StrokeofMidnight (3 page)

Chapter Four

“When another ball was held the next evening,
Cinderella again attended with her Godmother’s help. The prince became even
more entranced.”—Cinderella

“What? Do I have broccoli stuck between my teeth?”—Rowyn
Jeong

“I’m coming!”

Rowyn almost flew down the staircase, shoving pins in her
chignon as she hurried to answer the insistent ringing of her doorbell. A
harried glance at her wristwatch revealed the time—7:30 a.m. A barrage of
thoughts raced through her mind and set her heart pounding. Her mother. Cindy.
An accident. It had to be bad news to bring someone to her door, much less this
early in the morning.

God, please let them be all right
…

She gripped the knob with one hand and twisted the lock with
the other. Not bothering to peek out the side window, Rowyn jerked the door
open.

And stared.

“Good morning.” Darius grinned down at her.

What. The. Fuck.

“Please tell me you’re bringing news of a tragic car
accident and have beaten the police to my door.”

He arched a dark eyebrow. Rather than respond, he held out a
Styrofoam cup. A thin wisp of vapor rose from its lid, bringing with it the
seductive aroma of freshly brewed coffee. She scowled and folded her arms
across her chest. He didn’t really think he could distract her with coffee, did
he?

Darius sighed. “No tragic accident. Why would you think
that?”

“It is the only explanation for your showing up at my house
this early in the morning. Hell, showing up at my house—period,” she snapped.

“Such a gracious host.” He tsked, shaking his head, a small
smile playing about his full lips. Damn, those lips. The things he could do
with them… She delivered a mental slap to herself with a sharp order to get it
together. But the warning came too late. He had already maneuvered his way past
her and into the foyer of her home.

With a low growl of irritation, Rowyn slammed the door
behind him. Darius turned and once again, she ignored the offer of the cup.

“What are you doing here?” Jesus, she shrieked like a shrew.
And yet she couldn’t stop the anxiety that sharpened her voice. Her home was
her domain. Her sanctuary. The four years she’d lived in the Back Bay house, no
one but Wanda had been allowed inside.

Without glancing behind her, she knew the soft colors,
overstuffed couches and landscape paintings he studied represented a side of
her she didn’t reveal to many people. His survey of the airy living room that
opened off the small foyer caused a vulnerability she detested.

“Very nice,” he commented, bringing his inspection to rest
on her face. With those deep blue eyes that seemed to see far too much, the
touch of his gaze was almost tactile. She resisted rubbing her face to discover
if she’d inadvertently left behind a dab of moisturizer.

“What?” she asked, wheezing as if she’d just sprinted around
the block.

“Nothing,” he said and, with the same half-smile quirking a
corner of his mouth, extended the coffee cup again. “Please,” he murmured.

“Shit,” she mumbled and accepted the hot drink. Their
fingertips brushed and a bolt of lightning charged up her arm, straight to her
breasts and zinged to her pussy. Winded, she glanced down at her linen sheath,
amazed no scorch patterns appeared on her clothes. She flicked her eyes up and
slammed into such heat, the raw power in his gaze intensified the sweet ache in
her nipples and between her thighs.

God, his stare seemed to burn a hole right through her.

Had anyone ever looked at her like that before? Yes. He had.
While stripping her clothes from her body. While staring up at her from between
her spread thighs as he circled her clit with his tongue in a wicked caress.
While pounding into her pussy with such force the headboard had banged against
the wall in time to his measured and deliberate thrusts.

Blood rushed between her thighs, and even now the echo of
those demanding strokes pulsed deep in her sex. Moisture glazed her slit,
drenching her panties. The power this man had over her body with one look. It
should be criminal.

Rowyn ducked her head on the pretense of drinking her coffee
and stepped back. She lifted the cup to her mouth, sipped and jerked her head
up in shock.

“You know how I take my coffee?” she asked, the creamy
flavor of the brew still on her tongue. Most people would assume a ball-buster
like her would prefer her coffee black, not liberally sweetened with cream and
sugar.

“You ordered a cup before we left the bar,” he reminded her
and cocked his head, studying her. “There isn’t much I don’t remember about
you, Rowyn.”

