was a pause before he answered. “Renewing my acquaintance with the place. What about you?” He raised an arm, his hand resting on the stone arch.
“I come here quite often. To think.”
“Sorry I disturbed you.” But he didn’t move. Nor did he sound particularly sorry.
There was no reason to feel threatened. Only, the grotto was very small, and although he hadn’t actually entered, he was big and in her way if she wanted to leave.
Of course he’d step aside if she made a move to go. But somehow she was reluctant to put that to the test. And while she debated Steve spoke again.
“Why didn’t you tell me Magnus was ill?” he asked harshly.
“He didn’t want anyone to know.”
The dark bulk of his shoulders shifted impatiently. “You knew.”
“I’m…I was his wife.” Of course she’d known. It was she who had persuaded him to see a doctor.
“Was it his heart?”
“Yes, in the end. He’d been…failing, and he was in hospital after having what they called ‘an episode’ but we thought he was recovering. Then…it was quite sudden.”
Steve half turned, but only to lean his shoulders against the frame of the arch, arms folded. “So you must have had time to make plans, if he’d been sick for a while.”
“Plans?”
“You don’t really want to stay here, surely? Even though you get more in cash if you do. He left you the bulk of his money. I’d advise you to take it and run.”
Triss shot to her feet. “I didn’t ask for any advice from you, and I certainly don’t need it!” And the raw feeling in her throat was caused by anger, not hurt at his callous, unjust assumptions. “Excuse me, I’d like to go back to the house.”
For a long second or two she thought he wasn’t going to move. Refusing to wait on his pleasure, and in a dire need to get away, she made to push through the narrow space he’d left her, miscalculated and felt her breasts brush against his shirt as she tried to pass him.
Steve straightened a little too late. Triss stumbled over his foot, and his hands closed about her upper arms.
For a moment they stood together in the stone doorway, bodies touching, Steve’s chin only an inch from her temple. She could hear—even feel—the harsh intake of his breath, smell clean clothing and soap and a faint, frighteningly seductive male skin-scent.
In irrational panic she clenched her fists and raised them, thumping his chest. “Let me go!”
He swung her to the outside of the doorway with easy strength, then released her, saying, “Glad to, but are you’re sure that’s what you want?”
The implied suggestion was outrageous. Fury banished fear and she raised a fist again, aiming at his face.
He grabbed her wrist before it connected, holding her away from him. “I wouldn’t try it. You won’t win.”
Triss tugged against his grip and he retained it just long enough to make her aware that he was right, even if she employed some of the self-defense techniques that had momentarily flown right out of her mind. He was bigger and much stronger, and they both knew he was on his guard and would easily defeat her in a physical tussle.
When he removed his hand she stepped back, resisting the temptation to rub at her numbed wrist. Thank heaven there were no witnesses to this little contretemps.
Chagrined, she said, stiff-lipped, “I shouldn’t have tried to hit you.” Normally a totally nonviolent person, she had been goaded to the point of unthinkingly hitting out.
“Damn right you shouldn’t,” Steve agreed. “Never underestimate your opponent. Fortunately I’m not in the habit of fighting with women.”
Not physically. But he had no compunction about attacking them with words. It hadn’t escaped her that he was not apologizing for that. “Do they often hit you?” she inquired.
The quick flash of his white teeth in the darkness resembled a snarl more than a smile. “You’re the first and only.”
“You surprise me,” Triss said. Then she turned her back and walked away from him.
Steve watched her retreat into the darkness. She’d left him to it, king of the hill, and he should be savoring the victory. Instead he felt bleak and empty and annoyingly in the wrong.
He hadn’t assaulted her, he reminded himself, hadn’t even retaliated when she went for him with her fist.
She could have waited for him to give way when she said she wanted to leave, but no—she’d deliberately brushed against him in the narrow opening, setting his pulses on fire with a familiar, unwilling desire, and when he’d saved her from falling on her face, she’d made a show of fighting him off as if he’d made an unwelcome advance.
Then, flying into a rage when he made it clear he wasn’t interested, she’d tried to sock him on the jaw.
She would find that he wasn’t as easily manipulated as the half-grown males she’d been around in the past few years.
In his own formative years he’d not had much to do with women, but he was more experienced now. Triss herself had taught him a thing or two, and after moving to L.A. and becoming involved in the fringes of the entertainment business, he’d seen the way some women used their looks and their wits to advantage, twisting strong, powerful men around apparently fragile, pretty little fingers.
It had worked with Magnus, but Steve was determined that no woman—and especially this woman—was going to have him dancing to her dangerous tune. He might not have been a match for her years ago, but she’d find it harder to get rid of him this time round.
After breakfast Triss invited Steve, in as cordial a voice as she could muster, to come to her office anytime and she’d have the yearly accounts ready for him.
“Your office? Or Magnus’s?”
“My office,” she replied firmly, knowing he was wondering if already she’d appropriated for herself the room that had always been her husband’s domain. “Down the corridor and just about opposite his.” When Steve had left she’d still been doing the accounts on a table in Magnus’s upstairs flat, but for years now she’d had her own office.
He nodded and she left him finishing his second cup of coffee.
When he arrived she had a pile of folders on the desk. Laying the last one on top as he entered, she told him, “These are printouts from previous years. This year’s accounts are on disk and in my computer.” The machine sat on her desk, a much newer piece of furniture than Magnus’s kauri antique.
Steve looked around at the filing cabinets, the shelves neatly stacked with file boxes, and the typing chair behind the desk, as if noting the contrast between this businesslike room and the chaos Magnus had worked in. He picked up the folders. “Do you mind if I use Magnus’s desk?”
It was a
