One-Click Buy: November Harlequin Presents (44 page)

‘For…Is that what he told you I'd done? Oh, Andreas, I knew he was evil, but I never thought he'd take things that far.'

Her heart thudding in shock, she reached out and placed her hand over Andreas' where his rested still on the desktop. For a moment he showed no response, remaining absolutely still, but then his fingers curled around hers and held tight.

‘Tell me,' he said softly.

‘Just one thing first.'

She had to know. She had to ask. And his answer to this would mean so very much. It would mean all the world.

‘Were you really going to shred these?'

Her answer was there in his eyes, in the expression on his stunning face. She didn't need any more but he gave it to her.

‘Yes,' he said, his voice strong and firm this time, with no room for doubt in his tone. ‘Yes, I was going to shred them—and burn them. And then—'

But Becca stopped him there, pressing a finger to his lips to keep back the rest of what he had been about to say.

‘Later,' she whispered, looking deep into his eyes and willing him to believe there would be a ‘later'. A much better, easier—please God—a happier time, when whatever he had been about to say could be spoken with no hesitation, no doubts.

‘Let me tell you about my sister. The sister I should have told you about.'

She'd hurt him with that, Becca knew now. It had really stung that she hadn't trusted him enough. That she'd been so afraid of losing her one blood relative that she had kept Macy's existence even from him. If they'd stayed together longer she would have told him.

And now she
could
tell him. There were none of the restrictions Macy had placed on her when they had first met. All the need for secrecy had gone now. So she could be as open as she wanted—as she needed to be.

So she launched into the story of how she had tried to find her birth mother, only to find that she had died just six months before. But there was a daughter, Becca's half-sister.

‘Macy was barely nineteen then—and she was making a real mess of her life. She'd got in with a bad crowd, been in trouble with the law—she had a drug habit. I was so conscious of how good my life had been with my adoptive parents—how different from hers—so I begged her to let me help her. She promised me that if I'd stick by her—help her out—then she'd try to go straight. But to do that, she had to get away from everyone she knew. She made me promise not to tell anyone who she was or where she was. If I did, then she would just disappear and I'd never see her again. There was one man in particular—a man she owed money to. Lots of money.'

She paused, searching for the strength to go on, to bring that name into the conversation. But she didn't need to. Andreas was there before her.

‘Roy Stanton.'

‘Yes. They'd had a relationship—she was crazy about him, would do anything he asked. He'd got her hooked on drugs, and when she couldn't pay for more he loaned her the money she needed—but at a ruinous rate of interest. The debt had just mounted up and up, until there was no way at all that she could pay it.'

‘So you paid it. Using the money I gave you.'

Becca nodded slowly.

‘I'm sorry…' she began but Andreas stopped her urgent words with a gentle shake of his head.

‘Don't be—it was the only thing that you could do. I understand. But oh, Becca,
agape mou,
did you never think what might happen? Rats like Roy Stanton are never satisfied, even when you've paid them off. They always want more. And if one source dries up, then they'll find another way to get the cash they want.'

Sorting through the photographs, he found another sheet of paper and held it out to her. Becca stared numbly at the photocopy of the cheque she had written to pay off Macy's debts.

‘
He
told you—but you said…'

‘I said I had you investigated and I did.' Andreas' tone was sombre, his eyes shadowed. ‘I wanted to clear you for your own sake—so that there was never any need for doubt. But it wasn't the money that concerned me—you could have had all of that and more, and I wouldn't have given a damn. What I did care about was the rest…'

‘The rest…' Becca echoed, her heart seeming to stop still in dread. Now they were coming to it and she wasn't at all sure that she wanted to know what was coming. ‘What did he say, Andreas? Tell me!'

But even as she spoke she was hearing in her thoughts the words he'd said just a few moments earlier.

For believing you could be capable of marrying me for what you could get when really you were…

‘He told you that we were lovers.'

She could see it all now. It was exactly the sort of thing that Roy Stanton was capable of. When she had paid off Macy's debts with the money Andreas had given her, he must have thought he was on to a good thing and moved from dealing drugs into a little—he believed—highly profitable blackmail. And it must have been Macy who had told him about Andreas.

‘I think I know when this picture was taken,' she said slowly. ‘In fact, it had to be then. I'd been visiting Macy and when I went to the bathroom I took my ring off when I washed my hands. By accident I left it on the side of the basin. I remember that when I went back to get it, Macy wouldn't let me in—she was flustered and obviously embarrassed. She obviously had someone in the flat, but I never thought…'

Becca's eyes focused on the picture of her sister. On the hand that was up and half-hidden in Stanton's hair.

‘She was obsessed with him—could never say no to him. But she knew what I would think, so she tried to keep him hidden from me. When I asked about my ring—she took it off her finger! She'd found it in the bathroom and tried it on.'

