instigation of all her pain and anguish. Suddenly, that night, her much vaunted control over her life had been in danger of slipping away.
Any imminent disintegration had been temporarily staved off, however, by the most unlikely circumstances: an attempted robbery.
The prize for the thieves was to have been the Heart of Fire, a magnificent uncut black opal, the auction of which had been advertised as the highlight of the ball.
When she'd first heard news of the auction on the grapevine, she'd tried dismissing the thought that this could be the same opal which had played such an unfortunate part in her life over twenty years before, but once she saw it for herself on display in the Regency store window all sorts of tortuous thoughts and futile hopes had forced her to walk back into the lion's den and confront the past as she had never confronted it before. In the flesh.
The results had been horrendous. Not only was she shattered by the realization that she still wanted Byron in a sexual sense, she had also stupidly forked out five million dollars for an opal she couldn't even bear to look at. She hadn't even been able to elicit any real information about the circumstances of the Heart of Fire's reappearance, Byron having answered her query with some slick lie about it turning up in some old dead miner's things at Lightning Ridge and being returned to him. As if anyone would just hand over a two million-dollar opal!
Celeste had been in a most uncharacteristic mental turmoil that night when the balaclava robbers made their unexpected appearance. When one grabbed her as hostage, she'd been momentarily at a loss, obeying his commands and weakly going with him like a lamb to the slaughter, till some brutal manhandling had snapped her out of her submissive fog, revitalizing her bitter determination never to surrender any of her self to any man in any way ever again, either emotionally or physically.
Out of the blue, she'd struck back, using the self-defense skills she'd learnt many years before, felling her assailants with two quick kicks. With hindsight, she almost felt gratitude to those brutes for bringing back horrific memories which in turn had renewed her fighting spirit.
Suddenly, she'd felt strong again, strong enough to defy this unwanted weakness of still wanting Byron Whitmore in a sexual sense. When fate placed her in his insidious presence once again a few days after the ball, she had delighted in deliberately courting his disgust in an appalling display of over-the-top flirtation with her chauffeur.
Unfortunately, her outrageous behavior had backfired on her in a couple of ways. Firstly, the chauffeur had been inspired to take liberties later that evening and she'd had to fire him. But the second and more disastrous outcome was that this time Byron's obvious contempt had unaccountably distressed, instead of soothed her.
Celeste had eventually pulled herself together to the point where Byron ceased to fill her thoughts on a daily basis. But she certainly wasn't looking forward to confronting him again next Monday at the trial of the ringleader of the robbers, where they were both witnesses.
Is this your version of the silent treatment?' Damian drawled in a derisive tone. 'If so, I find it incredibly boring.'
'Say what it is you have to say, Damian,' she answ ered sharply. 'I'm not in the mood for any of your sick little games.'
'Me? Play sick games? Never!' His laughter grated on her already stretched nerves.
'Damian,' she rebuked. 'Get on with it!'
His hands dropped back to his sides and he sat up, a petulant expression on his too handsome face. 'You always spoil my fun.'
'Your idea of fun is not my idea of fun.'
'Really? I always thought it was. I like a bit of young stuff myself.'
Celeste's chin came up and she eyed her brother with distaste. 'I'm going over to the house. I have other things I'd rather do than stand here freezing to death.'
'What?'
'What do you mean, what?'
'I mean what else have you got to do? After all, you haven't found a new young stud to fill your leisure hours yet, have you? You know, Celeste, you never did tell me why you fired Gerry. I mean, I do realize it's rather clichéd-and a tad tacky-for the rich lady employer to have her chauffeur perform extra services, but he did seem well equipped for the job.'
Celeste was appalled at the fierce heat that raced up her neck and into her cheeks. Blushing had never been her style but her newly sensitized self was suddenly finding the picture she had painted of herself over the years not only embarrassing but almost obscene. Why hadn't she seen what she was doing? Where had her pride disappeared to? Clearly, her hatred of Byron and men in general had warped her so much that she didn't care what anyone thought of her.