Black Widow Bride (13 page)

Rebecca shot Damon a despairing glance. His face was pale under his tan. A pulse beat violently in the hollow of his throat.

“Not for me, thank you,” he replied grimly, making for the sliding doors. And Rebecca, holding the napkin, walked to where Soula sat with T.J. munching on the couch beside her.

There are things…things I haven’t told you. Things you should’ve known…before we…before we slept together.

The damning words buzzed inside Damon’s head, driving him mad. He stood alone on the wooden deck, staring blindly at the flat water of the lap pool. Behind him, from inside the house he could hear his mother’s voice offering T.J. a shortbread biscuit, could hear Rebecca’s cool, composed reply telling her son it was the last one. Blowing out hard, Damon swung around and slid the ranch slider closed to block out all sound of her.

But inside his head her words continued to echo. There are things…things I haven’t told you. What had Rebecca meant? Was it possible…?

Yes, goddammit, it was possible! The boy could well have been fathered by Savvas. His brother. She’d dated his brother. Despite his orders that she stay away from Savvas.

She’s a very beautiful woman. She was kind to me. We had some good times.

Savvas himself had admitted he’d been attracted to Rebecca. What man wouldn’t be? His brother could easily be T.J.’s father. His mother had spotted the resemblance immediately. She’d taken one look at the boy’s eyes and known he was an Asteriades.

How the hell had he missed it? Damon’s knuckles whitened. Blood rushed in his ears. Hot, unsteady rage. He wanted to hit the wall. Anything. He restrained himself. He was losing it. That in itself was dangerous. He prided himself on his fierce, unrelenting control.

Yet he’d already lost every vestige of his control in passion. An image of Rebecca lying beneath him making hoarse little sounds as he drove into her welcoming body flashed in front of him, and he suppressed it ruthlessly. A tight, fist-curling anger threatened.

Rebecca…and Savvas.

God!

When had it happened? Another image, this time the memory of Savvas and Rebecca dancing at his wedding. Rebecca laughing up at Savvas. Had it happened on his wedding night? During his honeymoon? Was that when T.J. had been conceived? While he, Damon, was congratulating himself on finding the perfect bride? While he forced himself to be tender, to meet china-blue eyes, while he struggled to forget the unsuitable witch with slanted dark eyes? The curse of Rebecca—her devastating effect on the Asteriades men. His stomach turned.

Was this why she had agreed to come back to Auckland? Had money alone not been the only enticement? Or was it the hope of a fortune beyond her dreams, child support from Savvas Asteriades? No. He shook his head. That wasn’t right. She’d had years to sue Savvas for child support. Yet she’d never claimed a cent. Why not? The money was legally due her, and she’d always been savvy when it came to money. So why had she walked away from the child maintenance claim?

He forced himself to take a deep breath. Trying to think right now was hard after the bombshell that had exploded in his face. Yes, he was furious with Rebecca. She hadn’t told him the truth. But then, to be fair, when had he ever given her the opportunity?

There are things…things I haven’t told you. The refrain whirled in his head. When had he ever indicated he’d listen calmly, rationally, to what she wanted discuss?

Hell, in the past he’d made it clear that he despised her. That would hardly have invited her to confide in him. Lately he’d had his own agenda: to court her, to get her into bed. Hardly a good time for her to confess that she’d borne his brother’s child.

He raked hard fingers through his hair. T.J. was a great little kid. Angry as he was with Rebecca, he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry that the kid existed. He only wished…Hell, he didn’t want to think about that. T.J. was not his son.

But even though T.J. was his brother’s child, there was no way in hell he intended to let Rebecca escape his grasp. He intended to keep her in his bed. He turned on his heel and reached for the handle on the ranch sliders. Through the glass he could see T.J. seated beside his mother, holding a cup. Rebecca stood beside them both.

What if Savvas broke off with Demetra when he found out about T.J.? What if Savvas decided that he wanted Rebecca and his son? He could not—would not—allow that to happen.

