Wife By Force(30)

Twisted and ugly it might be, yet there was lust between them. That would have to be enough. For her and for him.

Because she would never give him a baby.

Eventually, in a year or two, he would give in. His lust for her would   fade. Her contempt for him would rub him raw. When she didn't conceive,   month after month-he would let her go.

Then her revenge would be complete.

She would be free. Free from a marriage with a man she desired and detested.





Chapter 12





"This place is beautiful."

His wife was beautiful. Dante stood behind her as she walked to the edge   of the veranda surrounding their private beach house. The bright sun   slid towards the horizon, casting bands of golden light on the calm   surface of the pool. A soft wind rustled through the lush garden   surrounding the private area and the yellow-green leaves of the palm   trees danced above them.

Lara's hair was pinned up in a loose bundle at the back of her head,   stray curls catching the breeze, brushing against her neck and cheek.   The urge to reach out, to touch, strained at the tight rein he'd held on   his lust for the past month. The lust that had never left him, even   when his rage had been at its peak. But now the rage was gone, swallowed   up by his need to make her his, his desire for her body, the yearning   for a connection he wanted in his soul.

Respect, Dante, respect.

"You own this, I gather," she said.

"Si." He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his linen trousers. "The   hotel and the surrounding gardens, which include four of these private   houses."

"The stone?" Her hand swept lightly across one wall of the building.

"Coral stone. Traditional in Barbados."

She hummed before going quiet.

The silence lingered between them. His skin tightened on his muscles as   her hand moved slowly back and forth across the rough rock. Soft   touch … slow, soft touch. The movement mesmerized him. The pumping of his   blood began to beat under his skin, notching up the lust he always   experienced around her. She thought him made of stone, yet he was not.   He burned for her. If he was lucky enough to be the coral beneath her   fingers, the creamy roughness would now be red with heat and taut with   passion.

Tonight.

The erotic thought drummed in him, his blood moving to the pulse.   Tonight he would finally, finally have her beneath him. There would be   no force, he was almost sure. She always responded to him sexually. She   wanted him.

She wouldn't say no.

She couldn't say no. He would die if she did.

Lara moved away from the stone wall and stepped onto the Italian mosaic   tile work surrounding the pool. She glanced over to the sea and he   followed her gaze. The sunset turned the azure blue of the water to   teal. The light danced off the white sand of the private beach standing   only steps from the house.

Beauty and quiet and privacy.

Hopefully, this would bring a certain peace to their relationship and   they could begin to build the type of marriage he envisioned.

"I've arranged to have dinner delivered here within the hour." He waved   to the elaborately carved teak table standing on the veranda. Long teak   couches with pristine white pillows and cushions surrounded the table.   Two chairs with plump white padding stood waiting to be occupied.   "There's time for you to shower and dress before then."         

     



 

"No." She stared at the pool. "I'm going to take a swim."

"A swim?" He frowned. "You are too tired for that."

She laughed dryly. "Have I told you I'm tired?"

"I'm only trying-"

"I know this doesn't fit your well-thought-out plan for the evening."   She eyed him with irritation. "The only thing I can say is, tough."

"I'm trying to ensure your comfort." Here it went again, the heat of   anger, mixed with frustration. She always misunderstood him, always   disparaged his attempts to take care of her.

"I can take care of my own comfort."

"I'm your husband now, bella." He tried to find the words to make her understand. "It is my job to take care of you."

"By penning me in. By telling me what to do. By always taking-"

"Merda!" One of his hands slipped from his pockets of its own volition   and slashed across his chest, stopping her accusations. "That is not   what I'm trying to do."

Cocking her head, she stared at him, not intimidated at all by his displeasure. "Tell me, Dante. Are you ever spontaneous?"

His hand fisted at his side. "I can remember being very spontaneous a few weeks ago."

The blush swept up her neck to her cheeks, but she was game, his wife.   She kept her gaze steady on his. "Well, I guess there's some hope for   you."

"Lara," he growled.

She walked past him, stepping into the dimness of the interior, heading for the lone bedroom. "I'm swimming."

Pacing the length of the veranda did not help the frustration. He needed   to get away, rein in his seething emotions. Slipping off his leather   shoes, he hiked past the pool and onto the beach. The heat of the day   still lingered on the sand beneath his feet.

Cazzo.

His fast gait was tight and forced. His body hot with annoyance and   hunger, a knot of frustration coiled in his gut. He kept walking,   walking, taking deep breaths. The last rays of the sun drifted across   the lapping waves, at last soothing his temper and his lust.

Well, at least his temper.

He walked until he couldn't see the house or the pool. Stopping and   staring out at the sea, he took in another deep breath. She wanted to go   swimming. So? Why had he made such a big deal of this? Why hadn't he   let it go?

Another deep breath.

He did enjoy control over his life. In this, his new wife was correct.   But it wasn't a drive or desire, merely something he'd become accustomed   to. He was good at it, and it had become second nature. Unlike Lara,   the people around him wanted him to direct things. His mamma and family   expected it. His board of directors, his devoted staff, everyone looked   to him for direction. So he gave it.

That did not make him a bad man, did it?

Why was it that of all people, she would object so strenuously to this   trait of his? No one else seemed to mind. In fact, they depended on him   to seize power, make decisions, and ensure all was well.

He sighed and glowered at the sand beneath his feet. The gold and white   grains clung to his toes, rooting him to the beach and the sea waves   lapping not far away.

Calm down, Dante.

His father's whispered words soaked into his consciousness. Breathing   deeply once more, he relaxed. Okay. He would try and curb his natural   tendency to protect, arrange, and direct. He needed to remember this   marriage was a work in progress. Part of marriage was accommodation. So   he would accommodate.

They had a spat, nothing more. He'd bet it was as much about the wanting   and lusting he held inside him-and hopefully inside her as well-as any   serious problem with who was in charge. As soon as he got her into his   bed, the tension would subside. Of this he was sure.

He looked across the ocean, watching the red and pink streaks of the sunset.

Time to take her to bed.

Time to claim his wife.

Time to make love with the woman who'd held his heart in her unknowing hands for years.



* * *



She hadn't played that well, had she?

The water slid on her skin like warm silk, soothing her resentment at   his high-handedness. The last rays of the sun slanted into her eyes,   bright and gleaming and the caw-caw call of a gull echoed in the silent   dusk. The peace of the place seeped into Lara's emotional turmoil as  she  stroked across the pool length, taking in the scent of the lilies   encircling the garden.

What she needed to do was keep her focus on what she'd set out to do:   Seduce her new husband. Make him so lustful he didn't notice her secret.   Instead, she'd immediately been irritated at his inevitable arrogance.

She had to accept it. The man was arrogant and nothing was going to change that.         

     



 

"Focus on what you want," she told herself as she floated in the cool water. "Not on what gets you riled up."

Though she didn't like him at all, this hadn't stopped her from watching   the way his hand moved on the stick shift of the Mercedes as they'd   driven from the airport to the beach. His fingers were long and elegant:   an artist's fingers. Yet his palm was broad and big: a man's hand. The   image of both of his hands on her breasts, brushing and stroking …

Her nipples had hardened beneath her cashmere dress.

Then there'd been the impossible temptation to watch the way the linen   of his pants tightened across his taut thighs and the roundness of his   butt as he lifted their luggage from the car trunk. Or the moment he'd   taken his suit coat off and his tie; the movement of his arm and chest   muscles under the silk of his shirt.