StrokeofMidnight Read online

  A small, inarticulate cry escaped her and she shuddered. Thick lashes lowered.

  “Sweetheart,” he murmured and slid a finger lower.

  “There you two are,” a cheery voice interrupted, shattering the desire-thickened tension woven around them like a cocoon.

  In an instant, the passion of a woman on the verge of surrender gave way to such stricken vulnerability Darius bit off a blistering curse. He turned around and blocked Rowyn from her sister’s view. Even as he faced Cindy and forced a stiff smile to his lips, nothing could erase that haunted expression from his mind.

  “Dad wanted to give you a tour of the house, Darius.” Cindy crossed the room and linked an arm through his. She tipped her head back then gave him a pretty grin and flirtatious squeeze. “He’d like to show you where the party will be held Saturday night. You are staying in town for it, aren’t you?” She guided him toward the opened door of the room and he allowed it. As he responded to her question about his plans, his thoughts lingered on the silent woman who remained in the living room.

  No doubt shoring up her prickly defenses.

  Good thing he didn’t mind getting scratched.

  Chapter Four

  “When another ball was held the next evening, Cinderella again attended with her Godmother’s help. The prince became even more entranced.”—Cinderella

  “What? Do I have broccoli stuck between my teeth?”—Rowyn Jeong

  “I’m coming!”

  Rowyn almost flew down the staircase, shoving pins in her chignon as she hurried to answer the insistent ringing of her doorbell. A harried glance at her wristwatch revealed the time—7:30 a.m. A barrage of thoughts raced through her mind and set her heart pounding. Her mother. Cindy. An accident. It had to be bad news to bring someone to her door, much less this early in the morning.

  God, please let them be all right…

  She gripped the knob with one hand and twisted the lock with the other. Not bothering to peek out the side window, Rowyn jerked the door open.

  And stared.

  “Good morning.” Darius grinned down at her.

  What. The. Fuck.

  “Please tell me you’re bringing news of a tragic car accident and have beaten the police to my door.”

  He arched a dark eyebrow. Rather than respond, he held out a Styrofoam cup. A thin wisp of vapor rose from its lid, bringing with it the seductive aroma of freshly brewed coffee. She scowled and folded her arms across her chest. He didn’t really think he could distract her with coffee, did he?

  Darius sighed. “No tragic accident. Why would you think that?”

  “It is the only explanation for your showing up at my house this early in the morning. Hell, showing up at my house—period,” she snapped.

  “Such a gracious host.” He tsked, shaking his head, a small smile playing about his full lips. Damn, those lips. The things he could do with them… She delivered a mental slap to herself with a sharp order to get it together. But the warning came too late. He had already maneuvered his way past her and into the foyer of her home.

  With a low growl of irritation, Rowyn slammed the door behind him. Darius turned and once again, she ignored the offer of the cup.

  “What are you doing here?” Jesus, she shrieked like a shrew. And yet she couldn’t stop the anxiety that sharpened her voice. Her home was her domain. Her sanctuary. The four years she’d lived in the Back Bay house, no one but Wanda had been allowed inside.

  Without glancing behind her, she knew the soft colors, overstuffed couches and landscape paintings he studied represented a side of her she didn’t reveal to many people. His survey of the airy living room that opened off the small foyer caused a vulnerability she detested.

  “Very nice,” he commented, bringing his inspection to rest on her face. With those deep blue eyes that seemed to see far too much, the touch of his gaze was almost tactile. She resisted rubbing her face to discover if she’d inadvertently left behind a dab of moisturizer.

  “What?” she asked, wheezing as if she’d just sprinted around the block.

  “Nothing,” he said and, with the same half-smile quirking a corner of his mouth, extended the coffee cup again. “Please,” he murmured.

  “Shit,” she mumbled and accepted the hot drink. Their fingertips brushed and a bolt of lightning charged up her arm, straight to her breasts and zinged to her pussy. Winded, she glanced down at her linen sheath, amazed no scorch patterns appeared on her clothes. She flicked her eyes up and slammed into such heat, the raw power in his gaze intensified the sweet ache in her nipples and between her thighs.