As the ranch sliders scraped open, Rebecca glanced up. His face must’ve given his state of mind away, because her expression grew apprehensive. She leaned forward, murmured something to his mother and disappeared out the opposite door.

Again anger surged in him. She was running away. But this time she would not escape.

Rebecca was his.

No matter who had fathered her child.

Rebecca tried to shut her bedroom door in Damon’s angry face, but he stuck his foot into the gap and forced it open. Her hands clenched, her eyes smouldering in her unnaturally pale face, Rebecca stared at him, trying to think of something smart and cutting to say. But nothing came to mind.

Dammit. This was exactly why she’d retreated to her room with a feeble excuse to Soula that she needed a tissue. The last thing she wanted right now was a confrontation with Damon. She wanted a reprieve, time to think, to gather her defences. That scene downstairs had shattered her. Damon actually believed she’d slept with Savvas. It made her want to gag.

“Isn’t it?” he repeated, coming closer. “Answer me, damn you!”

Outrage came off him in waves. She scuttled backward. “Will you stop asking me about T.J.’s parentage. It has nothing, nothing, to do with you.”

He followed her into the heart of the room. “Of course it does. It was Savvas! My brother was your lover. Savvas is T.J.’s father.”

She edged back until the side of the bed pressed against the back of her knees. Trapped, she glared at him. “Savvas is not T.J.’s father.”

“When was the child born?”

Now he wanted evidence? Absolutely fine. The pressure of the bed against the back of her knees increased. She resisted the urge to sit down.

“T.J.” She paused meaningfully, “His name is T.J., remember?”

“Okay, when was T.J. born?”

Her heart pounding, she told him. And then told herself it didn’t matter. There were no inferences he could draw because T.J. had been a couple of weeks premature—although the obstetrician had said it was no cause to worry, joking that if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn T.J. was overdue by a couple of weeks.

“Don’t play me for a fool. I can add. It all fits together. You dated my brother after my wedding, had his baby and kept it from him…and from me. What kind of woman are you?”

She wanted to scream, to pound her fists against his chest. How could he get it all so wrong? Instead she counted to five, then spoke in a slow voice, the way she did when T.J. was being particularly contrary. “You’re jumping to conclusions—”

“So what else is there? That you were sleeping with other—”

“No!” She put her hands over her ears and bowed her head.

Damon grasped her arms and pulled them away from her face. He wanted to see her eyes. “Listen to me.” This time Rebecca was going to listen to him, she wasn’t going to block him out. This close he could feel the soft, moist breath from her ragged breaths, smell the exotic, feminine scent of her body.

Her wrists were slim in his large hands. With a sense of shock he became aware of her fragility, how much stronger he was. Strange, because she’d always challenged him, never given an inch, so he’d never been aware that this more delicate side of her existed. The last time he’d been this close to her, last night, he’d been so overwhelmed by forbidden emotions, so busy fighting a losing battle. Making love to her…

“No.” With one sharp movement she twisted her wrists out his grasp.

She was hotly furious, he realised and drew a deep, calming breath. “Rebecca, I could not let my mother discover the truth. It might upset her. In her medical state, it could trigger a heart attack. It could even kill her.”

“Truth?” She laughed, a hard, angry sound. “You wouldn’t recognise the truth if it hit you in a bar fight.”

“I prefer not to brawl in bars,” he said with a calmness he was far from feeling.

Rebecca looked mad enough to hit him. No hint of fragility remained. With her fisted hands, her chin pushed pugnaciously forward and her long hair dishevelled, she looked beautiful. Desire twisted inside him. Even now he wanted her.

She uncurled her fingers, sighed and pushed her hair behind her ears. “I wish I’d never come back, never gotten involved with you. I know I’m not blameless.” She paused, looking oddly hesitant after her burst of fury. She opened her mouth. “Look, I owe you an—”

“Tell me,” he cut across her, unaccountably hurt by the words she’d thrown at him. “What are you going to tell Savvas? What do you think this will do to Demetra?”

