Familiar streets, familiar locale. She passed by here five days out of seven.
But not quite this far, she suddenly realised.
‘You’ve missed the turn.’
‘We’re not going home.’ Miguel’s voice was a faintly inflected drawl, and she looked at him carefully, seeing the strength and sense of purpose evident.
‘Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me exactly where we are going?’
He slanted her a quick glance. ‘Wait and see.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Hannah dismissed angrily, and refrained from offering so much as another word.
The flow of traffic intensified as they neared the city, and she contained her surprise as Miguel swung the car into the entrance of one of the inner city’s most exclusive hotels.
The porter opened her door, leaving her little recourse but to slip out from the passenger seat.
What on earth were they doing here? In a hotel, for God’s sake, when they had a beautiful luxurious home less than fifteen minutes distant? It was crazy. Even more puzzling was the fact Miguel had apparently checked in, for he led the way to the bank of lifts adjacent the foyer.
Hannah spared him a level glance as they rode the lift to a high floor, and within minutes Miguel ushered her into a spacious, elegantly appointed suite.
She crossed to the wide plate-glass window and parted the filmy day curtains to look at the view, then she slowly turned back to face him.
He had removed his jacket, and was in the process of loosening his tie.
‘You owe me an explanation.’
Miguel discarded the tie, undid the top few buttons of his shirt, removed cuff-links from each sleeve, then he crossed to the bar-fridge.
‘What would you like to drink?’
She was angry and on edge. ‘Stop playing the gentleman.’
He paused, and she had the impression of harnessed strength and immeasurable control. For some reason it made her feel apprehensive.
His eyes held an expression she didn’t care to define. ‘What would you have me play, amante?’
She was reminded of silk being razed by steel, and she crossed her arms, hugging them against her midriff in a unconscious protective gesture.
‘The savage?’ he posed. ‘A husband who is moved to such anger, it is all he can do not to strangle his beautiful wife’s neck?’ He extracted bottled water, unscrewed the cap, filled a glass and handed it to her, then he took out a can of cola, pulled the tab, and drained some of the contents.
‘Or perhaps I should beat you.’ He lifted the can and took a long swallow. ‘Believe I am sorely tempted to do both.’
‘Try it,’ Hannah said tightly.
He cast her a long dark look that sent shivers scudding down the length of her spine. ‘Don’t push me.’
Without thinking she threw the contents of her glass in his face, watching with a sense of mesmerised disbelief as the cold water splashed from his broad features down onto his shirt, leaving a huge wet patch that was impossible to ignore.
She didn’t move, despite a terrible sense of panic that urged her to run as far and as fast as she could.
Instead, she stood glaring at him in silent defiance.
His eyes didn’t leave hers as he set the can aside, then in seeming slow motion he pulled the shirt free from his trousers, undid the buttons, then he shrugged it off and draped it over a nearby chair before turning to face her.
With deliberate movements he reached for a neatly folded towel displayed in plain sight and removed the excess moisture from his face, then he tossed the towel onto the bed.
He was an impressive sight. Olive skin stretched over hard musculature, the liberal sprinkle of dark hair at his chest, a tight stomach, firm waist, with not a spare ounce of flesh in evidence.
‘Are you done?’
‘It depends.’
He took a step towards her, and she stood her ground.
‘So brave,’ Miguel mocked silkily, watching her pupils dilate as he drew close.
She was damned if she’d beg, and the single word emerged as a warning. ‘Don’t.’
He didn’t touch her. ‘Don’t—what, specifically?’
‘I’ll fight you,’ she said fiercely, unaware that her hands had tightened into fists, or that her stance had altered slightly preparatory for attack.
‘You can’t win.’
‘I can try.’ She would, too. Self defence was an art form she’d studied to a degree, and she had the element of surprise on her side.
He saw the slight lift of her chin, the muscle flex at the edge of her jaw, the anger, the fire so close to the surface.
‘Do you want to so badly?’
‘Yes,’ Hannah vented, and saw him slide a hand into each trouser pocket.
‘Then go ahead.’
Hit him? For all the times she’d wanted to, for the few occasions she actually had…now that he was placing himself at her mercy, she found she couldn’t do it.
Miguel caught each fleeting expression on her mobile features, and accurately defined every one of them.
‘I guess we need to talk,’ she offered slowly.
‘We did that. It didn’t resolve anything.’
Her face paled as she recalled the explosive scene they’d shared early this morning.
‘Miguel—’
Whatever else she might have said remained locked in her throat as his mouth slanted down to cover hers in a kiss that tore at the very roots of her emotional foundation.
There was nothing punishing about it, just intense evocative passion that seemed to plunder the depths of her soul, dragging something from her she was reluctant to give.
She didn’t want to respond. Dear heaven, how could she, when there was so much hurt and anguish?
It was almost as if he was trying to tap into her fragile heart, to instil something so infinitely precious that meant more, so much more than mere words could convey.
His mouth was the only part of his body touching her. He could easily have drawn her into his arms, used his hands to mould her slender frame to his, his heavy arousal in evidence. Employed sensual body heat to tantalise her senses, to touch and tease with such skilful expertise she would soon shatter into a thousand pieces.
