Suddenly, she wanted to tell him. Tell him everything. For the first time in years, she wanted to believe someone would listen and would believe. How wonderful it would be to lay this ugliness at his feet and let him fix it, exactly as he’d fixed her pop. The yearning swept through her, a wash of pure need. “Marc—”
“Most women would love the attention.” His mouth tightened as if he were trying to figure out a particularly irritating puzzle. “Most women love the cameras.”
Most women. He saw her as just another woman. Her throat hardened around her confession. The yearning turned to instant chalk dust on her tongue.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.” His harsh breath fluttered her bangs.
“Excitement?” She batted her lashes, reverting to her usual illusions was the only thing she could do at the moment. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t feel. “Surprise?”
Another curse came from him.
Diverting his attention using some of her mum's old tricks, didn't seem to be doing the…trick. Still, she was game at keeping going. It was the only thing she could do. Wrapping her hand around his warm neck again, she tugged his mouth to hers.
He went completely rigid.
His lips were cool to her touch. A determined rejection.
Darcy was more than determined, though. She was desperate. Desperate to stop this intrusive conversation. Desperate to forget what lurked in wait. Desperate to lose herself in the heat and comfort this man provided rather than confront the realization he apparently saw her as just another woman.
Her tongue slipped across his lips, slid across his grim mouth. Her teeth nipped at him, begging for a reaction.
Finally, she felt his control slacken, the heat from his body surging. He held onto his rejection, still she knew she was close to cracking through the wall he’d built against her. How she wished for more experience at this kissing thing. She'd seen her mum kiss often. Yet it wasn't the same thing as doing it herself.
Well, duh, her mind dimly sassed to her.
So in place of experience, she offered him her passion, her need. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, tasted the essence of him mixed with champagne. Her tongue danced across his teeth, delved deeper into him, asking, pleading for him to join her in this dance of desire.
Abruptly, his hands came down in a violent movement of need to grip her shoulders. Lifting her, he plastered her to his chest, taking over the kiss with a ravaged groan. His lips firmed on hers, took control. Swept her into a passion she'd never dreamed existed. In the last tiny piece of her mind that was coherent, she realized she'd never understood anything about this. Anything about sex or desire or need or love.
Love.
Yanking her mouth from his, she gasped. “Bloody hell.”
The word, the emotion she’d tried to ignore earlier this evening, vibrated in the deepest pit of her soul.
Denial came flooding after it.
No. No. No.
It was impossible.
She wouldn’t be like her mum. She couldn’t be like her mum.
Love would destroy her. Precisely like her mum.
She pushed him away, every old fear making her stronger than she looked.
It was enough to get his attention, yet he didn't let her go. Rather, he scowled down at her with frustrated male hostility. “Are you crazy?”
Quite possibly. But she wasn't going to admit it. “Let m-me go.”
“This seems to be a reoccurring pattern with us.” Icy distaste dripped from each word. “One that is not to my liking.”
“Too bloody bad.” She pushed once more.
He dropped her against the wall like a sack of flour and then turned to stare at the crowd swirling beyond the alcove.
The air between them chilled to freezing. She began to tremble once more. Wrapping her arms around herself, she leaned on the wall and tried to put the pieces of herself back together once again in a matter of seconds. An impossible task.
A low curse came from the man before her.
She took a deep shuddering breath. “I'm s-sorry.”
A harsh laugh was his only response.
“I really am,” she whispered. The old fear wrapped around the new fear, turning her melted heart into cold concrete.
“Hot and cold.” He turned, his face like granite. “It is not a game I like playing.”
“I understand. It's j-just that—”
“And I won't play it anymore.” Every one of his words bit into her. “The next time you make a move, Darcy.”
She stared down at the parquet floor.
“Look at me.”
He wouldn't even allow her that protection. Yet, she owed him something for her confusing behavior. Stiffening her spine, trying to find her fighting spirit again, she peered, met his gaze and notched her chin out.
“Si,” he murmured. “There's my girl.”