Mistress By Blackmail(47)

She peered at him.

His face was blank as he looked back at her. Still, something in the way he stood, tense and ready for another blow, gave her courage. She’d let fear—fear of rejection, of what she was feeling for this man—rule her.

Which wasn't worthy of her or him.

She stepped close to him once more and slipped her hand around his neck.

His big body stilled and then stiffened as she tried to pull his head down to hers. “No.”

“Yes,” she insisted, willing to fight through his rejection instead of letting it put her off.

His eyes were no longer frosty. Rather a burning light had appeared. “Carita. Why do you choose the most inopportune times to touch me?”

“I don't know.” She tried to tug his head down again. “Call me perverse.”

“I have other names for you.” He stared at her. Hard. “What happened earlier? What were you thinking?”

She didn't want to go there. How could she explain the jumble of emotions inside her? The only thing she wanted at this moment was his closeness. She wanted to relish this moment. Waving his questions away, she didn’t look at his face. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Not true.” One male finger slid under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “I want to know.”

“Why? What does it matter?”

“It matters.” His silver eyes never left hers.

“I…I…”

A flash of light cut off her attempt at an impossible explanation. Both of them jerked their heads around. Cameras flashed once more.

The ancient fear blasted every thought from her head except one.

He would find her.

The paparazzi were few, and relegated to a small patch of space inside the front door. Marc straightened and tugged her to his side, turning her to face the cameras.

And the consequences.

“Smile,” he ordered.

Following his order was impossible. Her lips felt like icicles.

Lights flashed once more.

Horror screamed in her brain. She might have escaped his notice when the New York photos were released, but she doubted she'd be so lucky if and when her picture hit the London tabs. She'd watched him as a kid, poring over the tabloids, laughing at celebrity antics. If he was still alive, he'd see her. If he saw her, she knew, knew, he'd come after her.

“Enough.” Marc’s arm was the only warmth penetrating the chill coursing through her.

She trembled, a cold mist of sweat breaking out on her skin.

Within seconds, he'd ushered her away from the cameras and into the center of the gallery. A glass of champagne was thrust in her hand. The liquid slopped over the edges as her hand shook, yet as he led her deeper into the crowds, away from the cameras, the panic began to subside. His arm continued to stay around her waist, a hot brand of ownership and, somehow, consolation. Dimly, she recognized he was greeting people, his voice rumbling at her side, giving her another source of comfort.

All at once, they were around a corner, into a private alcove.

“What the hell is going on?” he snarled.

The fear was so old, so deep she had never been able to articulate it to anyone. Not after her first attempt had been met with contempt and ridicule. The instinct to stuff it down was too ingrained in her to give her any possibility of answering his question. Plus, she didn’t want to think about this, didn’t want to ruin this amazing surprise he’d planned for her.

She needed to focus on the positive. As usual.

Forget the danger lurking in wait. For now.

She took a sip of champagne, not meeting his glare, trying to put the pieces of herself back in place before he saw anything to latch on to.

“Answer me.”

Closing her eyes for a minute, she pulled the last bits together, pasted a smile on and made sure the ugly memories were blanked. Lifting her head, she met his steely stare. “Nothing's going on.”

An Italian curse ripped from his mouth. His eyes were sharp blades attempting to rip through her mind.

The courage and fight she'd learned as a kid came to her rescue. “S-s-seriously. I'm fine.”

She was. Almost. The trembling had stopped and the fear was fading for now. If only she could stop her stuttering, she’d present a perfectly composed picture to the world and to him. Eventually, she would have to confront the demon from her past. She knew it in her gut. But not now. Now was about convincing this man all was well and trying to enjoy the night he'd planned.

Leaning over, his hands splayed on the wall behind her and his head dipped to hers. “Tell me what you are afraid of.”

She threw him a jaunty grin. “I'm afraid you're going to keep me in this alcove all night instead of letting me out to have some fun.”

His jaw clenched. “Tell me why you were shaking in front of the cameras.”