“Listen to me, Damon. I like Demetra, dammit!”

“You claimed to love Felicity like a sister. She was your best friend, yet you did your damnedest to break us up.”

“Because I knew you were wrong for each other. Because I thought she—”

He snorted. “Because you thought you were right for me?”

“No! Yes. Oh—”

“See? You can’t even answer a simple question truthfully.”

She flinched, the last colour draining from her lily-white skin until she looked waxen. And just like that the fragility, her vulnerability, knocked the heart out of Damon’s anger and frustration, leaving remorse in the vacuum that remained. With shock he realised that he was in danger of becoming twisted around her long, elegant fingers. Panic ignited in his brain, scattering his thoughts. He was no different from her wretched husband.

He gulped in air and rallied what remained of his tattered shreds of sense together, but the alarm and fear refused to go. “After last night was I supposed to fall for your tricks? Declare undying love, like Grainger—”

“Leave Aaron out of this! You know nothing—”

“That’s what you keep telling me—I know nothing. Nothing about Felicity. Nothing about Grainger. Nothing about you. But, you forget, I do know you.” He pressed his body up against hers, vividly aware of the bed that waited behind her. She was soft against him, her lush breasts full against his chest. He inhaled sharply. Her scent was fresh and incredibly sexy. He nudged closer still. Resenting her. But turned on, too.

“Stop it, damn you.”

“Make me.” He wedged a thigh between hers, intensely conscious of the brevity of her shorts, the softness of her bare legs. He was breathing hard. “No more winding me around your little finger—”

A broken laugh escaped her. “You? Around my little finger?”

“Yes,” he murmured, caught in her spell. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” He pressed his hips up against hers.

She toppled onto the bed with a cry.

He dropped down beside her.

He intended to kiss her. A hard kiss. A punishing kiss for making him want her this much, for confusing him, for turning his life inside out.

But that was before he read the stark bewilderment in her eyes. This close the hurt in her dark, slanting eyes dominated his vision. They seemed to drill down into his heart. God knew what she saw there. The thought killed all desire stone cold. Instead he felt weary, tired and very uncertain.

Yet under the exhaustion, the confusion, he desperately wanted to salvage something. He didn’t want to lose her. Not again. Not when he’d only just found her.

“So what happens now?” he asked.

“God!” There was annoyance in her voice. “You are such a bastard.”

He tried to smile. “Don’t say that to my mother.”

“This is not funny, damn you.”

“No, it’s not.” At once it all came rushing back. Rebecca. Savvas. T.J. With a sigh he sat up, slung his legs over the edge of the bed and dropped his head in his hands. “What a mess!”

Frustration closed around him like a suffocating red mist. He fought it. He banged a fist on the bedside table. The lamp rattled. Her purse slid off, fell with a thud onto the floor. Behind him he heard her breath catch.

He turned. Her eyes were wide.

Remorse filled him. “Rebecca, I would never hurt you—”

“I know that.” She blew out hard. “The sound gave me a fright.”

He knew it was more than that. She was on edge. And he wasn’t helping matters. He was losing control, frightening her. Frightening himself. A sigh tore from his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Her eyes were velvety again. She’d forgiven him. Their eyes held. Her tongue tip appeared. Pink. Provocative. It flicked across her bottom lip. His heart started to pound. Without thinking, he bent toward her. Her breathing quickened. She wasn’t going to rebuff him. Much as he probably deserved it.

Then her eyes glazed over and the pink tongue disappeared. “Damon, this is not a good idea. We need to talk.”

She was right. They needed to talk. And he needed to pull himself together; he was too far under her spell for his peace of mind. Damon pulled away, stood and bent to pick up the purse he’d knocked off the bedstand. It had fallen open. Inside a photo of a handsome dark-haired man confronted Damon. The stranger faced the camera, his hands tucked into the pockets of faded jeans; he wore a reckless smile and the devil glinted in his eye.

