Salzano's Captive Bride. Daphne Clair
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She didn’t understand the switch of subject.
“Was that why you needed money?”
She shook her head. “It isn’t important now.”
“You have put me to a great deal of trouble and some expense. I think I have a right to ask why.”
“I’m sor—” He lifted a warning hand and she stopped the apology leaving her tongue. She said instead, “If you want your airfare reimbursed…” It seemed only fair to offer.
The twist of his lips was hardly a smile, although he seemed to derive some kind of sardonic amusement from her reply. He made a dismissive gesture. “That is not necessary, even if it is possible.”
She had been rash to suggest it. He’d probably travelled first class, and after paying off the student loan that had got her through university with degrees in history and media studies, and finally being able to afford her own place instead of grungy shared digs, her savings were on the lean side of modest. As for Azzie—no use even thinking about it.
Growing bolder, she stood up, still finding him much too close. Her knees were watery. “Thank you. I think you’d better go now. There’s nothing more I can tell you.”
“You mean there is nothing more you wish to tell me.”
Amber shrugged. What else could she say without arousing further suspicion? And she needed him to leave. Marco Salzano’s presence was unnerving in more than one way. While his scorn and disbelief were intimidating, he was a powerfully attractive man, and her female hormones ran riot every time he came near. She was beginning to have a new understanding of what had taken place in Venezuela.
Marco turned and took a couple of steps away from her. She inwardly sighed in relief, but then he stopped and faced her again. His gaze sharpened and he tilted his head. “Why,” he said slowly, “have I a…a sense that you are hiding something? Perhaps something I should know?”
Her mouth dried and she said in a near-whisper, “There is no reason to involve you in my troubles.”
As if on impulse he plunged a hand into an inside pocket of his jacket, took out a leather wallet and pulled a bundle of notes from it.
They were New Zealand notes. Reddish, hundred-dollar ones. Amounting to more money than Amber had ever seen anyone handle so casually.
“Take it,” he said, holding the cash out to her, his expression unreadable. “Let us say for remembrance of a pleasurable encounter.”
Amber recoiled. “I can’t take your money!”
A gleam of surprised speculation lit his eyes and she knew she’d made a mistake. “But that is exactly why I am here,” he said softly, “is it not?”
“I told you, everything’s all right now.” She fervently hoped so. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her mouth set in stubborn refusal.
He studied her as if she were a puzzle he had trouble figuring out, even while he tucked the notes back into the wallet and returned it to his pocket. Unnerved by the scrutiny, Amber lifted a hand to brush back a wayward strand of hair that was tickling the corner of her mouth.
His eyes tracked the movement, and when she made to lower her hand he suddenly covered the space between them in a stride, catching her forearm near the elbow so that it remained raised while he inspected the inside of her upper arm. Following his gaze, she saw a thumb-shaped bruise marring the tender skin.
Her cheeks warmed and she tried to pull away, but he retained his firm though careful hold. She saw him take a breath, and his mouth compressed. She guessed he was keeping back some vivid language.
In a low voice she’d not heard from him before, he said, “Is that my mark?” He was still looking at the bruise, as if unwilling to meet her eyes. The moment lengthened unbearably. She could smell again that subtle leather-and-grass aroma, mingled with a combination of male skin scent and freshly laundered clothing.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
Totally unexpectedly the dark head bent and she felt his lips touch the blue mark.
She almost choked on an indrawn breath, biting her lip fiercely to stop an involuntary sound escaping from her throat, where her heart seemed to have lodged.
His hair swept against her skin, and the sensation was like a lightning bolt arrowing through her body.
What was that? Did Marco Salzano’s surprisingly soft hair hold an electrical charge like the one that made her own hair crackle sometimes when she brushed it?
He lifted his head and the glitter in his eyes made her pulse roar into overdrive.
Slowly he lowered her arm, slipping his hand like a caress down to her wrist. “Such delicate skin,” he murmured. “Forgive me.”
Unable to speak for the rioting of her senses, Amber dazedly wondered how a mere fleeting touch could arouse such an extravagance of feeling. No one had the right to effortlessly exude that much sex appeal.
He seemed a tad bemused himself. His jaw went tight, and the taut skin over his cheekbones darkened further.
Gathering her wits from wherever they’d dispersed themselves, Amber pulled at her imprisoned wrist, and with apparent reluctance he released it, thrusting his hand into the pocket of his trousers.
“I did not remember what a desirable woman you are,” he said. “It is not so surprising I lost my head that night, and stepped outside the bounds of my normal behaviour.”
Had he? “You weren’t the only one,” she told him dryly. And then warned herself, Shut up!
He looked at her consideringly. “The woman I took to my bed in Caracas was no spotless virgin, I think.”
Amber snapped, “That doesn’t make her a slut!” Momentarily she closed her eyes. Had she blown it with that automatic defence?
Apparently unperturbed, he said, “I did not mean to imply such a thing. Merely that I assumed you were a woman of the world. Capable of protecting yourself from any…inconvenience. You yourself assured me of that afterwards, if you remember.”
That jolted her. “I…don’t remember,” she claimed truthfully, hoping to close the subject. “Now would you—”
“Had you had so much to drink?” he queried, frowning again. “I don’t knowingly take advantage of drunken women. You appeared well aware of what you were doing. And I believe from your reactions at the time that you very much enjoyed our…brief encounter. You remember that?” The gleam that had entered his eyes intensified, and his mouth curved a little at the corners.
Heat rose again to Amber’s cheeks. Desperately she said, “No. Now—”
“No?” Faint annoyance showed for an instant, and she supposed she’d offended his machismo.
The way he let his gaze roam over her body didn’t help her flush subside. “Perhaps,” he said in a reflective tone like a tiger’s purr, “I can refresh your memory.”
The sound she made when he swiftly closed the space between them again was something between a gasp and a squeal, but before she could say anything coherent he had his arms around her and had pulled her close, her body arching against the solid masculine warmth of his. Even as she opened her mouth to protest he covered it with his own, tipping her head back, his breath mingling with hers.
His lips were gentle but questing, moving across her startled ones even after she raised her hands to push at him.
The tip of his tongue was tracing an erotic path along her upper lip, igniting a shocking flare of answering desire before she rallied enough to clench her hands into fists and shove them against his chest.
His hands fell, and Amber shakily stepped back.
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