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She'd read somewhere recently that lust had a chemical basis, hormones or such sparking off endorphins in the brain which in turn impelled one's body to mate with the object of its desire without any reference to logic or common sense. A mindless animal thing, in other words.
A mindless animal thing was all she could possibly still feel for that man, she'd decided bitterly after her run-in with Damian at the weekend. Nothing else. Certainly not anything finer or deeper. She'd been silly even to consider such a possibility, let alone worry about it!
Since this was the case, she reasoned ruthlessly, then the person who needed protecting was herself, not Byron. How better to protect herself than to dress as provocatively as she always had, thereby ensuring his lust and contempt?
Celeste knew full well that the holier-than-thou Byron Whitmore would not contaminate himself by touching someone who epitomized everything he despised. She was safe, as long as she ran true to form. Whereas if she came out looking unexpectedly demure, shock might make him vulnerable to the primitive desires she knew still lurked in that staunchly high- principled soul of his. She'd seen the lust in his eyes the night of the ball as surely as she had felt her own.
A canary-yellow dress jumped out at her and she drew it from the rack, smiling. If that didn't put some fire in his veins and disgust into those beautiful blue eyes of his then her name wasn't Celeste Campbell.
Made of stretch jersey wool, the yellow sheath fitted her like a glove and finished mid-thigh. The high rolled neck and long tight sleeves practiced reverse psychology by being more provocative than the lowest-cut, most revealing style. Perhaps this had something to do with the way it clung, projecting a subtle promise rather than overt promiscuity.
Subtle?
Celeste laughed. There was nothing subtle about that yellow dress if it was worn without a bra and only tights underneath-the ones with built-in panties which had not a single ridge to reveal their existence. She had worn it that way to the races one day and caused a minor sensation. Celeste remembered the occasion with wry affection because her photograph had been splashed across all the Sunday society pages and she felt confident
Byron would have seen them. There was nothing that made her feel better than the knowledge she might have upset Byron's equilibrium. It was not simply a matter of a woman scorned having her revenge, as her brother probably believed.
It was a matter of justice. Byron had to be punished for what he had set in motion with his merciless ambition. She shouldn't have to be the only one to suffer.
The image of her lovely little baby girl swam before her eyes for a moment before she ruthlessly forced it down, down into the depths of darkness, hopefully never to surface again. She'd trained herself not to think about that any more, for what was the point?
She'd done all that she could, had tried to find her baby. Tried and tried and tried. In the end, she had had to put the search side and go on with her life. Either that, or kill herself, or go mad.
Her decision to put the past behind her and go on living had been a brave one. Of course, that didn't mean she no longer suffered, or that she was totally successful in blocking those crippling memories. This was the
second time this year she had lapsed. The first time had been when she'd seen that damned opal. How could she not have started thinking about the past when confronted by a piece of it? But confronting an inanimate object was nothing compared to confronting the man who'd set all the horrors in motion.
Celeste shuddered, then stiffened and straightened, using every ounce of her iron will to smooth the pained anguish from her face. Her tiger's eyes, which had mirrored intense distress for a second, now flashed with the type of coldly glittering lights that would have terrified any enemy.
Celeste only had one enemy within reach these days.
Byron Whitmore.
If I wear the matching yellow sandals complete with three-inch heels, she decided with icy determination, I should meet him eye to eye. Well, not quite, she conceded drily as she draped the yellow dress over her arm and picked up those same yellow sandals.
Byron stretched the tape measure to six feet four. If that wasn't daunting enough, he had shoulders like axe-handles and legs any football player would kill for. Top that off with a classically handsome face which was ageing better than Cary Grant's and you had a man so damned attractive it was downright unfair!