‘And that was the day that the investigator spotted them together.' Andreas' voice took up the story. ‘I believed he'd done what I hoped for—that he'd found no evidence, cleared you completely. And so I married you and brought you here. I thought we were free of it all…The photographs were waiting when I went into my office.'

The horror of that moment was stamped so clearly on his strong features that Becca's heart twisted in a pale reflection of the pain he must have felt.

‘And I thought it was just the money—Andreas, why didn't you show me the pictures then?'

She saw his answer in his eyes; in the pained glance he shot at the discarded photographs, with its dark echoes of what he had felt then, when he had first seen them.

‘Because I couldn't bear to. I wanted you to think it was the money that mattered. I could not have shown you the photos. Could not have stood there while you looked at them and knew—as I believed you would know—that you'd ripped my heart out with your betrayal. With the thought that you loved someone else.'

Andreas shook his dark head in despair at his memories.

‘I wanted you to leave thinking I hated you—not knowing how much I loved you, that in spite of everything I still loved you beyond bearing.'

‘
Loved
?' Becca had to force herself to say it, to take the risk, though every nerve in her body clenched tight in fear that she might not hear what she wanted to hear most in all the world.

But Andreas didn't hesitate.

‘
Love
,' he declared clearly and proudly, the emotion he was feeling burning bright in his eyes for her to see too. ‘I still love you Becca, always will. I can do nothing else. You are in my heart, in my soul. You're part of me. With you I am complete. Without you I am only ever half a man.'

‘And I love you, my darling. You're the other half of me.'

Her voice was breaking on the words and she couldn't have gone on. But she didn't need to. Andreas gathered her into his arms, holding her tight against him, and his kiss was all that she needed to know that nothing more had to be said. Or could be said. There were no words to describe the love that was in that kiss. The love that was hers now and for ever.

‘So tell me,' she whispered when, safe in his arms, she finally got a chance to speak again. ‘When you had shredded those photographs, what were you going to do?'

Andreas' smile was one of pure joy as he looked deep into her eyes.

‘I was going to go upstairs and wake you, very gently. And then I was going to beg you to let us start again. I was going to tell you that I couldn't live without you. That even as I slammed the door behind you I knew that I'd made a terrible mistake—the worst mistake of my life—but I believed it was too late to take it back. That you'd been in my thoughts every day since you left. That you were the first person I thought of in the moments when I came round from the accident.'

‘I know—Leander told me that you were asking for me. That's why I came here in the first place. Only by the time I got here, you'd lost your memory.'

‘Perhaps that was some sort of defence mechanism. They always say that you don't lose your memory—you just don't want to recall what has happened. Perhaps I wanted to forget what a fool I'd been ever to let you go.'

Once more his arms tightened round her and his mouth came down on hers in a lingering, loving kiss that made Becca's senses spin in hungry delight.

‘But never again,' Andreas whispered in her ear. ‘I'm never going to let you go ever again. I want you with me all day every day so that I can spend the rest of my life loving you as you deserve to be loved. So that I can prove to you that you are the only woman for me.'

‘And you are the only man I'll ever want,' Becca sighed. ‘My husband, my soul mate, my love, for ever.'

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

M
AVERICK
hated to be kept waiting. He prowled through the waiting room that separated his Gold Coast office from his PA's, only to find her computer monitor ominously dark and the flicker of numbers on the digital clock the only flash of movement, highlighting in brilliant red the full extent of his PA's transgressions. Nine-fifteen and still no sign of her!

Where was she?
Still sulking after he'd refused her a week's leave? Or just taking it easy because she thought he was out of the country and he'd never know? Whatever; if this was the way she got it into her head to act when he wasn't around, then she was in for a
big
surprise. He didn't pay her the kind of megabucks he did so that she could sleep in whenever she thought she'd get away with it. She was a good operator, but nobody was
that
good.

With a growl he wheeled around and stormed back into his office, slamming the door in irritation. The noise reverberated around the room, echoing his mood.
Damn right,
he thought, throwing himself into his chair and tugging on his tie, his fury mounting by the second.

Now that the European end of the deal was on hold indefinitely, it was more critical than ever that the Rogerson contract be shored up, and fast. It couldn't wait.
And neither could he!

So where the hell was that woman?

What a morning! Over the music playing on her iPod, Tegan Fielding let fly an uncharacteristic string of curses aimed squarely at the universe in general, and her sister in particular, as the lift doors slid open, releasing her to the plush executive floor that would be her workaday home for the next week.