  God, his stare seemed to burn a hole right through her.

  Had anyone ever looked at her like that before? Yes. He had. While stripping her clothes from her body. While staring up at her from between her spread thighs as he circled her clit with his tongue in a wicked caress. While pounding into her pussy with such force the headboard had banged against the wall in time to his measured and deliberate thrusts.

  Blood rushed between her thighs, and even now the echo of those demanding strokes pulsed deep in her sex. Moisture glazed her slit, drenching her panties. The power this man had over her body with one look. It should be criminal.

  Rowyn ducked her head on the pretense of drinking her coffee and stepped back. She lifted the cup to her mouth, sipped and jerked her head up in shock.

  “You know how I take my coffee?” she asked, the creamy flavor of the brew still on her tongue. Most people would assume a ball-buster like her would prefer her coffee black, not liberally sweetened with cream and sugar.

  “You ordered a cup before we left the bar,” he reminded her and cocked his head, studying her. “There isn’t much I don’t remember about you, Rowyn.”

  Silence filled the foyer. His words dropped in her soul like a pebble in a pool of water and unfamiliar warmth rippled out in ever-widening rings of tenderness. He barely knew her and yet he’d noticed and remembered her likes. She couldn’t even say the same about her family.

  “Well…” She cleared her throat and curled her toes self-consciously against the cool wood floor. “What are you doing here?”

  “Since this is my first time to your city, I thought I’d do the tourist thing.” He gave her what he probably considered a charming smile. And damn him, it was. “I couldn’t think of a better guide than you.”

  “What have you been smoking?” Flames rushed up her neck and singed her face as he grinned wide. She grimaced and wondered where the hell her much-lauded reserve had disappeared to.

  Rowyn made it an art of hiding her emotions behind a wall of indifference. She’d learned long ago if she didn’t give a reaction, people—Pamela—didn’t derive as much pleasure from needling and provoking her. So how Darius managed to slip under her defenses and wreak hell so effortlessly boggled her mind. “It’s a workday, in case you haven’t noticed. And that’s where I’m headed. To work.”

  “Take a day off.”

  “I don’t take days off,” she protested, balking.

  He arched a brow and she ground her teeth together, surprised she didn’t exhale powdered enamel. God, she was beginning to hate that eyebrow.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” he replied calmly.

  “Not today there—”

  Darius held up a finger and her mind blanked at the imperious gesture. She blinked. Then blinked again. “Did you…” she sputtered. “Did you just hold up a finger on me?” Her voice rose a decibel with each word, outrage and disbelief jacking the volume up to the no-the-hell-he-didn’t level.

  “You’re yelling,” he pointed out.

  “Damn right,” she snarled and stabbed a finger toward the front door. “You can go now.”

  “Oh, I intend to,” Darius agreed and slid a hand in the front pocket of his black pants, the coffee he’d bought for himself in the other. Unfortunately the loose fit did nothing to detract from his narrow waist, the strength of his muscled thighs or the impressive bulge under the zippered pan
el. “As soon as you change, we’ll leave.”

  Rowyn tightened her grip on the cup while fisting her other hand at her side. Ten, nine, eight, seven…

  “Are you growling?” That fucking brow again? By God she was going to snatch it off his forehead!

  “I. Am. Going. To. Work.”

  “Hmmm…” He lifted the insulated coffee cup to his mouth and studied her over the lid. He sipped the coffee, the muscles of his throat working. Even the man’s Adam’s apple was sexy. “I can spend this day with you or I could accept Daniel’s lunch invitation, followed by a round of golf. Of course I don’t play, but I’m sure we could find all sorts of fascinating topics to discuss…”

  Rowyn had grown up with Pamela as a mother so she understood anger. But never had she experienced the primal urge to kill. Maim. Dismember.

  “Blackmail is not attractive,” she snapped.

