Читать книгу The Hostage Bride - Kate Walker - Страница 9

IT HAD been bad enough when he had managed the change of cars a couple of hours earlier.

Then at least she had been deeply asleep, totally oblivious to what was going on. Her body had been limp and unresponsive, those soft grey eyes closed and hidden from him.

Now they were staring straight into his, the sparks of fury and rebellion still burning deep in them, making them shimmer in angry defiance. Her skin was flushed with the after-effects of their undignified tussle, her mouth slightly open as she tried to control her uneven breathing.

He didn’t want to think that it might not just be the physical exertion that had set her pulse racing. Didn’t even want to consider the possibility that she too might feel the sudden singing tension that had gripped him. Could she sense the abrupt, dangerous change in the mood of the moment, the shift in the sensual temperature that had turned it from winter chill to midsummer heatwave in the space of a heartbeat?

‘I’m going to take you inside,’ he growled, shocking himself with the way that his voice didn’t sound like his own but had suddenly become rough around the edges, thickening revealingly. ‘And if you’re wise you’ll not try any more crazy stunts.’

‘What did you think? That I was just going to sit there and let you do what you wanted with me?’

‘I’d given you my word.’

‘Oh, yes, and I know just how much that word is worth. You gave me your word that you wouldn’t harm me even while you were feeding me drugs to knock me out.’

‘I’ve already told you, I never planned for quite that effect.’

He was striding towards the door as he spoke; the ease with which he carried her weight a testimony to the true strength of the muscles beneath that superbly tailored jacket. And the terrible thing was that she had suddenly lost all the will to fight.

It was as if in that frantic dash towards the house she had drained what little strength she possessed, leaving herself limp and incapable of movement.

Oh, who was she trying to kid? Felicity reproached herself inwardly. Her sudden mental paralysis had nothing at all to do with her mind and everything to do with an injection of white-hot physical excitement that had set her body throbbing in urgent response. The sensations searing through her in reaction to the forceful, warm strength of Rico’s taut male body so close to hers, the scent of his skin in her nostrils, the iron-hard support of the arms that held her made her skin burn until she felt she was in the grip of some delirious fever…

‘And did you not think that maybe a mild sedative was perhaps a kinder way out than others I might have taken?’

‘So what do you expect from me? Thanks? Gratitude for the fact that you didn’t treat me any worse than you already have?’

‘Oh, no,’ Rico tossed back, caught on the raw by the sudden switch back to cold contempt.

For a second there she had seemed almost to treat him as a human being. But now the lady of the manor act was right back in place, those soft smoky eyes hardening to the grey of the sea on a winter’s day. Immediately he felt his own feelings change in response as anger put a sharper edge on the volatile cocktail of responses he was already prey to.

‘Gratitude would be the last thing I’d expect from you. After all, the woman who was going to marry Edward Venables…’

Something about her sudden stillness, the shocked, blank look in those misty eyes, brought him up short.

‘Oh, come now, querida,’ he derided sardonically. ‘Don’t tell me that you had actually forgotten. That it had somehow slipped your mind that today was to have been the happiest day of your life.’

She had forgotten, Felicity realised, her mind hazing over in shock. She could excuse herself by saying that the way Rico had exploded into her life with all the force of a whirling tornado had numbed her thoughts, making it impossible to think. But the truth was both deeper and less complicated than that.

Since the moment that she had first set eyes on this darkly devastating man, her mind hadn’t been her own. It was as if he had taken possession of it, filled her every thought with the stunning force of his presence, wiping away any memories of who she had been, how her life had been.

‘You didn’t remember.’ Rico’s voice was thick with contempt. ‘You…’

‘Put me down!’ Felicity inserted sharply, hating the scorn in his voice, hating the way he looked at her, dark eyes bleak and cold. ‘Put me down at once! I can walk—’

‘Oh, no, querida.’ The hateful mockery grew sharper, lacing his tongue with cynical acid. ‘How could I deny you the moment that every woman dreams of? The moment when all the fantasies of her childhood, the hopes of her adolescence come to fruition.’

The beautiful mouth had curled into a brutal sneer, the sexy accent heightening on each word. But the sound of his voice no longer made her toes curl, her skin tingle in delight. Instead it was like the lash of a cruel whip, flaying away a protective layer of skin so that she shivered at the feel of even the air against her flesh.

‘Don’t be cruel!’ It was a cry of protest.

‘Cruel, gatita? Cruel?’ he taunted. ‘I am not being cruel. I am simply ensuring that your day ends as you had hoped it would—with you in the arms of a very rich man indeed, being carried over the threshold of his house…’

As he spoke, he suited action to the words, mounting the steps to the front door, shouldering it open, carrying her over the threshold into the cool shadows of the hall.

After the light of the sun, Felicity fond that she was temporarily blinded, unable to see anything clearly. And what made matters worse were the weak tears that filmed her eyes; tears she was determined not to let fall. Rico’s words had stabbed straight to her heart and twisted in it, but the truth was that they had hurt so much because they were so very far from reality.

She doubted that Edward would ever have thought to follow any of the traditions of a real wedding, at least as far as she was concerned. Once the formal, public ceremony and the lavish reception was over, he would probably have dropped all pretence at being the loving bridegroom, the part he had acted so unexpectedly well over the past month or so. Instead he would have reverted to the role of cold, calculating schemer, the man who had manipulated both her life and that of her father in order to get just what he wanted.

Right now she didn’t know who was worse—Edward or Rico.

‘For such a beautiful bride as you are, it is the least I can do.’

Once inside, with the door kicked closed behind them, he paused, ebony eyes going towards a room on his left and just once, very briefly, glancing towards the stairs.

‘So now that I have carried you over the threshold, mi ángel, what next, I wonder?’

Rico had bent his arrogant dark head down to murmur in her ear, the warmth of his breath stirring the tendrils of her hair, brushing softly against her cheek.

‘If you were truly my bride—mi esposa—I know exactly what I would do…’

And his body knew it too. He knew he should set her down, put her on her feet and move well away. That was the sane, the only safe approach. But with her in his arms, with the scent of her skin all around him, the last thing on God’s earth he felt like was playing it safe. And he certainly didn’t feel sane. Instead he knew he was totally out of control—completely crazy and dangerously off balance.

His heart was pounding, his blood flowing hot in his veins. Every sense he possessed clamoured in hunger, insistently demanding appeasement, making him ache with need. And the feel of those soft arms around his neck, the yielding pressure of her feminine body against his chest and the brush of her hair against his neck were almost more than he could bear. He wanted to drop her straight to the floor in order to end the sweet torment and yet at the same time he wanted to hold on to her so as to prolong it for ever.

‘But I’m not your bride!’

Felicity knew she had to break the spell that that low, husky voice had been weaving around her weakened senses. Listening to it had been like sliding slowly but irresistibly into a bath filled with warm, golden honey. She could feel it flowing around her, enfolding her, threatening to close over her head at any moment.

‘I’m not your wife and I never will be! I’m just your prisoner, your captive—here under duress because you forced me into this! And whatever fantasies you might be harbouring, you can forget them right now! You lay one finger on me and I’ll—I’ll…’

‘You’ll do what, belleza?’ Rico enquired with silky menace when, suddenly realising just how hollow her threat was when he already had more than a hand on her, when she was held securely in his arms, her voice died away rapidly. ‘What was it you promised earlier? That you would kill me?’

The sound of his laughter was shocking. It was all the more terrifying because there was no trace of any real humour in it, only the sardonic dismissal of her impotently angry words.