His Brand of Passion (7 page)

‘That’s not an answer.’

He wasn’t going to give her one. ‘Are
you
happy?’ he threw back, and she drew her knees to her chest, her hair brushing the tops of them, her eyes dark and soft.

‘I don’t know. Everything is so uncertain now. But, in general, yes. I think I’ve been happy. I’ve lived my life happily…for the most part.’

He had the strangest sensation that she was holding something
back…just as he was. And he felt a stirring of uneasy guilt that she wasn’t happy now, and it was his fault.

‘Let me get dessert,’ he said, mostly because he’d had enough of this conversation.

‘Dessert?’

‘I bought something. I figured you were going for the typical pregnancy cravings, so…’ Quickly he went to the freezer where he’d put the bag from earlier and withdrew a pint of chocolate-chip ice cream. ‘Have you had a craving for this?’

The look on her face was almost comical, Aaron thought. She looked torn, caught between regret and a smile, and he knew immediately this wasn’t something she wanted.

‘Don’t tell me I’ll have to eat this all by myself,’ he said, and she gave in to the smile, whimsical and bittersweet as it was.

‘I’m afraid I’m lactose intolerant. But it was a lovely thought.’

‘Ah.’ Lactose intolerant; right. He put the ice cream back in the freezer. ‘So maybe a nice sorbet?’ he suggested. He felt like a fool and a failure, which he knew was ridiculous. It was just ice-cream—and yet he’d tried. And it hadn’t worked. Failure.

‘Sorbet would be perfect,’ Zoe said quietly, and then she was there behind him, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. ‘Thank you, Aaron,’ she said softly, and for some ridiculous reason his throat tightened. He didn’t answer.

It wasn’t much, Zoe knew, and yet it touched her all too deeply. The hesitant confidences, the thoughtful touches…He was trying. Not very well, admittedly, but his attempts at engaging her emotionally made Zoe’s heart soften and yearn. She could fall in love with this man, more than any of the men she’d convinced herself she cared for. She had a horrible feeling this could be the real deal.

And she didn’t want it. She couldn’t. Aaron might be trying, but that was all it was. Paltry attempts that she wanted to make into so much more. In the end the result would be the same: he’d break her heart. He’d crush it and he wouldn’t care—or perhaps even notice.

A few days after Aaron’s ice cream attempt, he came home a bit early, surprising her, and she tried to ignore the little bolt of pleasure she felt at simply seeing him walk through the door, his suit jacket hooked over one finger.

‘You’re home a bit early.’

‘I have an invitation to a new museum opening in SoHo tomorrow night,’ Aaron said. ‘And I wondered if you wanted to come.’

‘Oh.’ She felt an unexpected burst of pleasure at the thought of a proper outing—almost a date. ‘I’d love to.’ She bit her lip, frowning. ‘Is it fancy? I don’t really have…’

‘You can get something tomorrow. I’ll leave you my credit card.’

Zoe arched an eyebrow, deliberately teasing him. ‘You’re not worried I’ll go on a bender and max out your card?’

‘I’m protected against such possibilities,’ Aaron answered, without even a shred of humour. Zoe suppressed a sigh. Just when she thought they were getting somewhere—reaching some kind of understanding, some kind of sympathy—she felt as if she’d fallen backwards on her behind. Aaron had only offered her his credit card knowing that if she ran off with it he’d be covered. Of course.

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ she said lightly.

‘Of course, if you’d rather not shop I can have my assistant buy you something,’ Aaron offered. He’d loosened his tie and stood at the kitchen counter, drinking a beer. If someone could look in the window and see this scene, Zoe thought suddenly, it would seem so amazingly, achingly normal. A
man and a woman chatting about their day, sharing the occasional smile or even a laugh.

Too bad the reality was so different—so much
less
. And she wanted more. Absurd, hopeless, but she could not keep herself from feeling it, craving it.

‘Why don’t you have your assistant pick something, then?’ she said, and with effort kept her voice casual. ‘I don’t really like shopping.’ That much was true, but she also needed to keep some kind of distance. Picking out a dress herself, knowing she’d care too much and want to please Aaron, was dangerous. If she acted like she didn’t care what she wore, then maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe her foolish, contrary heart would stop insisting it cared about Aaron when her head told her what an idiotic thing that would be to do.

