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‘You’re not annoyed?’
He scrutinised her reaction, strangely piqued that she should accept his neglect so easily. Where was her fire? Where was the passionate, intense woman who’d captured his … interest … from the first?
‘Why should I be annoyed?’ She stared straight back at him and shrugg
ed, wide-eyed and with palms spread towards him.
‘You’re a very important man with a commercial empire to run. And I …’ She swallowed suddenly and blinked. ‘I was tired. I slept for hours.’
Something wasn’t right. Despite her direct look, despite her words, something was definitely amiss. He took a step towards her.
‘But I must admit,’ she said quickly, jutting her chin, ‘where I come from it’s customary at least to thank the woman you’ve spent the night with.’ Her eyes blazed now, scorching him where he stood. ‘To do it in person is best. But a note or at least a phone call would suffice. It’s considered bad manners to lope off without a word.’
Her words rooted him to the spot. Not because of the searing temper he read behind them—that was almost welcome after her unnatural calm. But the implication of what she’d said—where I come from …
She was lecturing him on post-coital etiquette—with the insouciance of a woman who knew just what she was talking about.
A surge of white-hot jealousy rocked him. It was so intense and immediate that he clenched his fists against the need to find a violent outlet for his feelings.
How many men had shared her bed in Australia?
Did she care for any of them? Even one of them?
The thought of Sophie, his Sophie, with another man, ever, was untenable. He shook his head, trying to clear the red fog of rage that blinded him.
‘That’s not something you’ll need to worry about again,’ he growled, closing the distance between them with a single stride. ‘There’ll be no more men in your bed.’
‘Are you including yourself in that?’ Her brows arched haughtily as she tipped her head up to meet him head-on.
‘Don’t play games, Sophie. You know what I mean.’ He gathered in a huge, sustaining breath. The depth of his jealousy, and its suddenness, made his head spin. He reacted instinctively. ‘You’re mine now. There won’t be any other men in your life, much less anywhere near your bed!’
She glared back at him, her eyes flashing gold fire. Her nostrils flared and her hands fisted on her hips as she stood, toe to toe against him.
What a woman she was! Beautiful and strong and passionate. The sexiest woman he’d ever known.
His woman, intoned the possessive voice that had echoed in his ears all through the night.
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ she said, her words slow and deliberate.
He scowled. What sort of nonsense was this? ‘Of course it’s my business. You and I—’
‘What makes you think you have exclusive rights over me?’ Her brow pleated in mock-concentration and her head tilted to one side as if to reinforce her point. ‘I don’t remember any discussion of that last night.’
‘There was no discussion last night. We didn’t—’
‘Then perhaps I should make it clear to you now,’ she said, just as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I’m my own woman, Costas Palamidis. I don’t belong to you. Or to any other man.’ She stared past him, at a point somewhere over his shoulder. ‘Last night doesn’t entitle you to determine anything at all about the way I live my life.’
The blood pounded loud in Costas’ ears, a deafening roar that almost obliterated the last of her declaration. Almost, but unfortunately not quite.
She was exerting her independence.
From him!
He gritted his teeth against the primitive howl of rage that welled in his throat.
This woman drove him crazy, awoke the most barbaric of impulses in him. He could fully understand the urge of less civilised men to keep their women cloistered at home. Preferably tied to the bed.
‘Surely,’ he said at last in an unsteady voice, ‘you’re not trying to convince me you’re promiscuous.’
