One Night in Madrid: Spanish Billionaire, Innocent Wife / The Spaniard's Defiant Virgin / The Spanish Duke's Virgin Bride. Jennie Lucas
Читать онлайн книгу.
have to say the actual words, everything about his demeanour, the silent rejection stamped into every rigid line of his body, the proudly held head, said it for him. He was leaving and if she was wise she would let him go.
But that was something Alannah just couldn’t do.
She couldn’t let him walk out—not like this. Not when he was clearly feeling every bit as wretched as she felt—worse, because he had only just found out the truth about the terrible crash when she at least had had a couple of days to let the bitter reality sink in.
Outside, the night was pitch-black, the rain still pelting down, lashing against the windows. She couldn’t bear to think of him being out there, in the darkness, alone, when his mood was already so dark and desolate.
‘Oh, no …’
In a flurry of movement she rushed forward, slipped past him so that she reached the door before he did. Whirling round, she flung herself against it, pressing her back hard against the white-painted wood so that he would have to come through her if he truly wanted to get out.
And he was quite capable of doing that, the look on his face, the burning glare he flung her told her without any need for words. Never before had he seemed so big, so strong, so totally overwhelming so that her stomach clenched into tight knots of near panic, her throat drying painfully.
‘Alannah … move.’ Raul’s voice was a low, savage snarl of warning, his tone threatening terrible repercussions if she didn’t do as he commanded. ‘Don’t even think of trying to stop me.’
The ferocity of his expression, the danger in his tone kept her mute, but somehow she forced herself to set her mouth tight, lift her chin, as she shook her head in silent defiance, even though her knees were threatening to buckle beneath her as her eyes met the icy blaze of his.
‘Get out of my way …’
‘I won’t—I can’t!’
That ‘can’t’, or something of the desperation in her tone, got through to him, making him still suddenly, his head going back, molten eyes narrowing to sharply assessing slits. That terrible grey tinge to his skin was back and it was that that told her she was right to do this—whatever it took. However he reacted. He was a danger to himself in this state, although, being Raul, he would deny it furiously if she said anything.
‘Can’t?’ he questioned harshly. ‘What the hell—?’
‘I can’t let you go—not like this. I can’t see you walk out into a city you don’t know—on a night like this …’
A curtain of tears was blurring her vision but she could still see the way that his stance changed, becoming slightly less aggressive, less antagonistic. His silence was more eloquent than any words could ever be.
‘You’d care?’ he said at last, his voice cracking on the last word.
‘Of course I’d care.’
‘I’m a big boy, Alannah. I can take care of myself.’
‘I don’t care how big and ugly you are—I’m not letting you go. You’ve had a shock …’ Carefully she lowered her voice, pitched on a softer note. ‘You’re not thinking straight …’
Her tone was gentle, Raul registered. As gentle as it had been when she had come to him earlier; when she had reached out to him from the darkness. And just as it had then, her gentleness touched some needy spot in his mind so that for the first time in a terrible twenty-four hours he was still. Totally still. Even his whirling, raging, aching thoughts seemed to have stopped.
In the silence he watched her ease herself away from the door and come towards him. Once again he felt the softness of her touch on his hand.
‘Stay until Carlos comes,’ she said and still in silence he nodded slowly.
Once again the silence was enough.
‘Thank you,’ she said, in much the same way that he had said ‘Gracias’ to her a short time before, so that he knew without having to be told just how she too was grateful to have someone sharing the darkness with her.
It was then that he caught the faint waft of some perfume, soft and subtly leafy, that came from the shampoo she had used on her hair. But underneath it was another scent, richer, warmer, more sensual, intimate. More womanly. It was the scent of Alannah herself. The scent of her body, her skin and her hair, and it hit straight to his starved senses like a blow, melting the numbness in his head so fast that he reeled under the impact of the rush of blood through his veins. The throb of hunger was so powerful, so primitive that it forced all other thoughts from his mind.
‘Thank you,’ Alannah said again and the hand that touched his moved very slightly, her thumb stroking over his skin.
‘De nada.’
Her kiss was unexpected. It was light, soft, delicate. Just a press of her lips against the side of his cheek, nothing passionate or sensual in it. There, and then gone again. But the feelings it sparked off were far from gentle, far from light.
They were hot and needy and yearning for more.
After the storm of anger, of rejection and blind fury—fury at her brother, the driver of the lorry she had talked of, at fate—there was another storm building inside him now. One of heat and fire—and a hunger he couldn’t stamp down. From feeling dead, lost, empty he began to be warm, vital, alive, sensation and need stinging along every nerve path, bringing his senses startlingly, explosively awake.
He felt sure she must sense it, feel it in the tension in his body, hear it in the changed pattern of his breathing.
‘Alannah …’
His use of her name was thick, rough, his voice raw and thickened by the sensual fire that flared within him. He suddenly found that he had had enough of stillness, of silence. He wanted to assert light in the face of darkness, heat in the face of cold … Life in the face of death.
Turning his head, he caught her lips with his, snatching his hands free to clamp them at the back of her skull, fingers threading through the softness of her hair, twisting to hold her just where he wanted her as he took her mouth with all the ferocity of the need he couldn’t control. His blood throbbed at his temples and heat pounded between his legs, making him so hard so fast that it was almost painful. And as Alannah’s mouth opened under his he felt the red haze of desire flood his mind, driving away the memories he couldn’t bear to remember.
This was what he wanted—to forget—to stop himself from thinking—to lose himself in fierce, mindless response—in fierce, mindless sex. And this woman had always been able to make him forget about anything but her.
To make him think only of her and the wild, blazing fires they built between them.
‘Alannah …’ he said again but this time her name was a whisper of seduction against her lips as he drew her breath into his own lungs. ‘Alannah, querida …’
Alannah, querida. The words seemed to swirl around inside Alannah’s head, taking her thoughts with them as sensation after sensation fizzed through every cell in her body, obliterating logic or control, and only leaving awareness and need.
She should have known that it was a mistake to come close to Raul like this. Should have known that her own memories, her weakness where he was concerned, the sensual burn that he seemed to be able to awaken in her simply by existing, would only risk putting her into his power if she broke through the careful invisible barriers she had tried to put between them ever since the moment she had first seen him in the hospital room. She had weakened then and all but thrown herself into his arms, but the storm of weeping that had overtaken her had driven every other thought from her head.
Her only need then had been of comfort and support. It was when she had recovered a little, when she had calmed enough to draw breath, that she became aware of other feelings, sensations she had thought long since dead and now was forced to realise were only buried,