interest, instantly made her regret the suggestion but it was too late to retract it now. “Going to make a personal appeal to me, Tara? I could get to like this foundation of yours.”
“You don’t have to like it. You only have to give it a fair appraisal,” she snapped, and stood up purposefully to move to the podium again. It was just as well she had already given this talk many times before, because her concentration was well below par. She was too aware of Zeke Blaxland leaning back with his arms folded across his broad chest, his expression daring her to put a foot wrong.
Potent with memories, the scent of her perfume lingered in the space around Zeke and he inhaled slowly, cursing himself for a fool, but unable to stop himself. Poême, he thought, automatically putting a name to the heady fragrance with its reminders of the foolish satin and lace scraps she called lingerie. Did she still wear that stuff?
From where he sat, the new Tara McNiven looked all business. She had never been skeletal, like some models, but her new curves were a definite improvement. The glimpse of satin skin and hint of décolletage her businesslike jacket afforded him set his pulses hammering. His imagination began to work overtime on the rest.
Her hair was shorter, too, brushing her shoulders in a waterfall of gold he knew from experience would feel like silk. His fingers twitched with the need to touch her. He turned it into a drumming gesture on his knee, saw her notice and frown, and stilled his hand.
What had possessed him to gate-crash the meeting? His lack of faith in charities was no secret, but he didn’t really believe Tara’s foundation belonged in his series. He’d researched them, and had no doubt that they were on the level. It didn’t mean he believed in what she was doing, but neither did he think she was in it for her own benefit.
So why was he here?
If he was honest, the answer was pacing up and down in front of him as she urged the group to put themselves in the children’s places. “It’s easy to say that one person can’t make a difference, but all it takes is the willingness to try.”
Amid the rueful nods, Zeke felt himself frown. Was Tara sending him a message? When they were together Zeke had been guilty of shutting himself away in his study for long periods. The only place she had had his undivided attention was in bed.
Her gaze bored into him. “We’ve all heard the saying about charity beginning at home.” She took a breath. “Tonight, I want you to go home and look at your own children, and imagine their lives if you couldn’t provide for them. Then when you’re in bed tonight, spend five minutes imagining what it would be like not to have that bed.”
Zeke felt a growl well up in his throat. He didn’t have to imagine what it would be like. He knew from his own experience, and no charity had come along to rescue him. He pushed the unwelcome memory aside, preferring to picture himself in Tara’s bed. Arousal throbbed through him at the very thought. Considering that it felt like a lifetime since he’d been with Tara, he was amazed how clearly he remembered every moment together, starting with the day he’d met her.
She had been the celebrity attraction at a car show where he had gone to check out the latest model Branxton convertible. He had barely been able to find the car for the spotlights and cameras aimed at her as she posed alongside it.
Irritated at having to wait until the publicity shoot ended, he had voiced his disapproval to a colleague he spotted in the throng. “Do they still have to sell cars by draping them with bubble-brained women in low-cut clothes?”
“Depends whether you’re selling the lowered sports suspension or the viscous drive differential,” came a throaty voice in his ear. Startled, he’d noticed that the photographers had been dismantling their gear and trying not to grin as the model cornered him with fire in her eyes.
He’d felt himself flushing. “You heard?”
“Enough to know that you’re wrong about me on at least one count.”
His gaze had slid over her breasts swelling so tantalizingly in the low-cut gown that his throat dried in automatic response. “It obviously isn’t the dress.”
Her lips had begun to twitch. “Obviously.”
“Doesn’t it bother you to be used as a prop to sell cars?”
She had shrugged, somehow imbuing the gesture with grace and beauty. “Doesn’t it bother you to write about chicken farming?”
“Battery hens,” he had corrected her, unwillingly pleased that she had connected him with his latest piece. “It’s my job.”
“For the moment, this is mine.” She’d offered her hand. “I’m Tara McNiven.”
Her fingers had felt cool in his and he found he didn’t want to let her go. So he hadn’t. “Zeke Blaxland. Shall we continue this discussion over coffee?”
To his relief she had nodded. “There’s a Green Room behind the main stage. We can go there. It’s more private.”
Private had sounded good. “My place is even more private.”
She had given him an old-fashioned look. “I already told you I’m not bubble-headed.”
He soon discovered it was true. Apart from a masters in business, she had a burning curiosity about everything including him, he was humbled to find out. He was still astonished by how good a team they made, out of bed as well as in it. Her refusal to come with him to America had been all the more devastating because he had finally thrown caution to the wind and started to trust her. He had even started imagining a future together.
His memories weren’t only of the good times, either. He recalled nursing her through a bad bout of flu, the first time he’d done such a thing for anybody. He’d been worried about getting it wrong, and had probably gone overboard with the chicken soup and the funny videos, not to mention watching over her while she slept.
When she awoke and found him there, she had protested that she looked awful. He couldn’t convince her that he found her beautiful even when her nose was as red as a beacon and her glorious hazel eyes were streaming with cold.
She was all fire and brimstone now as she urged her audience to be aware of the world outside their own, and Zeke’s body responded to her passion automatically. He was glad he had a folder of notes to hide the reaction. He could almost see the headlines if his response was noticed—Charity Spokesperson’s Most Upstanding Convert. When had he started thinking in headlines? Maybe he’d been writing the darned column too long.
He tried to focus on her words. Despite what she evidently suspected, he had come with an open mind, knowing that if anyone could give him another slant on the charity story, Tara could. He’d been open-minded in approaching all the groups he’d included in the series. It hadn’t been his fault that, upon closer investigation, they had been found wanting.
He’d meant it when he told Tara that he learned from his mistakes. He was starting to suspect that one of them had been accepting the offer to file his column from the paper’s parent publisher in America. What had seemed like the chance of a lifetime was beginning to look like the biggest mistake of his life.
After the emotional tug-of-war he’d endured as a child, he had never wanted anyone to become as important to him as Tara had. Was that why he’d headed for another country? He hated to think so, but the longer he was in the same room with her, the more he was forced to question