‘Fine,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘I’ll have her pick it out and deliver it. The opening is at eight.’

When the box came the next afternoon, clearly from an exclusive and expensive boutique, Zoe couldn’t keep a tremor of anticipation from going through her. She might not particularly enjoy shopping, but what woman didn’t enjoy receiving new clothes? Even if they had been picked out by an indifferent secretary.

The dress wasn’t indifferent, though. The dress, Zoe saw as she lifted it from the folds of tissue paper with a hushed breath, was utterly gorgeous. It was made of a silvery-grey silk that shimmered in the light, with a halter neck and a fitted bodice, before flaring out gently around the ankles.

She stripped off her jeans and T-shirt and slid the dress on, twirled around it and felt like a princess.

What would Aaron think?

Not important, she told herself. Not important at all. She was just going to enjoy herself tonight, enjoy being out and about and feeling pretty rather than something close to what the cat dragged in. And she wouldn’t think about Aaron at all.

She slid the dress on a hanger and, with a smile still lingering on her lips, headed for the bath.

Several hours later she was dressed and ready. And Aaron hadn’t even returned. He’d texted to say he’d be back to pick her up at a quarter to eight, but it was almost the hour and she’d had no word from him.

Sighing, Zoe stared at her reflection. At least she looked better than she had in days. She’d put her hair up in a chignon and even put on a little make-up: eye-liner to make her eyes look bigger and darker and some light blusher and lipstick.

In the box underneath the dress she’d found a pair of diamanté-encrusted stilettos, perfect to go with the dress, and amazingly in her size. She gave a twirl in front of the mirror just as she heard the lift doors ping open and Aaron come into the apartment.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the hallway.

His gaze narrowed in on her right away, but he didn’t say anything. Zoe held her breath, waiting—for what? A compliment? A single word of praise? Surely even Aaron could manage that much.

He tugged at his tie and gave one brusque nod. ‘It fits.’

It fits?
That was all? Disappointment made Zoe’s throat tighten and she swallowed, made herself smile. ‘Yes, it does. Your assistant must have known my size.’

Aaron didn’t answer for a moment, his long, lean fingers working the silken knot of his tie. ‘My assistant didn’t buy it,’ he finally said, sounding both gruff and reluctant.

Zoe blinked. ‘She didn’t?’

‘No.’ The knot unravelled and he slid his tie off, causing Zoe’s gaze to be hopelessly drawn to the lean, brown column of his throat, the pulse she could just see flickering there as he undid the top buttons of his shirt.

‘Who did, then?’

‘I did,’ Aaron admitted. ‘I picked it out myself.’

Pleasure flooded through her in a warm rush and a silly smile spread over her face. ‘You did? Why?’

‘Because,’ he answered, starting towards his bedroom, ‘I didn’t want the gossip flying, as it would if my assistant started shopping for a woman’s dress. It’s not my usual behaviour, and I hardly want to explain our situation just yet.’

Disappointment replaced that rush of pleasure. Of course he had a reason like that. Had she actually hoped, actually
thought
for a moment that he’d picked the dress out himself because he wanted to? What kind of fantasy land was she living in?

‘Very astute of you,’ she called to him, for he’d disappeared into his bedroom. ‘But when do you plan on coming clean with our arrangement?’ Whatever their
arrangement
actually was.

‘When things are a bit more final,’ Aaron answered back flatly. ‘I’m just going to change. The limo’s waiting downstairs.’

Zoe paced the living room while he dressed. All her anticipation about the evening, her pleasure in the dress and the shoes, seemed to have leaked right out of her, leaving her flat. And not just flat, but anxious—for What on earth did Aaron mean, when things were a bit more
final?
The decisions she’d made in moving in here felt all too final. What more was Aaron thinking of? She didn’t even want to ask. She didn’t want to know.

And, instead of the excitement and fragile happiness she’d been feeling at the prospect of an evening with Aaron, all she felt now was disappointment and an inexplicable, nauseating dread.