  “Ah.” He tapped a finger against his bottom lip. ”But is it effective?” Darius smiled and she suspected he didn’t try to conceal the satisfaction in his expression or tone.

  He’d won this round and they both knew it.

  “I’ll be right back.” She shot him a glare of disgust, and then wheeled around to head back up the stairs, warm cup still clasped in her hand.

  And they accused her of having brass balls.

  * * * * *

  “Admit it. You’re having a good time.”

  Rowyn slanted a glance at the man walking beside her. The hot afternoon sun beamed down on the walking trail next to the Charles River, highlighting the lighter shades of brown in his hair. The dark curls were long enough to form a sexy cap around his well-shaped head, but short enough to emphasize his patrician features. In a nutshell, he looked like the gorgeous Roman emperor he most likely descended from.

  But the impression didn’t stop with his appearance. His commanding presence, confident tilt of his chin, long-legged stride—they all attested to a man accustomed to leading and inspiring others to follow. The man had established a clothing empire that dominated the northwest and western markets. That kind of success took a special kind of grit and determination—not to mention brilliance.

  And to top it all off, he could fuck as if he’d invented it.

  “C’mon, Rowyn.” He tipped his half-eaten strawberry ice cream cone in her direction. “’Fess up. You’re enjoying yourself. You took a day off work and the world market didn’t crash, California didn’t plummet into the sea and the earth’s core didn’t implode.”

  She scrunched her nose. “Fine. It hasn’t sucked.”

  Darius laughed, the rumble low and earthy. She couldn’t help but smile in return. The day hadn’t stunk. She swept her tongue over the banana ice cream topping her sugar cone. It had been wonderful. Though Rowyn had been ready to wipe the floor with him earlier, her anger had soon given way to the secret thrill of being with him.

  In the dark, hidden place that was accessible only after several glasses of wine, she owned up to a shameful delight that he’d taken the choice of spending the day with him out of her hands. He’d made her concede to the desire her heart hungered for but her head denied.

  The thought would undoubtedly get her women’s lib card revoked, but Darius overrode all rational decision making.

  They’d spent hours visiting such tourist traps as Faneuil Hall Market Place, Fenway Park—she shuddered in revulsion—the Bull and Finch Pub, better known as the Cheers bar, as well as the many shops and stores along Newbury Street. Even though she’d lived in Boston all her life, it had been years since she’d taken the leisure time to explore and enjoy her hometown. Not only was she seeing the historical landmarks and colorful sights through Darius’s eyes, but through her own as well.

  Something else to thank him for.

  “Thank you,” Darius said as he studied the quaint shops, vendors and buildings edging the banks of the Charles River before bringing his gaze back to her. He lifted his arm and stroked his free hand down the long tail of hair brushing her shoulder blades. She fought to not close her eyes at the gentle caress. The small tug on her scalp reverberated in her belly. God. She was thankful she’d chosen the more casual ponytail over the professional chignon. “The most experienced tour guide couldn’t have treated me to the day you have.”

  Rowyn shrugged and pleasure at his praise coursed through her like a slow-moving current. This time she didn’t ignore the fluttering in her stomach—she’d stopped the futile exercise hours ago.

  “Blackmail aside,” she drawled, “I’m glad I came. I’d forgotten how beautiful and fun Boston could be.” Memories overwhelmed her as if the lock containing them had been picked and the mental images sprang free. A steel band constricted her chest and Rowyn fought to drag air into her lungs. “The last time I walked this trail was with my father. We’d spent the day together celebrating my fifteenth birthday.”

  “Are you close?” Darius asked, popping the last bite of his cone in his mouth.

  “Were,” Rowyn corrected. And the pain throbbing in her heart vibrated in her voice. “He died eight years ago.”

  “Oh sweetheart,” he murmured and reached toward her. His larger hand engulfed her smaller one and held tight. “I’m so sorry.” He drew her closer and she didn’t resist, needing his comforting nearness. “I didn’t know.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “It’s okay. And to answer your question, no, we weren’t very close. Before he died, we were trying to rectify that.”

