The Brazilian's Blackmailed Bride

‘No.’ The mark that Vaasco’s wedding ring had placed there had long gone.

‘Good,’ he murmured. ‘I like that…’

It was then that she saw it, catching a fleeting glimpse just before the ring slid smoothly into place. Bright flickering diamonds clustered around a burning dark ruby set on a band of gold. Her heart ceased to beat, her throat closing over the thick lump that formed in her throat.

‘Do you like it?’

Of course she liked it—she loved it! ‘But—Luis…’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘We have to talk about—’

‘Try to think of it as my stamp of pending ownership,’ he described. ‘Soon a wedding ring will have joined it.’

‘Soon?’ She looked up questioningly.

‘Yes, soon,’ he repeated. ‘As soon as can be arranged.’ Then he bent and lightly kissed the anxious shape of her mouth. ‘And you will use my name, querida,’ he vowed as he raised his head again. ‘Cristina Scott-Lee has such a staunch Englishness about it, don’t you think?’

The barbs were really flying. Head lowering again, so that he could not see her face, Cristina said nothing. What was the use when it was clear he was going to lash out at her whatever she did try to say?

Anton waited, still holding her hand, wishing he had not said that in the cold, nasty way that he had. It was not going to help his cause if he made her hate him enough to walk away—again.

But that wasn’t the point, and he knew it wasn’t what was really eating away at him. When he’d walked in here and seen her posing in front of the mirror, just as the younger Cristina would have done, his heart had clattered straight through his body to land with a thump at his feet.

Why? Because it had suddenly hit him that he was still in love with her—with that beautiful, vivacious creature flirting with the mirror anyway. He wanted her back, but he couldn’t have it like that, and wishing for the impossible was not going to change a single thing. Cristina was still the woman who’d scorned him for an older man six years ago, and he was still the man who wanted revenge.

He dropped her hand.

She lifted her head to look at him. ‘Luis—’

No.

He turned away from whatever that look in her eyes was trying to convey to him. ‘If you’re ready, let’s go.’

Cristina stood staring after him. One small peek out of her hiding place and he’d jumped on her, crushed her in his cold iron fist, then stuck a ring on her finger that staked ownership.

&n

bsp; In the foyer he stabbed the lift call button. There was a full-length mirror attached to one of the foyer walls and Cristina found her attention caught by it. What she saw was the profile of a tall, dark, excruciatingly handsome and sophisticated man with the inherent cool and classy bearing of an Englishman mixed with the exotic gold tones of a warm-blooded and tempestuous Brazilian.

‘I wish you had never come back.’ It was out before she could stop it.

He glanced down, saw her eyes were fixed on the wall and turned his head. It was like clashing head-on with an electrified fence. The green eyes darkened slowly, pouring a heat into her body that dried up the inner surface of her mouth.

What Luis was seeing was beyond Cristina’s comprehension, but he came to stand right behind her, hands coming up to clasp her slender upper arms right at the rim of the red sleeves, where they met with the narrow curve of her shoulders. Then he shifted their position until they were facing the mirror full on.

They fitted. They always had fitted together, she thought painfully as she looked at the way the top of her head reached the bow tie at his throat. In every way she was fine-boned delicacy to his muscular dominance. The slenderness of her legs, the fragile curve of her figure in the clinging red dress, even the silken cups of her shoulders, hovering there just above his hands, said vulnerable woman in the possession of a tall, dark, dominant male.

He moved—it was hardly anything, but she suddenly felt the jut of erection against her and fell foul of a soft stifled gasp. Her lips parted, red, lush, inviting. Her eyes turned decidedly black. He sent his fingers gliding down the smooth red sleeves to her wrists, then gently pleated them with her own fingers. Cristina watched, held breathless by shimmering sexual tension as he moved their hands to the narrow slopes of her hips then began a slow, slow exploration of her whole body coming to a stop only when both sets of hands were covering her breasts. Eyes fixed in fascination, she felt her nipples tighten against her own palms. It was such a thrilling experience being made to feel the sensual stirring of her own body, that she stood totally breathless, unable to push out a single protest. He moved in that bit closer, and his desire for her was without restraint. Awareness spread like a fine veil across every sense she possessed.

Anton wondered if he was going mad, doing this to them when they were about to go downstairs and into the public domain, but—

‘Look at you,’ he rasped out softly. ‘You are the most exquisite creature I have ever held this close to me.’

‘And you hate yourself for wanting to hold me.’

The two black satin edges of his eyebrows came together across the bridge of his nose. ‘Not hate,’ he denied, holding her dark eyes with his own disturbingly perplexed ocean green. ‘Worried,’ he provided. ‘If I don’t watch out I think you could seriously get me again, and I don’t think that would be good for my—’

‘Plans?’

He sent her a smile through the mirror—it was like being lit up from inside. ‘I was going to say something really soppy—like heart,’ he confided, watching her breasts move as her breath caught. Then he added softly, ‘But I think that would be just a bit too honest, so we will stick to your word—for now.’