A
ARON CHANGED INTO
his tuxedo with jerky movements, his body still irritatingly affected by the sight of Zoe in that dress. He’d known it was right for her as soon as he’d seen it in a shop window, imagining how the silvery fabric would bring out the shimmer in her eyes.

He’d felt a fool blundering into that shop. The sales assistant had positively cooed over him, imagining he was buying a dress for someone special.

And then when he’d actually seen Zoe in it, seen how the colour made her eyes sparkle with the brilliance of diamonds; how the silky material clung to her slender curves, the top barely covering the breasts that looked even more full and more lush than when he’d touched them, kissed them and held them in his hands…

He cursed aloud. The last thing he needed was to go into this evening in a constant and painful state of arousal. Yet he couldn’t deny that since he’d been spending more time with Zoe that had been his sad state of affairs. Just sitting next to her on the sofa, or watching her slurp her ridiculous lo mein noodles, or stretch so her worn T-shirt outlined her breasts all too clearly…

Aaron cursed again.

Over the last week his mind had spun in crazy circles, thoughts darting like a rat in a maze, looking for solutions.
Always looking for solutions. Ever since that first lightning strike of guilt that had felled him after he’d offered her money, he’d been trying to figure out how this could work, what he should do. He always wanted, needed something to do—a plan, an answer. And unfortunately, in this case, he didn’t have one. Yet.

Having Zoe live with him had felt like the right decision; he wanted her safe, under his watch, in his control. And, damn it, yes, he did like having her here, even if she didn’t believe him and he couldn’t quite believe it himself.

But what about the future? When the baby was born? They’d be a family, of sorts. A
family
. The idea was alien, impossible. his own fractured family, with parents long dead and brothers he barely talked to, was hardly an example he wanted to follow. He didn’t want to be the kind of dad who breezed in and out of his child’s life, gone more often than not.

Yet he didn’t know what kind of father he could be, what kind of man he could be. what kind of husband.

He’d been moving carefully, reluctantly, yet with a surprising surge of anticipation towards what seemed like the obvious decision, the most permanent arrangement for him and Zoe. It had come to him in stages: first asking Zoe to stay for a few weeks, then for her entire pregnancy. And now…?

His mouth curved grimly. It wasn’t ideal, of course, even if it had some rather obvious and salient benefits. But it was the solution that had presented itself, that seemed the most reasonable—and yet outrageous. Impossible, even.

By the time he emerged from the bedroom Zoe was looking a bit pale and strained, the obvious pleasure which had lit her eyes damped down completely—his effect on her, no doubt. He should have said something else, something about how beautiful she’d looked, yet the words had stuck in his throat, sharp and painful. Grimly Aaron jerked his head towards the door.

‘Let’s go. The car’s waiting.’

‘I know, you said that already,’ she answered back tartly, and Aaron didn’t respond. Bickering like an old couple already, he thought sourly, without so much as a shred of humour.

Neither of them spoke in the limo on the way down to SoHo. Zoe stared determinedly out of the window, and the passing streetlights highlighted the sweep of her cheek, the angle of her jaw. Aaron watched her out of the corner of his eye—was conscious of every breath she drew, the way her breasts rose and fell, the tiny sigh of exhalation. He turned away and stared out the other window.

‘So what kind of art are we going to go and see?’ she finally asked, after the tense silence had gone on for several minutes.

‘I don’t know. Something modern.’

‘Why are you going, then?’ Zoe asked. She sounded petulant, even childish. This evening was going downhill fast.

‘Several of my clients will be there.’

‘Clients? what is it you do, exactly?’

‘I’m the CEO of Bryant Enterprises.’

‘I know that. But what does that mean?’

It means I live on a knife-edge; I wake up at night in a cold sweat; I devote my entire life to a job I never really wanted
. The sudden virulence of his thoughts shocked him. Swallowing, he turned back to the window. ‘I manage the company’s assets, which are varied. But my main personal responsibility is our hedge fund.’

‘That’s what Millie does—hedge funds. Although I’m not even sure what they are.’

‘Essentially an investment fund with a wider range of trading activities than other funds.’

