Her eyes widened, and then narrowed immediately with instant rebellion. “Or what?” she snapped. “You’ll beat me? Lock me up like the barbarian you are?”
Vico released her with a snap before his hands moved to her neck and choked away every one of the insults she hurled at him. Sticking his shaking hands in his jean pockets, he paced away from the temptation.
His temper was off its hinges, out of control. And he couldn’t find the reins to rope it in. The silence pumped between them, filled with the charging electricity of emotion and the sizzle of angry words.
“You get the couch,” she finally spat at him.
He twisted around to confront her with a callous snort. “Not a chance.”
“Fine.” She stomped to her luggage and yanked the rolling suitcase behind her. “Why am I not surprised? You don’t have a gentlemanly bone in your body.”
Vico watched her as she strode down into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
“Great,” he muttered to himself. “Great way to start a marriage, cretino.”
He was a fool to think he’d ever subdue the Princesse.
He’d tried in so many ways to build a bridge. But a man couldn’t build a bridge when the other side was a maze of womanly quicksand, swimming underneath an obstinate, stubborn wall.
Could he?
Here he was. With his wife. And a marriage for life.
So. He would just have to figure out how to build a bridge in quicksand.
Chapter 11
Their last day in Paris.
A stream of tourists and Parisians strolled past the sun-splattered café Vico had chosen for their lunch. The red-and-white umbrella flapped above them, shedding needed shade on them both. He sat across from her, perusing the menu: his dark lashes on his olive cheeks, his long, curly hair waving lightly in the wind, his big body encased in his usual Paris uniform of T-shirt and jeans. As far removed from the driving, determined Italian who’d taken over her company as the moon was from the sun.
Her husband.
Her temptation. Her torment.
She was pleased with herself for holding the line these past two weeks. Proud that she’d rejected his silly, ridiculous proposal to fall into his bed. Happy that she’d finally, finally won a battle with this man, making her stand and keeping it.
Really, she was pleased and proud. Really.
The stand was the only thing she had as a defense. She’d kept her determination during these endless, maddening days of temptation in the city she’d fallen in love with as a romantic teenager. The city with its endless winding streets filled with flowers. The city with its candlelit nights and perfumed air. The city that spoke to her soul with its wistful views and dreamy vistas.
The city that made her want to fall madly, passionately into bed.
With him.
Holding on to the last remnant of her pride had become a full-time occupation over these last weeks. Every day, she felt her grip on it slowly slipping, sliding…
Lise stared down at the menu, the words and pictures fogging in her vision. As usual, what appeared in her imagination were the endless pictures of him she’d been busily collecting in her head as the days passed.
His head thrown back as he laughed, his teeth gleaming in the sun.
His long legs, in old jeans, catching her eye as he sauntered down an alley.
His hands, blunt and masculine, handing her a morning herbal tea.
“What are you having?” His deep voice came from across the table, casual and calm.
He didn’t have a clue what churned inside her.
Another thing she was pleased about.
“I’ll have the salmon and the lemonade,” she said to the waiter.
Her temptation gave his order and then looked at her with a quirky grin. “Salmon?” he inquired. “You are feeling bold enough to try your luck with fish?”
“Why not?” She shrugged it off as if it were nothing, but it was. It was something. “I haven’t been sick for days.”
“Weeks.” Her tormentor’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Paris agrees with you.”
Unspoken words hung in the air between them. Words he could easily say and be absolutely right.
Being with me agrees with you.
Lise grabbed at any distraction, busying herself with the camera he’d bought her the very first day here. She’d been foolish enough to mention how the sunlight glancing off Notre Dame’s stained-glass windows made her itch to take a photograph. She’d made the decision not to bring her own because she’d hadn’t wanted any mementos of this infamous honeymoon.
That decision had backfired, hadn’t it?
She loved this camera. She couldn’t help herself.
A Hasselblad. The newest, the best, with every single accessory available. The camera she’d dreamed of for years. Knew she’d never have. There was no way she could justify to herself buying a camera costing as much as a car.