Without a break in her tirade, a sweep of her eyes took in her dimly lit surroundings—the skilfully screened open-plan office just beyond the lifts, with the rest of the entire floor devoted entirely to the boss's office suite beyond. Everything was just as Morgan had described. Without checking, she already knew that to the left behind the lift well would be the fully stocked kitchen and bar, and to the right the bathrooms. The public bathrooms, at least. There was another executive
en suite
, Morgan had told her, attached to Maverick's private rooms beyond his office that he used when he worked late. But that was academic. She didn't plan on stepping anywhere near that hallowed turf in the next few days if she could help it.

Still muttering, she slapped at a bank of light switches on the wall, slammed down her bag on the desk and pulled out a new packet of stockings. Morgan had warned her to be beware of the old lady with the broken gate and two over-enthusiastic bitser puppies who lived near the bus stop, but she hadn't been expecting to run into them quite so soon or with such devastating consequences. By the time they'd lost interest and found a new victim to harass, Tegan's stockings had been laddered beyond repair, and her navy skirt patterned in paw prints so badly that Mrs Garrett had insisted on sponging them off for her.

It would have been quicker to walk home and get changed. As it was, she'd seen two buses arrive and depart while the old woman had tried valiantly to work some kind of white-spirits magic on her skirt. An emergency stop at a pharmacist around the corner from the office had taken care of replacement stockings. And finally she was here.

So much for Morgan's paranoia that she would be late. Tegan gave an ironic laugh. ‘A stickler for time,' Morgan had called her boss, a total despot when it came to extracting his money's worth from his employees. Well, Tegan had tried to get here on time and look what had happened. Besides, what did it matter anyway? He wasn't even here.

She pulled the lace-topped stockings from their packet and let their sheer silkiness slip over her hands. She'd been unable to find the same brand as the sensible support-stockings filling an entire drawer of her twin's walk-in wardrobe, and the only reason she'd agreed to pay the outrageous price they'd been asking for these was the knowledge that Morgan was paying all her expenses for the week and a sizeable bonus into the deal. Her sister's stockings were nice enough, but these were gossamer thin and silky sheer. After three years working in far-flung refugee camps, and no immediate job prospects on her return, if a decent pay cheque was a rare temptation, then the feel of silky stockings against her skin was downright decadence.

She suppressed another stab of guilt at the expense. It was a total indulgence, but then, given the morning she'd had, she'd more than earned it.

Tegan dropped into her chair and spun around, angling herself away from the lift doors in the unlikely event someone alighted. Apparently a very unlikely event, according to her sister. ‘Invitation only' was the way she'd described this floor, and with the boss half a world away there was zero chance she'd be interrupted by anyone. Which was just the way Tegan wanted it.

She let one high-heeled court shoe drop on the carpet and lifted one knee high, curling her toes into the sheer fabric gathered between her fingers.

The stocking slipped over her toes and up her calf like a shimmering second layer of skin. She hitched up Morgan's fitted pencil-skirt and drew the stocking higher up her leg to where the lace band ended at her thigh.

Not bad, she thought, alternately flexing and pointing her toes at the ceiling in time with the music playing in her ears, liking the way the barely there stocking gave her skin a warm, golden glow, before dropping that leg down to start on the other. Maybe today wasn't going to be such a dead loss after all.

He shouldn't be watching. He hadn't intended to watch. He'd thought he heard the ping of the lift door and some vague utterances, and he'd opened his door ready to utter a few terse words himself to his recalcitrant PA. One glance at that impossibly long length of leg being sheathed in something silky, and the heat intended for his words had made a sudden change of direction and headed south.

He watched, transfixed, as her second leg followed the first, angling upwards as she extended her knee and drew the almost invisible fabric slowly up her leg. All the long,
long
way up.

A heated breath hissed through his teeth. Who would have suspected Morgan Fielding had pins like those hidden under her ‘hands off' business attire? Although she was not quite as ‘hands off' as usual, he observed with a glance at the rest of her. Today the buttons at her neck were undone, exposing a rare vee of surprisingly sun-kissed skin, and the nondescript-colour hair that was usually bound into a tight knot looked more casual and sunstreaked, coiling tendrils already escaping from the clips to fall around her face and neck—no doubt due to the action of her head bopping from side to side to whatever was pumping out of the device she had plugged into her ears.

A movement had his eyes right back on her hands. Her fingers were toying with the lace tops, straightening each one slightly.
Lucky lace
, he reflected, to be wrapped around such perfect thighs.

Then he watched her run the flat of her palms along the length of each leg, smoothing the stockings from the ankle up. Not that there was any need. There wasn't so much as a wrinkle or crease to be seen from where he was standing.

They looked perfect. Legs you could slide your hand up, a smooth and silken journey northwards. Why was today so special that she'd dress her legs up in lace-topped luxury like that? Why was she suddenly flashing skin he'd never had so much of a glimpse of? It sure wasn't for his benefit.

Unless she was expecting someone in his absence.

