The Marriage Arrangement. HELEN BIANCHIN
‘Commit grievous bodily harm.’ And die a little, she added silently. ‘Then divorce you.’
He cast her a sombre glance. ‘Extreme measures.’
‘What would you do if I showed an interest in another man?’ Hannah retorted, unable to resist taunting, ‘Turn the cheek and look the other way?’
‘I’d kill you.’ His voice held a dangerous softness that sent shivers feathering a path down her spine.
‘Wonderful,’ she remarked facetiously. ‘A few hours in Camille’s company, and we’re not only arguing, we’re threatening divorce and murder.’
The Frenchwoman was a witch, Miguel acknowledged grimly, and, unless he was mistaken, a very dangerous one.
‘While we’re on this particular subject,’ Hannah continued, ‘what importance do you place on Camille’s deliberate mention of my bête noir?’
‘Luc Dubois?’
‘That’s the one,’ she conceded.
‘Do you still retain an interest in him?’
‘No,’ Hannah declared vehemently. Even now she found it difficult to accept the Frenchman had penetrated her guard. She, who could tag a man’s superficial charm in an instant, aware his main interest was her family’s wealth, not her. Except Luc had been incredibly patient, known which buttons to push, and when. She’d fallen into his arms like a peach ripe for the picking.
‘So sure, Hannah?’ Miguel pursued silkily.
How could he ask that, when Luc didn’t even begin to compare with the man who was now her husband?
‘Yes.’ She turned towards him. ‘You have my word.’
‘Gracias.’
‘Such is the recipe for a happy marriage.’
‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you, mi mujer,’ Miguel drawled.
‘Ah, but I love this honesty we share. It is très bonne, don’t you agree?’
‘I can think of a more apt description.’
It didn’t take long to reach their tree-lined street and traverse the driveway. Minutes later she followed Miguel indoors.
‘Get the credit slips from your briefcase,’ he instructed as they reached the foyer. At her puzzled look, he elaborated, ‘The client who ran up debt all over town. I’ll take care of it.’
‘No, you won’t,’ she said emphatically. ‘I can do it myself.’
‘Why?’ he queried steadily. ‘When I can do it so much more easily?’
She flung him a baleful glare. ‘Because I’m independent.’
‘And stubborn,’ Miguel added.
‘No,’ she disagreed. ‘Self-sufficient.’
‘Tenacious.’
‘That, too,’ she admitted, then allowed, ‘If I have a problem, I promise I’ll call on you.’
It would have to suffice, Miguel conceded. ‘Are we going to stand here bandying words, or do we go to bed?’
She felt inclined to deny him. To turn her back and ascend the stairs alone. Yet to deny him was to deny herself. And she needed the reassurance of his touch, the possession of her body. To feel, in the darkness of the night, that she meant more to him than just part of his life as a convenient wife. To pretend for a while that the marriage was real, and what they shared was special, not just very good sex.
‘Oh, bed,’ she agreed. ‘Definitely.’
‘Minx,’ he declared. ‘What if I’m tired?’
‘Are you?’ she asked seriously, then wrinkled her nose at him. ‘I wouldn’t think of overtaxing your strength.’
He laughed, and the sound curled round her nerve-ends as he caught hold of her hand and led her upstairs. ‘Let’s see who cries wolf first, shall we?’
This, Hannah breathed shakily minutes later as Miguel slid the zip fastening free from her gown, was like entering a sensual heaven. He had the touch, the knowledge, the skill, to divine a woman’s needs.
And fulfil them, she added with a silent gasp as the gown slid in a silken heap to the floor. The light brush of his fingertips trailed an evocative path over sensitised skin as he eased the silken briefs down over her thighs.
She stepped free of them and at the same time discarded the heeled shoes that added four inches to her height.
He was wearing too many clothes, and she pushed his jacket from his shoulders, tugged at his tie, then freed shirt buttons with restless speed.
His lips settled at the sensitive hollow at the edge of her neck, and sensation arrowed through her body as he used his tongue and his teeth to tease a tantalising kiss that had her arching towards him.
His shirt fell onto the carpet, and her fingers feverishly attacked the buckle on his belt, then tended to the zip on his trousers.
Miguel’s contribution to shucking his clothes was to step out of his shoes and pull off his socks.
She reached for his briefs, and slid them free, awed by the state of his arousal. It fascinated her that such a part of man’s anatomy could drive a woman wild, and provide such pleasure.
Unbidden, she drew the pads of her fingers lightly over its silken length, caressing with a sense of captive thrall.
‘Amada,’ Miguel growled softly. ‘If you don’t want to be tossed down onto the bed and possessed without delay, I suggest you stop that now.’
She lifted her head and offered him an infinitely sweet smile. ‘Why?’
He uttered a faint groan. ‘Madre de Dios.’ The words left his lips in a ragged supplication as he dragged her close.
His mouth covered hers in a kiss that drugged her senses and tore at the very fabric of her soul.
Control, she had none. There were only the man, the moment, and an intensity of emotions so overwhelming she simply held on and joined him as he took her to the heights and beyond before free-falling down to a state of exotic warmth and satiation.
Her body felt like a finely tuned instrument that had been played by a virtuoso. Exultant, still clinging to the sweet sorcery of a master’s exquisite touch.
She loved the feel of him, his sheer strength and passion, tempered by a control she sorely wanted to break. What would it be like to experience his unbridled lovemaking? To crash through the barriers of restraint and be taken with a raw primitive hunger that knew no bounds?
Dear Lord. Just thinking about it sent renewed heat racing through her veins and had her moving restlessly against him.
His lips brushed her temple, almost as if he were attuned to the depths of her innermost needs, and his arms tightened as she found his mouth with her own.
This time it was she who nurtured his desire and sent it spiralling towards hungry passion in a mesmeric coupling that left them both slick with sensual sweat and fighting to regain a steady breath.
‘Witch,’ Miguel teased huskily as he buried his lips against her breast.
‘Hmm,’ Hannah murmured with bemused contentment, only to give a tiny gasp as he began teasing the tender peak, alternately with his tongue and the edge of his teeth, taking her to the brink between pleasure and pain.
Then with one fluid movement he slid from the bed, scooped her into his arms, carried her into the en suite and stepped into the large shower stall.
Seconds later warm water cascaded from four strategically positioned shower-heads, and Hannah slid to her feet as Miguel reached for the soap.
Evocatively