Taking in her visage, he felt a slow, throbbing ache spread inside of him, and contrary to most of the aches she gave him, this one had nothing to do with physically wanting her.
When he secured Allende, he could mend it, and he could mend her father along with it. He could give her safety and peace and pride.
The intensity with which he wanted to give this to her shocked him to his core.
Whereas before Virginia Hollis had been something to be observed but not touched in his office, a Mona Lisa behind glass, she was more real to him now than his own heartbeat. She was flesh and bones and blood. She was woman.
His fierce attraction to her, kept tightly on a leash, had spiraled out of control the moment he’d put his lips right over hers, or perhaps the moment she’d called him and Marcos had known, in his gut, he was going to have her.
Fierce and unstoppable, the emotions raged within him now, under his muscles, and the urge to cross the room and sweep her into his arms became acute.
With an effort, he tore his eyes away from Virginia, tried to steady the loud beat of his heart.
A man, notoriously tall, athletic and dark, with a smile that had been known to break a woman’s heart or two, caught his attention.
Santos Allende was the only person in the world who would not wear a tie to a black-tie event. As he ambled over, he lifted a sardonic brow at the same time he lifted his wineglass in a mock toast. “Brother.”
Marcos nodded in greeting, drained his drink, and introduced Marissa and Santos even though they needed no introductions. They loathed each other.
“How’s the hotel business?” Marcos asked him without even a hint of interest.
“Thriving, of course.”
Though Santos was irresponsible and wild, Marcos held no antagonism towards his brother, and usually regarded his exploits and antics with amusement. Except tonight he wasn’t in the mood for Santos. Or anyone else.
Too smart for his own good sometimes, Santos chuckled at his side.
“So. Is that one yours?” Santos lifted his glass in Virginia’s direction, and Marcos gazed at her again. His chest felt heavy and his stomach tight.
“Mine,” he confirmed.
“I see.” Santos smiled and rammed a hand into his pants pocket. “Mistress or fiancée?”
“Mistress,” he snapped.
But his mind screamed in protest at those words.
Would she agree to his proposition to become his mistress? Live with him, be with him? She’d turned his world upside down, inside out, in over a month. He wanted her every second of the day—not only sexually. Her laugh brought on his laughter, her smiles made him smile, too. He was…he didn’t know what. Enraptured. Charmed. Taken.
By her.
“That would make her your first mistress, eh, brother?” his brother asked. “No more fiancées after Marissa here.”
Marissa whipped her attention back to Marcos. “You mean she’s just a fling? Your girlfriend?”
He set the glass down on the nearby table with a harsh thump. “Unless you want me to leave you in prison the next time you’re there, don’t push it, little brother.”
And to Marissa, with a scowl that warned her of all kinds of danger, “I say we’ve played games long enough, you and I, and I’m not in the mood for them any longer. You have something I want. The shares that belonged to my father—I want a number and I want it now.”
She’s his submissive, been like this for years…
Old lover demanding she be fired…competition…Allende…
Allende and Galvez…
It was easy at first, to pretend she hadn’t caught bits and pieces of the swirling conversation. But after she’d heard it over and over, ignoring the comments popping up wherever she went became impossible.
It hurt to smile, and to pretend she wasn’t hearing all this. But then, he’d taught her to pretend just fine, hadn’t he? And she was doing quite well. Had been commending herself all evening for remembering people’s names and keeping up with their conversations. And smiling her same smile.