  Rowyn paused beside a trash bin, pitched in her half-finished cone and accepted Darius’s napkin to toss as well. Inside, the words she’d never verbalized churned in her chest like a furious cyclone, gathering momentum, ready to burst free. But fear corked the flood. She wanted to talk to Darius—confide in him—but an invisible hand covered her mouth, trapping the words.

  With a light tug, he guided her back to the middle of the path. They resumed walking, her hand still firmly clasped in his.

  “You know, I grew up in a family not so different from yours. We were prominent, well-to-do, in the clothing business. My father is third-generation Italian. His grandfather had emigrated from Italy and founded a department store that started with a wheeled cart full of shoes.”

  “He sounds like a remarkable, determined man.”

  “From the stories, that description’s pretty accurate. He died when I was a baby. But my grandfather was just like him. Proud. Hard-working. Not free with praise, but when he gave it, it felt like the sky had just opened up and beamed down a gift.” Darius chuckled. “I loved him, and though he never uttered the words, I know he loved me. Unfortunately my father could not say the same.”

  Caught up in his story, Rowyn hadn’t noticed he’d paused beside one of the benches that dotted the trail. Darius lowered to the seat and gently pulled her down beside him. The wood warmed the underside of her thighs through the thin material of her dress and she leaned a shoulder against the back of the bench, her body turned toward him.

  She hung on every word, hungry to learn more about this man who had captivated her from the first moment she’d noticed him standing at the end of the nightclub’s bar.

  “My father disappointed my grandfather. From his choice of wife, to anglicizing his name to ‘Fury’, to how he ran the family business. So he transferred his attention and time to me…and my father resented me for the approval he believed should’ve been his.”

  Darius flipped over the hand he held and, staring down at it, traced the light brown lines crisscrossing her pale palm. The tender touch tingled, transmitting hot pricks of pleasure to her breasts and between her thighs. She squirmed under the caress that, compared to others they’d shared, was almost platonic. But anything Darius did—from hand-holding to an innocent stroke across her palm—amounted to foreplay.

  “Since I was old enough to understand, my father has been in competition with me. A spontaneous game of basketball turned into a vicious battle. When I brought home a report card full of A’s and B’s, he pulled out a report ca
rd from his childhood that contained straight A’s. After I graduated from college and joined the company, he fought every promotion and bonus because he wanted me to earn my way through hard work and not nepotism, regardless if I remained in the office long after everyone had left or contributed to the rise in revenue for the entire year. His bitterness toward my grandfather never allowed us to have a relationship.”

  God, she understood that. Never being good enough. Never being able to attain approval, no matter the awards, accolades or success. Never receiving love from the one who was supposed to give it unconditionally.

  She clenched her fingers into a fist, battling the urge to reach out and brush a caress down his cheek. Or stroke her thumb over one of those damn eyebrows. But years of rejection seemed like a manacle around her wrist, chaining her arm to her side.

  Touch him. Comfort him. Give him what you’ve yearned for.

  With a force of will that set her heart pounding in a frantic beat, Rowyn lifted her arm, extended her hand toward him and cupped his jaw. Displays of affection were as foreign to her as the Bible to an atheist. Sex with Darius had been a risk. She had shared and submitted her body to him in a way she’d never done with another man. Yet this small gesture left her more exposed and vulnerable than the hours she’d spent naked in his bed. It bared her heart, staked it to her chest—an easy target for rejection.

  When Darius covered her hand with his then turned his head to place a kiss in the center of her palm, she sighed. And the band around her chest loosened.

  “My mother resents me,” she said softly. “Every time she looks at me, she’s reminded of my father who she believes chose his family over her.” The confession stumbled past her lips. For the first time, she admitted aloud the truth she’d known for more than half her life. Wanda understood the Harrisons weren’t the happy-go-lucky unit they represented in pictures, but even she didn’t know the extent of the antipathy.