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“Yes. And you—” The belt fell open. “Must you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You’re—you’re undressing….”
He pulled his shirt over his head. Muscles rippled in his forearms and biceps. Don’t look, she told herself, but only a fool would have averted her eyes from the wide shoulders, the silky covering of coal-black hair on his broad chest, the washboard abs, the burgeoning male beauty she knew made up the rest of him.
“Si. I am undressing. It’s what I generally do when it’s late and I’m tired.” His eyes met hers. “And ready for bed.”
Her knees turned to water. Her heartbeat accelerated. Don’t look. Don’t answer. Don’t let him draw you into this game.
“Aren’t you ready for bed, too, cara?” He came toward her, the look on his face more powerful than any aphrodisiac. Slowly he reached out, trailed a lazy finger the length of her throat. “Aimee,” he said in a low, husky voice, “come to bed.”
She stared at him, hypnotized by his words, his eyes, by the intensity of her own desire because she wanted him, wanted him, wanted him….
“No,” she said in a choked whisper and fled past him, into the bathroom, slammed the door and locked it.
“Aimee.”
Nicolo’s fist pounded against the door. Aimee dragged in a sobbing breath and closed her eyes.
“Aimee. Open this door!”
She shook her head as if he could see her. She would not open it. She would never open it or give herself to him because if she did—if she did, he would have everything. The respect she’d never been able to wrest from her grandfather. The bank that should have been hers. The child he’d put in her belly…
And her.
Most of all, worst of all, he’d have her. Her body, her soul, her passion…
And what would remain of Aimee Black then? Nothing. She would disappear. Everything she’d worked so hard to be, the independent woman she was, would be consumed in the fire of their lovemaking.
But she could survive that.
She could thrive on it.
Oh, she could…if only what Nicolo felt for her was more than desire. If what he felt was—if what he felt was—
“Aimee, damn it!” The door shuddered under another blow. “When will you stop running? When will you admit what you want, what we both want?”
Never, she thought, never!
Another blow against the door. Not his fist this time. His shoulder. And the door swung open and banged against the tiled wall.
Aimee cried out. Jumped back, fists raised. She would fight him to keep him from dominating her.
“Damn you, Nicolo—”
“Perhaps,” he said grimly, “but you are my wife. You will do as I say. And what I say, tonight, is that I’m tired of you pretending you don’t want me when we both know damned well you do.”
He reached for her. Dragged her into his arms. She swung at him; he caught both her wrists, trapped her hands between them. Took her mouth…
And tasted not her anger but her tears, just as he had on the plane.
Dio, he thought. Dio, what was he doing?
“Aimee.”
He tried to lift her face to his. She wouldn’t let him.
