Seduced and Betrayed (25 page)

"Because you're a thickheaded, unevolved male, that's why," she said with a teasing grin. "And I'm a-"

She'd lost him again; he was looking past her, a faint worried frown between his eyes.

"I have to go find Cameron and give her a kiss before I leave," Holly said, and pulled her hand out of his.

That brought his attention back to her. For a moment. "You're not staying?" His gaze flickered past her shoulder again, just briefly, before he remembered his manners and brought it back to her face. "Cameron's supposed to throw the bouquet in a few minutes."

"I wish I could stay for that," she said, "but I have a stack of depositions to read before Monday."

"Well, take care, then." He leaned down and pressed a quick, absent kiss on her lips. "I'll call you next week about that real estate deal in the Valley," he said, already striding past her before the last words were out of his mouth.

He threaded his way through the crowd on the dance floor, unerringly following the path taken by his first ex-wife. "Ariel," he murmured, reaching out to grasp her arm and claim her attention.

She turned around at his touch, regal, remote, icily polite. "Yes?"

Zeke felt his gut tighten. "I know what you're thinking," he said, low, aware of the wedding guests all around them, "but you've got it all wrong."

"No," she said, her voice well-modulated and perfectly pleasant—in case anyone was listening. "I've just realized I had it right all along."

"Ariel, dammit—"

She froze him with a glance. "Cameron's going upstairs to change into her going away outfit before she throws the bouquet," she said, looking pointedly down at the hand still on her arm. "She's expecting me to help her."

"All right." Zeke took a deep, calming breath. "All right. You go on upstairs and help Cameron change. We'll talk about this when everyone's gone."

"We'll talk about it when hell freezes over," Ariel snapped and jerked her arm out of his hand, for once completely forgetting her image.

* * *

Cameron paused at the top of the wide, sweeping staircase, her slender figure clad in a pale rose-and-cream French challis dress, her face wreathed in smiles, her arm teasingly poised to throw the bouquet. Her mother stood behind her, up on the wide landing, her blue eyes misty with pride and love. Her father stood by the open front door, back behind the shuffling, giggling group of women and girls gathered in the grand foyer for a chance to catch the bridal trophy. Her new husband, dressed in tan chinos and a navy sport coat, waited at the foot of the stairs.

"Ready?" Cameron called merrily, and then cocked her arm and threw the bouquet.

She was halfway down the stairs before it was caught by one of her bridesmaids, already safe in the circle of her husband's arm as they raced for the front door. Zeke went with them to the limo, running interference through the throng of laughing, rice-throwing wedding guests. There was a flurry of goodbyes and congratulations and then Cameron went up on tiptoe to kiss her father goodbye.

"I was really hoping you and Mom had come to some sort of new understanding during this last week," she said, drawing back to stare into his eyes. "But upstairs just now her attitude toward you was..." Cameron shrugged uncertainly.

Zeke hugged his daughter tight. "Don't you worry about your mother and me," he said, and drew back to kiss her cheek again before assisting her into the limousine. "We'll come to a new understanding on our own. I promise."

* * *

Most of the wedding guests lingered another hour or so, happily rehashing the wedding and drinking up the last of the champagne. The catering staff and cleanup crew were underfoot for another two hours after that. And the relatives who'd flown in from New York had to be transported back to their suite of rooms at the Regent Beverly Wilshire. Zeke saw to that personally, finally settling the last of them into one of the waiting limos fifteen minutes after the cleaning crew had slammed the rear doors on their van and disappeared down the long curving driveway.

The wedding was over.

The reception was over.

The new Mr. and Mrs. Everett were safely away, winging over the blue Pacific to the island of Maui.

Eleanor had retired to her apartment over the garage to put her feet up.

And Ariel was nowhere to be seen.

Zeke sighed wearily, absently reaching up to loosen his bow tie as he headed up the wide brick steps to the front door. It was locked. Stunned, Zeke looked down, jiggling the ornate brass handle again just to make sure. Definitely locked. Suddenly, the anger he had been holding in since Ariel had pinned him with that cool, accusing stare of hers bubbled to the surface like a geyser.

Damn her!

She was hiding again. Running away. Refusing to let him explain. Refusing, damn it, to trust him.

This time she wasn't getting away with it!

In a tearing rage, Zeke tramped around the side of the big, sprawling house, past the detached garage and the tennis court to the pool at the back. The kitchen door was locked, too, and the wide French doors that opened from the sunroom. Not about to be denied, Zeke turned and mounted the brick steps that led up to the narrow veranda on the second floor. He could see into her bedroom through the multipaned glass doors; the white wall-to-wall carpet, the big white satin-covered bed, the flowing white drapes. The only color in the room came from the pale blue silk dress draped across the white velvet bench at the foot of the bed and the matching high-heeled lizard pumps lying on the floor beside it. Zeke lifted his hand and rapped sharply on the glass door.

Silence.

He rapped again, then dropped his hand and rattled the door knob. "Dammit, Ariel, I know you're in there," he shouted. "Now, open the damn door!"

She appeared, suddenly, from another room, clutching the satin lapels of a white cashmere robe together over her chest. Her feet were bare and there was a narrow white band around her head, the kind a woman wore to hold back her hair while she washed her face. She looked as beautiful as a princess and as cold as ice. "Go away," she shouted, staring at him mulishly through the glass.

"Open the door, Ariel."

"We have nothing to say to each other."

"Open the door, dammit, or I'll kick it in."

She clutched her robe tighter to her chest, a reaction to the shiver that suddenly raced through her body. "You wouldn't."

"You think not?" He drew back as if preparing to do exactly what he'd threatened.

