Why Resist a Rebel - By Leah Ashton Page 0,66

bad habit.

That theory didn’t even begin to convince her.

Ruby undid the latch of the wrought-iron gate that opened to the series of stone steps leading to her apartment.

As she unearthed her keys from her handbag she remembered her sticky ice-creamy fingers, tacky against the smooth metal.

What a waste of a perfectly delicious ice cream.

The random thought made her smile, but she noticed that something was blurring her vision.

Not tears, at least, not proper ones. These stayed contained within her lashes. Mostly.

In the bathroom she washed away the remnants of vanilla and caramel, and made the mistake of meeting her own gaze.

She looked pale, and blotchy—but mostly just miserable.

Like a woman who’d just walked away from the love of her life.

And who had absolutely no idea what to do next.

The sleek, low-slung car slid to a stop at the end of the long red carpet.

It was still daylight—late afternoon actually. Dev bit back a sigh—these awards nights started early and went notoriously late. He could think of another billion or so places he’d rather be right now.

Outside, temporary metal fencing kept rows of fans a good distance away, but he could already hear them calling his name. Other cars arrived around him, and women in dresses every colour of the rainbow emerged into the sunlight in front of the glamorous, sprawling Darling Harbour hotel. Their partners in monotonous black provided little more than a neutral backdrop.

Dev watched as each couple walked only a few metres before television cameras and shiny presenters swooped. Dev knew the drill; he’d been here—or at events just like this one—a thousand times. He knew this stuff, knew the name of the designer of his suit, exactly the right thing to say and how to smile enthusiastically for every single fan’s photo.

He could do this.

Graeme twisted in his driver’s seat to look over his shoulder at Dev. Graeme, Dev had decided, was his new Sydney driver. He was a good guy—and he still hadn’t breathed a word of his and Ruby’s relationship. In this industry, such loyalty was very nearly unprecedented.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

Dev shook his head, but Graeme was already climbing out of his seat. ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he said. Not that another minute would make him look forward to the next handful of hours any more.

Besides, he was perfectly capable of opening his own door.

But—it was too late, and he straightened his shoulders, and brushed imaginary lint off his extremely sharp designer suit.

He could do this, he repeated, looking towards the red carpet, and the many ascending steps it richly covered.

Then the other door opened—the door across from him, facing the street—and he twisted around, surprised.

‘Graeme, you may need a bit more practise opening—’ he began, but the words stuck in his throat as a woman slid onto the leather seat beside him, and Graeme shut the door firmly behind her.

Ruby.

‘Hi,’ she said, very softly.

She wore a long dress in red—a deeper red than the carpet—a red that matched her name. It flowed over her body, slinky in all the right places, and with a V neckline that was...remarkable.

Her blonde hair was perfectly sleek, her make-up immaculate, her lips—of course—ruby red. It was Hollywood glamour—red-carpet glamour.

‘Hi,’ he managed, although it took quite a bit of concentration.

Her lips curved into a smile, but it was only fleeting. She caught his gaze with hers, and didn’t look away.

Her gaze might have been rock steady, but uncertainty was obvious in her chocolate eyes, in her shallow breathing, and her fingers that twisted themselves in the delicate fabric of her dress.

‘I thought that if I was with you, that if I needed you...’ she took a deep breath ‘...that I would lose myself.’

He nodded, knowing now was not the time to speak.

‘I used to confuse sex with intimacy, and I’ve worked really hard not to make that mistake again. And I haven’t. But now I’ve made a different one—I’ve confused intimacy with just sex. A fling. It’s taken me a few weeks to figure that one out.’

He could see the depth of emotion in her eyes, and he desperately wanted to move closer—to reach out—to touch her. But he didn’t move. He needed to let her finish.

‘I tried to ignore it, even when it was happening. I tried to pretend that I didn’t care, that I didn’t worry about you more than I can remember worrying about anyone—ever. I kept a distance between us, I closed my eyes and pretended you weren’t hurting, because then I wouldn’t need