Authors: Jenny Schwartz
The champagne cork popped and he poured the bubbly generously.
She decided bleakly that he undoubtedly had lots of practice. The women he brought back to the apartment were definitely the champagne type.
“I bought the champers for my cousin Joe’s engagement party, then the Karim case erupted at work. I never made it to the party.”
He couldn’t be reading her mind, she assured herself. But she kept her gaze fastened on his throat rather than meet those clever eyes, as she accepted a glass. She sipped and savoured the tingle of bubbles on her tongue. “It’s lovely.”
“Definitely better than a solo dinner and a beer. Can I help with anything?”
“All that needs doing is to boil the pasta, and that’ll be whenever you want to eat.”
“How about we enjoy the glass of champagne, then think about eating?”
She nodded and followed him out onto the balcony. At evening, the view across the river was breath-taking. She sat on a comfortably cushioned chair and watched the stream of traffic trailing home to the suburbs.
Ivan slouched back and lifted his feet onto the balcony’s railing.
She grinned at the long length of leg. “How tall are you?”
“Six three. You’re not so short yourself.”
“Five nine.” She drank some champagne. It was better to delude herself that it was the alcohol and not Ivan, quiet and reliable beside her, that was responsible for her sudden sense of relaxation.
They sat in silence as the sun went down and the traffic eased. Rita glanced at her new watch and blinked. Her clothes would be dry by now and both their glasses were empty.
“I’ll put the water on for the pasta.” She filled the pot, added salt and placed it on the stove before rescuing her clothes from the dryer. By the time they were folded and stowed in her new suitcase, the water was boiling.
Ivan had set the table. He leaned against the island bench. “I had them put up fencing around your house.”
“Thanks.”
After their easy silence on the balcony, her sudden self-consciousness surprised her. Perhaps it was the domesticity. “Why did you call me last night? What was the emergency?”
“Kai’s son, Aaron.”
“What’s he done now?”
Gordon Kai was a multimillionaire. His son Aaron was a troublemaker.
“He got mixed up with one of the bikie gangs on the Gold Coast.”
During her year with Tamerlane Security Rita had learned a lot. The bikies were not people to mess with.
“Have you gotten him out of it?”
“Caleb’s negotiating.”
“It’s that bad?” She paused before draining the cooked pasta.
“It’s that bad,” Ivan confirmed. “Plus, Caleb’s sick of us cleaning up after the kid. He convinced me Aaron needs a lesson. He convinced Gordon, too.”
“Poor Aaron.”
“Only you’d feel sorry for him.” He followed her to the table and refilled their champagne glasses. “The kid’s a mess.”
“He’s twenty three, not really a kid.”
“That makes it worse.”
She waited till they both started eating. “I think Aaron knows he’ll never measure up to the memory of his brother James.”
The relaxed lines of Ivan’s face shifted into the flat ‘warrior’ mask he assumed too readily. “Half brother, and Aaron doesn’t even try.”
James had been in Ivan’s army unit, and had died in the Middle East.
“It’s sad.” She hesitated. “Your brothers didn’t join the army, did they? And they’re both younger than you.”
“Ryan is a high school maths teacher and Steve is a helicopter pilot flying cattle musters in Queensland.”
“Do they envy you your success?”
“Why would they?” He stabbed an olive from the Greek salad. “Ryan is married with a daughter and Steve’s engaged to his girlfriend from university days. They’re both doing jobs they love.” He paused. “I’m the one Mum worries about.”
“Why?” But she’d pushed too far.
He shrugged. “Worrying is what mums do.”
She let the conversation lapse.
Silence never seemed to bother Ivan. He served himself a second helping of pasta—’good sauce’—and ate it, then insisted he’d clear the table. While he stacked the dishwasher, she spooned gelato into two bowls and added the strawberries she’d had soaking in sugar. Their flavour would be intense, brought out by the tiniest dash of balsamic vinegar. She contemplated the bowls for a moment, wondering if Ivan would think she’d gone too far.
“Chocolate ice cream is my favourite.” He stretched out on the sofa in front of the television, his feet on a big matching ottoman, almost a seat in itself.
She curled up in an armchair.
