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He was a heartless, manipulative, controlling son of a bitch and it made her sick to think she’d ever imagined that she loved him. Anybody could be guilty of a bit of self-deception, but once you knew it you had to do something about it.
She’d spent years in the city, though maybe she was still a small-town girl at heart, unable or unwilling to think she’d slept with a man, borne his child without loving him.
But no woman could love a man who thought he owned you. Who believed you capable of lies and deceit and—
The bedroom door flew open, the sound of it sharp as a gunshot in the quiet night. Tally whirled around.
Dante stood in the doorway, and her heart leaped into her throat.
This was a Dante she’d never seen before.
His suit jacket was gone, as was his tie. His shirt was open at the neck, the sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms knotted with muscle.
But it was what she saw in the way he held himself that terrified her. The tall, powerful body poised like a big cat’s. The dark intensity of his eyes as they fixed on hers. The cruel little smile that tilted across his mouth.
Tally wanted to run but there was nowhere to go. She had to face the enemy.
“What are you doing here, Dante?”
He answered by stepping inside the room and shutting the door behind him.
“It’s late,” she said.
“I agree. It’s very late. I’m here to remedy that.”
“And—and Samantha is sleeping. I don’t want to wake her.”
“Samantha is with Mrs. Tipton.” He took another step forward. “Taylor.”
He was back to using her given name. How could he make it seem menacing?
“Dante.” Her voice quavered. “Dante, please. You want to talk. So do I. But it can wait until morning.”
“I don’t want to talk, Taylor.”
A sob burst from Tally’s throat. To hell with facing the enemy. She turned and ran. Sam’s bedroom was empty. If she could get there before he reached her—
Two quick steps, and his powerful hands closed on her shoulders; he spun her toward him and she looked up into eyes that glittered with the desolate cold of a polar night.
“No! Don’t. Dante—”
He captured her mouth with his, forced her lips apart and penetrated her with his tongue. He tasted of anger and of whiskey, and of a primitive domination that terrified her.
“No,” she cried, and struggled to free herself from his grasp, but he laughed, pushed her back against the wall and yanked her hands high above her head.
“Fight me,” he growled. “Go on. Fight! It’ll make taking you even more pleasurable.”
“Please,” she panted. “Dante, please. Don’t do this. I beg you—”
“All those months I made love to you and it wasn’t enough. Is that why you went to him? Did he do things I didn’t?”
“Dante. I never—”
He ripped the robe apart, tore her nightgown from the vee between her breasts straight down to her belly.
“Tell me what you wanted that I didn’t give you.”
“You’re wrong. Wrong! It wasn’t the way you make it sound. I didn’t—”
