Pale as milk, Tabby turned to look at Aristide. ‘Youhithim—’
His lean, hard-boned face was taut, his dark golden eyes glittering. ‘Yes. I would’ve preferred not to but he was in no condition to be reasoned with and I could not allow him to continue assaulting you or to cause you further distress,’ he confessed in a roughened low voice.
‘Thank you for stopping him,’ Violet said shakily.
‘Yes, that was done very neatly and quietly,’ Tore interposed with approval.
But Tabby was still in shock at the knowledge that for the first time in her life someone had protected her from her father and he had done it without fanfare. Yet Aristide had had to employ violence, which she abhorred because the memories of her abusive childhood still haunted her in low moments: all the times she had tried and failed to safeguard her mother, the injuries they had both sustained during her father’s assaults, the sick terror of knowing that nobody could stop him and that he wouldn’t stop until he ran out of rage.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Aristide reiterated as he guided her out of the room and across the hall to the ballroom, which was now heaving with dancing and chattering guests. ‘I know how you feel about that sort of thing.’
‘Let’s go out onto the terrace again,’ she whispered unsteadily. ‘I need fresh air—’
‘And perhaps some food?’ Aristide said hopefully. ‘You’re very pale, in shock from that horrible confrontation. In fact I asked your sister if there was a doctor amongst the guests this evening—’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’m fine,’ Tabby said defensively.
Aristide laced her fingers into his to raise her arm where angry purple bruises were already becoming visible. ‘No, you’re not fine and why should you be? That man is your worst nightmare and you never expected to see him again.’
Breathing in deep, Tabby dropped down into a comfortable seat on the terrace and he left her to bring her some food. A split second later, Violet dropped into the seat beside hers and gripped her hand. ‘Are you OK?’ she gasped. ‘I’m so sorry. Everyone but Aristide just froze when Dad grabbed you. I wasn’t expecting that but I should’ve done. Of course he always reserved the worst for you. You were always standing up to him—’
‘Tryingto,’ Tabby corrected. ‘That’s why he hates me a little bit more.’
‘I was like a little mouse around him, like Mum. I always hated myself for being so weak—’
‘You weren’t weak, you were understandably scared—’
‘And tonight it was just like I was five years old again. I was terrified and Ifroze,’ Violet groaned.
‘He’s gone,’ Tabby soothed. ‘And I doubt if he’ll come back to visit.’
‘Tore wished he had been the one to hit him but he was in shock. I hadn’t warned him just how bad Dad could be—’
‘Don’t talk about it,’ Tabby urged as Aristide reappeared and the fast beat of her heart steadied, her heart surging with sudden warmth and appreciation because he had sheltered her, even knowing that she would judge him for utilising force to intervene.
Aristide set out the food and she picked at it to please him because, in reality, she had little appetite. But the food and the tea took away the hollow feeling in her tummy and she began to relax again. The crisis, such as it had been, was over and she didn’t want to make a fuss. He kept on checking her forearm, where deep purple bruising showed the indent of her father’s fingers. ‘I think we should get this cleaned up,’ he said.
‘No, the skin’s not broken,’ she protested, wishing he would forget the whole ghastly embarrassing scene that he had witnessed. ‘Let’s go and dance.’
Open surprise showed in his appraisal. She bore adversity well, Aristide reflected, made little of it, hated to be fussed over and yet that was all he wanted to do, along with wrapping her up in cotton-wool layers to ensure that nobody could ever hurt her again. He was still seething that the mother of his unborn children had been assaulted and denigrated before his eyes and that he himself had failed to see that more than a verbal attack was imminent. Sam Blessington, a man who had never learned how to control his temper, had bullied and victimised his wife and daughters until they had finally escaped his abuse.
Tabby drifted round the edge of the floor, calm in the circle of Aristide’s arms. He smelled of wintry woods, crisp and clean and oh-so sexy and every time his thigh moved against hers, awareness flooded her and sent a delicious little shiver burrowing up through her.
‘Was your father always like that?’ Aristide asked.
‘Grasping about money, yes. Violent when life goes against him, which it must be at the moment. I think he married Mum because her father was wealthy and he assumed he’d be a good bet but my grandfather was no fool and he refused to give him a penny. My father has a sell-out exhibition, spends all his money on the high life and then ends up broke again. He doesn’t keep friends or girlfriends. He always turns on them and, unlike my mother, they don’t take it. But give him a few months and he’ll start painting again and reclaim his fame and his earnings. It’s always boom or bust with him, nothing in between. Let’s not talk about him any more,’ she urged ruefully. ‘I want to forget about him—’
‘And your wish,angelos mou,’ Aristide husked in her ear as he lifted his head to look down at her, ‘should be my command.’
As her gaze clashed with shimmering golden eyes, her heart started pounding hard inside her and a heated liquidity surged at her core. ‘Then take me upstairs,’ she whispered softly and she didn’t have to ask him twice.
Chapter Nine
THE MINUTETABBY’Sbedroom door was closed, she crowded him back against it and stretched up over his glorious big powerful body to find his mouth for herself.
And the ferocious hunger that engulfed her was nothing she had ever expected to feel but it was there burning through her like a brand, driving her on. The taste of him, heaven knew, shelovedthe taste of him. He tasted like a banquet after she had been starving, the heat of the sun after an endless dark night. She couldn’t get enough of the hungry glide of his tongue and the soft yet hard sealing satisfaction of his mouth.
Her hands sank into his silky black hair, tugging on it before dropping to his shoulders. He was wearing far too many clothes. She tugged at the jacket with impatient fingers and it dropped away just as she wrenched at his bow tie and embarked on shirt buttons.
