Black Widow Bride. Tessa Radley

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      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—”

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