Something ground his thoughts to a halt. Just the thought of someone else gliding their way north along that glistening two-lane highway crunched like a bad gear-change inside him.

He drew in one long breath, but instead of the cooling effect he needed right now the oxygen-laden air merely fuelled the fire pooling in his groin, further compounding the morning's aggravation.

Damn it!

Another time, another woman, he might appreciate the rush of blood—but she was Morgan Fielding, his PA, for God's sake! And he'd never looked at Morgan Fielding that way. He didn't look at PAs period, no matter how good their attributes. Tina had cured him of that long ago.

He cleared his throat, because he knew that if he didn't his voice would come out too rough, too telling. Besides, he told himself as he pushed himself away from the door, she'd never hear him otherwise over those damned devices jammed into her ears.

‘When you're quite finished…'

It took a second for her to register before he had her full attention. But that second gave birth to chaos in motion. In a moment she'd jumped out of her seat and wheeled around to face him, simultaneously pulling her skirt down to her knees while yanking the earphones free.

So he'd startled her. Good. Although he bet it was nothing compared to the shock of those endless legs he'd just been subjected to.

Then, just when he expected to meet her gaze and see her reaction get reined back to the Little Ms Efficiency she usually was—no doubt with a prim little apology for her late arrival—her look of outrage disappeared and instead her hazel eyes opened wide with shock, the colour draining clear from her face.

‘You!' The word exploded from her lips like an accusation, her hands and feet combining in some crazy dance for her shoes, while her head swung between him and the lift doors, giving him the insane impression that at any moment she was planning to bolt.

‘Who were you expecting?' he asked, planting his fists on her desk, only half joking. ‘The Spanish Inquisition?'

She bit down on her bottom lip, battling to get her frantic heart-rate under control. Given a choice, she'd take the Spanish Inquisition over this man any day. Because she knew what James Maverick looked like. Hell, the whole of Australia and half the world besides knew what he looked like! In the last three weeks since she'd been back in the country, she'd seen one article after another featuring the corporate high-flyer sprinkled liberally from the front page, through to the deepest, darkest business pages, to the red carpet ‘who's out with whom' shots.

But she also knew he wasn't supposed to be here!

‘But you…' She protested from a mouth suddenly desert-dry. ‘You're supposed to be in Europe.
Milan!
' she added for emphasis, as if that might make him disappear in a puff of smoke.

He leaned across the desk towards her, his rich chocolate eyes as unimpressed as they were challenging. She swallowed. She'd never thought of chocolate brown as a threatening colour, not until now; his scorching gaze seemed to suck the very air from the room. Her sister had described him as a tyrant, the A-grade boss from hell. What she hadn't told her was that he was also A-grade sex on legs. How could Morgan not have noticed? Testosterone radiated out from him like a magnetic field. He wore it as easily as his crisp blue-and-white pinstriped shirt. He wore it as easily as the mantle of power that was almost tangible around him.

And with his dark eyes and hair, and the hint of a shadowed jaw and even darker disposition, he looked for all the world like an archetypal gunslinger. It was little wonder the entire business world had dropped the ‘James' years ago and simply called him Maverick. He probably had a black hat and a gun belt stashed away in his top drawer to deal with wayward clients.

Not to mention anyone masquerading as his PA.

And right now Tegan was firmly in his sights. She shivered. Had he twigged at the deception already?

‘My little surprise,' he said, moving closer, a dangerous glint in his eye, and his voice a silken noose she felt tightening by the second. ‘I'm very much here. Just as you are very much late and obviously not ready for work. From now on you do your head banging—and get dressed—on your own time.'

Relief the game wasn't yet up gave way to aggravation. He hadn't so much as given her an opportunity to explain why she was late.

‘I was held up—'

‘Obviously.'

‘And I was hardly getting dressed!'

‘It sure looked like it from where I was standing.'

Heat flooded back into her cheeks in outrage. ‘You were watching me!'

‘I was
waiting
for you,' he corrected, as if it were some kind of defence against her accusation, and he slashed one hand through the air towards her clock. ‘Like I have been for the last hour and a half.'

She jagged up her chin, still incensed. ‘I didn't realise it would be such a problem. It's not as if you're supposed to be here, after all.'

‘It is a problem!' He rattled the words out like machine-gun fire and she drew back, knowing she'd overstepped the mark. ‘And it's just as well,' he continued, ‘that I refused your leave application
just in case
, because
just in case
happened. Giuseppe Zeppa had a heart attack Saturday, and as a result all negotiations with Zeppabanca are on hold indefinitely—which means placating Rogerson so he doesn't get cold feet and pull out of the Aussie end of the deal. So I suggest you get your gear organised and get into my office—and bring the Rogerson file. We've got a lot of work to get through today.'