Vows of Revenge

She drew on him with greedy abandon, forgetting everything except that he filled a vast need in her. There were no words, just a craving that both ceased and grew as they locked mouths and touched tongues. His body closed in, pressed. He overwhelmed her as he wrapped his arms fully around her.

She moaned, pleasure blooming in her like a supernova. She instantly ached for more intimate contact with him.

His arms tightened, gathering her to draw her with him as he sat back, pulling her into his lap.

The shift was enough of a jolt to make her pull back and realize where they were, how her knees had fallen on either side of his thighs, skirt riding up. She was losing all contact with reality. Again.

Then what?

“This can’t happen,” she gasped.

She pushed off him, throwing herself awkwardly onto the seat opposite and glaring back at him. She felt like a mouse that might have freed herself from the cat’s mouth, but only until he wanted to clamp down on her again.

“Not here, no. Come to my hotel with me,” he said, voice sandpapery and exquisitely inviting.

“For what?” she cried.

“Don’t be dense,” he growled. “We’re an incredible combination. You can feel the power of it as well as I can.”

“You’ve really perfected this technique of yours, haven’t you?” she choked. “Listen, you might sleep with people you loathe, but I don’t. I won’t sleep with a man I hate.”

He snapped his head back.

Her conscience prickled. She didn’t hate him. There was too much empathy and understanding in her for such a heartless emotion.

“Well, that’s that. Isn’t it?” He thrust himself from the car, holding the door open for her.

Icy wind flew in to accost her, scraping her legs and stabbing through her clothes as she rose from the cozy interior to the ferocity of winter, entire body shaking, heart fragile.

“Goodbye, Roman,” she said, feeling as if she was losing something as precious as her mother’s pearls.

“Melodie.”

Not goodbye, she noted, but his tone still sounded final and made her unutterably sad. Clutching the edges of her jacket closed, she walked to the bus stop on heavy feet.

CHAPTER SIX

ROMAN WENT BACK to his house in France where he could live in his own personal exile and ruminate, but despite only being here once, Melodie infused the place.

He never should have gone after her. If it hadn’t been for the possibility of a baby, he wouldn’t have, but there was no way he could have let a child of his grow up the way he had—not just poor and alone, but with a million questions and a million facets of rejection glittering into the furthest corners of its psyche. The one time he’d asked his mother about his father, she’d said, “He was a rich man who said he loved me, but I guess he didn’t because he didn’t come back.”

He was a rich man, one who was very careful not to use those words and provoke false hope. He’d always hated his father for being a liar while secretly fearing he was just like the man: incapable of real love. He wasn’t particularly likable. He knew that. Foster care had taught him to hold back, be cautious, not expect that he was anything but a burden to be tolerated. He came in too late with any sign of caring, long after he’d been written off as stunted. This was why he didn’t pursue serious relationships with women or even have close friendships.

But he didn’t usually provoke people to hatred. It maddened him that Melodie felt that way. He shouldn’t have kissed her, he knew that, but the attraction between them had still been there. She’d responded to his touch.

Yet she reviled him too much to let things progress.

While he could think of nothing but touching her again. Grazing the warmth of her neck with his fingertips had been the height of eroticism. Kissing her again had inflamed him.

The fact that she was driving him insane, mentally and physically, told him it was time to cut ties altogether. It was time to forget her and move on with his life.

* * *

Melodie had always read her horoscope, trusted in karma and hoped fate really did have a plan for her. For the sake of her sanity she clung to the belief that good things happened to good people if they stuck in there long enough. The Gautier men were masters of cynicism, but she was different. And she wouldn’t crumble under the weight of the dark side like her mother had, taking the first path out of life that was offered. She would fight and prevail.

Then Roman Killian had happened.

He’d not only shown her that she couldn’t trust her own instincts and judgment, he’d provoked bitterness and pessimism in her. A depressing attitude lingered in her long after her encounter with him in his limo, an aimless feeling of “what’s the point?”