All About Passion (Cynster 7)

She reverted to Italian, a flow of impassioned outpourings that, like a physical tide, swept them both along. Her gestures, always dramatic, became more emphatic, more violent. He continued to retreat while he struggled to find some point to seize long enough to gain his footing. She darted this way, then that, hands flinging wildly about.

He suddenly realized she’d opened the corridor door and backed him to the threshold. Grabbing the door’s edge, he halted. “Francesca!”

The exclamation was designed to jerk her reins, to shake her to reality.

It only evoked another furious spate of Italian. She flung up a hand as if to slap him-she didn’t-she wouldn’t have connected-it was just another histrionic gesture conveying her contempt, but he ducked back, stepped back, let go of the door.

Then he was in the corridor and she was in the doorway, hands on her hips, her breasts rising and falling, her black hair a silken jumble against the ivory of her gown. Green fire burned in her eyes.

She was so vividly, vitally, intensely beautiful, he literally couldn’t breathe.

“And then,” she said, reverting to English, “when you’ve managed to answer that, you can explain why it was, in the forest that morning, you stopped! And again in the stables-was it only last night? You want me, my lord, yet you don’t! You didn’t want me as your bride, but you thought to have me as your mistress. You thought to seduce me-then when you succeeded you turned away!” She flung up her hands. “How can you explain that?”

She paused, the silence dramatic after her tirade. Breasts heaving, she kept her eyes locked on his.

Then she drew in a long breath, drew herself up and lifted her chin. “You put it so succinctly last night. You don’t want me, you don’t need me-you only desire me. Not, however, sufficiently deeply to bother consummating a relationship. And now we’re married. You might think on that.”

She turned away. “Good night.”

He swore and leaped for the door. It slammed shut in his face. The lock snibbed as his hand closed on the knob.

The oath he uttered was not a polite one. He glared at the door. He could hear Fate laughing.

He’d plotted and planned to gain a meek and mild bride.

And landed himself with a virago.

Francesca didn’t waste any time staring at the locked door. She raced across the room to the door from his bedroom-only to skid to a horrified stop. The door had no lock.

She looked around, then ran to the escritoire. Lifting the chair before it, she rushed to jam it under the doorknob.

Standing back, she studied her handiwork. It looked far too flimsy for her peace of mind.

A chest of drawers stood to one side of the doorway; she stepped to its side, drew in a deep breath, and pushed with all her might. It shifted an inch. Encouraged, she tamped down her welling panic and pushed again. The other end of the chest hit the doorframe.

Muttering a curse, she hurried to that end, reached across and tried to jerk the corner free-

Hard hands closed about her waist.

She screamed with sheer shock. But she recognized the hands-they’d been flirting with her waist for the past hours. Her fright drowned beneath a wave of fresh fury. He juggled her, turned her-locked his hands about her waist and hoisted her up-up above his head.

Shocked anew, she grabbed handfuls of his hair-not to pull but to steady herself. His eyes flashed a warning-she ignored it, too busy trying to fathom how he’d got in.

“The other door-the one to your sitting room.”

She looked across the room, and for the first time saw the door in the opposite wall.

“I take it you haven’t admired the decor yet.”

His urbane tone did nothing to calm her. Releasing one hand, she glanced down. He started walking, carrying her like some dangerous captured prize, high above his head at arm’s length.

“What are you doing?” She tried to look around but couldn’t. She thought he was making for the bed.

“Getting these proceedings back on track.”

The steel beneath his words didn’t escape her. “And what track is that?”

He stopped walking and went to look up, but couldn’t-she had to release her hold on his hair. Reluctantly, she did. She tried to brace her hands on his forearms, but there was nothing she could hook her fingers in-the sleeves of his robe had fallen to his shoulders. Precariously balanced high above the floor, she was forced to put her trust in him, in his strength, to hold her steady.