I didn’t deny it.
He shook his head, letting out a sardonic breath between his teeth.
Uncertainty slid down my back. He was mad at me for interrupting his stupid meeting no doubt, yet I couldn’t seem to hold onto any frustration in return. Not with this pressure in my chest that seemed to expand from a single look from him.
He twisted his watch on his wrist, once, twice, three times. “As much as everyone enjoyed that little show back there—A-plus on the entrance, by the way—I’m still trying to figure out if you’re an attention-seeker, or just an idiot.”
I flinched, knowing it hadn’t been my finest moment.
“My guess is the former. Trying to reel in a crowd for your next husband audition?”
Anger finally lit in my stomach, but I quelled it before it could escape. He was trying to goad me. He wanted me to respond, and I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. This rivalry with him didn’t make me feel good. It often left a regretful and restless feeling in my chest for days after our exchanges. It couldn’t be healthy. I was dropping Christian Allister, just like blow.
“There isn’t a man on this earth I would ever marry again.”
“But somehow Richard Marino passed muster?” His words were a vicious bite against my skin. “Call me crazy, but I don’t believe you.”
“Believe whatever you want, Allister. I don’t care what you think about me.”
“Just everyone else, huh?”
I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me, or if he was angry I didn’t hold his opinion in high regard. I tried to gauge his expression, but it was just as cold as a Siberian winter.
“You’ll marry again, Gianna, because that’s what good Italian girls do.”
“I’ll run before I’m ever forced to marry again.” The unwavering words shocked me as they hit the air because every one of them was true. I had never admitted it to myself out loud, even as I’d begun to collect a sizeable nest egg to start over wherever I wanted.
“Ah, sweetheart . . .” He let out a bitter noise as we reached his car. “We both know you weren’t reluctant to wed Antonio.”
I faltered. I hadn’t yet met Christian at that point in my life, so how did he know what opinion I’d held about my marriage? My heart beat, fast and unsure. Did he know why I hadn’t been reluctant? Did he know more about my childhood than I would ever tell him? A cold sweat drifted through me. He was so much smarter, so much more perceptive than me, and I despised him for it. I would never beat him.
“I’m done playing games with you.”
He opened the passenger door for me like the quintessential gentleman, his words amused and cynical. “Is that what you think we do? Play games?”
“I don’t care what you call it. I’m done! With this.” I gestured between us. “With you.”
Like the set of the sun, his eyes filled with darkness. A merciless darkness that wrapped around my soul and pulled.
The force of the snap made me fall back a step.
He slammed the car door. Stalked toward me.
“You’ll never be done with me.”
He grasped me by the throat, pushed me back against the car, and swallowed my next breath in his mouth.
AN EXPLOSION OF FIRE BURST inside me, spreading from my stomach to the tips of my fingers. My blood sizzled. My body tingled. I couldn’t breathe.
The press of his lips against mine hit me with such intensity my first response was to push him away. I brought my palms up to his chest to shove him as hard as I could, but when he nipped at my bottom lip and then licked it, soothing the sharp sting with his tongue, want filled my veins with boiling wa
ter. A moan traveled up my throat. My fingers curled, and I scraped my nails down his stomach, stopping at his belt buckle.
He hissed against my lips and then slid his tongue inside my mouth. I felt that wet glide between my legs. Just the knowledge that his hands were on me sent a tremble through me, but the feel of them—the palm sliding over my hip to the curve of my ass; the gentle yet unyielding grasp on my throat—incinerated any of the resistance left in me. I swayed toward him, my body melting against his.
His lips left mine after I’d only had a single taste of him, and protest flooded my veins. I suddenly wondered how many women he’d kissed in Seattle, but the thought was only fleeting as he moved a hand into my wet hair, grabbing a fistful and tilting my head. He nipped a line down my neck, pulling the skin between his teeth and lightly sucking. My heartbeat dropped like a weight between my legs.
The heat of his body, the force of his presence, the anger in his movements—it stole my breath. With my palms resting on his stomach, I could only pant like some kind of pliant doll while he nipped and sucked at my throat, my collarbone, the tops of my breasts.