Sweet Revenge

have taught you that sometimes love has no threshold.”
    She felt a sudden chill race up her arms. His eyes were calm, steady. There was something in them she didn’t want to see, just as she didn’t want to analyze why she had told him more than she’d ever told anyone. “I want a shower,” she said briskly. She moved past him to the connecting door. Something made her hesitate before she shut it firmly between them.

Chapter Eighteen
    She thought he had gone. She lingered in the shower, letting the hot spray beat over her skin. The spearing headache she’d developed lessened to a dull throb she knew could be erased by a couple of aspirin. Because it soothed her, she slathered on scented cream and slipped into a loose robe with the idea of stretching out on the terrace lounge and letting her hair dry in the sun.
    The beach would wait. This morning it would be better to be alone, without the roving cocktail waiters to see to her thirst, or vacationers splashing, shouting, or baking nearby. She always spent Christmas morning alone, avoiding well-meaning friends and social obligations. Memories of her mother’s last Christmas weren’t as sharp or as painful as they once had been, but she couldn’t bear the sight of holly or shiny colored balls.
    Phoebe had always put a white angel on top of the tree. Every year from the first they’d spent in America. Except for the last, when she had been caught so deep in that dark tunnel she had been sucked into.
    Adrianne looked at her mother’s illness that way, like a tunnel, dark, deep, with hundreds of blind corners and dead ends. It was better to have that tangible vision than the cold comfort of all the technical terms in the dozens of books on abnormal behavior Adrianne had pored over. Better still than all the diagnoses and prognoses she’d received in quiet leather-scented rooms from respected doctors.
    It had been the tunnel that had pulled her mother deeper as time went by. Somehow over the years, Phoebehad been able to find her way out again. Until she’d been too tired, or until the dark seemed easier than the light.
    Perhaps time did heal, but it didn’t make you forget.
    She felt better for having put her feelings into words, though she was already regretting having given Philip so much. She told herself it didn’t matter, that soon they would be going their separate ways and whatever she’d said, whatever she’d shared, would mean little as time went on. If he’d been kind where kindness hadn’t been expected, it couldn’t matter. If she’d wanted where desire could never exist, she could overcome it. She’d taken care of herself too long, guarded her emotions too carefully, to let him make a difference.
    From now on every thought, every feeling, had to be focused on Jaquir—and revenge.
    But when she opened the door between the rooms he was still there, shirtless, barefoot, talking in surprisingly fluid Spanish to a white-suited smooth-faced waiter. She watched Philip pass bills over—enough, apparently, to make the young man glad he was working, holiday or not.
    “Buenas dios
, señora. Merry Christmas.”
    She didn’t bother to correct his assumption of her relationship with Philip, or the fact that Christmas hadn’t been merry for her in quite a long time. Instead, she smiled, pleasing him almost as much as the pesos already in his pocket.
    “Buenos dios. Felices Navidad.”
Adrianne folded her hands and waited for the sound of the door closing. “Why are you still here?” she asked when they were alone.
    “Because I’m hungry.” He walked outside onto the terrace and sat. Obviously settled and comfortable, he poured coffee. There were ways and ways to gain trust, he thought. With a bird with a broken wing, it took patience, care, and a gentle touch. With a high-strung horse that had been whipped, it took diligence and the risk of being kicked. With a woman, it took a certain amount of charm. He was willing to combine all three.
    She came out, frowning. “I might not have wanted breakfast.”
    “Fine. I can eat yours too.”
    “Or company.”
    “You can always go down to the beach. Cream?”
    She might have resisted the smell of coffee, or the golden light of the sun. She told herself she could certainly have resisted him. But she couldn’t, wouldn’t, resist the scent of hot food.
    “Yes.” She took her seat as if granting an audience. Philip’s mouth twitched.
    “Sugar? Your Highness.”
    Her eyes narrowed, heated. A