‘You will do as you are damn well told!’ he lanced back.
And it was there, just like that—his contempt for her, the cold anger that froze her where she stood.
Cristina pulled in a deep breath. ‘I don’t understand how you can want me when you feel such hate for me,’ she said as she breathed out again.
‘Strange, that.’ He grimaced. ‘I’ve been puzzled by the same thing myself. I hate you, but you can still turn me on faster than any other woman of my acquaintance—and that, querida, is your only bargaining chip,’ he warned. ‘So be sensible and use it to your advantage instead of questioning it. Now, come and sit down.’
He swung out one of the black leather club chairs that lined the length of the table, then calmly reached out to hook up a phone.
‘Coffee, please, Kinsella,’ he instructed. ‘Brazilian, and make it strong…’
Cristina hadn’t moved a muscle by the time he turned back to her. His eyes turned a darker shade of green. Tension leapt as he began striding towards her like a lean, sleek hunting cat. One glance at the set of his face and alarm bells were ringing, sending a shot of adrenalin shooting down her spine. She knew that smouldering expression—recognised it from the evening before. Sparks began flying. Sexual sparks. That dreaded familiar heat began to pool between her thighs. On a short breath of air she took a wary step backwards, met wall and window, and put out her hands.
‘Anton—’
‘Luis,’ he corrected, bypassing her hands to coil long fingers around her elbows and used them to tug her against his chest. There was a moment’s stifled stillness between them as his eyes held her eyes and then he lowered his head and claimed her mouth.
It wasn’t a pleasant kiss, or even that deep a kiss, but still by the time he lifted his head again there wasn’t much of her that wasn’t quivering.
‘Okay, we have a choice at this juncture,’ he said coolly. ‘We can attempt to behave like civilised people, and sit down over there to discuss our business. Or we can go in the other direction, through that door you can see over there…’ he indicated ‘…which leads to the very private part of this apartment, find the nearest bed and conclude this side of our business first. Now, which is it to be? Your decision.’
Her decision? Cristina thought dizzily. She let the tip of her tongue trace the pulsing contours of her lips and stared fixedly at the knot of his tie while she tried to find the strength to speak.
His hands still had possession of her elbows; her hands lay splayed across his chest. She could feel the muscular tightness of his body beneath the fitted waistcoat, feel his heart pumping to an accelerated beat that was telling her which option he would prefer.
And she was tempted. It appalled her to realise just how much she was tempted to throw business to one side and just take the rest.
‘Tough choice?’ he prompted when she took too long to answer. ‘Need a little help?’
Before she realised what he meant he’d lowered his head again, touching his lips to the corner of hers. A sigh feathered her throat as instinct sent her head turning in a hunting move to capture that mouth, but it had already moved on, brushing her flushed cheek to send a fine quiver of pleasure running through her when he found her earlobe and gently closed his teeth on the tender soft flesh. Her breath feathered again and she moved that bit closer, fingers shifting in a tense little movement upwards, to the wide spread of his shoulders, then compulsively into the silk dark hair at his nape.
The soft sound of his laughter barely registered as derision until he released her lobe and murmured, ‘Business should always come before pleasure, querida, as any street hooker should know.’
It took a full second for it to sink in that he was likening her to a street hooker. Cristina tugged herself free. Humiliation surged up from the quivering mess her senses were in and, without saying a word, she stepped around him, walked on cotton wool legs to the chair he’d pulled out for her and sat down on it.
Behind her, she felt his cruel amusement reaching out to her. In front of her lay nothing but more glass, set too high in the wall for her to see anything but uninterrupted blue sky. Her eyes burned, her heart hurt, inside she could feel herself coming to pieces—sitting tensely on the part of her anatomy that was twisting and twirling with the heated excitement one kiss had fed into it while the rest of her crawled with self-loathing.
Because he was only telling it as it was. She was little more than a street hooker, here to sell the only commodity she had that he was interested in.
The silence between them throbbed like a struggling pulse-beat. If he said one more word to her Cristina knew she was going to further humiliate herself by breaking down to weep. Maybe he knew it. Maybe he still possessed enough sensitivity in his hardened soul to recognise it. Because all he did was take up his previous position against the table, dominating everything within her fixed vision, even the patch of blue sky. Crossing his long legs at the ankles and folding his arms across his chest, he waited in silence for her to calm down.
He’d shattered her, Anton could see that. Blank, hurt-blackened eyes were standing out on her pale face. The knowledge should be filling him with satisfaction but, oddly, it was doing the opposite. Six years ago she had shattered him, crucified everything he’d believed they felt for each other, then calmly walked away. If revenge for that moment had been his motive for doing this to her then he was discovering that he did not like what it made him feel.
Suppressing the urge to issue an apology, he moved his gaze to the contours of her mouth. It looked so tiny, held under control despite the evidence of his kiss still pumping blood into the lush lower lip. The delicate heart shape of its upper partner had a deeply vulnerable look to it that made him want to…
His eyes drifted lower as he imagined that beautiful skin stripped naked for him to see and touch. Was the rest of it still as smooth as her face was? Did her skin still shine like golden silk? He saw his hands drifting over her, felt the pleasure in stroking such perfection, then frowned as a different pair of hands took the place of his. Old hands, gnarled and withered hands, belonging to the man she had married in his place.
Anger leapt up inside him, growing on a wave of bitter, bloody disgust and contempt.
‘Let’s talk about your marriage,’ he said abruptly.
She stiffened as if he’d shot her, and something flashed across her eyes—gone before he could catch it.
‘My husband is dead,’ she stated coldly. ‘And I will not discuss him with you.’
‘Not even to throw in my face how you married him within a month of turning me down?’
She sent him a silent icy stare in reply.