Wife By Force(7)

"A skill we've also agreed you don't appreciate." She flipped another   page of her book. "So let's make another agreement. Let's agree we can't   have a civil conversation and we should stay away from each other."

She waited almost breathlessly for his response. When it didn't come,   the disappointment that followed shocked her. Why, she was … she   was … enjoying this! Enjoying the sparring, the provoking.

She'd learned to hate any sparring or teasing or provoking. She'd   learned to be quiet because it was easier. She'd learned to keep her   mouth shut. Yet, suddenly, with this man, her old mouthy ways strode   from the past into the present. Along with excitement at crossing words,   challenging another.

With him.

With Dante Casartelli.

Gritting her teeth, she lectured herself. This wasn't about him. This   was about her. She was strong and self-sufficient now-this was only a   manifestation of that. Nothing more.

Don't be an idiot and think it had anything to do with this man. Remember how you planned to treat him.

With disdain. Dismissing his words. Keeping her distance.

A fairly easy task, she'd figured as she prepared for her trip to Italy.   After all, he'd made it clear years ago he wanted nothing more to do   with her.

Her brain stopped at the thought.

Wait a minute. What was going on here? She'd dismissed what happened two   nights ago as some odd sort of curiosity on his part. But here she  was,  alone with him, at his design. From what his sisters had told her  over  the last few months, Dante never did anything without cool  calculation.

A ruthless businessman.

A formidable older brother.

A stern keeper of the family reputation.

The first time she heard this, she'd gone home and cried. Stupidly cried   for the boy she'd loved so deeply as a child. A fun and spontaneous  boy  who laughed and teased. She'd cried her last tears over the memory  of  the boy she'd still held onto even after his betrayal.

That had been when she'd first gotten back to Italy, though. For three   months now she'd heard story after story about this man's nature. Months   she'd used to dig out and destroy the old memories once and for all.

What was his game? Why did this calculating creature arrange this meeting?

Lara turned to glare at him with suspicion. "What is going on-"

"I work hard." His voice was calm, contained. "However, I am not a workaholic."

His response riled her. He dismissed her jab, cut across her question,   returned to the previous topic. While she was all roiling emotions, he   was his usual distant self.

She risked another glance at him, wanting to see if she could glean any sense of what he was thinking and feeling.

His eyes were still closed, lashes stark on his olive skin. He gave her nothing.

"I don't care what you do," she told him. Told herself.

His eyes snapped open and her pride wouldn't allow her to look away.   They appeared black as night, though she knew from staring into them as a   child they were filled with sparkling brown highlights and golden   gleams. A person had to pay close attention to catch the flashes of   radiance and warmth, yet they were there.

Or they had been once, long ago.

The air thickened between them, and she found herself holding her breath.

"I don't believe you," he said softly.

The knots inside tore at her control. Fear, lust, anger churned in her   gut. Why was he pushing her to feel? Feel the old, unwanted bond between   them. Feel the awakening of her sexuality.         

     



 

She stared at her book, willing herself to stop thinking and feeling.

"So, tell me about your marriage."

"You seem to have an obsession about my marriage," she shot back, struggling to collect herself and push him away.

"All right," he grumbled. "Tell me about your school instead."

"What do you know about my school?" Swinging her head around again, she   met his keen gaze. Like a mother hen, she felt protective and   territorial about her school. For some reason, the fact he knew about it   frightened her. She didn't want him lurking around even the perimeter   of her dream. The school was hers, only hers.

"My sisters chatter. I listen."

"This school has nothing to do with you."

"It could be." His look was direct. "I hear you need funds. I have acquaintances-"

"No."

Her blunt word hovered between them.

"As you wish."

She couldn't have possibly penetrated that thick hide of his and   actually hurt him. Still, she knew she had. The way he said the words,   dry as dust with a touch of pain. The way he pulled back, lying down on   the cushion with another hushed sigh.

She refocused on her book and flipped another page, trying to ignore the good manners that had been drilled into her as a child.

The attempt was fruitless.

"The school is for children with learning disabilities." This was the only olive branch he was going to get.

"Ah."

"What does that mean?" Immediate defensiveness flashed through her.

"It means, I am listening."

Another memory raced through her mind. Of his serious face staring at   her as she prattled. Of his black gaze never wavering from her as she   confided her deepest dreams, her scariest fears. The boy had always   listened to her. Even as he grew into manhood and spent days and weeks   away at school and at work with his father. Even then, he'd made time   for her. Still grinned when he'd seen her, still teased, still listened.

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the book. No. He was not that boy   or that young man now. Maybe, probably, he'd never been what she'd   imagined. She shouldn't be fooled by old memories into offering him any   leeway.

"Why learning disabilities?"

He wasn't worthy of her confidences anymore. He never had been. She   wouldn't let him inside her ever again only to destroy her for the   second time in her life.

She managed a nonchalant shrug. "Because."

His hand fisted one more time. "Now it's my turn to ask the question," he growled. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means none of your business."

"Ah."

Damn him. That was all he was going to say? Damn him even further   because she felt it as he drew back, felt him retreat into himself.

This is what you should want from Dante Casartelli. Distance.

Turning the page, she stared at the first paragraph. The sun slanted   against her sunglasses, dipping lower in the sky. Soon she would be able   to leave, her pride intact, emotions safe. Unexpected and unwanted   tears clogged her throat.

"You married so quickly. It was a surprise." His dark tone cut through her emotional turmoil.

"A surprise?" Why did he keep circling around to something that surely   meant next to nothing to him? Distress and irritation welled inside her.   "Why would you be surprised?"

"You were only eighteen."

"Old enough to marry."

He snorted. "You were a child."

"How would you know that?" She slammed her book closed, distress   flashing into anger at the oh-so-familiar slur. "We hadn't spoken or   seen each other in almost two years."

"I kept track." Black eyelashes fell, masking his gaze.

"Sure you did."

"I am growing tired of this sarcasm of yours."

"Too bad." Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes once more, trying to quell the roiling emotions in her heart.

He kept track of her? How? His sisters had occasionally written her an   email. Her father had once or twice told her Dante had inquired about   her. Still, she'd never heard from him or seen him during the years of   her marriage. If he'd kept track of her, he'd have known why she was   sarcastic. He would have known why she'd become this way. He would have   known...

But that wasn't what she wanted. She didn't want him to know her. Know   her history and her pain and her scars. She wanted nothing from him.   "You know nothing about me. You never did."

A taut silence fell. She heard his breathing, harsh, uncontrolled.

Angry. Truly angry.

The cold icicle had unexpectedly turned into a fire-breathing man.   Towards her. Well, she'd asked for it, hadn't she? She hadn't been able   to stop herself from poking and prodding him until she got a reaction.         

     



 

The tang of tears burned deep in her throat.

"I knew enough to know you weren't ready for marriage." His voice rippled with vehemence. "Dio, he was your instructor."

The emotion in his voice shook her. Yet what shocked her most was his   words. She thought he'd been mad at her, at her sarcasm and rejection.   Instead, he was mad at Gerry? Shock mixed with the bittersweet memory of   how he had once protected her all the time. Tears threatened to push   past her eyelids. "Yes, that's right," she sputtered. "Just a teacher.   Not a rich man."