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‘I warned you I would make a lousy wife,’ Angie sighed out heavily, flopping onto her back.
‘And you were,’ he agreed.
‘You shouldn’t have married me.’
‘I was irritated with you as my lover. My arrogance told me I could turn you into a more satisfying wife.’
Angie released a very unsatisfied breath of air at his note of dry whimsy. It offered no answer at all as to why he’d suggested marriage—or for that matter why she had agreed. Oh, she knew that she’d been wildly in love with him. The ‘first love’ syndrome had grabbed a really tight hold on her. But they’d been sharing a very exciting and passionate relationship without commitment, so why had he bothered to change the status quo?
Then there was the ‘no divorce’ thing he’d thrown at her yesterday—or the day before that, she amended, when she remembered the lateness of the hour. What kind of man with a ‘no divorce’ clause built into his family pride married a woman because she irritated him as a lover?
‘And I was in love with you.’ He added the flat appendage as if he’d tapped directly into her thoughts.
Angie just froze as a trail of words like, amo-te, eu te amo, eu quero te, echoed in her head. Soul-melting endearments from a handsome ex-playboy, a guy with a fatal charm built into his genes. And she had responded to his softly spoken words with her own English versions … Yet how was it that she’d known absolutely how much she’d meant them while not taking on board the true worth of his words?
Then she remembered how those soul-melting endearments had gone missing within a few days of his ring sliding onto her finger, and Angie knew deep inside that she had been the one to blame. She’d continued on in her busy life with blind disregard to the fact that their relationship had changed, or that she needed to make changes along with it. Her wake-up call had arrived too late, when she’d found out she was pregnant two weeks after their marriage had blown apart.
Her eyes began to sting in the darkness as she thought about it. The horrible bad timing, the terrible hurt, the miserable weeks of loneliness when she’d hidden herself away to lick her wounds while hugging the news about their baby to herself, as if he’d forfeited the right to care.
‘W-was …?’ she prompted tremulously. ‘As—as in you don’t feel that way about me any more? ‘
Watching her through the sultry darkness, Roque saw the glitter of tears in her eyes and wanted his right to retribution back. Where the hell did she get off, daring to ask him that question after the year she had put him through?
‘You think I should still love you?’ He threw the loaded ball right back into Angie’s court.
Pressing her trembling lips together, she gave a shake of her head, and a burning sense of dissatisfaction grabbed hold of his chest muscles, making him want to take hold of her by the shoulders and give her a damn good shake. So what was new there? he asked himself heavily. He could hardly recall a time when she hadn’t annoyed him enough to make him want to shake her until she woke up and recognised what they’d had going for them once.
‘A esperança é a última que morre,’ he quoted heavily.
‘I don’t know what that means,’ she whispered through the darkness.
‘Then learn my language,’ he suggested without remorse. He added a gruff, ‘Go to sleep,’ and then a sigh when he recognised he was bringing the last twenty hours in a full circle, with a gap between them in their bed as wide as an ocean.
Only this time Angie wasn’t playing. ‘Okay, so you’re angry with me,’ she accepted, drawing in a fortifying breath of air. ‘I’m sorry I made you wait twelve months to tell me about Nadia. And I wish I wasn’t so stubborn and unforgiving—but if you tell me what I must do one more time, Roque, I will—’
He moved without her seeing it coming. One of his arms just stretched out and appeared through the darkness to grab hold of her wrist, and the next thing Angie knew she was being hauled across the gap between them. She landed against his chest in a quiver of gasps and protests. They looked at each other—two deep-diving seconds of looking—and then his other hand arrived at the back of her head and he was pulling her down to receive the full onslaught of his kiss.
She didn’t even think of fighting to get away from him this time. Instead she just kissed him back with every last bit of fevered anxiety she felt running rife in her blood. In fact she was so intent on what she was feeding into her kiss that when she felt something cool slide onto her finger she pulled her head back so hard it was a wonder she didn’t snap her neck.
She stared dazedly down at him, watched a mocking little smile take control of his mouth. Then she lifted her left hand and stared at the two rings now slotted onto her finger.
She’d forgotten all about the rings again. She’d forgotten that Roque had taken them back. Her eyes were luminous even without the threat of tears as she looked back at his handsome dark face.
‘A esperança é a última que morre,‘ he repeated softly, then pressed her back against the pillow and came over her to capture her lips with another hot, ravishing kiss. Angie’s hands found his shoulders, and she set light so fast she almost hyperventilated when he snaked back from her to rear up onto his knees.
‘What the hell are you wearing? ‘ he ground out incredulously, staring down at the voluminous folds of white muslin.
‘Hair shirt,’ Angie whispered. ‘I didn’t think you would come back to this bed tonight.’
He spread back the covers so he could get a better look at the nightdress. After spending long seconds scanning her, from spiralling flame hair splashed against the pillow down to slender pink toes, he let out a lazy laugh. ‘You look like Count Dracula’s bride! No, don’t fire up, Angelina the sacrifice.’ He grinned rakishly when she tensed up. ‘I like it.’ Reaching down, he tugged the muslin all nice and n
eat around the shape of her body. ‘I think it is appropriate attire for a lady about to be ravished on her wedding night.’
‘Bit late for that,’ Angie said, shaking out a quiver of pleasure when he ran the flat of his hands all the way up her muslin-covered legs to the feminine curve of her slender hips. ‘I got to be well and truly ravished long before my wedding night—and I am not in any way, shape or form a sacrifice,’ she added, in case he thought she was that sorry she hadn’t let him defend himself twelve months ago.
‘Don’t spoil the fantasy.’ Sending his hands on a further trail of her muslin-wrapped body, he shaped her narrow ribcage, then located the burgeoning fullness of her breasts. ‘We will make this our new wedding night, and this time—’ he paused to view the successful way he had outlined both budding peaks against the fine cloth with his long fingers ‘—we will follow it up with the honeymoon we did not manage to enjoy the first time around.’
‘You—’
