suddenly contracted beneath her gaze.
Declan Knight. She remembered the taste of him as if it were yesterday.
Her gaze dropped swiftly over muscled contours and her breath caught in her throat. Please don’t let him be naked. A rapid sigh of relief gusted past her lips at the view of a fluffy white towel wrapped low around his hips. A tiny droplet of water followed the shadowed line of his hip and arrowed slowly downwards.
Her mouth dried.
With Herculean effort she willed her eyes to work their way up—past the well-developed pectoral muscles, up the column of a strong masculine neck, where strands of glistening black hair caressed powerful shoulders, and all the way to where they finally clashed with cold, obsidian-coloured eyes.
He still held her. The gentle clasp of his long fingers belied the burning imprint that scorched through the filmy sleeves of her blouse and contrasted against the chilled disdain in his gaze. Fingers that tightened almost painfully as he recognised just who he held.
He let go rapidly, leaving her to find her own balance. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He looked as though he wanted to get straight back into the shower stall after touching her. Heat burned a wild bloom of colour across her cheeks and anger rose swift and sharp from the pit of her belly. Her fingers curled into impotent fists at her side.
“I’m fine, thank you for asking.” Gwen reached up one hand and rubbed absently at her arm, although the movement only served to highlight the absence of his touch rather than negate it. “I need to talk to you—it’s important.”
“Go and wait out the front. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Right. Of course. I’ll do that then.” Gwen retrieved her handbag from by her feet and stormed back to the reception area, her heart hammering in her chest. What was wrong with her? Where was her brain? She really had to pull it together.
Slowly she counted to ten, focusing on each inward and outward breath. It was a simple strategy, and effective. One she’d perfected when she’d first arrived in New Zealand, from Italy, at nine years old—abandoned to the care of a disapproving maiden aunt by her capricious mother, who preferred her jet-set lifestyle without a child to hinder her liaisons.
“Steve’s not here.”
Gwen flinched at the sound of his voice and turned to face her nemesis. He’d obviously roughly towel-dried his hair, and although he’d dressed quickly he hadn’t taken the time to dry himself properly. The fine cotton of his dress shirt clung in patches like a second skin to his damp skin. She snapped her eyes away, drew her back up as straight as she could manage and lifted her chin to meet his penetrating regard head-on.
Despite working within the same industry, they’d managed to avoid making contact on more than a cursory social level. Even on those occasions, at company functions, they’d managed to avoid having to be polite to one another. A cursory nod of acknowledgement, a not-quite-there smile when in a group of colleagues. They’d kept their distance. Distance he was obviously equally determined to maintain.
“I know.” Her voice sounded as though it came from a stranger. Stilted, forced. Now that the time had come, the words dried up uselessly in her throat.
“So why are you here? If this is supposed to be one of those face-your-past things before you get married—”
“No! Oh, God, no. Definitely not.” How could he even think she wanted to bring that up again? The humiliating rejection after they’d futilely sought comfort in one another. She never wanted to cross that road again. Ever.
She watched as he pulled a vibrantly coloured, rolled up silk tie from his trouser pocket and threaded it underneath his collar. Gwen cleared her throat of the obstruction that threatened to choke her as she remembered just how dexterous those long fingers could be. How she’d been at their absolute mercy.
“Steve’s gone,” she blurted in an attempt to clear her mind of the sensual fog that clouded her thoughts.
“Gone? What are you talking about? We’re all supposed to be at your party in about—” he broke off to look at his watch.
“About thirty minutes.”
“So, we’ll see him there. What’s the problem?” Halfway through settling the knot of his tie at the base of his throat, his hands stilled. Her eyes still locked on his hands, Gwen stared at the slightly roughened edges of his fingers, evidence that given the opportunity he was as hands-on as any of his workers, at the graze across the knuckle on his index finger. At anything but the question in his eyes.
“Steve’s left the country.” The words tasted like charcoal in her mouth.
“Left the country?”
“With all our money. Yours and mine.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Gwen held her ground. She only wished she was kidding. Sudden seriousness chased the derisive look from Declan’s face as his eyes raked her face for any sign of a lie.
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
She shook her head slowly. The sting of moisture pricked at the back of her eyes and she pressed her lips into a firm line, blinking back the urge to let loose her fears.
“When? How?”
“He left a message on my cell. I was working in the Clevedon Valley—there’s no reception—he knew I wouldn’t get the call until I came out of the black spot. By then it was too late to stop him.”
“You’re saying he rang to tell you this? Why would he do that?”
Steve’s gloating satisfaction replayed in her mind. She’d never forget that tone in his voice, the absolute glee that he’d gotten away with it combined with the fact that he’d known all along there’d been something between her and Declan in the past. He’d found a way to hurt them both. The man he’d most wanted to be and the woman he’d thought Declan still wanted. But he’d been wrong. Totally wrong.
“Does it matter why he did it? The fact is he did. He’s cleaned us both out!” Her hands twisted the strap of her handbag. Round and round until it resembled a piece of rag caught in a drill bit at high speed.
Declan swore under his breath and booted up the computer at the front desk. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he logged onto his bank’s Internet service, then stilled as the reality sunk in.
“I’m gonna kill the bastard.” His voice low, feral.
“Well, take a number and stand in line. You’d better call the police. If you’ll excuse me, I have a party to stop and a wedding to cancel.” She pivoted on her heels and walked back out the door, half expecting any minute for him to call out to her to stop. To say something, anything. But he didn’t.
Minutes later, fighting to control the anger that surged and swirled inside him, Declan hung up the phone from the police. There was little that could be done right now. He’d visit the station first thing in the morning.
He drummed his fingers on the desk, selecting and discarding ideas as to what to do next. Steve Crenshaw had single-handedly dealt the blow that could devastate Cavaliere Developments and put his entire staff out of work. Informing his board of directors would be the logical thing to do; no doubt the police would want to speak to them, too, once he’d formalised his statement.
He slammed his hands flat on the desk. Damn! To be so close, to be on the verge of success and have it all snatched away. That Gwen Jones had been the bearer of these particular bad tidings should have struck him as cruelly ironic. She was synonymous with everything that had gone wrong in his life in the past eight years.
It disturbed him a great deal more than he wanted to admit, seeing her so up close and personal just now—and to his absolute disgust his reaction hadn’t been entirely emotional. All along, while Steve had crowed about his forthcoming nuptials he’d pushed away