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“Let’s go,” he ordered through clenched teeth.
“I already told you I don’t want to go back to the room.”
His jaw worked and a vein throbbed at his temple. “Either you go willingly into the elevator or I bodily carry you up there.”
“You can’t—”
He leaned closer, so that his lips were nearly brushing her ear. “I’ve got news for you, baby. I can do anything I damned well please. You’re my wife, I’m your husband and, if you haven’t noticed, this ain’t the good old U.S. of A.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“This society isn’t quite as sophisticated as ours. Women’s rights haven’t been an issue down here. In fact, I think it’s legal for a man to do just about anything he wants to the woman he marries.”
She could barely breathe. “That’s archaic!”
“Welcome to Salvaje.”
“Great place for a honeymoon,” she muttered. “Who planned this vacation? The Marquis de Sade?”
“You.”
She went cold inside. Who was this man, this monster, whom she’d married? He tried to propel her toward the elevator, but short of being dragged, she wouldn’t move. Inching her chin up mutinously, she decided to call his bluff. “If you’re going to carry me, then get on with it. If not, then let me go!”
Grinding his teeth, he dropped her arm again. “What is it you want from me?”
“Answers. Straight answers.”
“I’ve given you answers.”
“Not enough.”
He closed his eyes for a second and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. “Okay,” he said slowly, as if forcing himself to be calm, “why don’t we go to dinner and you can ask me anything your little heart desires?”
He was mocking her, but she didn’t argue. All she wanted was the truth. Again he took hold of her elbow, but this time his grip was less punishing, and he guided her through double glass doors to a restaurant with a garden. She insisted they sit outside, and Trent, though he looked angry enough to spit nails, didn’t object.
The maître d’ led them through the potted plants to a private table positioned near the rock railing. Beyond the short wall was a view of the ocean, darkening with the coming night. The scents of jasmine and lemon wafted on the sea breeze and soft Spanish music floated on the air from speakers hidden in the lush vines and flowers surrounding the tables.
“It really is beautiful here,” she said, nervously. She wondered how she would feel if she’d never fallen over the cliff, never lost her memory, and was deeply in love with this mysterious stranger who insisted they were wed.
“If you say so.”
A waiter in red shirt and black slacks appeared, and Trent ordered wine for her and a beer for himself. The waiter glanced at Nikki, his soulful eyes lingering on her face a fraction longer than necessary before he disappeared.
“You sure you want to be here?”
“Of course I do.”
“People stare.”
“Let them. I’m not contagious,” she said, and Trent settled back in his chair. Though he outwardly appeared relaxed, Nikki knew better. There was a restless tension lying just under the surface of his calm demeanor. Hands tented under his chin, he stared at her accusingly. “You should have waited until I got back before you came out of the room.”
“I told you, the four walls and I had run out of conversation.”
“I was only concerned that you might fall on that ankle.”
“The ankle’s a lot better.”
He didn’t respond, but glanced casually around the garden, as if he were an interested tourist, but Nikki couldn’t fight the impression that he was looking for something or someone lurking in the shadows.
