Rich Man's Revenge. Katherine Garbera
Читать онлайн книгу.
she whispered. The pain and bewilderment in her eyes made her seem suddenly young and fragile and sad. “And you left.”
And he felt it again—the tight twist in the place where his heart should have been. As if he were an ogre standing over a poor peasant girl with a whip.
No! Damn it! He wouldn’t feel sorry for her!
He’d show her that her overt display of a wobbly lower lip and big hazel eyes had no effect on him whatsoever!
Bree Dalton didn’t have feelings, he told himself fiercely. Just masks. He glared at her. “Stop it.”
“What?”
“Your ridiculous attempt to gain my sympathy. It—”
It won’t work, he meant to say, but his throat closed as he was distracted by the rise and fall of her breasts in the tiny slip of blush-colored silk when she breathed. He could see the shape of her nipples and the way they trembled with every hard breath.
And he was rock hard. Their mutual dislike somehow only made him desire her more, to almost unsustainable need. What magnetic control did she have over his body? Why did he want her like this? She was a confessed liar, a con artist. She wished she’d lost her body to any man but him. How could he want her still? It was almost as if she wasn’t his slave at all, but he was hers.
And that enraged him most of all.
A low growl came from the back of his throat. He was in control. Not her.
His hands tightened into fists, his jaw clenching. He wanted to push Bree against the bed, to kiss her hard, to plunge himself inside her and make her scream with pleasure. He wanted to make her explode with pure ecstasy, even while she hated him. A grim smile curved his lips. She would despise herself for that, which would be sweet indeed.
But when he took her, it would be in his own time. At his free choice. Not because she’d driven him to madness by her taunts and the seductive sway of her nubile body.
He wouldn’t let her conquer him.
His shoulders ached with tension as he turned away, fighting for self-control. He looked around the master bedroom with a derisive curl on his lip. “I can see you did not finish scrubbing this floor before you took your long lazy nap. You will finish it now. While I watch.”
Her expression changed. Snatching up the frayed sponge, she grabbed the bucket of cold wash water from the floor and, in a posture of clear fury, knelt down. He watched her slender, delectable body, wearing only the tiny slip of pink silk, moving back and forth on all fours as she scrubbed the floor. His mouth went dry.
Bree looked up.
“Enjoying the show?” she said coldly.
Without a word, Vladimir turned and left the bedroom. He returned a moment later with his own dinner tray and red wine. Still not speaking, he sat down in a cushioned chair near the marble fireplace. Calmly he unfolded his fine linen napkin across his lap.
“Now I am,” he replied.
Sitting back comfortably in his chair, he took a sip of merlot. He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen, of seeing her scowl. Then she turned back to her work, and he had the even greater satisfaction of watching Bree on all fours, her body frosted with silvery moonlight, scrubbing his floor with a sponge and a pail of water.
Outside the veranda window, the full moon lit up the shimmering dark Pacific. The large master bedroom was full of shadows, lit only by a single lamp near his massive four-poster bed. With the flick of a remote, Vladimir turned on the gas fireplace, adding soft flickering firelight to better see his dinner—and the floor show. His solid silver knife and fork slid noisily against the pure bone china, edged with 24 karat gold, as he cut the Provençal goat cheese and Gruyère soufflé. Watching her, he took a bite.
It was exquisite. He sighed in true, deep pleasure.
“Tasty?” Bree muttered, not looking at him.
“You have no idea.” His homemade soufflé was indeed delicious, but he wasn’t referring to the food.
“I hope you choke and die,” she said sweetly.
“Don’t forget the area by the bed.” He watched Bree’s nearly naked body shimmy as she scrubbed. His eyes ran along her slender, toned legs, the sweet curve of her backside, her plump breasts hanging down as they swayed, barely covered by the whisper-thin silk hanging from her shoulders.
Hmm. He didn’t want to enjoy it this much. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, moving his plate closer to his knees.
“Of course, Your Highness.” Giving him an I-wish-you-were-dead glare, Bree stomped—if a woman could be said to stomp while she was crawling—over to the foot of the bed, dragging the bucket behind her. It changed her body’s position, giving Vladimir an entirely different view.
He was now sitting directly behind her. All he needed to do was get down on his knees, grab her hips in his hands and pull her sweet bottom back against his groin. It was suddenly all he could think about.
You’re in control, he ordered himself. Not her.
But his body wasn’t listening. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. His hands clenched on the silver tray in his lap. Well, why not just take her? Bree was his property. His serf. His slave. She’d sold herself to him freely, taunting him with her sexual skill. You have no idea what I can do to you. An untouched virgin—Bree? Impossible. She was an experienced seductress. He’d wanted her. Waited for her. For ten years. So what was stopping him?
Vladimir watched the bounce of her breasts and slow up-and-down motion of her hips as she scrubbed the floor angrily.
Not a damned thing.
He heard a loud crash of breaking china. He’d risen to his feet without even knowing it. The tray had fallen from his lap, and his dinner was now a mess of broken crockery.
At the noise, Bree leaned back on her haunches, brushing a tendril of hair out of her face with her shoulder. Turning her luscious body in the tiny, clinging silk teddy, she glared at him. “I’m not cleaning that.”
Then she saw the look in his eyes. Twisting away with an intake of breath, she started to scrub the floor again. This time with enough panicked force to dig right through the marble to the house’s foundation and straight through the earth to Russia.
He stepped over the broken china. He stopped behind her. He fell to his knees.
“I’m not done,” she choked out.
Wrapping his body around her back, he reached in front of her. He put his larger hand over hers, forcing the sponge to be still. His hand tightened as she tried, without success, to keep scrubbing. Caught between two opposing forces, the sponge ripped apart.
Bewildered, she leaned back with half a sponge in her hand. “Look what you did,” she said, blinking fast. “You destroyed it. After everything it tried to do for you …”
“Bree,” he said in a low voice.
Dropping the sponge, she closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around her shivering body. “Don’t …”
But he was ruthless. Grabbing her hips with both hands, he pulled her body back against his own. He felt the rapid, panicked rise and fall of her ribs beneath the chain of his arms. Felt the sweet softness of her backside pressing into his hard, aching groin.
Slowly she opened her eyes and twisted her head to glance at him. Her skin was flushed, her cheeks pink. Her lips parted. He saw the nervous flicker of her tongue against the corner of her mouth.
And he could bear it no longer.
Roughly turning her in his arms, he pulled her to face him, body to body. Twining his hands in her tangled hair, he savagely lowered his mouth to hers.
For an instant, she stiffened. Then, with a little anguished cry, her lips melted