Silence filled the foyer. His words dropped in her soul like
a pebble in a pool of water and unfamiliar warmth rippled out in ever-widening
rings of tenderness. He barely knew her and yet he’d noticed and remembered her
likes. She couldn’t even say the same about her family.

“Well…” She cleared her throat and curled her toes
self-consciously against the cool wood floor. “What are you doing here?”

“Since this is my first time to your city, I thought I’d do
the tourist thing.” He gave her what he probably considered a charming smile.
And damn him, it was. “I couldn’t think of a better guide than you.”

“What have you been smoking?” Flames rushed up her neck and
singed her face as he grinned wide. She grimaced and wondered where the hell
her much-lauded reserve had disappeared to.

Rowyn made it an art of hiding her emotions behind a wall of
indifference. She’d learned long ago if she didn’t give a reaction,
people—Pamela—didn’t derive as much pleasure from needling and provoking her.
So how Darius managed to slip under her defenses and wreak hell so effortlessly
boggled her mind. “It’s a workday, in case you haven’t noticed. And that’s
where I’m headed. To work.”

“Take a day off.”

“I don’t take days off,” she protested, balking.

He arched a brow and she ground her teeth together,
surprised she didn’t exhale powdered enamel. God, she was beginning to hate
that eyebrow.

“There’s a first time for everything,” he replied calmly.

“Not today there—”

Darius held up a finger and her mind blanked at the
imperious gesture. She blinked. Then blinked again. “Did you…” she sputtered.
“Did you just
hold up a finger on me
?” Her voice rose a decibel with
each word, outrage and disbelief jacking the volume up to the
no-the-hell-he-didn’t level.

“You’re yelling,” he pointed out.

“Damn right,” she snarled and stabbed a finger toward the
front door. “You can go now.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Darius agreed and slid a hand in the
front pocket of his black pants, the coffee he’d bought for himself in the
other. Unfortunately the loose fit did nothing to detract from his narrow
waist, the strength of his muscled thighs or the impressive bulge under the
zippered panel. “As soon as you change, we’ll leave.”

Rowyn tightened her grip on the cup while fisting her other
hand at her side.
Ten, nine, eight, seven…

“Are you growling?” That fucking brow
again
? By God
she was going to snatch it off his forehead!

“I. Am. Going. To. Work.”

“Hmmm…” He lifted the insulated coffee cup to his mouth and
studied her over the lid. He sipped the coffee, the muscles of his throat
working. Even the man’s Adam’s apple was sexy. “I can spend this day with you
or I could accept Daniel’s lunch invitation, followed by a round of golf. Of
course I don’t play, but I’m sure we could find all
sorts
of fascinating
topics to discuss…”

Rowyn had grown up with Pamela as a mother so she understood
anger. But never had she experienced the primal urge to kill. Maim. Dismember.

“Blackmail is not attractive,” she snapped.

“Ah.” He tapped a finger against his bottom lip. ”But is it
effective?” Darius smiled and she suspected he didn’t try to conceal the
satisfaction in his expression or tone.

He’d won this round and they both knew it.

“I’ll be right back.” She shot him a glare of disgust, and
then wheeled around to head back up the stairs, warm cup still clasped in her
hand.

And they accused
her
of having brass balls.

* * * * *

“Admit it. You’re having a good time.”

Rowyn slanted a glance at the man walking beside her. The
hot afternoon sun beamed down on the walking trail next to the Charles River,
highlighting the lighter shades of brown in his hair. The dark curls were long
enough to form a sexy cap around his well-shaped head, but short enough to
emphasize his patrician features. In a nutshell, he looked like the gorgeous
Roman emperor he most likely descended from.

But the impression didn’t stop with his appearance. His
commanding presence, confident tilt of his chin, long-legged stride—they all
attested to a man accustomed to leading and inspiring others to follow. The man
had established a clothing empire that dominated the northwest and western
markets. That kind of success took a special kind of grit and determination—not
to mention brilliance.

And to top it all off, he could fuck as if he’d invented it.

“C’mon, Rowyn.” He tipped his half-eaten strawberry ice
cream cone in her direction. “’Fess up. You’re enjoying yourself. You took a
day off work and the world market didn’t crash, California didn’t plummet into
the sea and the earth’s core didn’t implode.”

