Forbidden Fire by Heather Graham Page A

again, inhaling, exhaling. No, he didn’t hate the girl. He hated his reaction to her. He hated the curiosity she drew from him when he looked into her eyes. She could appear so haunted. As if she was desperate to reach out and grasp things, and hold them tightly, simply because they had always eluded her.
    She could have a look about her, as if she had witnessed serious nightmares.
    She had just lost her father, he reminded himself. And yet there was more. She could be regal and supreme, she could speak with a voice that rang cool and imperious, and yet, caught unaware, there could be that beautiful and haunting appeal in her eyes. Those cat’s eyes, green cat’s eyes, proud, spirited, beguiling.
    His wife, he reminded himself, and tasted the bitterness on his tongue.
    At least she was beautiful. Maybe she had a point. She would be an asset to his home and to his business. He imagined that she could throw an elegant dinner party, and wear mink or silver fox to the opera with panache.
    It could be a bargain well met.
    And along with her came that young Jimmy O’Brien. Ian was impressed with the lad. Oh, he was raw, but his eyes held honesty, and he was earnest. And he was seeking the American dream, something that Ian believed in deeply. No kings, no queens, no royalty. Just a tough but beautiful land where hard work and ambition and dreams could be realized. O’Brien could be trusted, he felt.
    And O’Brien could save Ian a great deal of time. Ian knew he could have sold the emporium, but it would have seemed like a betrayal. His father and grandfather had loved the store.
    And if Diana had survived, and their child had been born, perhaps his own son or daughter would have loved the merchandising business, too.
    But now there would be no children, no heirs, ever, he promised himself. He could sell the bloody business.
    But he would not.
    He had returned to his lodgings, and he quietly let himself in the front door of the boardinghouse.
    Just as he reached his room on the second floor, he heard a sound and looked down the stairs. A woman was standing there. A tall, handsome blonde with a full figure and proud carriage. She was dressed in red silk with a matching feather-ornamented hat. Her name was Molly, and she played the piano and sang at the Gray Friars, a pub down the street. She could be elegant, and she could be discreet, and he had shared a pint or two with her during trips to London. He had even mentioned vaguely that he might see her when he had first arrived two nights ago.
    She smiled slowly, and he was tempted to call her up. But before he could open his mouth, he felt as if he were suddenly blinded by a pair of flashing green eyes. He could hear Marissa’s voice, painfully scornful and dignified despite the very sweetness of her tone, as good as telling him that he was welcome to his harlots and his whores and his dance-hall girls.
    Desire seemed to surge within him, along with a sizzling of fury. But when he looked at the tall, handsome blonde he felt only weariness.
    â€œGood evening, Molly,” he called to her.
    â€œMr. Tremayne!” she murmured.
    Ian knew she expected more, but he merely said, “Good night, Molly,” and entered his room.
    He sat at his desk. He had spent last night with the brandy bottle to warm him. It seemed that tonight he would do the same. And he would drink until he could drown out the sight of those haunting emerald eyes.
    His wife’s eyes.
    He groaned and took a long, long swallow of the burning liquor.
    Then he leaned his head back and prayed for a decent night’s sleep.
    At two-thirty the following afternoon Marissa stood before the altar at Saint John’s to witness Mary’s and Jimmy’s wedding.
    They had both come to the hotel not long after dark the previous night, blushing, happy, so blissful that they appeared to be a pair of fools. And they had announced their wedding to Marissa. Apparently Jimmy had seen a