Bella Frances – Dressed to Thrill (страница 8)
‘Dunno. I’ll check in a minute. So…’
‘So you can have coffee, but the car’s waiting when you’re ready.’
He was sitting on a bar stool, the morning paper flicked out and open on the honey wood work surface. He raised the irritatingly small espresso cup to his mouth and she had the overwhelming urge to smack it right out of his self-satisfied hand.
‘For the record, Michael, I reckon I misjudged you. I thought you were merely arrogant. But now I see that I was way off. You managed to single-handedly spoil a night that I’d been looking forward to for weeks. You’re beyond arrogant. You know that?’
‘Interesting. I spoiled your night.’ He spoke to his newspaper. ‘So you’ll be ready to go? I’ll phone down to let the driver know you’re on your way.’
Tara scooped up her bag. And what was left of her pride. Could not get out of there fast enough.
Her heels sank into and caught on the thick pile of the carpet as she made her way to the door. Hot sharp tears pushed against her eyes. How could she have let herself down so badly? What on earth had she been thinking, having sex with a guy like that? No amount of pleasure was worth being made to feel like a hooker—an unwelcome hooker at that. He had totally wiped out every post-orgasm happy hormone and nuked her self-esteem. And, worst of all, she had let him. She should have acted breezy—even if she didn’t feel it. Should have climbed off and swung her bra over her head in celebration. She really shouldn’t be allowing his dismissal of her to hurt her like this. She was Tara Devine. She didn’t give a damn.
Except she did. She so did. And it was so, so sore.
But every day was a school day. After what she’d been through it had to be. And this was small stuff compared to some of her other life lessons. She just wished she’d been better prepared. That she could wear her heart anywhere other than her sleeve.
‘I’m not buying it, Angelica. Where is she?’
Michael strode through the hallway of Angelica’s chi-chi apartment, his scowl black and irritation bubbling.
‘Good morning, Michael. So we’re in one of those moods? What happened last night? I hope you weren’t this rude to Tara—were you?’
Michael tracked Angelica with his eyes as she glided through the perfectly furnished space. And that wasn’t a question he was prepared to answer either—no one’s business but his.
He looked for evidence of…anything, but the place was immaculate. Though Angelica did look drawn, which was a pretty unusual occurrence. She busied herself in the kitchen.
‘Don’t put coffee on for me—I’ve had too much already.’ He’d thrown it down his neck as he’d tried to force out flashbacks of Tara’s shock at his comments to her.
It had been the night from hell and he knew he’d been manipulated—he just didn’t know why. But one thing was certain: the idea of losing control to a woman did not sit well with him. And he’d come very close to that last night. Hadn’t been able to stop himself from taking her. When was the last time he had shown such complete contempt for his own values? He hated that out of control feeling—it was too fresh in his mind, even though it was over twenty years now since he’d truly been in a tailspin.
‘Where is our sister?’
‘Oh, Michael—for heaven’s sake, she’s in her bed! She’s been working all week and she’s only young. Try to remember what it was like and give her a little rope. Hmmm?’ Angelica flicked on the coffee-maker and swept about, producing crockery and cream.
The trouble was he remembered only too clearly what it was like to be young. Not the details, but enough to know that night was day, uppers balanced downers and sex was available everywhere. Enough to realise that it was a carefully choreographed disaster, directed by his management and enjoyed by his fans. And had he not had the cold shower of his mother’s death it might have ended up for him the way it had for too many others.
So when Angelica suggested ‘a little rope’ he would be using it to tie Fernanda down until she was mature enough to cope with it. Different story if she’d been like Angelica—but she was too volatile still. And this interest in the fashion scene was a worry. One that had to be carefully watched. Starting now.
‘Breakfast? Have you eaten?’
‘No, thanks—nothing.’
He walked on into the apartment and up to the spare bedroom, knocked swiftly on the door, cocked an ear and entered. The smell of booze hit him square in the face. He walked to the sleeping mound and stood over her. She was zoned out. Totally. So she had hit a wall last night.
He moved to the window and pulled open the curtains. Then back to the bed.
‘Morning, Fernanda.’
‘She needs to sleep, Michael—leave her be.’
Angelica had come in and was fussing about, lifting clothes and folding them. The room looked like a thrift shop. There was a huge glass of water at the side of the bed and jewellery and clothes trailed everywhere.
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