Hostage Of The Hawk. Sandra Marton
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but it was useless. He was all hard sinew and taut muscle that nothing would deter.
After a moment, he drew back.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said coldly. ‘Have you changed your mind about adding a little sweetening to Bennettco’s bribe offer?’
Hatred darkened Joanna’s eyes. ‘What a fool I was to think I could deal with you in a civilised manner! You’re just like your Prince, aren’t you? When you can’t get what you want, you just—you reach out and grab it!’
‘What if I said you were wrong, Miss Bennett? What if I told you that I am not a man who takes?’
Anger made her reckless. ‘I’d call you a liar,’ she snapped.
To her surprise, he laughed. ‘Which of us is the liar, Joanna? Or are you suggesting I not take what you are prepared to give?’
The look she gave him was pure defiance. ‘I offered you nothing.’
For a long moment, their eyes held. Then he smiled, and the smile sent her heart into her throat.
‘I never take that which has not been offered,’ he said, very softly.
She cried out as he reached for her again but there was no way to escape him. He caught her face between his hands, holding it immobile, and bent his head to hers. She stiffened, holding her breath, preparing instinctively for the fury of his kiss, for whatever ugly show of strength and power lay ahead.
But there was no way to prepare for the reality of what happened. His lips were soft, moving against hers with slow persuasion, seeking response.
Not that it mattered. It was a useless effort. She would never, could never, respond to a man like him, a man who believed he could first terrorise a woman, then seduce her. His hands spread over her cheeks, his thumbs gliding slowly across the high arc of her cheekbones. His fingers threaded into her hair, slowly angling her head back so that his lips could descend upon hers again—and all at once, to Joanna’s horror, something dark and primitive stirred deep within her soul, an excitement that made her pulse leap.
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