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If she gave him her body ever again, how much longer would it be before he owned every inch of her soul?
Any woman who loved Rafael Cruz would ultimately be destroyed by that love. Because he had no love to give. He offered only seduction, not love. He had a heart of ice.
And if at times he seemed to care, if he seemed to be vulnerable after all, that was the most dangerous illusion of all.
Straightening her shoulders, she turned to face him. “I won’t sleep with you.”
“You will,” he said, a sensual smile tracing his mouth. “You are my wife.”
She licked her lips. “Just because we are legally married does not mean you own me!”
“Does it not?” he said softly.
He approached her, and for a moment she thought he intended to kiss her. Then the baby started to whimper and squirm in her arms. He stopped.
“Take care of my son,” he said. “When you are done, I will be waiting.”
Cuddling Noah in the bedroom, she fed him once they were alone. When he was asleep, she tucked him tenderly into the crib. The only sound was the quiet, even breathing of their sleeping baby as she finally left the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.
She looked up with an intake of breath when she saw him waiting for her at the end of the hall, a dark, towering figure in a house full of shadows.
Rafael’s eyes never left hers as he came slowly toward her. He put his hands on her shoulders, and she shivered.
How long could she resist him?
God help her if he ever reverted to the charming, seductive man she’d once known, the man with a gift for words and a light in his dark eyes that could convince any woman that she, and only she, could bring out the good in his heart.
God help her if Rafael decided to make her love him again.
“Come,” he whispered.
Taking her hand, he pulled her down the hall. Dinner had been catered in and served on the massive oak dining table overlooking the wall of windows and the view of the city. The servers set up the food, then departed, along with the bodyguards.
Louisa was alone with Rafael, with no chaperone but their sleeping baby down the hall. She looked out toward the windows, past the ghostly white furniture covered with sheets. He opened a bottle of Argentinian red wine and poured it into two crystal goblets.
It should have felt intimate, and yet in the neglected penthouse it felt cold. Soulless. The food was delicious, but this place didn’t feel like home. It felt dead. It felt like a prison.
And Rafael was her jailer.
She thought of the snug little apartment she’d left behind in Key West, of the sunshine and sound of the sea and her niece’s laughter, and felt a lump in her throat. She set down her fork with a clang against the china plate.
“Don’t you like the empanadas?” he asked.
“They’re delicious,” she murmured. “But it doesn’t feel like home.”
“Still a housekeeper at heart?” he said mockingly.
She lifted her chin. “I’d rather cook for us. For our family.”
“Just take care of Noah. That is enough. We won’t be here long.” His eyes narrowed, and the darkness in his gaze scared her. “I have some business in Buenos Aires. A payback that has been a long time coming.” He smiled. “Once that’s done, querida,” he said, “we will return to Paris.”
Paris. She thought of her memories there with a shiver. Back to Paris. Where she’d first surrendered to her desire for her playboy boss. Where she thought he’d opened up his soul to her.
She couldn’t let herself fall for him again—couldn’t!
He might have some kind of sensual power over her that she could not fight—but she wouldn’t let him have her soul!
She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders.