“So who is he?” He held up her purse. “Another foolish lover?”

“Stop it!”

“Why? We both know how attractive you are to my sex.”

Rebecca simply looked confused.

“Oh, please.” He’d been aware of her ripe, taunting sensuality the first time they had met. Was it possible that she had no idea of the sexuality she projected? She had to be aware of it. Or perhaps not. He sighed. “Perhaps you don’t deliberately lure them to you, perhaps it is just the unusual chemistry of beauty and that subtle challenge your very existence offers.”

“So I’m no longer a little scheming bitch then?”

He paused, detecting hurt, a hint of aggression as if he’d wronged her in some way. He’d never called her that. Or had he? He tilted his head, trying to remember. “Let’s just say you’re not slow to take advantage of the qualities nature endowed you with.”

She glared at him from the bed.

“But you haven’t answered my question. Who the hell is he?” The burning curiosity astounded him. Damon wanted to find the stranger, tear him to pieces. How dare she carry another man’s photo in her purse when she made love to him like a wicked angel? “What’s his name?”

“James.”

“And where is he now?” he was driven to ask.

“Dead.”

The answer jolted him. Rebecca no longer glared at him. Her face wore a faraway expression, remote, and her eyes were lifeless. He wanted to shake her, kiss her, tell her to focus on him, that he lived.

“I’m sorry.” But he wasn’t at all sorry that the man she’d cared for was dead. He didn’t need that kind of competition. And then he realised what he’d thought….

Competition. He stalked to the window and stared blindly into the falling dusk. When had it all become a competition? When had it become so important that Rebecca’s attention be taken up with him and only him?

And why did anyone else matter? He had her now. What did James…Aaron…even Savvas matter? Now there was only him. And he had no intention of letting her forget that.

“Forget James.” He swung back. In two long strides he was back on the bed beside her. He pushed her flat and followed her down. He didn’t dare name the dark, hot emotion that coursed through him, making him determined to eradicate the memory of the other man, this James.

He kissed her with dark, sexual purpose. She jerked as his mouth took hers. His mouth softened at once. And it all changed. She gave a mewing groan and responded. No holds barred.

There!

Fierce triumph filled him. He reared up and stared into her aroused face, flushed with passion. “Did James kiss you like that? Did you feel that same wild abandonment that you feel with me?”

“Get away from me!”

“Admit it’s good.” He leaned to kiss her again. She pummelled his chest.

“Get off me.”

He let her go and sat up. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Her red top had ridden up, revealing the creamy skin of her midriff. He forced his gaze away before his thoughts scattered. “He couldn’t have meant anything to yo—”

“Why? Because I devour men like some black widow? Twist them around my little finger like trophies in some cruel game? Because I’m incapable of love?”

“Hell.” He couldn’t meet the reproachful challenge in her gaze. Something tugged inside him at the thought of her loving this James. He didn’t want her loving anyone…except him, he realised bleakly. He wanted her to save all that passion, all her smouldering ardour, for him and him alone. No man should mean anything to her, not while she made love with him with such sweetness.

He was jealous.

But before he could examine how in God’s name that had happened, he saw the tears spill onto her cheeks, and his heart tightened.

Rebecca who never cried.

Who had now cried twice in as many days.

Rebecca who gave as good as she got was sobbing her heart out…

She had loved this man, this James.

The realization devastated him. He turned away, needing to think about how he was going to deal with this latest discovery.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. This time it was true. He didn’t want to see her pain.

“Why? Because I loved someone? Or are you sorry for James? Maybe I drove him to suicide, too? Is that what you believe?”

He flinched at the acid words.

“Well, let me tell you this. He didn’t commit suicide. James was ill, terminally ill. But the funny thing is that he died in a car accident. A merciful release, everyone told me. But you know what? It doesn’t make it any easier. I miss him.” And she started to cry again, great wrenching sobs that make his heart tear.