothy murmured, “Now, now, Rebecca, off with you, and don’t forget to bring me those almond truffles I’m so addicted to when you collect our boy.”

“Do I ever forget?” Rebecca gave the older woman a fond smile.

The glow of good humour that Dorothy generated stayed with Rebecca all the way to Chocolatique. There, on the threshold of her business, all remnants of pleasure evaporated and she came to a shocked, gut-wrenching halt.

Him.

Damon Asteriades sprawled across the wing armchair nearest the door, showing total disregard for the designer suit that he wore with the casual abandon of the very wealthy. In a flash, Rebecca took in the highly polished handmade leather shoes, the open jacket and loosened tie, incongruous in Tohunga. At this time of year the town was populated by European backpackers in T-shirts, shorts and sandals. Up, up went her eyes over the finely carved mouth…up…until his chilling narrowed gaze propelled her into action.

She crossed the threshold, apprehension parching her mouth, and croaked, “What are you doing here?”

“The one good thing I remember about you, Rebecca, was your polish, your semblance of manners. Has living up here in the back-of-the-beyond stripped the last veneer of civilisation from you?”

Rebecca stared into the brutally handsome face, at a total loss for words.

He straightened. “I have a matter I need to discuss with you.”

“With me?” Rebecca’s heart lurched. What was he doing up here in Tohunga, hundreds of kilometres north of Auckland? Had the day of reckoning, the day she’d been dreading for more than three years, finally arrived?

Damon gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Do you see anyone else?” His dangerous pirate face was unreadable, harder than ever, new lines bracketing his full mouth, but it lacked the killing anger she’d expected.

“What do you want with me?” And immediately wished the tense, hasty words unsaid. Don’t panic, she told herself. Keep it calm, polite. Don’t let him see the dread.

He didn’t answer. Instead his unnerving gaze swept her from head to toe.

“You haven’t changed.”

It didn’t sound like a compliment.

Rebecca knew she shouldn’t allow him to rattle her. There was nothing wrong with her appearance. The sundress was well cut and appropriate to the warm October spring morning, her long ebony hair secured in a neat French twist. Unless her emotions gave her away, he would see only a well-groomed woman in total command of herself and her surroundings.

She took her time returning the inspection. The suit would be Italian. Armani perhaps. The unbuttoned jacket revealed a white shirt. It would be made of the finest silk, she remembered, hand tailored for him. Fitting the muscled body beneath to perfection.

Wrenching her gaze away, she stared into cool blue eyes. “So what do you want?” Certainly not her. He’d never wanted her. But T.J.…well, T.J. was another story.

Rebecca swallowed the bitter, coppery taste of pure terror.

Chocolatique was her business, she reminded herself, coming closer.

And he was the interloper.

Yet Chocolatique, with its familiar comforting fragrance of chocolate, the warm red and amber tones of the cosy, elegant decor she had spent days selecting, failed to dispel Rebecca’s fear.

Vaguely she registered that the shop was humming. With the exception of the one empty armchair opposite Damon, every seat in the shop was taken. Even the booths, carefully divided by screens and lush palms in pots to maximise privacy, were full. Yet the rise and fall of busy chatter failed to muffle Rebecca’s unwanted awareness of the man who watched her as though he expected her to turn tail and run.

Oblivious to the tension, Miranda, her assistant, smiled a greeting from behind the spotless glass counter where dozens of delicacies containing chocolate in some form or another were displayed on hand-painted ceramic platters. It was still too early for the busloads of tourists who stopped in on their route to Cape Reinga for refreshments and to sample and purchase the delicately decorated chocolates several local women produced. For the sake of her regular customers who came each morning for cups of rich chocolate or mochaccino, Rebecca forced a smile.

“Rebecca…”

The rich, rough velvet of his voice caused tingles to vibrate up her spine. She shivered as every muscle in her body tightened. How did he do it? One word, and she reacted like a cat to its master’s touch.

But she was no pet.

She was a woman. Her own woman. Damon Asteriades no longer held any power over her. She no longer fancied herself in love with him. So she flashed him a careless smile. With deliberation, she folded her arms across the high back of the empty armchair opposite him, determined to show herself—him—that he had no longer had any effect on her. “Good morning, Damon. I would recommend—”

“I am done.” 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 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 nerves screamed with tension as she held his fathomless gaze. When she decided she’d finally gone too far, speaking to wealthy, powerful Damon Asteriades as though he were nothing but a hooligan, he spoke at last.

“Is that my cue to say ‘Make me’?” he asked gently, then leaned back in her armchair in her shop.

If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought him completely at ease. The act was so good, in fact, that when his gaze swept from her face, over her body, down the length of her legs, discomfiture followed.

“You couldn’t evict me—even if you wanted to,” he continued, his gaze minutely examining her slim frame.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop playing games, Damon.” Weariness infused Rebecca, followed quickly by impatience. “And lay off the long, lingering looks. I’m aware that you wouldn’t want me if I was the last woman on Earth—”

“If you were the last woman on Earth, I’d say the men remaining would face a fate worse than death.”

