The Wedding Ultimatum. Helen Bianchin
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he ravaged a primitive assault that lashed at her soul.
Any movement was limited as she was held locked close against him. In desperation she flailed fists against his shoulders, his ribcage, anywhere she could connect…without effect.
How long did it last? Danielle had no idea. It seemed like forever, but could only have been minutes before he released her mouth.
He filled her vision, to the extent there was nothing else, only him. Features harsh in their chiselled perfection, his eyes dark as sin. Compelling, ruthless.
Was this the same man who had indulged her in an evocative journey beyond her experience? A lover who’d fostered her reticence and gifted something so wildly sensuous her body still throbbed from his possession?
She was suddenly conscious of the fine needle-spray of water beating down against his back, her own irregular breathing.
The day, its significance, Rafe…it all seemed too much, and she fought against the moisture threatening to well in her eyes.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she silently begged…don’t cry. Tears, even one, would be a sign of weakness she refused to condone.
Yet she was powerless to still the escape of two lone rivulets that rolled in a warm trail to her chin, and she glimpsed a muscle bunching at the edge of his jaw.
Pride kept her from escaping, and she stood still, fighting the tide of emotion that threatened to fragment any remaining shred of composure.
In seeming slow motion he lifted a hand and smoothed a thumb-pad over one cheek, then the other.
Her mouth felt swollen and slightly numb, and she didn’t move as he traced its contours before dropping his hand down to his side.
‘Get out of here, mi mujer,’ he directed huskily.
His voice was the catalyst that set her limbs in motion, and she didn’t waste a second stepping out from the shower. Her need to be free of his disturbing presence prompted her to snag a towel and fasten it around her damp form before escaping into the bedroom.
There, towelled dry, the T-shirt in place, she spared the large bed a cursory glance with its tangled sheets, dislodged pillows, and made the decision to sleep elsewhere.
‘Don’t even think about it.’
Danielle turned at the sound of that silky drawl, and watched him move into the room.
‘I don’t want to sleep with you.’ Bald, brave words, spoken with quiet determination.
‘Correction…you don’t want to have sex with me.’ He waited a beat. ‘In this instance, sleep is the operative word. And we share the same bed.’
‘No.’
‘I wasn’t aware I gave you an option.’
Anger flared anew. ‘Go to hell!’
His gaze speared hers. ‘Believe you don’t want me to take you there.’
‘Oh?’ She was like a runaway train on a track leading to disaster. ‘And what—’ she flung an arm in the direction of the en suite ‘—was that happening in there? A guy thing? Or a lesson in subjugation?’
‘You have a foolish mouth,’ Rafe warned with chilling softness.
‘If you wanted a meek, subservient wife you should have married someone else.’
‘Instead, I chose you.’ He paused, spearing her angry gaze with hateful ease. ‘The purpose is specific…or have you forgotten so soon?’
Danielle tore her gaze away from his. ‘If you touch me again tonight I’ll—’
‘Fight me to the death? Scratch my eyes out?’ He leant over the bed, straightened the pillows and hauled up the bedcovers. ‘Be warned, I’m a light sleeper.’
‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘A warning, should you decide to go sleep somewhere else in the middle of the night.’
‘You can’t—’
‘Watch me.’
‘You’re nothing but a tyrannical bully!’
He unfastened the towel knotted at his waist and tossed it aside. ‘I’ll wear only so many insults.’ He slid in beneath the covers. ‘Get into bed, Danielle.’
‘What if I don’t?’
Dark eyes pierced hers. ‘I’ll put you there.’
A lock of hair fell forward onto her cheek, and she tucked it back behind her ear in an involuntary gesture.
Capitulation was born out of wisdom…for now. Although she didn’t feel particularly wise as she reluctantly slid into bed. In a final gesture of defiance she turned her back towards him and hugged the edge of the mattress.
Something that gave her little satisfaction, for he merely snapped off the light, plunging the room into darkness, and she lay there tense, listening to his breathing slow into a steady rhythm.
How could he slip so easily to sleep? Too much practice in the face of danger? Or a finely tuned mechanism that permitted him to wake at the slightest sound, the faintest move?
What had he witnessed in his youth to have created such a hard exterior? Had fate dealt him such a difficult hand that he had no heart?
Could the right woman change his perspective? Could she?
Dear lord, what was she thinking? Her sole purpose in his life was to produce a child, then, following the requisite time span, move on.
Besides, what woman would willingly welcome a man of Rafe Valdez’s calibre into her life?
Many, she admitted with obvious reluctance. The size of his cheque-book guaranteed obsequious adoration from the trophy wife prepared to be both gracious hostess and a seductive mistress. In all probability, willing to gift him a child.
So why her, when he could have chosen any one of several young women?
Because she refused to conform, and frequently opted for confrontation? Even to her detriment?
Or was it simply circumstance, as he’d claimed? Let’s not forget the d’Alboa lineage, she added silently.
Did it really matter?
With a faint sigh she attempted to ease her tense body. Curled into a tight ball on the edge of a mattress was not her normal sleeping position.
She was already beginning to feel the tightness in several muscles. And she hurt, inside and out. Her breast ached from his retaliatory bite, and she ran her tongue over the tissues inside her mouth where he’d heartlessly ground them against her teeth.
It would be so easy to indulge in a crying jag. Wasn’t there some analogy that credited weeping as a release to soothe the soul?
One solitary tear spilled and ran warmly down her cheek, and she brushed it away in angry rejection.
It was a while before she slipped into an uneasy sleep, from which she stirred to Rafe’s touch as early dawn fingered the day’s first light through the shuttered windows.
His sexual appetite ran to night and morning? Maybe if she simply lay there…
Fool, she accorded minutes later as warmth flooded her veins. He played her like a finely tuned instrument, seeking an unbidden response that had her clinging to him like a craven wanton.
Afterwards she slept, and when she woke it was morning, the space in the bed beside her empty.
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