I want you to be there for me...' The fevered heat in Stella's bloodstream drained away, axed by his physical withdrawal of passion but even more by his candor. 'What you want is a sex slave on tap...' 'I'd be bored rigid with a sex slave,' Dior retorted with unblemished cool.
A ragged and involuntary laugh escaped Stella. But, raising her hands, she firmly detached herself from him and stepped back. 'You are so smooth, Dior.
And this ridiculous conversation is pointless. You're wasting your time.' His dark, deep-set eyes rested on her, his strong bone structure clenching. 'You belong with me—' 'No, I don't.' Stella tossed back her head as she challenged that contention. 'Nor do I have the slightest desire to be kept by anyone. The hours I work, I haven't even got a room for a man in my life.
I should be furious with you for asking me to be your mistress. But you did remind me that you are Greek. I suppose I have to make allowances for cultural differences...' A dark rise of blood now marked Dior's spectacular cheekbones. 'I think you want me to chase you—'
"That's your ego talking. What I want is to forget we ever met,' Stella contradicted with fierce conviction, her fingernails biting into her palms. 'But you're so used to being top of every woman's wish list that when I say no you can't accept that I mean no!' hazel green eyes burned into hers in a ferocious challenge.
'If I walk away now, it's over.' At that warning, and in spite of all she had said, Stella's breath snarled up in her throat. She felt hollow in the taut, waiting silence which followed. Without another word, Dior strode to the door. And then he was gone. Stella waited for a few minutes and then went downstairs to lock up after him. When she came back up, the room felt empty and cold.
It was as if Dior had taken all the light and energy with him. She dismissed that fanciful impression and strove without success to appreciate the irony of the proposition he had laid before her. After all, no persuasion known to mankind would have persuaded Stella to even consider such a lifestyle...
Her mother had been her father's mistress for sixteen years, a covert relationship full of lies and endless pretenses. From the day she was old enough to finally understand why her mother had no friends in the small coastal town where they had lived, Stella had been bitterly ashamed of her parentage.
Caroline had decided that she could not live without the married father of her child, and in so doing, she had wrecked her own life. Stella suppressed her memories of her less than idyllic childhood and grimaced. No, she would never be guilty of repeating her mother's mistakes.
In a couple of weeks, Dior probably wouldn't even remember her name. Unfortunately, she suspected that she was going to be remembering him for a very long time... Slicing through her defenses, Dior had sent her flying high into the realms of romantic fantasy. He had taken her to paradise in bed. But within hours he had mercifully brought her back down to earth with a jarring crash.
He had hurt her more than she had known she could be hurt. She had learned that she was far more naive than she would ever have been prepared to admit. Not a bad lesson to learn, Stella told herself, striving to feel more upbeat.
The excitement was over now. She had resisted Dior Harlequin. She had done the right tiling. But why hadn't she appreciated how dreadful doing the right thing might make her feel?