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His thumb moved back and forth across Trinity’s jaw, the softness of her delicate skin an enticement to touch and keep touching.
‘What are you doing?’
He dragged his gaze up over high cheekbones, perfect bone structure. ‘I can’t not touch you.’ The admission seemed to fall out of him before he could stop it.
Trinity put a hand up over his. The car came to a smooth stop. Cruz knew that he had to keep touching her or die. And he assured himself that it had nothing to do with the emotion that had clouded his judgement and his vision as he’d watched her at ease with another man, and everything to do with pure, unadulterated lust.
* * *
Trinity was locked into Cruz’s eyes and the intensity of his gaze. One minute she’d been hurt and angry, and then he’d apologised...once again demonstrating a level of humility that she just wouldn’t have expected from him. And now... Now she was burning up under his explicit look that told her that whatever they’d just been talking about was forgotten, that things had taken a far more carnal turn.
She felt a breeze touch her back. She blinked and looked around to see the driver standing at the door, waiting for her to get out. They’d arrived back at the apartment building and she hadn’t even noticed.
She scrambled out inelegantly, feeling seriously jittery. It was as if some kind of silent communication had passed between them, and she wasn’t sure what she’d agreed to.
The journey up to the apartment passed in a blur. The lift doors opened a
nd they stepped into the hushed interior of Cruz’s apartment. He threw off his jacket and Trinity’s mouth dried as she watched the play of muscles under the thin silk of his shirt.
He glanced back at her over his shoulder. ‘I know you don’t really drink, but would you like something?’
Trinity was about to refuse, but something in the air made her feel uncharacteristically reckless. She moved forward. ‘Okay.’
‘What would you like?’
She stopped, her mind a blank. Embarrassment engulfed her—she was no sophisticate.
Cruz looked at her. ‘I’ve got all the spirits. What do you like?’
Trinity shrugged one shoulder. ‘I’m not sure...’
He looked at her for a long moment and then turned back to the drinks table, doing something she couldn’t see. Then he turned and came towards her with two glasses. One was large and bulbous, filled with what looked like brandy or whisky. The other glass was smaller, with an orange liquid over a couple of ice cubes.
He handed her the second glass. ‘Try this—see what you think.’
After a moment’s hesitation she reached for the glass and bent her head, taking a sniff. Cruz was waiting for her reaction, so she took a sip of the cool liquid and it slid down her throat, leaving a sweet aftertaste. She wrinkled her nose, because she’d been expecting something tart or strong.
She looked at him. ‘It’s sweet. I like it—what is it?’
A small smile played around the corner of Cruz’s mouth. ‘It’s Pacharán—a Spanish liqueur from Navarre. Very distinctive. It tastes sweet, but it packs quite the alcoholic punch. Hence the small amount.’
Before he could suck her under and scramble her brain cells with just a look Trinity went and sat down at the end of one couch, bemused by this very fragile cessation in hostilities. Cruz sat too, choosing the end of a couch at right angles to hers. He effortlessly filled the space with his muscled bulk, long legs stretched out, almost touching hers.
Trinity felt unaccountably nervous, and a little bewildered. She was so used to Cruz coming at her with his judgement and mistrust that she wasn’t sure how to navigate these waters. He sat forward, hands loose around his glass, drawing her attention to long fingers.
‘Tell me something about yourself—like your name. How did you get it?’
She tensed all over. Every instinct within her was screaming to resist this far more dangerous Cruz. ‘What are you doing? You’re not interested in who I am...you don’t have to ask me these things.’
‘You were the one,’ he pointed out reasonably, ‘who said we need to learn to get along.’
And look how that had ended up—with him kissing her and demonstrating just how weak she was. What could she say, though? He was right.
Hating it that she was exposing her agitation, but needing space from his focus on her, Trinity stood up and walked over to one of the windows, holding her glass to her chest like some kind of ineffectual armour.
Looking out at the view, she said as lightly as she could, ‘I was called Trinity after the church where I was found abandoned on the steps. The Holy Trinity Church in Islington.’
She heard movement and sensed Cruz coming to stand near her. She could feel his eyes on her.