‘Still not sure what you’re talking about,’ Zoe said airily,
and Aaron almost smiled. He actually liked that she didn’t get it. He didn’t really want to explain it, or even talk about it.

‘Hedge-fund managers usually invest some of their own money,’ he told her. ‘And the funds are not sold to the public or retail investors.’

‘So you’re managing your own money, as well as someone else’s?’

‘Essentially.’

She turned to face him, her expression strangely serious and intent in the darkness of the car. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked. ‘Do you enjoy what you do?’

Aaron stared back at her, words lodging in his throat, choking him. ‘I make money,’ he finally said.

‘So?’

‘It’s what I do,’ he answered, and made his tone dismissive, even curt. ‘It’s what I’ve always done, what my family has always done.’ There were no other choices.

Zoe felt her spirits lift as soon as they entered the gallery. It was all soaring space and clean angles, huge, messy canvases hanging on the otherwise stark walls. Women in elegant dresses and men in tuxedoes circulated the space amidst black-tied waiters with trays of champagne and fussy-looking hors d’oeuvres.

‘I know you’re not keen on modern art,’ Aaron murmured as they came through the door, and Zoe arched an eyebrow.

‘Who said I didn’t like modern art?’

‘You did say my apartment was awful,’ Aaron reminded her. ‘And it’s rather modern.’

‘True, but there are different kinds of modern. My paintings are modern, in their own way. These—’ she gestured to the bright canvases on the walls ‘—are colourful, lively. I like them,’ she stated firmly and Aaron gave the nearest painting his consideration.

‘I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be.’

Zoe studied it, as well. ‘From a distance it looks like some kind of festival,’ she said slowly. She couldn’t point to any distinct figures or shapes, yet she got the sense of it—of people with arms outstretched or raised, of firelight and dancing, of joy and celebration.

Aaron nodded slowly. ‘Yes…I suppose,’ he said, and Zoe laughed at how dubious he sounded.

‘Not a fan?’ she teased. ‘And with all that modern art in your apartment!’

‘I never said I liked it. I certainly didn’t choose it.’

‘Why have it if you don’t like it?’

He shrugged. ‘An interior decorator chose it all, for effect and re-sale value. I spend very little time there as it is.’

‘And yet I spend a lot of time there,’ Zoe replied tartly. ‘Maybe I should redecorate.’ She saw the expression on Aaron’s face freeze and she rolled her eyes. ‘Chill, Aaron. I was joking. I’ll stick with my few paintings and my plant. That’s enough for you, clearly.’

‘You can redecorate if you want,’ he said stiffly. ‘Since you’ll be living there for at least seven months.’

At least
. Because what happened after the baby was born? Zoe pushed the thought away. ‘I want to study the painting,’ she said, and moved closer.

Funnily enough, the closer she got to the painting the less of a sense of it she had. The festive feeling melted into blobs and streaks of oil paint, nothing more. After inspecting a few more paintings in the gallery, she realised this was the artist’s intended effect: the paintings were meant to be viewed from a distance, rather than up close.

Kind of like her and Aaron. From a distance, they looked okay. Like a couple. She’d seen a few women shoot her speculative and even envious looks, and part of her had wanted to laugh, even while another part of couldn’t help but preen.
Yes, I’m with him, the most handsome and enigmatic man in the room
.

Except she wasn’t with him, not really. Not at all.

She watched him covertly from across the room, talking to a few of his clients. He looked intent and serious and still so unbearably attractive, with his dark hair and eyes, his stern mouth, his broad shoulders. He was devastating in a tuxedo.

As if he sensed her looking at him, he glanced up and his steely gaze locked with hers for a moment, his expression utterly unreadable, and then he looked away. Zoe felt herself deflate. What had she been hoping for—a smile? A wink? Neither, unfortunately, were Aaron’s style, and yet her stupid heart kept insisting on hoping.

By half past ten her feet were killing her—as gorgeous as the stilettos were, comfort was clearly not their concern—and she was nearly swaying with exhaustion.

Aaron approached her, one hand sliding firmly under her elbow. ‘You look like you’re about to fall over.’

‘I feel like it too,’ Zoe admitted with a small smile that ended on a tired sigh.

‘Let me take you home.’

