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Authors: Caitlin Crews
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confidence in my business decisions." His voice was
sarcastic. Cool. It made her throat ache with tears she would not shed, words
she dared not say. "But I still don't see anything that I would classify
as an emergency."
He moved into
the room, and Lucy regretted suddenly that she was already standing with her
back to the wall of windows. There was nowhere else to go. She swallowed and
felt her pulse race, as if she were nothing more than prey. He stalked toward
her, dangerous and male, and Lucy could do nothing but watch him and pretend
she didn't wish for all the things she could never have. That she knew she
shouldn't even want. Not with him.
"That
depends on your definition of an emergency," she said, as he drew close
and loomed over her, making heat bloom in her cheeks—and in other, secret
places. "It is Christmas, after all. And your wife is leaving you. Some
men might consider that an emergency."
"I don't
see a head wound," he said, his voice that same sardonic lash, his eyes
flicking over her, cold and cruel. "No trauma of any kind. You appear to
be in perfect health, Lucy. As ever. And for this I raced home from
Berlin."
For a moment
she couldn't speak. His fingers rose, almost brushing against the skin of her
cheek, making her want to weep. It had been so long since he'd touched her. It
had been so long. But she couldn't let herself think about that. About the
sweet madness of his kiss, his touch. Of the incandescent heights she had never
dared dream of before this man had taken her there.
He dropped
his hand. She told herself he had no doubt meant to check for a fever.
"I'm
surprised you remembered this place at all," she managed to say, calling
on some deep well of determination and courage she hadn't known she possessed.
That he had forced her to find. "You haven't been here in so long I had
begun to think you'd forgotten about it entirely."
"I see
your flair for the melodramatic is with you still," he said evenly, his
gaze hard on hers. "What do you really want, Lucy? What is the purpose of
all this theater?"
"I told
you," she snapped at him. "I'm leaving you, Rafi. And unlike you, I
am not doing it the cowardly way—by inference. I'm not making sure to be 'away
on business' for the better part of three months. I'm not going to make you sit
and wonder what it means when I disappear, or take exactly one phone
call from you and then be unavailable ever after. I'm saying it to your
face. Right now."
His dark eyes
moved over her, and his mouth twisted.
"Did you
just call me a coward, Lucy?" he asked, his voice deceptively light as his
jaw knotted—warning signs she knew she should heed. "Did I hear that
correctly? Shall I share with you my thoughts regarding pots versus
kettles?"
"I am
your wife, Rafi," she ventured. "And yet you haven't set foot in this
house in months. You refuse my calls. Your horrible aide speaks to me as if I'm
part fractious child and part evil, scheming witch."
"Is this
your rendition of the neglected, sorely abused wife?" Rafi interrupted
coldly, his brows raised. "The performance needs work. And an audience
unaware of the truth."
"I'm not
like you!" Lucy cried, unable to control herself, to keep all of her
misery at bay. Not when she could feel the heat of him—see the light at the
back of those mysterious, impossible eyes. "I can't pretend! "
Rafi let out
something resembling a laugh, hollow and frozen.
"On the
contrary," he said, shaking his head slightly, his gaze trained on her
face—making her feel so small, so alone. "All you do is pretend."
"I'm not
the liar you've convinced yourself I am, Rafi!" she hissed at him. "I
never have been!"
He was too
close, then. His eyes like fire, his mouth a grim, condemning line.
"I know
every lie you've ever told, Lucy," he said. "And most of them to me.
You should just count yourself lucky that I have a particular weakness for the
lie of your body."
Chapter
Two
"I don't
care what lies you think I've told you," Lucy said
sarcastic. Cool. It made her throat ache with tears she would not shed, words
she dared not say. "But I still don't see anything that I would classify
as an emergency."
He moved into
the room, and Lucy regretted suddenly that she was already standing with her
back to the wall of windows. There was nowhere else to go. She swallowed and
felt her pulse race, as if she were nothing more than prey. He stalked toward
her, dangerous and male, and Lucy could do nothing but watch him and pretend
she didn't wish for all the things she could never have. That she knew she
shouldn't even want. Not with him.
"That
depends on your definition of an emergency," she said, as he drew close
and loomed over her, making heat bloom in her cheeks—and in other, secret
places. "It is Christmas, after all. And your wife is leaving you. Some
men might consider that an emergency."
"I don't
see a head wound," he said, his voice that same sardonic lash, his eyes
flicking over her, cold and cruel. "No trauma of any kind. You appear to
be in perfect health, Lucy. As ever. And for this I raced home from
Berlin."
For a moment
she couldn't speak. His fingers rose, almost brushing against the skin of her
cheek, making her want to weep. It had been so long since he'd touched her. It
had been so long. But she couldn't let herself think about that. About the
sweet madness of his kiss, his touch. Of the incandescent heights she had never
dared dream of before this man had taken her there.
He dropped
his hand. She told herself he had no doubt meant to check for a fever.
"I'm
surprised you remembered this place at all," she managed to say, calling
on some deep well of determination and courage she hadn't known she possessed.
That he had forced her to find. "You haven't been here in so long I had
begun to think you'd forgotten about it entirely."
"I see
your flair for the melodramatic is with you still," he said evenly, his
gaze hard on hers. "What do you really want, Lucy? What is the purpose of
all this theater?"
"I told
you," she snapped at him. "I'm leaving you, Rafi. And unlike you, I
am not doing it the cowardly way—by inference. I'm not making sure to be 'away
on business' for the better part of three months. I'm not going to make you sit
and wonder what it means when I disappear, or take exactly one phone
call from you and then be unavailable ever after. I'm saying it to your
face. Right now."
His dark eyes
moved over her, and his mouth twisted.
"Did you
just call me a coward, Lucy?" he asked, his voice deceptively light as his
jaw knotted—warning signs she knew she should heed. "Did I hear that
correctly? Shall I share with you my thoughts regarding pots versus
kettles?"
"I am
your wife, Rafi," she ventured. "And yet you haven't set foot in this
house in months. You refuse my calls. Your horrible aide speaks to me as if I'm
part fractious child and part evil, scheming witch."
"Is this
your rendition of the neglected, sorely abused wife?" Rafi interrupted
coldly, his brows raised. "The performance needs work. And an audience
unaware of the truth."
"I'm not
like you!" Lucy cried, unable to control herself, to keep all of her
misery at bay. Not when she could feel the heat of him—see the light at the
back of those mysterious, impossible eyes. "I can't pretend! "
Rafi let out
something resembling a laugh, hollow and frozen.
"On the
contrary," he said, shaking his head slightly, his gaze trained on her
face—making her feel so small, so alone. "All you do is pretend."
"I'm not
the liar you've convinced yourself I am, Rafi!" she hissed at him. "I
never have been!"
He was too
close, then. His eyes like fire, his mouth a grim, condemning line.
"I know
every lie you've ever told, Lucy," he said. "And most of them to me.
You should just count yourself lucky that I have a particular weakness for the
lie of your body."
Chapter
Two
"I don't
care what lies you think I've told you," Lucy said
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