‘That’s different.’
‘Is it? Then will you please tell me how? I’d like to know why it’s fine for you to ogle me when I’m naked but not for me—’
‘I did not ogle!’ she flashed furiously.
‘Seemed that way to me. I could almost feel your hot little eyes on me all the way across the room. But then I am not so much of a hypocrite as to pretend to a rush of false modesty so soon after I have been—what is it you say?—rolling around in the sack just a short time before.’
‘It’s not a pretence! I—I don’t feel right that way. Not any more.’
‘Not any more,’ Andreas echoed darkly and the cynicism of his tone made her tense instinctively, waiting for the brutal lash of his tongue in quick response.
To her surprise it didn’t come. Instead, Andreas’ face closed up, setting hard and cold until it looked as if his features were carved from granite, his eyes just polished jet.
‘My apologies,’ he declared in a tone that made a mockery of the polite words. ‘In that case, I will wait for you downstairs. I think we would both feel more capable of holding this discussion on more neutral territory. I’ll make us some coffee—you’ll be…what? Five minutes?’
That ‘five minutes’ was an order, not a suggestion, and, leaving Becca still fighting to find a way to respond that didn’t make her look petty or weak, he turned on his heel and walked out.
She could almost hear the steady ticking of some imaginary stopwatch as she listened to his footsteps going down the landing.
CHAPTER TEN
SHE made it downstairs in seven minutes.
She had been determined not to let Andreas think that he could just click his fingers and she would jump to do as he said. But all the same, stirring it too much by keeping him waiting deliberately was not a clever idea. His temper would only darken by the minute and, as he had already started out with it almost as black as it could be, she didn’t want to take unnecessary risks.
First she had had to go to her own room to find her clothes and snatch a quick shower. The extra seconds had ticked away while she had dithered over what to wear.
Just what did one wear to a sort of emotional trial? she wondered on a wave of near-hysteria. A trial in which Andreas was not only judge and jury but also very definitely counsel for the prosecution all at once. The lightweight sun-dress that was her first choice was discarded as being too revealing and frivolous. A white T-shirt and Indian print skirt went the same way when the button on the waistband of the skirt proved suddenly to be somehow too complicated for her unsteady fingers to fasten easily.
In the end she had kept the T-shirt and pulled on denim jeans to go with it before deciding that enough was enough—she’d made her point without risking him actually losing it completely—and hurrying down the stairs after him.
Andreas was in the big sitting room that opened onto the pool area. The first thing that Becca noticed about him was that he too had taken a moment to dress and was now wearing a short-sleeved black shirt, hanging open over his tanned chest, and loose black linen trousers that hung low on his narrow hips. Like her, he was barefooted, as he so often was around the house.
He had opened the patio doors and was standing gazing out at the glorious view of the ocean, but Becca had the distinct impression that he didn’t see anything but was intent on his own thoughts. He had a mug of the strong black coffee he invariably drank in one hand, and another mug containing a less potent version of the drink stood on the coffee-table behind him. He didn’t turn when Becca arrived, or make any sign of having noticed that she was there, but continued to stare, frowning, at the horizon until, after waiting a few moments to see what he would do, she cleared her throat pointedly.
‘You wanted to talk to me.’
His turn was slow, deliberately so, she felt and when he was facing her he let those deep-set black eyes run over her from the top of her head, still wet from her shower, down to her feet, and back up again.
‘Déjà vu,’ he murmured on a note of irony. ‘Haven’t we been here before?’
It was only then that Becca realised that they were in fact both dressed as if for a replay of the dreadful scene on the evening of their wedding day. The scene that had ended their marriage. The recollection was enough to drain some of the hard-won strength from her legs and make her think twice about picking up the mug of coffee for fear that her hand would shake so badly it would give away the way her nerves were tying themselves into tight, uncomfortable knots in her stomach. Instead she perched on the arm of one of the big leather-covered settees, hoping she looked moderately at ease.