sounded lethal. Even more dangerous than going to dinner with him in one of the resort’s restaurants. Given her deception, spending time here in this small, intimate space would be stupid. “I’d rather go out.”
Her unease was interrupted by another knock, softer this time.
Angelo’s gaze locked with hers. “Too late. Dinner has arrived. No need to do anything. Just relax and enjoy. Nothing is going to happen between us. Not until your memory returns. I promised, remember? And I don’t break my word.”
But she had no intention of keeping hers.
There would be no return of her rogue memory. Damn. How had it ever gotten to the stage that Angelo Apollonides was starting to look like he had more honour than she did?
In the end, Angelo’s impromptu birthday supper proved to be a lot of fun. They sat thigh to thigh on the loveseat and ate gourmet food off utilitarian white crockery.
Gemma was under no illusion that Angelo had set out to make her relax. And it was working. She found herself laughing at a story he told about capsizing a catamaran-and liking him more and more as the evening wore on.
On some level a hum of awareness vibrated between them. But it never surfaced enough to make Gemma jumpy and set her on edge. She believed Angelo’s promise that he would not try make love to her…and she allowed herself to chill out.
At last the meal was finished. Even the rich chocolate cake, with a single candle on it that Angelo had blown out.
And, seeing that she had no gift, Gemma had insisted on singing “Happy Birthday.” For the first time she had seen Angelo flush awkwardly.
After she’d finished giggling at his embarrassment, she’d risen to make coffee and Angelo had followed to help. Only to discover that tiny kitchen area was too cramped for two. So he settled for propping himself up against the counter and watching her prepare the blend. When the coffee was ready, she bustled around, tidying up and they chatted drinking the rich dark brew.
The mug clattered on the countertop as he set it down. When he commented, “Your hair suits you like it is now.” She turned from packing away the crockery she’d rinsed off to smile at him, only to find him holding the framed photo of Mandy with their parents.
Gemma’s heart came to a standstill. And then it started to race. After the rush of adrenaline came relief. Now he would discover the truth. With a shock Gemma realised that she wanted this masquerade to end. She was not cut out for deception.
His glance shifted between the photo and Gemma. “This must have been taken around the time I-” he hesitated “-knew you.”
Her eyes narrowed. He hadn’t realised the truth. He’d put the small external differences between her and Mandy down to the passing of time and superficial changes. As his gaze lingered on her, Gemma suspected he was considering the changes that lay below the all-covering jeans and shirt. As he’d noticed, she’d never been as thin as Mandy.
His eyes kindled an urge within her. The flame flickered, danced. Slowly. Sensuously. A womanly desire that refused to be banished.
“I like the curls more than the straight style you wore back then.” He glanced down at the photo and back to her and his mouth softened into a smile that she suspected was supposed to melt her innards.
A hint of annoyance doused the desire. How could he not tell the difference between her and Mandy? Suddenly, perversely, she wanted to be found out. “My hair has always been wild,” she said, a little tersely. “Curls are much less work.”
“So why straighten it?”
She shrugged. “That was the fashion then.”
“And you always do as fashion dictates, do you, Gemma?” Suddenly there was an edge in his voice. An edge she didn’t understand.
“Excuse me?”
But his attention had returned to the frame cupped in his hands. “Are these your parents?”
“Yes.” Gemma moved closer until she could also see the three figures in the photo. Dad was staring sideways at Mandy, while Mum smiled into the camera.
“Your mother’s pretty. I can see her resemblance to you-and where the red hair comes from.”
“Her name is Beth. She’s really easygoing, despite the red hair.” Yet despite Mum’s normal placidity she’d been vocal in her opposition to Gemma coming back to Strathmos to confront Angelo. Mum had been worried, had begged Gemma to leave the past behind. But Gemma couldn’t. She had to know…
“And your father looks so proud of you. Who’s your mother smiling at?”
Gemma closed her eyes as a sharp burst of memory slivered through her of that sunny day in her parents’ suburban garden against the foot of Pigeon Mountain in Auckland. She could remember the scent of the damask roses. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her back. She could remember Mandy laughing-
“I don’t remember,” she said tonelessly.
Something in her eyes must have alerted him to her confusion and pain because he came swiftly towards her. “Hell, of course you don’t. And I’m a stupid idiot to ask such questions.”
He was so close that Gemma could smell the scent of his skin overlaid with a tangy aftershave. A hint of amber, of musk…and something else.
Arousal.
A chill shot through her. No! She scuttled backward and collided with a chair jutting out from under the bench top and would have tripped if Angelo’s hand hadn’t shot out and stopped her from falling.
“Hey!” He yanked her upright. “Are you okay?”
His eyes were a rich turquoise, the colour of the sunlit sea with no hint of black or grey. The thick brows above were pulled into a frown and Gemma read concern.
She could almost believe-
Damn! She broke free with a sharp twist. She recognized the sensation that unexpectedly flooded her. Recognized its warmth, its seductive danger-and it scared her spitless.
She swallowed, her mouth dry.
She’d been convinced that her hatred would fortify her against this attraction, like a talisman against evil. So how was she supposed to deal with an Angelo she was beginning to like? Underneath the playboy exterior lay a complex man who was so much more than the media portrayed. She was even starting to doubt that he was the selfish manipulative lover Mandy had described.
“Are you okay?” he repeated.
“I’m fine,” she said, and gave an elaborate yawn. “Just tired.”
He got the hint but after he’d left, she felt more alone than she’d ever felt in her life.
Gemma was surprised when she looked out into the audience on Saturday night to see Angelo seated with a crowd of people at a table in the front of the Electra Theatre. Three women, all beautiful, and two men.
None of them were eating.
They must be here only for the show. She almost stumbled over her next line, recovered and then sang on, trying very hard not to look in their direction again.
She made it through the show without another stumble. By the time she got to the dressing room, Angelo was waiting.
“Come, there are people I want you to meet.”
“I’m tired.” It was an excuse. A lie. She was too wired to sleep.
In the end she convinced Angelo to let her shower and change and agreed to meet him at his penthouse-a huge space with black leather furniture and modern artwork and an endless expanse of glass that Gemma realised must showcase fabulous seaviews in the daytime.
The crowd turned out to be Angelo’s cousins Zac Kyriakos and Tariq bin Rachid al Zayed and three women; Zac’s new wife, Pandora, and Zac’s sister, Katy, and their cousin, Stacy.
“We thought we’d surprise Angelo,” Zac explained. “His birthday needed celebrating.”
“You should feel honoured, Angelo,” Pandora said darkly, “I braved a helicopter flight for you.”
Angelo gave her a hug. “Thank you for coming. All of you.”
A late-night meal had been arranged buffet-style on the sideboard. Grilled calamari, prawns on long elegant