"I've already set the alarm. It will go off. The police will come." She took a step toward the door, her hand out as if to ward him off. "Zeke, no! The tabloids will have a field day if you do it."

"Then open the damn door!"

Ariel hesitated for a moment, then dropped her hand and stepped back. "No," she said, and stood watching him through the glass, her head up, waiting to see what he would do. Would he accept defeat again? Would he turn and walk away again, leaving her to doubt and cry and die inside? "I won't open the door," she said, goading him.

"Then you'd better get ready to see pictures of yourself in your nightclothes smeared all over the front pages." He lifted his foot and kicked in the door.

Wood splintered. Glass tinkled.

They stood there, staring at each other across the ruined threshold of the open door. Zeke was tall and dark and suddenly dangerous, the power in his broad shoulders barely constrained by the elegance of his tuxedo jacket, his bow tie undone and dangling down the pristine front of his white silk shirt. Ariel was small and delicate, vulnerable in her bare feet and naked face, her slender body outlined beneath the clinging folds of the white robe. Ten seconds passed, then twenty, and still they stared, their eyes intense and focused, their breath coming fast and shallow, their blood pounding through their veins.

There was challenge in the air—the most basic kind of man-woman challenge. And sex—raw, unadulterated sex at its most fundamental level. The air vibrated with it, stretching nerves and tempers tight.

Zeke stepped into her bedroom, crushing broken glass under the soles of his shoes. "You were bluffing about the alarm," he said as he moved across the carpet toward her. His expression was intent and menacing. His hot, dark eyes never left her face, silently telegraphing his instinctive determination to master her. "Why?"

Ariel stood her ground, haughty as a queen, refusing to quail before his intimidating male swagger. "I didn't think you'd dare."

Zeke reached out and wrapped his hand around the back of her head, cupping it, drawing her to him. "Don't you know I'd dare anything for you?"

She put her hands on his chest, holding him off. "You didn't before."

He didn't pretend not to know what she meant. "I was a boy before. A callow boy who wasn't nearly as smart or as tough as he thought he was. I didn't have the sense or the guts to fight for what was already mine."

"I'm not yours," she said, just to hear him refute it.

"Don't lie," he ordered roughly. "You've been mine since the day we met." He fisted his hand in her hair, drawing her head farther back, dislodging the narrow white headband. It fell to the floor unheeded. "Admit it. You've always been mine."

She stared up at him in mute refusal.

"I'll make you admit it," he vowed and crushed his mouth to hers.

The kiss was hot, lush and intemperate, as all-consuming as a forest fire raging over dry brush. Both of them were breathless when he finally lifted his head. Both of them were shaking with need.

"This isn't going to solve anything," Ariel murmured as he bent and lifted her into his arms.

"The hell it isn't," he growled, and dumped her on the bed.

She put her hands out as he followed her down onto the satin coverlet, spreading her fingers wide against the fine white silk shirt that covered his heaving chest. She could feel his heart slamming against her palms, and her own heart pounded wildly in answer. It would be so easy to just give in to the passion he roused in her. So easy to let him give her what her quivering body so desperately wanted. So easy... and so wrong. For both of them.

"Please, Zeke," she whispered raggedly. "We have to talk."

He hesitated for a long moment, staring down at her, knowing he could overcome her resistance, knowing she wanted him as much as he wanted her. If he lowered himself onto her, those pale slender hands would slide up his chest and around his neck, those soft lips would open, those long slender thighs would part in welcome and surrender. Just the way they always had whenever he'd gotten close enough to touch her like this.

"Please," she murmured. "Don't."

Zeke uttered a low, frustrated growl and levered himself to his feet. "All right, fine. We'll talk." He turned away, pacing to the open door. "But I won't apologize again," he said, staring out into the gathering twilight. "I'm tired of being made to feel guilty for something I didn't do. And for things I haven't even thought of doing." He turned around to face her. "There's nothing between Holly and me anymore except friendship and a warm professional relationship. I share the same kind of relationship with any number of other women but, dammit, I'm not the Casanova the tabloids make me out to be. I like women. I enjoy their company and the way their minds work and their perspective on the world. I always have. It's not something I'm going to apologize or feel guilty for."

"I haven't asked you to apologize for anything."

"Haven't you?"

"No, I haven't. I just..." Ariel hesitated, unsure of what to say, how to say it. He'd gotten her so rattled, so confused, wrecking havoc with her emotions and cracking her control. He always had. She put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes, trying to think, trying to regain her detachment by shutting him out for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts and reestablish some semblance of control over herself.

"Dammit, Ariel, don't do that!" he shouted.

Her eyes flew open.

"Don't shut me out. Not now. Not again."

"Shut you out?" she murmured, puzzled.

"I let you get away with it once. Hell, I let you get away with it for twenty-five years! But that's over. No more America's sweetheart, do you understand me?" He crossed the room again, grasping her by the upper arms before she could think to move away. "It's just you and me, right here, right now. A man and a woman." He gave her a little shake. "So deal with it."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The hell you don't." He flung her away from him so forcefully that she almost fell back against the bed. "You use your image like a shield to keep people from getting too close. Hell—" he paced to the open door and back again "—you use it like a damn weapon. Ariel Cameron, America's perfect little girl, all grown up into the perfect little lady. A cool, cheery little Stepford wife. Impeccable manners. Unshakable calm. Nothing gets to her. Tell me," he said, crowding her back against the edge of the bed, instinctively trying to intimidate her with his greater size and strength, "doesn't it get tiring, keeping up the facade, day after day, year after year? Don't you ever long to let the real you out once in a while? To say, 'The hell with it. This is who I am, take it or leave it'?"