Luke turned around and leant casually back against the bench. He saw her white-knuckled grip on the chair, the anger and the fear in her huge eyes, and cursed under his breath. He should never have pounced on her so fiercely. But she had enraged him with her estimation of his character and he had completely lost control, which was most unlike him.
'A simple "no" would have done, Jemma,' he drawled. Why she objected to the name Mimie he was determined to discover. But now was not the time. 'I've never had to pressure a woman into bed and I don't intend to start with you, so you can relax your grip on the chair and get me that drink you offered.'
'The drink I offered?' Jemma echoed in an incredulous tone, the nerve of the man astounding her. 'Are you crazy? I want you out of my house now.'
'Now, is that any way to treat a guest?' Luke straightened and strolled forward. 'Think what your father would say if he heard his daughter had behaved with such an appalling lack of manners to the grandson of one of his major shareholders. Then there's Jan as well, as you were so kind to point out.' He stopped beside her, his grey eyes narrowing on her flushed face.
'My father… Jan…?' Jemma repeated. What was he going on about? And why did she have the uneasy feeling there was a threat in there somewhere?
'Jan is under the impression—along with everyone else—that you're one step removed from a saint and have lived the life of a nun since the death of your husband. So, as for you not telling her about our one-night stand—that you would cut out your tongue rather than tell her, I believe you said—well, I have no such qualms. I will quite happily tell the whole world I made love to you last year. Though it might spoil your grieving widow act somewhat.'
His callous comment hurt her deeply—her grief was not an act. Jemma missed her late husband every day; she missed his kindness, his comfort, his conversation, and the sense of absolute love and security that Alan had provided. Yet this arrogant, conceited jerk, who had probably never loved anyone in his life, had the nerve to mock her loss.
Luke's deriding of her grief transformed her hurt into a cold, defiant anger. Releasing her grip on the chair, slowly Jemma turned and squared her shoulders. 'You would do that? You would deliberately upset Jan in that way? Now, why doesn't that surprise me?' she jeered, giving a disgusted shake of her head. Not waiting for his response, she added, 'Follow me and I'll get you that drink.' Completely ignoring him, she walked out of the kitchen and opened the door into the living room, knowing exactly what he would see.
She crossed to a small antique bureau that doubled as a drinks cabinet and filled a crystal glass with a shot of whisky.
'I only have whisky, I'm afraid.' She turned and walked back to where Luke was standing, looking curiously around. 'Here.' She held out the glass and made sure her fingers did not touch his as he took it from her with a brief 'Thanks' and a knowing lift of one dark brow that simply reinforced her determination to be rid of him once and for all.
'It's a very good Irish malt, I believe—not that I drink it,' she continued, crossing to sit down on one of the large sofas that framed the ornate Victorian fireplace. 'But it was Alan's favourite and he was quite a connoisseur. Now, remind me, what was it you thought so urgent that you had to barge into my house to talk to me?' She watched as he prowled around the room, glass in hand. The room she had thought was spacious suddenly seemed to take on the dimensions of a doll's house with Luke Devetzi's presence, and as the silence lengthened she shifted uncomfortably and finally added, 'Please take a seat.'
'I'd rather stand, thank you.' One look around the room had been enough to tell Luke the place was a virtual shrine to the late, lamented Alan Barnes… He picked up a framed wedding photograph from among the dozen or more framed photographs arranged on top of a beautifully inlaid console table and grimaced. The bride was Jemma, and she was gazing up into the face of her groom with a totally besotted smile on her face. The tender but triumphant smile on the man's face said it all. The fact that he was quite good-looking, with brown curly hair and laughing blue eyes, did nothing to improve Luke's mood. 'You were a beautiful bride,' he said finally, glancing across at her. She calmly nodded her head in thanks but said not word.
He put the picture back down and glanced over the others. There was a group photo of the wedding; it had obviously been a big affair. There were more pictures of the happy couple with a crowd of friends at a barbecue, and one of Jemma at her husband's side by a swimming pool, holding his hand and laughing. The image of a near naked Jemma in a tiny bikini darkened his mood still further.
Frowning, he abruptly turned away and took a swallow of the whisky; there was no denying it was good malt. But he was drinking another man's whisky, lusting after a dead man's wife, and somehow it left a nasty taste in his mouth. He strolled back to where Jemma sat watching him with cool, guarded eyes and lowered his long frame down on the sofa opposite her.
'Your husband was an attractive man; how long had you known him before you married?' Luke asked, not really sure why. But Jemma fascinated him in a way no woman had in years—if ever, he wryly conceded. Serene and beautiful she might be on the outside, but he knew she was a burning cauldron of passion within.
'You want a potted history of my life? Then will you get out of it?' she demanded bluntly.
'If that is what you want…yes.' Luke agreed.
Taking him at his word, Jemma launched into speech. 'I met Alan when I was twelve and he was twenty-one, working for my Aunt Mary as a researcher. He became my best friend, and later my boyfriend when I was at college. He encouraged my interest in floristry, and when I graduated he encouraged me to set up in business with Liz. He was kind, loving, and totally supportive. We married when I was twenty-two. Four years later he was killed in a gliding accident.'
'He might have been a paragon of virtue, but he was also a fool to risk his life gliding with a passionate, sexy woman like you at home to warm his bed,' Luke
murmured.
She didn't like the 'passionate, sexy' bit, that was not Jemma at all, but she let nothing show on her face as she responded coolly, 'You never knew him, so your opinion is irrelevant.'
'Was he a passionate lover?'
'That's none of your business,' she snapped, outraged that he dared ask. 'And now I've told you what you wanted to know, will you please leave?'
'Surely I'm allowed to finish my whisky first?' He raised his glass to her, then took a sip and lounged back on the sofa, stretching his long legs out before him with nonchalant ease.
Jemma might have guessed it had been too good to be true when he'd agreed to leave so readily. She hoped the whisky choked the damn man. But with a patently false smile she said sweetly, 'If you must.'
'Thank you. I must say your husband did have great taste in whisky—among other things,' Luke taunted, allowing his eyes to roam slowly over her in blatant masculine appraisal of her gorgeous body.
She was sitting there so prim, so cool and yet he knew she was anything but… Her back was ramrod-straight, her arms were folded across her lush breasts and her knees were pressed tightly together. If she'd been any more on the defensive she would have been carrying a shield and sword. He wondered why… She wasn't a young girl—she had to be twenty-eight, by his reckoning—and she was certainly no virgin, so why was she intent on denying the sexual chemistry between them?
'Have you slept with any other man besides me since your husband died?' he asked, and saw the flash of temper in the golden depths of her eyes.
'Certainly not,' Jemma said without thinking.
'I see—so why me?' Luke asked, holding her angry gaze with his own. 'I'm entitled to know, Jemma—after all, it's not every day a man picks up a beautiful woman and makes love to her, and then afterwards she slips a wedding ring on her finger and declares that she is married.'