She scrunched her nose. “Fine. It hasn’t sucked.”

Darius laughed, the rumble low and earthy. She couldn’t help
but smile in return. The day
hadn’t
stunk. She swept her tongue over the
banana ice cream topping her sugar cone. It had been wonderful. Though Rowyn
had been ready to wipe the floor with him earlier, her anger had soon given way
to the secret thrill of being with him.

In the dark, hidden place that was accessible only after
several glasses of wine, she owned up to a shameful delight that he’d taken the
choice of spending the day with him out of her hands. He’d made her concede to
the desire her heart hungered for but her head denied.

The thought would undoubtedly get her women’s lib card
revoked, but Darius overrode all rational decision making.

They’d spent hours visiting such tourist traps as Faneuil
Hall Market Place, Fenway Park—she shuddered in revulsion—the Bull and Finch
Pub, better known as the
Cheers
bar, as well as the many shops and
stores along Newbury Street. Even though she’d lived in Boston all her life, it
had been years since she’d taken the leisure time to explore and enjoy her
hometown. Not only was she seeing the historical landmarks and colorful sights
through Darius’s eyes, but through her own as well.

Something else to thank him for.

“Thank you,” Darius said as he studied the quaint shops,
vendors and buildings edging the banks of the Charles River before bringing his
gaze back to her. He lifted his arm and stroked his free hand down the long
tail of hair brushing her shoulder blades. She fought to not close her eyes at
the gentle caress. The small tug on her scalp reverberated in her belly.
God
.
She was thankful she’d chosen the more casual ponytail over the professional
chignon. “The most experienced tour guide couldn’t have treated me to the day
you have.”

Rowyn shrugged and pleasure at his praise coursed through
her like a slow-moving current. This time she didn’t ignore the fluttering in
her stomach—she’d stopped the futile exercise hours ago.

“Blackmail aside,” she drawled, “I’m glad I came. I’d
forgotten how beautiful and fun Boston could be.” Memories overwhelmed her as
if the lock containing them had been picked and the mental images sprang free.
A steel band constricted her chest and Rowyn fought to drag air into her lungs.
“The last time I walked this trail was with my father. We’d spent the day together
celebrating my fifteenth birthday.”

“Are you close?” Darius asked, popping the last bite of his
cone in his mouth.

“Were,” Rowyn corrected. And the pain throbbing in her heart
vibrated in her voice. “He died eight years ago.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured and reached toward her. His
larger hand engulfed her smaller one and held tight. “I’m so sorry.” He drew
her closer and she didn’t resist, needing his comforting nearness. “I didn’t
know.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s okay. And to answer your question,
no, we weren’t very close. Before he died, we were trying to rectify that.”

Rowyn paused beside a trash bin, pitched in her
half-finished cone and accepted Darius’s napkin to toss as well. Inside, the
words she’d never verbalized churned in her chest like a furious cyclone,
gathering momentum, ready to burst free. But fear corked the flood. She wanted
to talk to Darius—confide in him—but an invisible hand covered her mouth,
trapping the words.

With a light tug, he guided her back to the middle of the
path. They resumed walking, her hand still firmly clasped in his.

“You know, I grew up in a family not so different from
yours. We were prominent, well-to-do, in the clothing business. My father is
third-generation Italian. His grandfather had emigrated from Italy and founded
a department store that started with a wheeled cart full of shoes.”

“He sounds like a remarkable, determined man.”

“From the stories, that description’s pretty accurate. He
died when I was a baby. But my grandfather was just like him. Proud.
Hard-working. Not free with praise, but when he gave it, it felt like the sky
had just opened up and beamed down a gift.” Darius chuckled. “I loved him, and
though he never uttered the words, I know he loved me. Unfortunately my father
could not say the same.”

Caught up in his story, Rowyn hadn’t noticed he’d paused
beside one of the benches that dotted the trail. Darius lowered to the seat and
gently pulled her down beside him. The wood warmed the underside of her thighs
through the thin material of her dress and she leaned a shoulder against the
back of the bench, her body turned toward him.