chapter NINE
‘YOU SEEM tense,’ Alesander said, as the car cruised through the quiet streets, his arm wound around her shoulders, his warm fingers tracing patterns on her skin.
‘Do I?’ She wasn’t really surprised. She’d thought she was relaxed when they’d left the hospital. She’d accepted his arm around her shoulders and let herself tap into his strength, but on reflection she hadn’t been relaxed at all. She’d just been relieved—that Felipe, in his weakened state, had simply overdone things and would be released after a night’s observation. But the relief hadn’t lasted long. Because almost as soon as the car had left the hospital she’d realised where they were headed.
To Alesander’s apartment.
To Alesander’s bed.
And the relief at knowing Felipe was in good hands for the night was no match for the apprehension that had followed. The pressure of his arm around her shoulders—the stroke of his fingers across her skin—the press of his strong thigh against hers—all of these sensations only served to ratchet up her tension and heighten her anxiety.
Because he had decreed that in spite of the agreement they’d both signed—the agreement that stipulated that this was a marriage in name only—that he intended to exercise all of his marital rights and bed her.
No, she thought on reflection, not decreed. Because this man had blackmailed her to make it so.
The fact he’d waited until their wedding night for it to happen didn’t help at all.
Not now that night was here.
‘The doctors say Felipe will be all right,’ he said beside her, squeezing her shoulder, trying to reassure her, misinterpreting her nervousness. And that only made her angrier. Because this marriage was a device—a convenience—nothing more. Alesander didn’t know the first thing about her. He didn’t know what made her tick. He had no concept of what was troubling her like a man who loved her—like a real husband—would.
And yet he was expecting to take her to his bed and share the ultimate intimacy, as if he were that real husband—as if he actually cared about her.
Damn him! They’d made an agreement. They’d both signed it, only for him to go and change the rules mid-play, and all because he couldn’t handle the thought of a woman who wasn’t interested in him, who didn’t throw herself at his feet as he was used to.
‘That must be a disappointment for you,’ she countered, shifting herself as far as she could along the seat, wanting to put distance between them, or at least distance between their warm thighs, ‘or it might have been the shortest wedding in history. You could already have been halfway to owning the entire vineyard.’
Something hard and sharp glinted in his eyes as they met hers. ‘I guess we are stuck together a little longer, in that case. And as much as that might bother you and inconvenience us both, luckily there is a silver lining attached to every dark cloud.’
She gave an unladylike snort. ‘Really? So name it.’
‘That’s easy,’ he said as he smiled and touched his hand to her forehead, where the ends of a stray curl had tangled in her lashes. With an all too gentle swipe of his fingers against her brow, he pulled the offending curl free. She shivered under the touch of his fingertip on her skin, and at the tug of hair against lash. She shivered again when she realised how much his touch affected her and how very much she didn’t want it to. ‘Because I get to make love to you, of course. What else could it be?’
And if she didn’t already harbour enough resentment towards this man, she could hate him for the smug certainty that tonight it would happen. That tonight they would make love.
And even as he sought to relax her with the touch of his hand and the stroke of his fingers across her skin, instead his hand felt like the weight of obligation on her shoulders, his fingers heavy at the expectation of what this wedding night should bring.
A wedding night that should never be.
It was all so wrong.
It was all so false.
She looked out of the window, silently fuming, breathing deep, pretending interest in the buildings of the Platje de la Concha rather than look anywhere near him—at this man who was now her husband in name and who very shortly intended to make himself her husband in every intimate sense of the word.
And yet still not a husband at all. A real husband would marry you because he loved you. Because he wanted to be with you and wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.
Not just because he thought he could get the vines you would inherit and get into your pants in the same deal.
‘Stop the car,’ she vaguely registered hearing, confused when they were still blocks away from his apartment.
The driver pulled in along the kerb. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked as he stepped from the car and held out his hand to her.
‘Making an executive decision,’ he said, his smile at odds with his tight features. ‘It’s such a beautiful night I thought we might both benefit from a walk along the beach.’
She looked up at him, searching his eyes in the night light, searching for meaning or another, darker, motive, but she could find none. And while it was a relief to know he wasn’t so desperate to get her on her back that he would head straight to his apartment, it was disturbing too, that perhaps he wasn’t as oblivious of her feelings as she had assumed. ‘Thank you,’ she simply said, because a walk along the beach suited her too, if only because it gave her much needed breathing space. She slid across the seat and took his hand to join him in the dark night air. ‘I would appreciate that.’
