And then they were alone again, and in the silence and stillness Jillian felt panic. She’d said too much, perhaps pushed him too far.
With a shaking hand she poured the bubbling water into her short crystal glass. The water tumbled and splashed.
“Whore? ” Vittorio repeated softly.
She couldn’t speak. She didn’t know where to look. The atmosphere weighed heavily on her, thick and tense.
“That’s a horrendous thing to say,” he said.
She bent her head.
“Do not ever use th
at word again,” he added furiously. “You’re my son’s mother and my wife and I will not have you demean yourself—or our relationship—in that manner.”
Her stomach churned and Jillian swallowed compulsively, fighting the nausea. Relationship? What relationship? There was no relationship. He was the dictator, the emperor, the ruler. She was his prisoner, his captive, his slave. He had utter and complete control and she would be lucky to survive the next week, much less a month with him.
Jillian drew another breath, gulping fresh air into her lungs. “We do not have much of a relationship.”
“Then we’ll build one.”
She averted her head, bit her lip, holding back the hot retort that burned within her.
“We’ll start over,” he added. “Tonight. Now. Let’s begin again.”
She looked at him swiftly, and the intensity in his expression burned her. She flashed back to their lovemaking earlier and she shivered at the flood of erotic memories. It’d been so hot between them. Scorching.
She felt scorched all over again by the heat and desire in his dark eyes. Her whole body responded, breasts aching, nipples tightening.
“Easier said than done,” she answered huskily, mesmerized by the chemistry between them. That sizzling physical connection was always there, and it’d been that way from the beginning.
He smiled at her, a lazy, sexy, smoldering smile. “Why didn’t you wear this to the ceremony?” he asked, reaching out to touch her silver top. “This would have been far more suitable,” he added, letting his finger slip down, stroking from her shoulder over one peaked breast.
His finger lingered on the tight, taut nipple.
She inhaled quickly at the sharp stab of sensation between her thighs. “Not for me,” she said.
“Why not?”
She took another quick breath. “I was angry. Little girls do not dream of marrying in secret, shameful ceremonies on airplanes.”
“Shameful?”
“There were no witnesses. No family. No friends. Our son wasn’t even there.”
Vitt’s hand fell away and his brow furrowed. “The goal wasn’t to have a formal wedding, but to join us together. The goal was to protect Joseph and give him my name.”
“I understand. But you asked me why I didn’t wear something more festive, and I told you. I didn’t feel good about our wedding. It didn’t feel right.”
He studied her for a long moment. “What would have felt better? A church wedding?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think you were religious.”
“I was raised Catholic.”
“You never told me.”