I forced myself to sound cool, even though he was doing crazy things to my body. Crazy, dangerous things. Just with his eyes.
"What do you want Daniel?"
"I think you know what I want."
I straightened my back and walked towards the door.
"There will not be a repeat performance of this afternoon."
He blocked my way, putting his hand against the door.
"Oh yes, there will be."
I stared at him, mustering every bit of arrogance I could. It came to me easily on most days. But today I was at a loss. I could not match the determined look in his eyes. He was so certain he would have me.
But he would not. He could not. I would never open myself to that sort of thing again.
Especially with a man of my own class.
They were the most dangerous of all.
Used to getting what they wanted. Self centered. Greedy.
"Daniel."
He cursed, staring at me. Then he stepped aside. I knew he wouldn't force me. He might kiss me without my permission but beyond that, he was a gentleman. I knew it in my bones.
I was shaking as I left the room. I hadn't expected desire to overwhelm my anger at him. But somehow, it had.
Desire was for weaklings.
Love was for weaklings.
I was neither.
I stepped into my room and locked the door behind me as the truth started to sink in. This arrangement would not work for me. But I could not resist him if I continued to live under the same roof.
I had to leave. I knew that despite my feelings, I would fall into bed with him if he approached me again. And he was certain to do that. Again and again...
My resolve was nothing against the pure heat of Daniel Delancey.
Chapter Five
Daniel
I stared at my empty glass, reaching again for the bottle of bourbon I'd brought up to my room. I'd drank half of it already. I didn't know what the hell was wrong with me.
I had women now and then. Whenever the urge struck it was quickly taken care of and I would move on to the more important things in life. There were so many women willing and eager to share my bed. But I didn't get involved. Inevitably they would try to lure me into a relationship.
I did my best to be firm but kind about it. Thank you, but no thank you. If they cried, I left immediately. There was nothing I hated more than being manipulated. I could always sense it and it made me lose respect for them.
Francesca had offered me no strings sex. Just the way I liked it. She hadn't been coy or clinging. Just the opposite. But then she'd blown my mind with her beauty and fire.
I'd never met a woman like her. I doubted there was another woman like her on Earth. Maybe not since Cleopatra.
I laughed bitterly. Now I was comparing a woman I'd just met to Cleopatra. I really must be drunk.
I walked over to my desk. My curiosity was piqued. I wanted to know more about her. That brief look of vulnerability in her eyes was stuck in my head.
She was almost afraid of me. Once she knew who I was. I couldn't make sense of that.
So I turned to the internet.
With only the first four letters of her name search results came flooding in. She was on magazine covers, Town and Country, Italian Elle, newspapers, society blogs, and more.
She was everywhere.
Her photos were incredible. Luxurious. Glamorous. Dangerously sexy.
I'd somehow managed to bed one of the most hottest women alive. I might be wealthy and educated but I was a country boy at heart. I had nothing on a sophisticated woman like her.
I refilled my glass and stared at her. Dressed in gowns. Designer clothing. A black and gold bikini lounging on a yatch. I drank and looked, wondering how the hell I was going to get her into bed again when she was so fired up.
After an hour I stopped looking at her pictures, though it wasn't easy to turn away.
I started reading.
There was a lot to read. Everyone had covered the scandal, even the American gossip rags. And it was an epic scandal.
My stomach clenched in sympathy as I read about the very public dissolution of her engagement to an French nobleman. Philipe Casmarte. He was handsome, urbane, and wealthy beyond imagining.
He was also apparently a * hound of the highest caliber.
He'd cheated on her on the night before her wedding, only to be publicly outed the next morning. Photos of him leaving another woman's home, looking like he'd spent the night doing exactly what he'd been doing... and apparently the other woman was a close friend of Francesca's.
Then came the photos that would haunt me forever. Francesca looking like an avenging angel as she left the church unmarried. No, she looked like a princess in her wedding gown. It was an enormous white dress covered in sparkling crystals that hugged her tiny waist and then belled out around her. A stone faced, furious angel.
I noticed that there were no tears. Not even a trace of a red eye. Not even one photo of her in the weeks to come as the paparazzi had followed her everywhere. But she never smiled either.
The story was lurid, awful, humiliating.
It was fantastic.