The car pulled away, the driver dismissed, as Alesander tucked her arm into his and led her along the wide lamplit walkway. The mild night air kissed her skin, whispering in its salty tongue, while a fat moon hung low, sending a ribbon of silver across the water. From somewhere came the sounds of music, the strains of a violin to which the low waves whooshed in and out along the shore. Beside her Alesander said little, seemingly content also to absorb the evening, their war of words and wills temporarily suspended.
He was right, she thought, as they strolled their slow way around the bay. It was a beautiful night, a night made for lovers, a night where the air held a note of expectation, almost as if it was holding its breath waiting for something. And that thought left her sad, that this night and all its romance was wasted on them. Because she had no expectations. Hers was an obligation. Hers was nothing to look forward to.
Although …
She stole a look at his strong profile. His was not a face you would be disappointed waking up to after the night before. His body was not one you would regret reaching out for. And then she shivered a little, turning her eyes back to the path and trying not to think too much about that night before.
The night to come.
Was she pathetic to feel so nervous? She’d got naked with a man. She’d had sex. She knew how it worked and where the various bits went. Sometimes she’d even enjoyed it. But that had been with Damon, and they’d been a couple for almost a year. She’d even imagined she loved him at one stage—before she’d found out he was happily having sex with her best friend behind her back. But they’d been friends before they’d become lovers. Of course there had been times it had been good with him.
But sex with a virtual stranger?
Sex with a man who had blackmailed her into his bed?
There was no way she could enjoy that.
And there was no way she could trust her feelings when she did. Intimacy came with a price, one she wasn’t sure she wanted to pay again.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked, as if he’d sensed her tremor.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied, wishing he hadn’t noticed, not wanting him to know anything about her, uncomfortable with the thought he was reading her body.
‘Then why don’t we walk on the beach?’
‘Take our shoes off, you mean?’
‘Unless you can walk in high heels on the sand.’ And his smile caught the moonlight and his teeth glinted white to match the spark in his eyes and the idea was so unexpected that she laughed.
‘Why not?’
She slipped off her silver sandals and unhooked the stockings from her suspenders, slipping them down her legs while he shrugged off his shoes before taking her hand. The sand was cool under her feet and tickled the sensitive skin between her toes. His hand was warm, his long fingers curled around hers, his thumb drawing lazy circles on her wrist.
She tried to concentrate on the sand and the squeak of their steps on the sand, on the lights of the buildings reflected into the bay, on the stars and moon above, but his touch wasn’t easy to ignore. Damon hadn’t liked holding hands. He’d said it signalled possessiveness and argued that people weren’t possessions.
Was Alesander being possessive or just … neighbourly? Whatever, he had nice hands and a nice touch. She didn’t mind the feel of her hand wrapped in his as they walked along the sand. And meanwhile the silver ribbon on the water shimmied, the shoreline spun with gold of the reflected city and the night air was fresh and clean.
She sighed wistfully. ‘It’s so beautiful here. You’re lucky to live so close to the bay.’
‘Do you live near the sea?’
‘No, not really. I live in a shoe box of a flat near the university where I’m studying. It’s about an hour to the coast, probably two to get to a decent beach.’ She sighed again. ‘The beach there is nice enough but it’s nothing like this.’
They walked a few more steps, the strains of the violin haunting in the night air.
‘What are you studying?’
And the question took her so unawares that she laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It just seemed odd—we just got married and here you are, asking me what I do. Normally you’d ask that before you got married.’
‘Normally a woman wouldn’t turn up on your doorstep and propose.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, looking at her feet. ‘I take your point. I’m studying psychology. I’m in my final year.’
They neared a building that jutted out onto the beach—the same restaurant near where she’d crossed the road that first day—which meant his apartment must be just across the road. Here the music was louder, and she could see a small band of musicians playing on a balcony overlooking the sea, scattered patrons lapping up the last of the evening’s musical fare. The music tugged at her as they passed by, the violin so sweet over the piano and drums, so richly emotional that she stopped to listen. ‘What is that tune?’
‘That one?’ He smiled. ‘It’s an old folk song. The lyrics tell of the mountains and the sea and the people who settled here originally and made it home. But most times they don’t bother with the lyrics. They let the violin sing the words.’
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said as she watched the violinist coax his instrument to even sweeter heights.
For a moment it was just the music and the tide that filled the space between and all around them, until he uttered the words, ‘You are,’ and she felt the night air shift sensually around her. ‘Very beautiful.’
She looked back up at him, startled, to see him smiling down at her, and maybe it was the music that she could hear, the music that sounded so poignant and bewitching against the rhythmic shush of the tide, or maybe it was the velvet sky and the silver ribbon of moonlight on the water, but she caught the spine-tingling impact of his smile full on and then immediately wished she hadn’t. Because she didn’t want him to smile at her like that. She didn’t want him to smile at her at all. She didn’t want him to tell her she was beautiful and make out this marriage was something more than it was.
