His Chosen Wife: Antonides' Forbidden Wife / The Ruthless Italian's Inexperienced Wife / The Millionaire's Chosen Bride. Susanne James
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that you are on your own. The scales are balanced. You did me a favor. I’m doing you one. We’ll be even. And then, damn it, PJ Antonides, I’m filing for divorce!”
That went well, PJ thought grimly with more than a little self-mockery.
He stood outside the hotel in midtown Manhattan where he’d just left Ally and stuffed his hands in his pockets, shaking his head.
She’d insisted on leaving once she’d agreed to come to his parents’ on Friday. He’d invited her to stay at his place.
“Why not? We might as well begin as we mean to go on,” he’d said.
And Ally’s black eyes had flashed. “We don’t mean to go on. At least I don’t. One weekend, PJ. That’s all.”
And he might not have seen Ally for ten years, but he knew her limits. And the look on her face said that he’d pushed her far enough. He’d shrugged.
“I’ll see you back to your hotel.”
She’d argued about that. But he wasn’t taking no for an answer when it came to seeing her safely back to her room. She might have taken care of herself for ten years, but it was his turn now. At least for tonight. So they’d taken a cab across the river to the big midtown Manhattan hotel where she was staying.
She’d thanked him politely for “the lovely evening” as the cab had drawn up outside the main entrance. He knew she didn’t mean it. He also knew she’d mean it less by the time he really said good-night.
“Put your money away,” he’d said sharply. “And don’t say good-night yet. I’m not leaving.”
He’d followed her out of the taxi, paid the driver, then hurried to catch up with her as she was already inside the lobby. It was all polished marble and crystal chandeliers.
“This is totally unnecessary,” Ally insisted. “You can go home now. You never felt compelled to see me to my door before.”
“That was then. This is now. That was Hawaii. This is New York City. Humor me.”
She just looked at him and shook her head. But when he persisted, she shrugged. “Suit yourself.” And she turned and marched to the elevator. “But don’t expect me to invite you in.”
He didn’t expect she would.
If there was one thing he’d learned from his years on the beach, it was how to bide his time. You couldn’t rush the ocean. When you went out on the water, surfing or windsurfing, success didn’t come from pushing or trying to control.
You got into position and you watched and you waited. You learned patience and awareness. And timing.
When the time was right—when you and the wave were in sync—then and only then did you move.
And just like he couldn’t push a wave, PJ knew he couldn’t push Ally Maruyama.
So he simply accompanied her up in the elevator and down the corridor to her room. He waited silently until she opened the door of her room. He didn’t press. Didn’t invite himself in or suggest that she should.
“I’ll see you Friday at noon,” he said. “I’ll pick you up.”
“I still think this is insane, PJ. How are you going to explain later to your family? You don’t know what you’re asking.”
PJ knew exactly what he was asking. But he didn’t think she did. “If you get bored tomorrow, call me.”
“I won’t be bored,” Ally said. “I have an appointment with a gallery owner.”
He paused. “Who?”
“Gabriela del Castillo. She’s shown some of my work at her gallery in Santa Fe.”
PJ knew the name. His sister Martha had mentioned her. Said glowing things. “She going to show your stuff here?”
“I’ll know more tomorrow. Thank you again for dinner,” she said, once more sounding like the proper well-brought-up girl he remembered. “And for the introduction to your sister,” she added a bit grimly.
He grinned. “My pleasure.”
“Good night.”
“Good night,” he said equally politely. But then as she started to close the door, he stopped her. “Ally.”
She narrowed her gaze. “What? I told you I’m not inviting you in, PJ. I’ve got work to do, Jon to call, things to think about. What do you want?”
“Just—” he hesitated, but only for a split second “—this.”
And he took one step forward, swept his arms around her, hauled her close and set his lips on hers.
It wasn’t planned. PJ didn’t plan.
He was an “act now, revise later” sort of guy. He believed in a spur-of-the-moment, caution-be-damned, full-speed-ahead approach to life. Always had. Probably always would.
It had got him into some scrapes. It had got him into a marriage. It had got him where he was today—kissing Ally.
Dear God, yes, he was kissing Ally.
The quick peck he’d managed when she’d come out of the subway had barely given him a taste. But it had whetted his appetite, made him remember the last time he’d kissed Ally.
For ten years he’d wanted more.
And now he had it. Had her lips under his, warm and soft. Resisting at first, pressed together, unyielding. He touched them with his tongue, teased them, and rejoiced when they parted to draw a breath.
It came as a gasp almost. “P—”
But he didn’t let her speak. Didn’t want to hear what she’d say. So he pressed his advantage, moved in, took more.
And the more he took, the more he wanted. The more the memories crowded in, the more the woman in his arms seemed to melt against him. His body hardened in response. His heart pounded.
He wanted—! He needed—!
And he knew she did, too. He could feel her softening against him, could feel her whole body now, pressed against his, molding itself to his. Oh, yes! He deepened the kiss.
And the instant that he did, she jerked out of his embrace, pulled back, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed, mouth a perfect O. He could see the pulse hammer at her throat. She gripped the door so tightly her knuckles were white.
“That,” she said icily, “was totally unnecessary.”
Slowly PJ shook his head. “Was it?” he said, his own heart hammering so hard he could barely talk. “I don’t think so.” He managed a lopsided grin. “Tell that to Jon when you talk to him.”
And he turned and walked away.
His body would much rather have been doing something else.
“The message you left on my machine was garbled,” Jon said. “It sounded like you said you were staying longer.”
Ally, who had grabbed her mobile phone when it rang, even though she was still asleep, barely made sense of what he was saying. She pushed herself up in bed and squinted at the clock—9:30 a.m.?
She never slept that late!
But then, as a rule, she didn’t lie awake half the night wondering if she’d lost her mind, either.
Last night clearly she had.
She’d shut the door on PJ, bolted it, then leaned against it, breathing as hard as if she’d run a marathon. A marathon would have made more sense!
She would have prepared herself, she would have trained for a marathon.
She hadn’t been prepared for PJ. Or for his refusal to sign the divorce papers. Or for his sister. Or for her agreement