The Latin Lover

“Sexual compatibility.”

He choked on his whiskey, and nearly dropped the heavy crystal glass. “What?” he gasped out between wheezing breaths, while the alcohol burned his throat in a way it had not since his first drink.

“I want to test our sexual compatibility.”

Impossible. He had not heard those words out of his byba’s lips. “You did not say this to me.”

“I did.”

“No. I did not hear it.”

“Stop being stubborn. You heard me.”

“You want to test our sexual compatibility?”

“Yes.”

She was serious. After what had happened in her student apartment, how could she doubt their compatibility in this way?

This was ridiculous.

“No way. I won’t do it.”

She put her drink down and stood, that expression of determination back. “That’s unfortunate, because I won’t marry you if I’m not sure we can satisfy one another in the bedroom. You’ll have to find another way to redeem your family’s honor.”

She turned to leave, and he was so shocked by her words that he let her get all the way to the door before he barked out an order for her to stop.

She faced him and waited by the door.

“You can’t be serious, Phoebe.”

“I am.” And, damn it, she looked it.

“Surely after that kiss in your apartment you cannot doubt we share a suitable rapport?” Damn it. He sounded like a politician, not a man hot to share her bed. And he was. Very hot.

She winced, and he figured she agreed. “That was very one-sided.”

“I was more turned on than I have ever been,” he admitted, refusing to hide behind euphemisms any longer.

“Yet you found it so easy to dismiss the encounter as meaningless.”

“You were promised to my brother.”

“So you pretended something profound had meant nothing?”

“Yes.” If she wanted the truth, he would give it to her.

“You lied to me?”

“Yes.” And he was not proud of that fact.

“Your lie hurt me.”

“I am sorry.”

She shrugged, as if his apology meant nothing, and that stung.

“You do not believe I am sincere?”