And suddenly she regretted letting him take her hand and walk her along the sand as if they were friends or even lovers. They were neither. They had a business arrangement, that was all it was, the terms of which he’d changed to suit himself, and only after it was too late for her to get out of it, once she was already committed. And now this whole ‘walk on the sands holding hands’ episode spoke of nothing more than lulling her into some false sense of security—to make her think he actually cared—when his apartment was right across the street and it was clear that was where they were headed next—so he could finish this thing he’d started.
She wasn’t having it. She shook her head, saying no to whatever it was he was offering, vaguely aware of another tune, violin over drumbeat, half familiar.
Momentarily it threw her. Until she realised it was the music that had played at Markel’s birthday party, the tango to which the dancers had danced so seductively. So passionately.
The music he’d told her was called Feelings.
And the music told her what a marriage should be. The music told her what was missing from this marriage and could never be a part of it.
Emotion.
Powerful, strong emotion.
It was the final straw.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this any more.’
‘You cannot walk along the beach?’
She wanted to lash out at him. Did he deliberately go out of his way to misunderstand her? Surely it was obvious? ‘The moon. The beach. Holding hands. All of it. I don’t want it. I cannot pretend to be some blushing bride. I cannot look forward to a wedding night that I wanted no part of, that you have blackmailed me into.’
‘Is it such a dire prospect that you face, making love with me?’
‘When it was unwanted all along? When it remains so? Of course it is!’
‘Unwanted?’
‘Haven’t I made that clear from the start?’
He paused a moment, looking into space, almost as if listening to the building music, the evocative violin, before he looked back at her. ‘You’re the one who agreed to change the terms.’
‘Only because you threatened to tell Felipe our marriage was a sham! Do you know how much I hate you for that? You left me with no choice and then you have the gall to think I will happily fall into bed with you! I cannot believe how arrogant you are. You are everything I hate in a man and nothing I want in a husband!’
She finished her tirade breathless and panting and mentally preparing herself for his next shot, expecting to receive the full force of his fury.
‘Dance with me,’ he said instead.
‘What?’
His flashing eyes sent out a challenge as the instruments merged, their sound weaving together on the night air. He took a purposeful step. Or more a glide across the sand. And then another, his body straight, his head held high. ‘Dance with me.’
‘No. It’s too crazy. I don’t know how.’
‘You do,’ he told her, changing direction. ‘You are doing it now, with your tongue. With your words. Do it instead with your body. Show me how angry you are.’
‘No!’ she insisted, turning away, the idea of dancing with this man on the beach too ridiculous to consider. ‘There is no point.’
But she’d barely taken a step before he’d grabbed her wrist and spun her bodily back into him, her shoes and stockings flung far from her grip. She collided bodily against his chest, her hands between them, the air knocked from her lungs and angry as hell at being plastered full length against him.
‘I said no!’ She shoved hard against his chest and wheeled away but he had hold of her hand and she was at arm’s length again before he snapped her breathlessly back into his embrace.
‘You bastard!’ With her hands at his shoulders, she pushed herself away as far as she could, but his arms were wound around her waist, his eyes intent on hers, and she could do nothing as he moved in a circle around her, his body as tight, his movements as purposeful as the dancer they’d seen. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘I am dancing. With my wife. Do you have a problem with that?’
‘Yes!’ When it meant his hands were like steel bands around her and his muscled chest like a wall under her hands. She’d seen that chest naked and in all its glory and now her fingers drank in every detail of the feel of him. He was so hard and lean and magnificent and she wanted to be nowhere near him because she didn’t want her hands to tell her these things.
‘I can’t dance. Not this.’
‘You will find it easier if you put your arms around my neck.’
Easier? Perhaps, but at least her hands wouldn’t be subjected to the play of muscle under skin. Her grip relaxed, her hands sliding their way around his neck. He growled, a low sound of appreciation that rumbled its way into her bones as he spun her in a circle around him.
And then he slid one hand up behind his neck and took one of her hands in his own, drawing it down to his mouth to kiss the palm of her hand. She gasped, the sensation of his tongue flicking across the sensitive skin, the look of his eyes so darkly intent on hers, the music made for couples, the feel of his arm wrapped tightly around her waist—it was too much.
He took one slow step, and then another, drawing her across the sand. Long purposeful steps. Powerful. Dramatic. He guided her back, leading her with his touch and his body before he spun her around and dropped her low over his arm, holding her so securely that even for one so inexperienced she was never in any danger of falling. ‘You see,’ he said, drawing her slowly up again, held tight against his body, setting up a delicious friction in her breasts and her belly and the aching place between her thighs, ‘you can do this.’
