He’d assumed she was a carbon copy of his mother, narcissistic and grasping. His mother had cared for no one but herself despite her ability to convince people to the contrary, at least for a while. He’d seen that again and again as she hunted for newer, richer husbands, ignoring her children except when it suited her to use them as decoys.
Rosamund on the other hand, was moved to tears, though her mother had died over a decade ago.
He reminded himself he wasn’t here to analyse her, just stop Ricardo from hurting her. But Fotis felt disquiet, as if he’d made a fatal error. He hated uncertainty. His business was unravelling mysteries and protecting truth.
He needed to understand her. Maybe then she’d stop messing with his head.
It was late when they arrived at the house. Rosamund was weary yet wired. Too tired to sleep or work, too emotional.
‘Fancy a drink?’
The click of her heels on parquetry faltered and she stopped, amazed. He wanted to share a drink? ‘Why?’
They’d reached the bottom of the staircase that swept up to the bedrooms. Wall sconces and a large pendant light lit the foyer, casting shadows across his steely features, somehow concealing more of his thoughts than they revealed.
‘To clear the air.’ His mouth firmed, eyebrows burrowing down into a V over that decisive nose. ‘I need to apologise.’
It was the last thing she’d expected. Shock ran under her skin as she considered telling him what he could do with his apology. Tomorrow they’d go their separate ways. Whatever arrangement he had with Leon couldn’t continue after his behaviour.
But she was intrigued.
By the fact he’d decided to apologise.
Plus there was the memory of that moment on the edge of the red carpet. She’d turned at the sound of her name just as he rose and turned his head, and their lips had met and clung. It could only have lasted seconds. But it had felt far longer.
She recalled the weighty beat of her pulse, her breathless anticipation. The faintest taste of him—unfamiliar and delicious. The hunger for more. And the look in his hooded eyes, a glow that turned her insides molten.
Facing public scrutiny afterthatwould have been impossible if it hadn’t been for a lifetime’s training in appearing calm under stress.
‘Okay.’ She’d hear his apology, at least.
Soon she was ensconced in an armchair, sipping triple sec on ice while her nemesis sat opposite, frowning down at the fine brandy he swirled in his glass. The lights were low, casting shadows across his face that reminded her of her initial impression of him as a fallen angel. He looked powerful, brooding and starkly attractive.
His eyes met hers and energy crackled along her bones. It was a mistake, spending time with him. She moved to put her glass on a side table when he spoke.
‘I’m sorry. I was out of order, judging you over what happened at the couturier’s. I shouldn’t have spoken. It’s not my business and you’re right, I don’t know the circumstances.’
Rosamund held his gaze then lifted her glass, letting the intense orange liqueur send a fiery trail from her tongue to her chilled middle. She welcomed the blast of heat.
‘You made assumptions about me.’
Slowly he nodded. That frown and the almost sulky set of his sculpted mouth should repel, not entice.
Lucifer, whispered that voice in her head.
‘I did.’
‘Why?’ She leaned forward. ‘What made you think you have the right to judge me?’
It was something she’d wanted to ask so many times when people she didn’t know criticised her unfairly. She’d believed she was reconciled to it as a necessary evil, given her family’s position. But this time her accuser was here before her.
More, something about him had burrowed under her defences. His accusation had hurt.
‘Because of what you did in New York.’
Her glass slammed onto the side table and she scooted to the edge of her seat, heart pounding so fast she felt nauseous.
It should be impossible. Leon would have double- and triple-checked this man but… ‘You’re a friend of Brad Ricardo?’ Was he here to hurt her?
