Billionaire's Mediterranean Proposal

His thoughts flickered. Why shouldn’t he? She could be with him in New York as easily as she was here. It could be just as good as it was here.

So take her with you.

The thought stayed in his head, haunting him, for the rest of the day. As he moored the yacht at the villa’s jetty, phoned for it to be taken back to harbour. As they washed off the salt spray in the pool, then showered and dressed for dinner. As they met on the terrace for their customary cocktails.

It was with him all the time, hovering like a background thought, always present. Always tempting.

It was there all through dinner—ordered by him to be the absolute best his chef could conjure up—and all through the night they spent together...the long, long night in each other’s arms. It was there as he brought her time and time again to the ecstasy that burned within her like a living flame, and it seemed to him that it burned more fiercely than it ever had, that his own possession of her was more urgent than it ever had been, their passion more searing than he could bear...

Yet afterwards, as she lay trembling in his arms, as he soothed her, stroked her dampened hair, held her silk-soft body to his, his unseeing gaze was troubled. And later still, when in the chill before the dawn he rose from their bed, winding a towel around his hips and walking out onto the balcony, closing his hands over the cold metal rail, and looking out over the dark sea beyond, his thoughts were uncertain.

If he took her with him to New York, what then? Would he take her back to France? To Paris? To stay with him at his hotel? Make her part of his life? His normal, working life?

And then what? What more would he want? And what more would she want...?

Again that same disturbing thought came to him—that she, too, might be remembering his impulsive declaration that afternoon, casting her as his intended wife, his fiancée, the future Madame Derenz.

Foreboding filled him. Unease. He did not know what she might want—could not know. All he knew was how he lived his life—and why. Just to have this time with her he’d already broken all the rules he lived by—rules that he’d had every reason to keep and none to break.

It had been good, this time he’d had with Tara—oh, so much more than good! But would it stay good? Or would danger start to lap at him...? Destroying what had been good?

Was it better simply to have this time—the memory of this time—and be content with that? Lest he live to regret a choice he should not have made...? Their time here had been idyllic—but could idylls last? Should they last?

He moved restlessly, unquiet in his mind.

He heard a sound behind him—bare feet—and turned. She was naked, her wanton hair half covering her breasts, half revealing them.

‘Come back to bed,’ she said, her voice low, full with desire.

She held out a hand to him—a hand he took—and he went with her.

To possess her one last time...

* * *

Their bodies lay entwined, enmeshed. He stroked back the tumbled mass of her hair, eased his body from hers. Tara reached out her hand, her fingertips grazing the contours of his face. The ecstasy he’d given her was ebbing, and in its place another emotion was flowing.

She felt her heart squeeze and longing fill her. A silent cry breaking from her. Don’t let this be the last time! Oh, let it not be the last time for ever!

A longing not to lose him, to lose this, flooded through her. Her eyes searched his in the dim light. When she spoke her throat was tight, her words hesitant, infused with longing. ‘I could come to New York with you...’ she said.

The hand stroking her hair stilled. In the dim light she saw his expression change. Close. Felt a coldness go through her.

‘That wouldn’t work,’ he answered her.

She heard the change in his voice. The note of withdrawal. She dropped her eyes, unable to bear seeing him now. Seeing his face close against her, shutting her out.

She took a narrowed breath and closed her eyes, saying no more. And as he drew her back against him, cradling her body, and she felt his breath warm on her bare shoulder, he knew that what they’d had, they had no longer. And never could again.

Behind her, with her long, slender back drawn against his chest, his arm thrown around her hips, Marc looked out over the darkened room. He had answered as he’d had to. With the only safe answer to give her. The answer that he had known must be his only answer from the very first.

CHAPTER NINE

TARA WOKE, STIRRING slowly to a consciousness she did not want. And as she roused herself from sleep and the world took shape around her she knew that it was already too late.

Marc was gone.

Cold filled her, like iced water flooding through her veins. A cry almost broke from her, but she suppressed it. What use to cry out? What use to cry at all?