Why Resist a Rebel - By Leah Ashton Page 0,43

her posture.

She turned towards him, tiny lines etching her forehead.

‘Who am I?’ she asked.

It took him a moment to figure out what that meant.

‘You mean if anyone asks?’

Her answering nod was terribly stiff.

Lord. He didn’t know. He barely knew why he was here, let alone how he should describe his unexpected guest.

‘My—’

He was going to say date, for the reward of that flash to her eyes—that delicious reaction of heat tinged with anger.

But tonight he found riling her was not on the top of his list of things to do.

So no—he wouldn’t push, he wouldn’t call this a date when he knew in her head she’d so stubbornly decreed that they would never, ever date again.

‘—friend,’ he finished.

It sounded lame—and like a lie. As much of a lie as calling Ros a friend.

And somehow it was also the wrong thing to say, as Ruby took a big step back, then looked away, staring up at the moon.

‘How about we just go with work colleague?’ she said, with a razor-sharp edge.

He didn’t have a chance to respond, or to even begin to figure out what he’d done wrong, when she began to stride towards the house.

He caught up with her well before they reached the door, where a smartly dressed man—but still obviously a security guard—widened his eyes as he recognised him.

He opened the door for them without a word, and inside, in a redecorated but still familiar foyer, a small crowd of guests mingled.

Ruby looked at him curiously, and he knew what she was thinking. The guests were all older than them, by a good twenty or thirty years.

But then the enthusiastic chatter stilled, and one by one people turned to face him, replacing their cacophony with whispered speculation.

Then, from amongst it all, out stepped a women with silver-blonde hair styled in the sleekest of bobs, and an elegant dress that flattered a figure still fit and trim at—as of today—sixty.

Her eyes, so similar to his, were wide, and coated in a sheen he didn’t want to think about too much.

As dignified as always, she approached them politely. Although her smile went well beyond that—it was broad. Thrilled.

Dev felt his own mouth form into a smile in response—not as wide, not as open, yet he still had the sense he’d been holding his breath for hours.

He reached for Ruby, wrapping his hand around hers in an instinctive movement.

‘Ruby, this is Ros,’ he said, ‘my—’

‘Mother,’ she finished.

Ruby didn’t look at him, she simply smoothly accepted the hand that his mum offered, and wished his mother a happy birthday.

‘I’m Ruby,’ she added, ‘a colleague of Dev’s.’

His mother glanced to their joined hands, then back to Dev, questions dancing in her eyes.

But no, he wasn’t about to explain.

A long moment passed, and Dev realised he’d made a mistake. He should’ve hugged his mum, or something...but he’d felt frozen. Out of practice.

Then it was too late, and his mum said something that was terribly polite, and trilled her lovely, cultured laugh, and disappeared back into the crowd. A crowd now full of disapproving expressions, all aimed in his direction.

Yes, he knew who he was—the son who’d blown off his father’s funeral.

This is a mistake.

He still held Ruby’s hand, and he would’ve tugged her outside, straight back to their car, if more guests hadn’t filled the space behind them. Instead, he pulled her into one of the front rooms—‘the library’, his mum called it, with its walls of multicoloured books and oriental carpets.

Or at least he thought he’d drawn Ruby into the room—belatedly he realised it was more Ruby doing the directing. Inside, she dropped his hand, and pushed the door shut behind them, hard enough that it verged towards a slam.

‘This is your mother’s birthday party, Dev?’ she said. Then on a slightly higher pitch, ‘You invited me to your mother’s birthday party?’

He nodded, because there was nothing else he could do.

Her hands were back on her hips again, and she took a long, deep breath. ‘Okay. So, do you want to hurry up about telling me what on earth is going on?’

Ruby was doing her absolute best to hold herself together. What she wanted to do—desperately—was throw something in Dev’s direction. Something hard, preferably.

What the hell was he playing at? Just who did he think he was?

A floor lamp glowed in the corner, and flames flickered in the fireplace, throwing soft light across the room and making the dark leather of the button-backed chesterfield lounge suite shine.

Into that shininess, Dev sank, stretching his