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‘You realise that the more you evade the question the more fascinated I become?’
‘Then you’re only setting yourself up for disappointment. I have no great revelation for you. Just my rather ordinary opinion.’
‘I would hardly call you rather ordinary,’ he countered, his gaze sweeping over her as though she’d laid down a fresh challenge.
‘For pity’s sake...’ She exhaled, but then she ducked her eyes from his and he knew he had her.
He pressed his advantage home. ‘What is marriage to you, Saskia?’
‘Marriage is... Well, it’s love. True love.’
‘Like you had with that cheating ex-fiancé of yours?’
It occurred to him, a fraction too late, that some part of him was jealous.
Ridiculous. He didn’t do jealous. And yet...
‘No, not like Andy,’ Saskia refuted hotly. ‘He was an idiot for treating me the way he did, and I was even more of one for letting him.’
It shouldn’t, yet her admission buoyed Malachi.
‘Then what?’
‘I... I don’t know.’
‘Something Hollywood, perhaps? Glittery and perfect? I hate to burst your bubble, Saskia, but that’s just for the movies—it doesn’t really exist.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ she managed hotly. ‘My mother was big screen royalty, so I’ve lived it, remember?’
‘Then what?’ he pushed again. ‘Perhaps something more akin to the passionate, heady thing your parents had? That well-documented great romance?’
He was deliberately needling her, but still Malachi wasn’t prepared for the bleak look which suddenly pierced her gaze. A split second of pain which he could read only too acutely, could recognise only too easily. It sliced through him, too, spiked and merciless, before Saskia yanked her features into a semblance of equilibrium.
Malachi faltered. It was widely known that Saskia’s parents had been madly in love—the
Hollywood dream. Even their deaths had been considered the embodiment of romance: dying in each other’s arms at the side of a road.
But it wouldn’t have been romantic for the young Saskia. What the hell had he been thinking, raking up memories which must be hurtful? And there was something about the expression in her eyes which warned him that the pain he’d seen ran even deeper than losing her parents.
He’d experienced enough to know that there was something else. Something more. Something the rest of the world didn’t seem to know.
He sought something to say, but nothing seemed right.
‘Passion is overrated,’ she managed, breaking the silence for herself. ‘We had passion, but it doesn’t mean anything. It was a one-night stand. It’s over. I don’t want you like that any more.’
Something kicked hard in his chest. ‘I think we both know that’s a lie.’
And then he was right there in front of her, unable to stop himself from reaching out and sliding one hand into those thick, glossy black curls that he imagined he could feel sweeping over his chest as they’d done every time she’d raked that wicked mouth of hers over his chest—and lower.
He tilted his head to look up into her eyes. Their rich, expressive depths were spilling over with unspoken longing, confirming all his suspicions. And still he had to force the next words out.
Testing her? Or himself?
He couldn’t quite tell.
‘One word, Saskia,’ he rasped. ‘One word from you and I’ll let you go and never speak of it again. So I’d advise you to be sure that’s what you really want.’
‘I...’
