Wife By Force(15)

He leaned in, closer. Breathed in. The silky, sexy, subtle scent of her.   He breathed her in again and the hectic beat of the pulse on her neck   matched the drumming beat of lust in his blood. The urge to take her  and  run rushed through him once more.

"Dante," she choked. "You're embarrassing me. Move away."

Reluctantly, he eased away. The chatter of his family swelled and as the   moments passed, he sensed her relaxing in her seat. Regrettably, he   could not follow her into relaxation. His erection was painful and if he   stood, would be obvious. His host speech would be a spectacle if he  did  not clamp down on his libido.

His reaction to her continued to astonish him.

White-coated waiters quickly appeared everywhere, circling the tables   with large china bowls filled with cioppino. He found himself grimly   amused as the bowl of steamed mussels, lightly spiced with garlic, was   set before him. The last thing he needed was an aphrodisiac.

"So," he said, trying to distract himself. "Your father was unable to attend."

She puckered her lips, blowing on the hot soup in her spoon.

His erection pressed against the zipper of his pants.

Dio. Was she doing it on purpose? But no, her body language screamed her   dislike. Some primal male part of him roared to life, much to his   amazement. The female challenge to his pride, the demand to make her   aware of him, to admit he got to her as much as she got to him,   threatened to consume him.

He stared at the mussels and forced himself to focus on the conversation   instead of any challenges. "Lara? Your father is all right?"

"I'm sorry he couldn't make it," she finally responded. "He had to go to Florence to see my brother unexpectedly."

Not so unexpectedly. Dante had spent the last week in a productive   manner. He'd wrapped up the remaining details of his overseas trip,   freeing him from crushing business demands in the near future. There   would be time to focus on the goals he had for his private life for   once. He'd also caught up on the financial news and gossip that often   gave him surprisingly good tips.

One particular tip had been important enough to investigate thoroughly.

He frowned. He would have to step in and fix things in that area. Soon.   As a family friend to the Derricks, and as one who had the power to   change the outcome, it was the least he could do. His intervention into   her family's financial problems might also be the key to softening her   feelings toward him. A win-win situation. "I'm sorry he was called   away."

"I'm still not sure you aren't behind it."

"I am not in control of everything."

She glanced at him, eyes honey hot with hate. And passion if she would   only acknowledge it. "That must be awful for you," she cooed.

"Bella." Pushing his soup away, he leaned back in his chair and watched   her as she cleanly separated a mussel from its shell. "Believe it or   not, I do not seek control. It comes to me."

"I told you not to call me that."

"And I believe I told you I do not follow directions very well."

"But you give directions right and left, don't you?"

He shifted in his seat. "Someone has to."

"So you've appointed yourself." Her voice was laced with sarcasm. Again.

Sudden anger coiled in his gut. Again.

She had no idea of the demands he dealt with every day. Demands he'd   shouldered as his father lay on his deathbed. Willingly, of course. His   duty and his destiny. He'd been old enough at twenty-five to understand   he had no other choice. Yet he wished, just once, someone other than  his  mother could see the toll it took on him.

To always have the answers.

To always take charge.

To never have time to be.

Dante stared at the woman who sat beside him, the woman who stared right   back at him, a curl of mahogany hair whispering along her tight mouth.

Who was he kidding?

He wished for the friend he'd had in Lara. The friend who listened and   loved him when he was struggling to come to grips with what he'd have to   deal with when his ailing father died. The friend he'd lost the moment   he rejected her advances. Still, he'd explained his actions, told her   why he'd done what he'd done. So why couldn't she cut him a break? She   continued to judge him, harshly and unfairly.         

     



 

"No," he said, his voice intense. "Actually, no, I did not do the appointing."

She focused on him, her gaze intelligent and questioning. Then the swarm   of waiters descended on them, and the main course of osso buco and   risotto was served. Her attention was drawn away by another family   member, and he used the time to calm his anger and quiet his surprise at   what he'd almost revealed.

After Lara had left for England, he'd never talked about his   frustration, his fear of what had been given to him. He never confessed   to anyone the long hours of pacing in his bedroom or the times he'd   spent rehearsing his speeches in front of his mirror. Or the endless,   stark moments of watching his company's stock move down and then up,   feeling his heart move down and up at the same time.

What good would it have done? His mother had been too engulfed in her   grief. His sisters and brother had been too young to shoulder any of the   responsibility. And his father's investors had been waiting for him to   show even a sliver of weakness.

So he'd dealt with it. Alone.

Now, it was so long ago, behind him, not important. Yet her cutting   tongue had loosened the old memories and he'd spilled a bit of himself   out in front of her. For her inspection.

His hands fisted in his lap.

Act with your logic, not your emotions.

His father was right. This was not a time to react with his feelings.   This was not the time to dredge up old emotions that were no longer   relevant. This was a time to look at the situation, look at this woman,   in a calm, patient manner. Make his decisions and act using his brain,   not his emotions. Certainly not with his libido.

"You don't like the food?" she questioned, shifting her attention to him once more.

"Apparently, I am not hungry."

"Apparently?" She gave him a scathing laugh. "Do you need to check with your board of directors before you make a decision?"

"Me? Check with anyone before I make a decision?" Instantly, his breath   burned hot in his throat. He tried to rein in the resurgent anger   simmering inside him, but his patience unraveled. "According to you, I   would never do such a thing."

"Do you ever think, Dante, that you could be wrong when you make a decision?"

The old memories twisted inside. The memories of constant   second-guessing. The memories of the sweat running down his back as he   confronted the board he'd inherited from his father. The memory of   coming home to his weeping mother and siblings and not knowing what to   say. "Never," he spat the word at her, his gut churning.

She stared at him, her gaze alert and faintly pitying. "I believe you are a robot."

Rage purpled his vision and clouded his mind. She insulted him. Judged him.

Pitied him.

"I'm sorry." She wiped a hand across her brow. "I shouldn't have said that."

If he opened his mouth, he would yell at her. Or spill the old memories out in front of her. Then, she would pity him even more.

Glancing at him, she sighed. "I can see I didn't even make a pinprick in   that thick hide of yours. I'm not going to apologize again."

"No need," he managed to say. Dimly, he felt pride that his voice was   low and controlled. "After all, I have no feelings, do I? A cold-blooded   man, I believe you said."

"True." She gritted her teeth in a fake smile.

"I am … " he twirled his glass of wine in a languid motion, belying the surging fury running through him, " … a...robot."

"Yes," she stated, her smile intact. "You've got it exactly right."

"And yet." He paused to glance around the table, checking to make sure   this conversation was only between them. His family, surprisingly, was   giving them space. "And yet, you eagerly fall into my arms whenever I   kiss you."

"I don't-"

Leaning in, he breathed into her pale pink shell of an ear. "You do. You respond to a robot. How can that be?"

Her distinctive smell wafted around him, wrapping lust around the temper   he barely contained. The primal male roared in him: take her, punish   her, conquer her.

"I do not-" She began to rise in outrage.

He clamped his hand around her thigh and pushed her down onto her seat. "Sieda."

"Stop. Come. Sit." Her hands tightened into fists and he wondered if she were going to hit him. "You treat me like I'm a dog."

"You are no dog, bella."