the hard plane of his chest, carefully and deliberately. He was warm to the touch, and she had to fight back another shiver. Of nerves, she told herself again. This situation was extreme, even for her.
“We’re talking about a marriage of convenience,” she said. With some urgency, as if that might dispel the lingering darkness that she sensed hung between them. “Yours as well as mine. I don’t expect you to sweep me off my feet while quoting Wuthering Heights.”
His mouth crooked. It wasn’t a smile, not really, but it made her feel absurdly glad, even so.
“You are so reasonable,” he murmured. He reached up and took her hand, but kept it where it was, trapped tight against his chest. Was that his heart she felt thumping so hard, or was that her own pulse? “One is tempted to think you’ve had a run of convenient husbands.”
“You will be the first,” she assured him. “But who knows? If it works out, it could be the start of a long and profitable line of husbands. I can collect them, one by one, and live on their tireless support until I’m a doddering pensioner.”
“That is a lovely picture indeed,” he said in that low voice, and it licked at her, making her think about the begetting of heirs and all manner of other things he made seem far more enticing than they should be simply by talking about them in that voice of his. And the way he looked at her, a dark fire in those deep gray eyes, made her chest feel too tight, her skin too small for her bones. “But let’s concentrate on the one in front of you.”
“Yes,” she agreed, though something was happening to her. She couldn’t look away. The hand that he held, flat against his wide, distracting chest, wanted … wanted. She felt light-headed. “Does that mean we’re agreed? One perfectly convenient marriage, made to order right here in the middle of the Palazzo Santina?”
For a moment he only looked down at her, his scarred face harsh and his remote gray eyes cold, and she was suddenly much too aware that he was a stranger to her. A complete and total stranger, who she had asked to marry her in the middle of a crowded ballroom, in a country not her own, on what amounted to little more than a whim. How insane was she? How could this be anything but a disaster?
“Yes,” he said. “We are agreed. We can marry as soon as you like.”
Again, some sense of deep foreboding moved through her, shaking her. She would be far better off with some older, much less dangerous man, she thought in a sudden panic, someone she could manipulate with a smile and bend to her will. That would not be this man. That would not be Rafe. She knew it as well as she knew her own name. If she had any sense of self-preservation at all, she would call this off. Now.
But she didn’t move. She didn’t say a word. She had no idea why not.
“You look terrified.” That single brow rose, pointedly.
“Not at all,” she said, shoving the foreboding aside. Better to be practical, especially in her dire circumstances. She tilted her head back, invitingly, and gazed up at him. “But I feel the occasion calls for something, don’t you? Something to mark such a momentous decision. How about a kiss?”
“A kiss.” His voice was dark and disbelieving. Gruff. “This is no fairy tale, Angel.”
She felt her own eyebrows rise then, in cool challenge.
“Then you have no need to fear you’ll be turned into a frog,” she replied tartly. His mouth twisted, but his eyes burned hot.
“As you wish,” he murmured, mocking her—or perhaps both of them.
His hand moved from hers to hold her chin in an easy grip, as if her mouth was his already, before he’d even tasted it. And then he bent his head and captured her mouth with his.
It was a swift kiss, commanding and sure. Possessive and demanding, it seared into her like some kind of red-hot brand. She felt it storm through her limbs, lighting her up with that sweet and terrible electricity, making her lean closer to him, fascinated and captivated by the sure, carnal mastery of his kiss, the hint of more, of something dark and sweet and addictive—and then he pulled away.
Too soon. Much too soon—but then she remembered herself. Where they were. Who they were.
She felt herself flush with heat, and only just kept herself from squirming beneath that dark gray gaze. She felt out of control. Exposed. He let go of her chin and she staggered back against the pillar, unable to keep herself from raising a trembling hand to her lips like some kind of artless virgin.
Had that really just happened? Had he really just kissed her like that?
Was she really … shaking?
And looking at her, Rafe McFarland, Lord of All He Surveyed and soon to be her husband, finally smiled.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS the memory of that smile, so unexpected and curiously infectious, lighting up that scarred face and making it something new, that Angel found herself playing over and over in her head as she headed back home to London and reality.
That and the kiss that never failed, even in retrospect, to make her uncomfortably warm.
It was simple surprise, she told herself—at the depth of her own response. It was nothing more than surprise that he’d had so much passion in him, and that she’d met it. And how could it be anything else, when the only thing between them was money? His money. Her need of it.
And your body, a dark voice whispered inside of her. Isn’t that always the way this kind of arrangement goes?
“Here is my contact information,” Rafe had said, all distance and business, in the car he’d summoned to take them back to their respective hotels after Allegra’s engagement party had come to an end. He had jotted down a few quick lines on a card he’d pulled from somewhere. Angel had found herself admiring the bold, male handwriting, scrutinizing it as if it might give her some clue about the man. He’d handed the card to her when he was finished, his gaze once again dark and grim, no hint of that brief, flashing smile left anywhere on his ruthless face. As if she’d imagined it. She’d begun to wonder if she had.
He’d refused to take her details at all. Not even a mobile number.
“You may find that once you are back in London, and the royal Santina champagne has worn off, that you are less interested in going through with this after all.” His gaze had been level. Matter-of-fact. Somehow, that had made it worse.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she’d said, stung. More offended, perhaps, than the situation warranted. After all, he was just being appropriately cautious—which perhaps she should have been herself. But in the dark, close confines of his car, she’d felt nothing but that current of reckless determination, driving her on, making this happen. Because it had to. Surely that was the only reason. Surely it was reason enough. “But I’m not drunk.”
“We’ll see,” he’d said, and his expression had been very nearly bleak then, and had made something turn over inside of her. “I wouldn’t hold it against you if, upon reflection, you decide that you must have been.”
She’d flushed, with something she’d told herself was temper. Simple temper, nothing more. “I’m not drunk,” she’d said again, distinctly. “But you can pretend I am, if that
