Mistress By Blackmail(34)

“You never miss any week.” Rubbing his hand across his bald head, he eyed her. “I was worried.”

“You never have to worry about me.” She twirled her brush pen in the air. “Survivor is my middle name.”

Her older friend humphed as he placed his paintings along the hedge beside hers. “You’re a dainty little thing. Not a big lug like me. So, I’ll worry if I want to.”

Waving his comments away, she smiled at a passing couple. They immediately stopped, chatted with her as they perused her paintings, and eventually agreed to her charming offer to do their portraits.

They were lovers, that was clear.

She outlined their faces on the big sheet of blank paper. Drew their eyes, concentrated on their mouths. Tried to ignore the tenderness in the gaze of the man when he looked at the woman.

An ache of longing bloomed inside her.

She threw a laughing smile at the couple. “Ah, to be in love.”

They laughed with her.

The crowd swirled around them. Chinese words mixed with Irish lilts, Indian accents blended with Cockney. More artists and craftsmen arrived, adding their acrylics, sculptures, pastels, and collages to the display. The last of the autumn leaves rustled across the sidewalk. Sunshine warmed her back.

Darcy fought to push away the ache, replacing it with determination.

Pining for something that was never going to happen was a waste of time. She’d learned the lesson well as a child. Better to accept reality and play the cards dealt her. In this case, she’d hunker down until the La Rocca storm passed and then get on with her life. If she could find a way to help Matt, she would, but emotional survival right now was her main goal.

She’d be fine. Wouldn’t she?

Yes, she would.

Drawing complete, she showed it to the couple, accepted their praise and their money. The man gave a kiss to his lover as they walked away holding hands, happy and complete. Fulfilled in each other.

The ache turned inside her.

She pasted her best grin on her face, glanced around for another likely customer, looked across the street—

To meet the gunmetal glare of an angry Italian.



* * *



The relief he felt when he spotted her was way out of proportion to the importance the sprite held in his life.

Minimal.

Which was why the amount of relief surging through his veins was unacceptable in every way. He’d been successful these past three days at driving her from his mind completely.

Naturally. If he put his mind to anything, he accomplished it.

The stark reality, one he found hard to accept, was he was no longer able to handle the temptation of being with her for any length of time. He knew himself well enough to know he was very close to losing the bet between them. Very close to taking what he wanted and everything else be damned.

The degree of lust for her irritated him.

Yet he couldn’t deny its existence.

So he’d sat in his office and spent his time on what was important. He’d stayed away from the lure of her. It was necessary. He’d realized it as they’d walked down the streets of SoHo. Realized his interest in her was swiftly morphing into more than sex.

The shock he’d felt had been exactly the antidote to her draw he’d needed.

When he’d entered his London office and given it some clear thought, he’d been revolted by his actions. Canceling important business meetings to address a woman’s yearning sigh? Utterly, absolutely unacceptable.

The last three days had cemented his determination.

Sex. That’s all he wanted from Darcy Moran.

Sex.

Today, like any other day, he’d been at his office before six a.m. and worked his way through a hundred emails as he drank his morning coffee. But some sixth sense had nagged at him. At first, he’d dismissed it as merely the lingering desire to be with her. A desire he’d successfully squashed during the last few days. Somehow, though, before he had fully come to grips with his instincts, he’d found himself pacing into his penthouse.

His empty penthouse.

The fear had flashed like a gigantic lightning bolt through him as he’d stared at her empty bedroom. His hand had actually shook—shook—as he called his security. Anger had quickly followed after he’d heard their report. The fury washed any hankering to be with her right out of his system. In its place rose his recollection of what role the sprite really held in his life.

She was nothing but a pretend mistress. Nothing but a potential pitfall to an important business deal. His only duty was to keep her contained, not make her happy or gaze at her across a breakfast table or lust after her every minute he breathed.

She was nowhere near his brother.

This was what was important.

She hadn’t been kidnapped or stolen. He’d been absurd to even entertain the thought.