reflected the clash of emotions raging inside him.
She shook her head and took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. “Lazaro …”
“How will you bear the humiliation of being married to a man like me?” He stepped away from her, his stomach tight with disgust. “Although my money is good enough for you. My ring—” he reached out and took her hand, lifting it so that the diamond caught the light “—seems to be good enough for you.”
“Don’t say that. That’s not fair. I …”
“Don’t say what, Vanessa? Don’t tell you the truth? I’m good enough to marry, as long as I’m bailing you out and giving you a ring that ought to come with its own security detail? Good enough to screw around with in your father’s guesthouse as long as no one sees you slumming it with the boy who cuts the grass?”
“Lazaro …”
“You need me,” he said, his voice sounding like a growl, shocking even him. “Admit it.”
“I …”
Pain tore through him, made him want retribution. “Say it.”
“Or what? You’ll walk away? You’ll forget that you need me?” She pulled away from him. “Because no matter how much you pretend to disdain me, my father, society, you want your place at the top. And you need me to get it.”
Angry brown eyes clashed with his, a tear, not one of sadness but of pure rage, spilled down her cheek. “I want to go now,” she said, her voice low.
He inclined his head. “Of course, princesa,” he said, the term not meant as one of endearment.
She turned, walking ahead of him, pushing the door open.
It was warmer outside than it was in the club, the night air heavy and clinging, weighing him down, along with what felt like a rock in his gut. She was acting as though she’d been deeply wronged—offended by his touch, most likely. Because he was so beneath her. At least in public.
He curled his hands into fists, holding them so tight the tendons in his wrists ached.
The penthouse was only a couple of blocks away and Vanessa maintained her stony silence the entire way there. Once they were inside the lobby she kept a few paces in front of him, clearly determined not to look at him or acknowledge his presence.
Anger roared to life in him, replacing the unsettling guilt that had momentarily crept in. She wouldn’t have her way. Not now. He wasn’t a boy anymore, at the mercy of her father’s henchman. And she was no longer the princess in a tower, no longer so far above him she could dismiss him at will. She couldn’t just walk away from him.
“You will have to get over your aversion to being seen with me in public, mi amor,” he said.
She stopped mid-stride and turned to face him, her dark eyes shimmering with heat. “Do I also have to get over my aversion to being groped in public? Does it somehow offend you that I want to maintain some level of public decency?”
“You maintain a high level of private decency as well, since you do not allow me in your bed.”
“You take it pretty personally when a woman says no to you. I remember that well.”
“No, what I take personally is a woman thinking I’m good enough to tease, but not good enough to take to her bed.”
She took a step toward him, her lips tightened into a line.
“Is that what you think that was? Me teasing you?” She shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking. If I was thinking I would never have let you touch me.”
“You think that’s the basis for a happy marriage?”
“I think maybe the basis for a happy marriage is not pursuing the union for business purposes, but then, I’m not really an expert.”
“That is a shame, as you have agreed to marry for the benefit of your company. And, as we’ve discussed, no one has forced you into this. And I will not be made a fool of. Not twice. Not by the same woman.”
“You think I made a fool of you, Lazaro?” Her voice was barely raised above a whisper, the force of her emotions making her words tremble. “You weren’t the one pressed up against the wall in a public place and … and you have the gall to be angry at me?”
He took a step toward her, softening his voice. “Is that what bothers you the most, Vanessa Pickett, that I make you lose all of that respectability that’s so important to you and your family?”
“No, what bothers me is that you think nothing of … of … humiliating me like that in public. Treating me like a thing, your possession that you can put your hands on whenever you want to.”
“Is that it? My touch humiliates you?”
Vanessa took a step toward him, her breasts rising and falling with each breath, her delicate hands curled into fists. Arousal and lust warred with anger for prime position inside him. His body still wanted her, was still craving her after that small taste he’d gotten back at the club.
It shamed him, how badly he wanted a woman who saw him as she did. And yet, he could not stop himself. He had been craving her for twelve years. There was nothing that could destroy the desire. Not years of separation, not other lovers, not even the anger that was rolling through him like a tidal wave.
He curved his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, his hand drifting down until it touched the rounded curve of her bottom. “I don’t believe that. I think what you really hate, Vanessa, is that no matter what, no matter how much you wish you didn’t, no matter how ashamed you are of it, you want me.”
Her expression was tight, mutinous, her dark eyes blazing with heat and rage. She put her hands on his chest, curled her fingers around the fabric of his shirt and stretched up on her toes, her breasts brushing against him. She kissed him, her mouth hungry on his, the explosion between them making the kiss at the club seem tame, harmless.
Desire was a living entity between them, dark and dangerous, driving them, pushing them. It was like hurtling toward a cliff, knowing they would both go over the edge if they didn’t stop. And yet, knowing that, neither of them stopped.
Lazaro doubted if he could.
She slipped her tongue between his lips, tasting him, teasing him, and a flood of pure lust spread through him, overtaking him. He slid his hand down and cupped her bottom, drew her hard up against his erection.
Vanessa’s stomach contracted when she felt the evidence of his arousal. He still wanted her. And even though she was angry at him, she wanted him. Maybe even more because of that anger, all of her emotions mixing, the anger in her a lit match against flammable desire. She wanted him more than she wanted her next breath, and it didn’t make any sense to her.
Sex, in her mind, had always been about love and roses and perfect moments. This was as far from a perfect moment as she’d ever imagined, and yet she wanted him. All of him. Every last muscular inch.
She slid her hand sideways and wedged her fingers into the gap of his buttoned-up shirt. He was all hot, hard flesh. She traced a