“Do you mind if I watch the news?”
It was something all women complained about, their men hogging the television remote control. For Rita, it was unique. She had to remind herself that this relaxed sense of closeness was false. Tomorrow, when she left the apartment, she’d lose it, too. “Go ahead.”
He poured the last of the champagne into their glasses and lounged back.
She finished her dessert and quietly took her champagne with her onto the balcony.
“Are you okay?” The television still burbled, but Ivan stood behind her.
“Yeah.” She turned and faced him, leaning back against the high railing. “I was just thinking about my house. I think I’ll rent a flat while I think what to do with it. I stayed there because it was the family home, but now that it’s gone, I don’t know if I can go back and rebuild. The memories are gone.”
She ducked her head as tears stung her eyes. He took the glass from her hand and pulled her into his arms. She hid her face against his throat.
“Memories never disappear,” he said. “Sometimes I wish they did. Wherever you go, they’ll be part of you.”
“No. Memories fade. They vanish. That’s why we need photos and mementos, souvenirs. They’re all gone. All that was left of my family is gone.”
“Ssshh.” His arms tightened.
“My granddads died before I was born and my grans when I was a kid. I never had aunts or uncles, and then, Mum and Dad were hit by a drunk driver when I was nineteen. Mum died instantly. Dad died in hospital. He never regained consciousness.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“And now I have nothing of them. Not even the house. And I just have to keep going forward because there’s nothing else I can do. I’m scared and I’m tired.” She pushed at his chest, like a jumper-punch in football. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“You can tell me anything.” Her jumper-punch didn’t move him.
“Why should I tell you anything? You don’t share your problems with me. What are the memories that you can’t get rid of?”
“Men dying. Friends dying,” he said.
She jerked her head back and looked up at him.
“I hear screams and moans. I see the bodies of dead children.”
She shuddered and wrapped her arms around him.
“My memories are nightmares and they’ll be with me forever. You don’t need to share them.”
“You’re a macho idiot,” she told him bluntly. “You need to share them with someone. They’re part of you.”
“But they don’t fit in civilian life. Look at my hands.” He released her suddenly. “I’ve killed a man with these hands.”
She flinched at the raw note in his voice.
“See,” he said, fiercely satisfied. “You can’t bear for me to touch you.”
She caught his left hand and carried it to her mouth, kissing the palm. Her mouth lingered.
He made a sound as if she’d stabbed him, then grabbed her roughly and his mouth replaced his palm.
Their kiss was hot and harsh and howling with hunger. She pressed into him, all the emotion of her loss and grief transformed into stark need. She had wanted him for so long—ever since she saw him standing by his desk, waiting to interview her. Commonsense had insisted she suppress the need, but now it burned out of control. She could regret everything later.
She scraped her nails down his back, feeling his skin shiver beneath the fine cotton shirt. She moaned and rose on tiptoe as his tongue invaded her mouth. She sucked and his hands moved down her back to dig into her butt, pulling her in. They both liked that sensation, shuddering in unison. He swung her round, backed her into the glass door of the balcony and thrust against her.
“Yes. Ivan.” Her voice was slurred and aching as he dragged his mouth down her arched throat. She curled her foot around his calf, then gasped approval as he lifted her and she could wrap both legs around him.
His strength held her against the glass, freeing his hands to slide under her t shirt, warmly over her belly and up to close over her breasts.
“Kiss me. Kiss me.” She was frantic for his mouth which was tantalising her with nips and licks along the line of her jaw. She framed his face and held him steady so she could greedily claim his mouth.
He growled approval and pushed his hands inside her bra. The straps cut into her shoulders and the pain was spice to the heated pleasure of his calloused palms playing over her nipples.
It was good, so good.
“Hold tight.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck as he stepped back from the door. He carried her inside, his body shifting between her thighs with every step.
“Freakin’ torture.” He kissed her hard.
Whether punishment or incitement, she didn’t care. She responded recklessly.
“I could take you on the kitchen bench.”
She wouldn’t stop him.
They made it through the kitchen, but he halted shockingly just opposite the open door to the guest room.
“Ivan.” She kissed him, pleading, not wanting to recognise the stillness in him.