Home
. She thought of that stark penthouse apartment where she’d already spent so many lonely days and nights. Was that home now? Would it ever be home?

Still, it was rather nice to have Aaron acting a little protective of her as he guided her from the gallery to his waiting car.

‘How does your driver never get a parking ticket?’ she asked as she slid inside. ‘He’s always double-parked.’

‘He’s very good,’ Aaron answered. ‘And he’s not double-parked for long—I text him right before I need him to arrive.’

‘A good use for your phone,’ she said rather sleepily, for in the warm interior of the car, the leather so soft and luxurious, she felt as if she could almost fall right asleep.

‘Come here,’ Aaron said almost roughly, and he put his
arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. She nestled against him instinctively, her head on his shoulder, her body snuggled against his muscular side. It felt so good to be held; to breathe in the warm, musky male scent of him; to feel the solid strength of his arm around her, drawing her close, protecting and even cherishing her.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, her eyes drifting closed. ‘For taking me to the gallery. I enjoyed it.’

‘Did you?’ Aaron sounded as gruff as always, but underneath Zoe thought she heard a thread of amusement, maybe even tenderness. Or was she just being fanciful—again? Probably. ‘The last twenty minutes you looked like you were in agony.’

‘These shoes hurt,’ she admitted and wiggled them off, stretching her toes with a sigh of bliss.

‘Ah. Sorry about that.’

‘Did you pick the shoes out too?’

‘The shop assistant suggested them to me.’

‘Well, I love them, no matter how much they pinch.’

‘I didn’t mean to make your feet hurt.’ She felt Aaron’s hand slide down her calf and then his strong fingers were kneading the aching muscles of her feet and Zoe couldn’t keep from letting out a groan of sheer pleasure. Aaron chuckled softly. ‘Feels good?’

‘Heaven.’ She nestled closer and neither of them spoke as Aaron massaged her feet. Zoe fell into a doze, happier than she’d been in a long while.

She didn’t know how long it had been when Aaron was gently nudging her awake. ‘We’re here,’ he said quietly. ‘Can you make it upstairs?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She straightened, embarrassed now at how she’d been cuddling into him. ‘I can hardly have you carry me into your building.’

‘I could,’ he said, and she found herself smiling.

‘I’m sure you’re strong enough. But, if you thought having your assistant buy a dress would bring on the gossip, sweeping me into your building Rhett Butler style would be much worse.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said abruptly and she wished she hadn’t said anything—wished she’d let that surprising tenderness they’d found inside the limo stretch on. Now she just slipped her feet into the pinching heels.

The crisp night air was enough to wake her up completely, and by the time they reached the lift Zoe was conscious of something palpable between them, something confused and yet electric, caught between the intimacy of their moments in the car and the tension that always seemed to spring up between them.

She was achingly aware too of the last time she’d been in a formal dress and Aaron had worn formal clothes. They’d rode the lift up in silence just like they were doing now, and she’d walked into his apartment and stared out at the night sky while he kissed her neck…

Was he remembering that night? Was he feeling it, wanting it like she was? Or was that just her hopeless fantasy?

She cleared her throat, the sound as loud as a gunshot in the confined space of the lift. The doors swooshed open and Zoe stepped into the penthouse, wanting to escape the confines of the lift and the expectations and memories that left her breathless and desperate with need.

The stiletto heel of her shoe caught in the gap between the lift and the floor, and she pitched forward with a sudden, indrawn gasp. Then Aaron’s arms were around her, righting her, hauling her to safety against his chest.

She stared up at him, dazed, even more breathless than before, and he looked back down at her without any expression at all lighting his dark eyes.

‘That was a close one,’ he said, and he didn’t let her go.

Zoe could feel one hand on her bare shoulder, the other seeming to burn right through the thin silk of the dress, on the small of her back. She felt the press of his body against hers, the strength of his thigh and chest, and then, amazingly—yes, wonderfully—the insistent press of his arousal.

Her lips parted and her breath came out in a soft, expectant rush; still she didn’t move and neither did he. She felt his hand pressing into her back, urging her forward, and as her hips bumped against him his awareness flared white-hot, consuming her.