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CHAPTER TWO
CRETEASGARDIDnot chase women before he went to bed with them.
He certainly did not chase them afterward.
There was absolutely no reason he should have found himself in a frozen garden on Christmas Eve, no matter who his former mistress was marrying.
It was a matter of no little astonishment that he was even aware of Timoney’s betrothal. He supposed it was possible that all of the women he had once claimed as his for a time had moved on into matrimony, but it was of no matter to him, as he could barely recall any of them.
And yet he felt as if he’d been assaulted by Timoney’s engagement from the start. All the tabloids that had taken such delight in chasing the two of them all over London while they were together had taken an equal delight in arch commentaryregarding Timoney’s new choice of man.He hadn’t gone looking for these accounts—and yet, it had seemed as if he could not avoid them.
Crete was not normally one to heed or even notice the opinions of others,so he had dismissed each and every article that had flashed at him from newsstands. For the whole month since her engagement announcement—a mere two months since the end of his relationship with her, not that he had counted—he had tended to his usual business affairs and told himself it was no matter to him what his former lover did.
He told himself this repeatedly, because it was usually true.If she chose to shackle herself to some old man, what was it to him?
As it turned out, Crete cared a great deal.
Far more than he would have liked.
And yet, having never chased a woman in his life, he had found himself...at something of a loss. Or as close to as he was capable of coming to such a state, given that he did not lose. As a matter of preference, will, and precedent.
He had never visited Timoney’s family home. Having been ejected from what passed for his own family twice—first as a toddler and then again when he was a young man—Crete had never found himself particularly interested in the familial institution. He had made his fortune with no help from anyone and disdained these English notions of blood and honor as a matter of course. He also could not recall Timoney ever speaking too much about the people she came from—but then, they had never done much in the way of talking.
But it had still been easy enough to find his way to this rambling estate in the quiet of the countryside, far enough outside town that London seemed like it belonged in a different lifetime altogether. That was the thing with these English landowners. The houses themselves had names and everyone knew how to find them.
When he’d set out from London tonight, Crete had told himself he was only going for a drive. Then, as he found that he was inexorably winding his way into Oxfordshire, he told himself that he would stop by to see her, that was all. Have a lovely cup of tea, the English answer to any awkward moment, and be on his way again.
That it was Christmas Eve hadn’t really occurred to him. But if it had, it wouldn’t have stopped him. He had about as much use for Christmas as he did for families.
The real question was why he thought it necessary that he see her at all.
For Crete never returned to scenes of crimes, passion, or pain. Ever. He did not look back, for his life was about new horizons. He had always had a terrible hunger that he preferred to slake as often as possible, which was why he kept mistresses. He liked his sex consistent, constant, and without all the games involved in meeting a new woman. And when they claimed they’d fallen in love with him, as they often did when they sensed his interest was waning, he simply moved on.
Though another truth was that after separating from Timoney, Crete had found his typical hunger...changed. Not muted or removed, but somehow, though two months had passed, he had not yet slaked his thirst.
And he had told himself a hundred stories to explain that bizarre lapse in his usual habits, but the truth was before him now.
Timoney, with her hair like spun gold flowing down her back tonight, catching the moonlight and gleaming brighter. Timoney, wrapped in a cloak that looked thick against the cold night air, but did nothing to disguise the lush ripeness of her figure. Perhaps it was that he recalled it too well.
And maybe it was the Greek in him who could never get enough of her eyes, as blue as the Mediterranean, even in the shadows of this cold winter garden.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him, staring up at him as if he was a ghost.
It was possible that Crete had entertained the notion that merely glancing upon him would wake her up from whatever spell she was laboring under. It was possible that he’d expected her to fly into his arms, the way she always had while they were together.
He scowled when she did not. “Surely that should be obvious.”
She did not look chastened. Her blue eyes blazed. Her chin tilted upward. “I can think of no reason.”
Something sparked in him, and it surprised him. For she was as beautiful as ever, that was true. And God knew, he was a man who not only appreciated beautiful things, but had appreciated her beauty in particular. Moreover, there were certain brands of fire that she’d shared with him and he had greatly enjoyed the flames of each.
But this was different.
Because for once, Timoney was not looking at him with her customary awe and emotion.
In fact, to his astonishment, she appeared to be glaring at him. Athim.
With what he could only call hostility.
