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“It is a contract for marriage,” he said. “I thought your father would have told you that much.”
Oh my god. He was infuriating. And sexy. The heat of his body radiated across the small space between us. My shoulder nearly brushed his chest, and I wished I had worn a thin skirt, because I was almost positive his knee was touching mine, but my clay-stained jeans were too thick to feel it. My knee tingled anyway, sending shivers up my leg. They wrapped around and under, curling at the hot apex of my thighs.
I did my best to push the feeling away. “Yeah, I know that, but why?”
He shrugged. “I would like a wife,” he said.
“And you're willing to take on my father's bad debt for it?”
He pursed his lips, a gesture too delicious to not be purposeful. Which, of course, didn't stop my gaze from being drawn to them. I wanted to run my tongue against the seam of his mouth and tease it open, snake my tongue inside and do battle with his. Unconsciously, I found myself licking my own lips as I stared at his face. When I realized what I was doing I stuffed my tongue back behind my teeth and raised my eyes.
He stared back at me, cool and knowing. “Your father's debt,” he said, “is not insurmountable. His company is still worth something in name and... contacts.” Almost absently he reached out and took the contract from me, angling his wrist so that his fingers slid over mine. Over the sudden sound of my blood pounding in my ears I heard myself gasp.
Deliberate and controlled. That's what he was. He laid the contract on the table and turned back to me. His gaze drifted up to my hair, a messy birdsnest of dark chestnut curls that I could never tame and settled for piling on top of my head in the most haphazard manner possible. One hand reached out and teased a curl from the mess I'd pinned it into today.
I should have stood up and walked away. I should have slapped him. I should have screamed.
Instead, I let him.
Boy, was that dumb.
His fingers twined around the lock of hair. It was as though he were twisting me around his fingers, up and over and under. My skin burned and my lips—both pairs—were swollen and aching for his kiss. I tried to think through the desire unfurling in my belly.
“So... you get my father's company and me. I, uh, I mean... it, uh, seems like a guy like you would have no trouble... whoah!”
Anton Waters had leaned in and buried his nose in my hair. This was a little too far, even for me.
I staggered to my feet, snatching the contract from the table.
“What do you think you're doing?” I demanded.
For the first time, he seemed vaguely surprised. “Seeing if we are sexually compatible,” he said, as though this were obvious.
“That's awfully presumptuous of you. I haven't even said I would marry you yet!” I exclaimed. My legs trembled and I wished I could sit down again, but I didn't want to show weakness.
A faint line appeared between his brows as he frowned. “But why would you agree to marriage if you did not desire me sexually?” he said. Like he was a fucking robot. A fucking hot robot. “It seems wise to get such things out of the way to begin with before anyone makes a decision they regret.” He lifted his chin and ran his eyes over me appraisingly. I felt his gaze like a blowtorch, blasting away my resistance, exposing my skin, melting my bones. “I believe we would do quite well in that regard.”
I didn't want to think about this man desiring me. No, I didn't let myself think about it. It was too tempting. I had to stay focused on my goal. Which was... what again?
“Wait... why do you want an ar
ranged marriage? You could get any woman you wanted.” Yeah. That was my biggest problem with this whole thing. God, I was an idiot. But at least it was a question and not me ripping all his clothes off.
He shrugged. “I do not require love or emotional attachment,” he said. “But a wife—as outlined in the contract—would be ideal for my personal needs.”
I hadn't read the contract. I didn't need to. There was no way I would marry this guy.
“What made you think I would agree to this?” I said.
He raised his brows. “I believe you can evaluate the benefits for yourself,” he said. “There are generous clauses within the contract for your own use.”
Rage bubbled up in me. “Fuck you,” I said. “Like I would ever get married for money. My father had money, and it left my mother with nothing.”
The vague smile returned. “Not money for you, Miss Dare. Money for certain... pet causes of yours.”
My breath caught. “What?” I said. “How could you know anything about me?”
“I know a lot about you,” he said in that same cool tone. “I know you enjoy knitting but abandon your projects frequently. I know you sometimes leave very cruel anonymous comments on other artists' websites. I know you often feel bad enough to go back and anonymously attack your own criticisms. And I also know you recently posted the phrase 'eat the rich' in response to the latest financial crisis on a certain left-leaning website.”