“Oh…” Her growl of frustration made him give that cold smile she hated. She loved seeing him laugh properly, his teeth flashing white against his tanned skin, revealing the sensual curve of his mouth. But this travesty of a smile never touched his watchful eyes.

“You’ll have to learn to master that short fuse one of these days, Rebecca. Your eyes are flashing, your cheeks are scarlet. Again. At a guess, I’d say you’re angry enough to…bite.”

A further flush of heat swept her at his soft, suggestive words. “Bite?” she retorted. “Ha, you should be so lucky.”

The smile stretched, revealing even white teeth. “I have no idea what any man would see in you. You are a vixen, a hellcat.”

At least that made a change from the tired old labels of “black widow,” “money-grubber”…

“Of course you wouldn’t recognise my worth! You go for passive women you can dominate, force your will on.”

“We will leave Felicity out of this.” His voice was icy, his smile gone.

She widened her eyes. “Now why would you assume I was speaking of Fliss? She finally found the courage to stand up to you, to do what she wanted—”

“Be quiet.” The whisper was a warning.

But Rebecca paid no heed. “No, I’m referring to the women you’ve been seeing for the past two years. Dolls, all of them.”

“Ah, Rebecca, you disappoint me! You’ve been reading cheap gossip rags. I can assure you, the magazines got it wrong. They are not dolls,” he purred, his mouth softening in a way that revealed masculine satisfaction and made her hands ball into fists.

“You’re right, they’re not even dolls. They’re no more than cardboard cutouts. All identical. Skinny and blond and—”

“Jealous, Rebecca?”

Anguish exploded within her. Beyond thought, she drew back her right arm. His cool, narrowed gaze acted like a dash of freezing water and halted her intention to land the blow.

Coming rapidly to her senses, Rebecca peered around the edge of the armchair. Still no one watching. Thank God. Peace of mind, serenity and respect had been hard-earned in this small town. She wasn’t going to let them be ripped away by one tempestuous public outburst.

Grimacing, she turned back to glare at him. “One day…” she muttered.

“You’re not the first person to contemplate my untimely demise with great pleasure,” he drawled.

She stared at him, shaken by the shock wave that went through her at the thought of a world without him in it. Reluctant to examine the implications of that realization, she hurriedly stood and scooped up his empty plate and cup and saucer with shaking hands.

He was on his feet instantly. “Retreating, Rebecca?”

I have to. But she remained mute, averting her face.

The sudden grasp on her elbow was firm but not painful. “Sit.”

“No.” She shook off his hold, frantically blinking away the sting of anger and hurt that she refused to let him see. Before she’d realised his intent, he’d taken the crockery from her hands and set it back on the table.

“Sit,” he said again.

“I can’t.” She met his gaze, determined to appear cool and composed. “I’ve got work to do, orders to courier out.” It wasn’t a lie. Chocolatique was a successful operation. In addition to tourists who stopped to taste and buy, she had plenty of customers in Auckland who regularly ordered boxes of handmade chocolates by e-mail and phone.

“Rebecca, I am a busy man.” He sank back into the armchair, crossing his ankle over his knee. The cuffs of his fine silk shirt shot back, and he glanced impatiently at the Rolex on his wrist. “Right now I should be in Auckland finalising a sensitive business deal, not cooling my heels here. But my mother’s health and happiness are more important than anything else in the world. So I ask you one final time to reconsider your position—it will be worth your while.”

Despite his obvious impatience, his tone had changed, the offensiveness now gone, his jaw tight and his lean body coiled and utterly still as he waited for her reply.

It maddened Rebecca that he still thought he had only to wave a leather-bound chequebook and she’d fall into line. Like everyone else did. But not her. Tossing her head back, she gave him a withering look. “You’ve used that line to death, Damon. Four years ago you offered me money to stay away from Fliss—”

“But you couldn’t, could you?” he growled. “Couldn’t bear for her to find happiness, not when you wanted her man.”

“No!” She covered her ears. “I’m not listening to this.”

He came out of the armchair like a spring unwinding, fast and furious. Grabbing her wrists, he thrust her hands away from her ears. “Yes, admit it, Rebecca. Six weeks you let her have. Six weeks before you enticed her away. You were desperate for—”

“No,” she repeated more loudly now that the offensiveness was back in full force. She glared at him. “It wasn’t like that.”

He bent toward her until his nose almost touched hers and his glittering blue eyes filled her vision. “God knows how you convinced Fliss to go with you in the end.”

Perhaps the time had come to stop worrying about his reaction and to tell him the bald, tragic truth. That should stop him in his tracks.

She drew a deep, shuddering breath, and courage came in a rush. “She came of her own accord. I didn’t force her. I told Fliss about my b—”

“Stop! I don’t want to hear your lies. You stole my wife after only six weeks of marriage, and that is something I will never forgive! I will not listen to your lies.” Damon was breathing hard, his eyes dark with anger. “But for you, my wife would still be alive.”