‘I hate you,’ she said, because she was enjoying it too much, this feel of him hard against her as they moved across the sand.
‘That’s what makes it so good,’ he told her, turning her slowly in his embrace. ‘Conflict and desire in one explosive package.’
‘Who said anything about desire?’
He spun her then, her wedding gown spinning out in layers with her, and pulled her back first against his chest, his arms locking her so close she gasped when she felt the hard ridge of his arousal against her behind. Blatant. Shameless.
Arousing.
And every muscle inside her contracted in response.
She should be outraged. She should demand to be let go. But instead heat pooled between her aching thighs, her breasts felt heavy and hard and it was all she could do not to squirm her bottom harder against him.
‘Your body does, every time we touch.’
She shuddered, knowing there was no denying it but not wanting him to take any satisfaction from it. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean I like you. It’s purely a physical reaction.’
Behind her he laughed, the sound rippling through her flesh, his warm breath fanning her ear. ‘Oh, I’m good with old-fashioned lust.’
And she realised the enormity of what she’d just admitted to, the admission she’d made. ‘No!’ she cried, fighting her way out of the prison of his arms, desperate to flee. He was too confident, too damned smug, too damned right. ‘It doesn’t mean—’
But once again she was no match for his speed and strength, no match for his determination. He caught both her wrists as she fled, snaring her back, plastering her against him, hip to hip, chest to chest, his face just inches from her own as his fingers curled through her hair.
‘It means you want me.’
‘No.’
‘And I want you.’
‘No.’ But this time her voice was more a plea than a protest.
He smiled then, his eyes locked with hers, his thumb stroking her parted lips. ‘What does it take, I wonder, to make you say yes?’
‘Never,’ she breathed, knowing it would do no good, her eyes already locked on the mouth hovering over hers, already contemplating his coming kiss, anticipating it, already tasting him.
Even so, when his kiss came, when his fingers tangled in her hair and his mouth meshed with hers, still she was unprepared for the maelstrom that followed, the storm that was unleashed inside her. Like a flooded river bursting its banks, her need spilled over, threatening to swamp her under the deluge.
She clung to him like a drowning person clung to a rock, as sensation ruled her world and threatened to sweep her away on the sensual tide of his taste and hot mouth and how he made her feel.
Desirable.
Desired.
Delicious.
He feasted on her and she let him, because that gave her licence to feast upon him, to taste his mouth and his salty skin, to relish the texture of his whiskered jaw as it rubbed against her cheek.
She clung to him because she did not want to let him go, now she had finally unleashed her hands on him and could drink in his perfect body through thirsting, seeking fingers.
She clung to him because she could not let him go and stop this thing now that it had started, this thing she had denied herself for so achingly, pointlessly long.
Her lips parted easily under the assault of his feasting mouth and tongue, her hands clinging to him as she opened to his kisses and passion became her master.
Passion, and the music she could still hear, the drumbeat that called to her on some primitive level and that guaranteed this moment was all important; that promised that this moment was pivotal to her entire existence.
She believed it as he swept her into his kiss, and swept any remaining logic away in the process. His breath was hot as his mouth slipped from her mouth to her throat and she gasped in the night air. His hands left hot trails on her back and she arched against him, no longer bothering to pretend it wasn’t exactly where she wanted to be.
He was hot. So hot. And her need turned suddenly combustible, from flood into flame, threatening to consume her with its heated promise.
And pressed against him, her thigh between his, her belly against his hip, the rigid column of his erection promised more heat. Promised all she needed and more.
Much more.
She wanted it. She wanted him to fill her and to feel him deep inside her and that need was premier.
Despite his blackmail. Despite his smug certainty that it would happen.
And she learned something about herself then, in the scorching heat of his hot mouth and stroking tongue and seeking, inquisitive hands. She learned that she could tolerate blackmail, forgive arrogance and sweep aside the worst character faults, if this was to be her reward.
‘I want you,’ he said, wrenching himself breathlessly from his kiss, one hand curled around her breast, his fingers stroking over her nipple until it was achingly hard, his other hand sliding down to tantalisingly cup the curve of her behind. And his declaration was so raw and honest that even if his touch hadn’t already been electric and set her senses on fire she could not deny it.
‘I know,’ she gasped.
‘You want me,’ he said, a statement rather than a question, and there was a challenge in his eyes, a challenge for her to give in and admit it and utter the word she could not say.
She did, but still she shook her head, if you could call the half-hearted movement a shake. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘That’s just the point,’ he growled, low in his throat, hesitating just a moment before sucking her into the whirlpool of his kiss. ‘It doesn’t have to.’