His mouth set stern and he looked at her.
She took a shaky breath, not knowing how or why the mood had changed; not wanting to believe it had.
“You bought a suitcase.”
“For my new clothes.”
“Hell damn.” He set her on the floor, a full arms length from him, holding her till she was steady.
“Ivan?” Her voice was small and broken. It shamed her.
“I can’t take advantage of you, Rita. You’re here because you lost everything yesterday. You’re vulnerable.” He reached out to touch her face, but she flinched away.
His hand dropped. “I’m sorry.”
She slipped by him, into the room, and hugged her arms around herself. “Me, too.”
Emotion flickered across his face, and was banished. “You need a safe place. Not me being a Neanderthal.”
“You know what I need, Ivan? My own place.” She shut the door on him.
“I am not vulnerable.” Rita finished smoothing on the all-in-one tinted moisturiser and sunscreen, and whispered her rebellion to the guest room mirror. She refused to accept the accuracy of Ivan’s rejection last night.
Yes, the trauma of the fire may have broken through the emotional barriers that usually guarded her heart, the ones that kept her from connecting closely with anyone, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t chosen to make love with Ivan. She’d been willing to risk the consequences.
And now she had all the embarrassment and awkwardness, with no memory of joy.
Worse, she knew it wasn’t her vulnerability that had stopped Ivan. When he’d said ‘You’re vulnerable’, he’d meant ‘You’re ordinary’. She knew the code. Vulnerable could be accepted. A person could and did grow out of being vulnerable, but the gulf between the elite and the ordinary never vanished.
Ivan was elite. It wasn’t the extrinsic stuff, that he’d been in the Special Forces or started a successful security business. It was in his nature. He was a leader. Physically, he had power and his reflexes were lethally fast. The elite kept to their own.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” She looped her handbag over her shoulder and took a deep breath. Now she was paying for playing out of her league. She intended to skip breakfast. She’d deal with Ivan in the office, where she had all the props and busy work to hide in. If it proved unbearable, she’d have to resign.
She really didn’t want to. Most of Tamerlane Security personnel were elite, like Ivan. But they’d become friends. Even if she existed on the fringes of their lives, she felt as if she belonged.
If she wanted to keep all that, then she had to lock last night away, never to be remembered. Ivan would agree with her.
“Coffee?” He was waiting for her in the kitchen.
“I’ll grab a cup at the office.”
His mouth thinned.
She placed the security access card for the apartment on the bench.
He frowned at it, then at her.
“Thanks for giving me a place to stay.”
But he cut into her prepared speech. “What, you organised a rental between last night and now?”
“I have a place to stay.” She’d book a room in a hotel. She returned to the guest room and picked up her suitcase. Facing him for the first time had been hard, but she’d done it.
He took the case from her, his expression grim. “I’ll carry it to your car.”
The lift descended in awful silence.
“About last night,” he began.
She prayed the lift would travel faster, then cursed its slow-opening doors.
“It won’t affect your job,” he said.
She burst out of the doors, her high heels clicking against the cement floor of the car park. “I believe you. You have a rule against fraternisation in the workplace.” Rule a number of people broke, but discreetly. She reckoned Ivan knew that the relationships happened, but turned a blind eye. It was sufficient for him if no one made a song and dance when the relationships crashed and burned. Security was a high intensity, high risk field. It created intense, fleeting relationships. The sort of relationships that would kill her.
Yeah, she’d been playing out of her league in so many ways. She ought to be glad Ivan had stopped.
He stowed the case in the boot of her car and walked around to the driver’s door. She’d hurried to the car and was just tucking her legs into the foot well and reaching to close the door. He put a hand on it, holding it open. “The apartment card. Keep it.” He dropped it in her lap. “Sometimes accommodation doesn’t work out. You’re welcome to return. No need to ask.”
In an awkward, masculine way, he was respecting her pride. Still, she’d sooner eat dirt than re-enter his flat. “Thanks, but it’s probably better if we keep it employer and employee. You were right. Last night I wasn’t thinking clearly and I made a mistake. It’s just lucky we don’t have more to regret.” She tugged at the door and he released it. She slammed it shut.