As he brought his gaze back up to her face, he met eyes so bruised and wounded, he was struck with shame at causing her to reveal herself. He hadn’t been trying to humiliate her. This wasn’t meant as a punishment.
The hatred in her eyes took it as such anyway, stabbing him with compunction.
“I wouldn’t work for you if your country was knocked back into the Stone Age and we were overinventoried in animal fur and flint. I’m leaving. Now.”
He didn’t try to stop her, sensing he’d misjudged her on a grand scale.
She tied her mask into place without looking at him. When she pressed the button to open the doors, they didn’t cooperate, remaining closed while she swore at her watch.
“Tiffany,” he cajoled, pulling her name from what he’d read, but not sure what he would say if he could persuade her to stay.
“Die,” she ordered flatly.
The doors opened and she walked out.
CHAPTER FOUR
FOR THE FIRST time in months, Tiffany cried. Really cried as she hugged her knees in the shower and released sobs that echoed against the tiles. They racked her so hard she thought she’d throw up. She hated her life, hated herself, hated him.
She’d still been processing his remark about her efforts being second-rate when he’d yanked back her curtain and looked at her as if she was an object of horror. As though he was repulsed.
Sex was not worth this. Men weren’t. She was old enough, and educated enough, to know that having a husband and kids were not necessary ingredients to a woman’s happiness. Why then was she so gutted every time she was forced to face that no man would ever want her? That a family life would never be hers?
It was self-pitying tripe, and she had to get over it.
Forcing her weak legs to support her, she turned off the shower and leaned against the wall, cold and dripping until she worked up the energy to pull on a robe. As she moved into her room, she felt empty. Not better, not depressed, just numb.
That was okay. She could live with numb.
Perching on the foot of the bed, she stared at her wrinkled fingers and wondered what she should do. Hide in her room until this ridiculous clubhouse opened its doors again? Fake appendicitis for a helicopter ride to the mainland? She felt sick. She was damp and feverish, aching all over, weak and filled with malaise.
A yawn took her by surprise and she thought, Siesta. One small thing in her favor. Crawling up to her pillows, she escaped into unconsciousness.
* * *
The sun crept around the edge of his balcony, likely to begin blistering his bare toes soon, but Ryzard was ready to stretch away the stiffness in his body anyway. He’d been motionless for over an hour as he read through the report he’d been provided by the Q Virtus staff.
Davis and Holbrook was an exceptional organization, very well regarded in the international construction industry. He could definitely do worse as he looked at rebuilding the broken roads and collapsed buildings in his city centers. They had wanted to land on his radar as he moved toward those sorts of goals, and now they were.
The rest of the report, about Mrs. Paul Davis, was even more interesting. She had started out as a wealthy society darling. Her marriage to a family friend had all the markings of a traditional fairy tale, right up to the wedding gown with a train and the multitiered cake.
Except a wedding gift from the bride’s brother of a prestigious sports car had been more temptation than the drunken groom could resist. He’d taken it up to ninety between the courtyard and the gates of the golf and country club, detonating it against a low brick wall before the guests had stopped waving.
After a flurry of death and memorial announcements accompanied by touch-and-go mentions of the bride, the reports had dried up. Fast-forward two years and his widow was taking the reins of her dead husband’s corporation. Her brother had held her power of attorney during her recovery, but his talents were better suited to hands-on architectural engineering. The plethora of awards he’d earned spoke to that very loudly.
All of this would have been flat information if it didn’t reinforce to Ryzard that he’d made a mistake in assuming she’d been trying to influence him with sex. What reason would she have? Her company was flourishing—somewhat surprisingly, given that her credentials amounted to an arts degree and attitude, but her grades were exceptional. She was certainly intelligent.
And he could personally attest that she was a ballbuster, he allowed with irony. He had no doubt she was more than a figurehead. If she had a vision, quite likely one formed in her husband’s name, she would achieve it.
Turning from that disturbing thought, he allowed that if Bregnovia had already attained recognition, she might have tried for an advantage while he had a wider playing field to draw from, but it would be a risky move until his government was recognized.
Did their interest in his business mean an acknowledgment for Bregnovia was in the works? Or was their rendezvous exactly what it seemed to be: two healthy people enjoying the pleasures of the mating ritual.
Heat pooled in his lap as he dwelt on the possibility she’d welcomed him because she’d been as caught up as he had in their physical compatibility.
A twinge of conscience followed, but he had long ago rationalized that his heart and his body were separate when it came to sex. He had the same basic needs as any living thing, requiring nutrition, a sheltered environment and a regular release of his seed. If a peculiar mix of chemistry intensified his reaction when that last happened, well, he couldn’t be held responsible. It was hormones, not emotion.
It was not infidelity against Luiza.
And Tiffany would have no reason to pursue him for sex to gain his business. It would only complicate what might otherwise be a wise and lucrative association.
Something he should take under consideration, he supposed, scraping the side of his thumb against the stubble coming in on his jaw. It didn’t matter how he cast their tryst. It shouldn’t happen again.
Except there was one other fact from this report that kept teasing him.
Mr. Holbrook, Tiffany’s father. An architect by education, he’d quickly become a career politician who’d worked his way up the ranks of local councils into a senator’s mansion. He was now running for the presidency.
Suppose last night had been pure coincidence. Why then had the Holbrooks requested he meet them here, under the discreet curtain of Q Virtus? If they feared making a play for his business would hurt the senator’s chances, they wouldn’t have met him at all. No, it must mean they knew the United States was leaning toward recognition.
A flush of excitement threatened to overtake him, but Ryzard reminded himself to be patient. Backing from the United States would influence many other countries to vote in his favor, but nothing was confirmed.
Still, one thing was clear: he needed another meeting with Tiffany Davis.
* * *
Tiffany woke foggy-headed to a noise in the main room like dishes rattling on a cart. Leaping from the bed, she staggered to the door into the lounge and found Ryzard Vrbancic directing one of the petite q’s to set a table on the balcony.
“What are you doing?” She turned the lapel of her robe up against her cheek.
“I thought you were showering, but apparently you went back to sleep.”
“What?” Tiffany scowled at him. “How do you know what I’ve been doing? I thought these rooms were completely secure,” she charged the woman in the red gown.
“I used my override to bring in the meal you ordered...didn’t you?” The young woman looked suspiciously at Ryzard, but he was quick.
“We did, thank you. I’ll manage from here. You can go.” To Tiffany, he said, “Don’t confuse the staff just because we’ve had a tiff.” A mild snort and, “You’re aptly named, aren’t you?”
“Get out of here,” she cried.
The petite q, already hurrying, ran to the door and out.
Goggling at Ryzard, whose mouth twitched, Tiffany said, “Seriously?”
“You’re overreacting.”
“I want you to leave.”
“I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse. Quit hiding and accept.”
She narrowed her eyes on his back as he moved onto the balcony, not interested in anything from him except assurances her family would never find out what had happened between them. Not that she was willing to say so.
It took everything in her to stand tall and say, “What kind of offer?” She was writhing inside at everything that had happened, yet had wound up dreaming about him. It had been erotic until it had turned humiliating.
“I can’t hear you,” he called from the balcony.
Clenching her teeth, she wavered in the doorway, hanging back while telling herself not to let him get away with this manipulation. At the very least, she ought to cover up. She didn’t so much as go for milk in the middle of the night without concealer for fear of frightening the staff at home. The only reason she’d forgone it this morning was because she’d expected to keep her mask on.