The Man Behind the Scars(21)

She accepted the glass of wine he handed her, and their fingers brushed  as she took it. Such a small, silly thing, hardly worth noticing-and yet  her heart stuttered, then began to beat harder, like a drum.

"You spoke of requirements earlier," she said, determined that her voice  should not sound as breathless as she felt. She forced some facsimile  of her usual easy smile, unable to control herself as she should.  "Perhaps you should list them all for me, so there is no further  confusion."

"I am not in the least confused," he replied smoothly, a small quirk in  the corner of his mouth that she took to be his version of a smile. "But  then, I am not the one who worried that the countryside would affect  her sanity."                       
       
           



       

"I have been in it very little, as it turns out," Angel replied, still  smiling at him. As if it were her job. Which, she reflected with a pang,  it was. "From inside the house, if I squint, I can pretend I'm near  enough to London."

"I admire your dedication to remaining in your fantasy world," he said dryly. "I'm sure it will serve you well here."

That didn't sit well with her, but she couldn't address it even if she'd  known how, because he was moving toward a chair and pulling it out for  her. He settled her into it with a certain ease that made her feel too  warm, then took the chair opposite hers, and nodded at one of the  hovering, silent servants.

Dinner was a long, strange affair. Course after course appeared, each  more succulent and delicious than the one before. They ate, they talked.  Angel kept the conversation going, poking fun at him as much as she  dared, making his gray eyes warm just slightly from time to time. She  told silly stories from her many different lives, embroidering each one,  dramatizing them. She felt like some modern-day version of  Scheherazade, spinning tales to keep herself alive, though she couldn't  have said what she thought the threat was, here. Or what the price might  be if she stopped.

Until the final plate was cleared away, and there were only the candles  in their gleaming silver holders between them, the flames dancing in the  sudden, airless silence.

"Have you run out of stories to tell?" Rafe asked, his voice very nearly  lazy. He had relaxed his posture over the course of the meal, and now  lounged in his chair, his hand propping up his chin, his face  half-shadowed. In the candlelight, Angel realized with a certain shock,  she could see none of his scars-only his hard, male beauty.

That, then, was the price.

She was in so much trouble.

"Of course not," she said, aware that her voice was too soft, too  pliable, telling him things she was not at all sure she wanted him to  know. "I feel perfectly capable of at least a thousand and one nights of  stories. Possibly twice that. You can consider it my wedding gift to  you."

He only watched her. Angel was no fool. She knew

exactly what hovered in the air then, what seemed to dance between them,  making each breath feel thick, dangerous. And there was no denying the  fact that she wanted him, however suicidally. He fascinated her. That  darkness that moved in him, that cast him into shadows, was far more  compelling to her than it should have been. She wanted to touch it. Him.  She wanted to let herself fall forward into the swirl of these  feelings, this tension, and who cared where she landed?

But she could not let herself do it. She was far too afraid of where she  might end up, and what falling in the first place would make her.

Like mother, like daughter, that little voice whispered.

"I think that is my cue to go up to bed," she said

quietly, her voice seeming twice as loud now in the hush of the small  room, in the unwavering, patient heat of his dark gaze. "I have a very  busy day of doing very little ahead of me, and must conserve my  strength."

"Allow me," he said in that silky way of his that seemed to hit her  hard, low in her belly, and tight across the crest of her breasts. He  rose, his every move somehow fluid, all that repressed power making him  something near graceful despite his size and strength. And Angel could  do nothing but gaze at him, entranced, as he moved around the table to  pull out her chair, the very picture of gentlemanly courtesy despite his  casual clothes.

It was so much harder than it should have been to stand, to step away  from him, when every cell in her body screamed for her to move toward  him instead. To press her lips to that fascinating place where the  strong column of his throat met his chest. It took more strength than it  should have to turn from him and walk toward the door.

She thought she might have hurt herself somehow-tearing herself away  like this-but she did it anyway, because she had to ignore this wild  passion that burned so hot between them. She had to-or it would eat her  alive. She knew it. She'd seen what happened to those who surrendered to  this kind of heat, and she wouldn't do that to herself. She couldn't.

"Angel."

She stopped without knowing she meant to do so, her body obeying him  without consulting her mind. She swayed slightly on her feet, and put  out her hand to the doorjamb to steady herself. She did not turn back  around. She was much too afraid of what would happen if she did.

Liar, that same voice chided her. You know what would happen. And you're not afraid at all.

Not of this moment, perhaps, she admitted to herself. But of what would come after.

She sensed him more than she heard him come up behind her, and she began  to tremble just slightly in helpless reaction, but she still did not  turn to face him. He moved closer, until his legs brushed the back of  her full skirt and she felt the whisper-soft wool of his jumper brush  against the bare skin near her exposed shoulder blades. Did she feel the  heat of him, burning like a furnace in the cool room, or did she  imagine it?                       
       
           



       

Did it matter? The effect on her was the same.

"Rafe-" she began.

"Quiet." It was a command, for all that he said it softly, his breath  caressing the back of her neck, making gooseflesh prickle into life all  over her skin.

He reached around and let his fingers run down the arm that hung at her  side, spreading a sweet, heavy fire into her with his touch, making her  whole body seem to tremble, there, on the precipice between panic and  desire. Both, perhaps. He took her free hand in his, then raised it,  bringing it up and placing it on the opposite side of the door, so she  was bracing herself in the doorway, splayed open before him. Her fingers  clutched convulsively against the plaster. Why would he … ?

And that was when he moved even closer, until his body was flush against  hers, plastering her back against his strong, impossibly hard chest.  Angel heard herself sigh, and felt herself melt. Everywhere. Her head  fell back against his shoulder, as if she had lost the will to keep  herself upright. He muttered something, his voice rich and dark, even as  her hands clung to the doorjamb as if it was her only link to any kind  of safety. As if she could hold herself there-apart. As if that could  protect her from this. From him.

From herself.

He leaned down then and pressed his mouth, open and hot, to that exquisitely tender place just below her ear.

And Angel went up in flames.





CHAPTER SEVEN

IT WAS like lightning-jagged and bright, coursing through her, into her.

Angel heard herself whimper, and then he was taking her mouth with his,  still holding her so her back was to him, his kiss wild. Unmanageable.  Impossible to resist.

She didn't try. She kissed him back with all of her uncertainty, her  fascination. All of the want and need she'd been trying to pretend she  didn't feel. This was not the stamp of possession, brief and  encompassing, that had marked the occasion of their marriage. This was  not even that far more dangerous kiss they'd shared on the dance floor  of the Palazzo Santina. This kiss was changing her, somehow. Making her  his.

Angel understood on some primal level that Rafe had been holding himself  in check before. That he still was, even as his mouth moved against  hers with a devastating thoroughness; even as he took her mouth again  and again until she was frantic with the taste of him and desperate for  more.

His hands moved, tracing their way down her sides, following the artful  fall of the shimmering crimson that sheathed her. Then back up again,  until his hard palms found her breasts and tested their shape and  fullness, making her writhe against him. She felt the heat of him behind  her, the hard press of his powerful body, and then, more than that, she  felt the unmistakable thrust of his arousal against her bottom.