My Angel (36 page)

He approached her, rounding the table set for lovers. But one unsatisfied joining did not make them lovers. "That was not my understanding." Thoughts of taking her in his arms overwhelmed him, leaving him powerless to think. Soothing her mysterious fears seemed necessary, yet strangely out of place.

"Misha brought wine for us," she said, then waved her hand in a careless flutter. "And food."

She looked resigned and terribly skittish, her face devoid of all color. He meant to change that.

Alexi poured a glass of burgundy and handed it to her. "Drink," he said. "It will make you feel better."

"I don't want anything." Her voice was soft, her shoulders no longer squared against him. She looked as if all the fight and brash determination he loved so well had vanished from her, and he hated the way she'd given in to his demands. His frustration was at an agonizing point. He tried hard to remind himself she was alone and frightened, that he'd wrenched her from her homeland, taken her miles away from everything and everyone she knew.

"You need it," he told her, holding back the oath that hovered on his lips. "I'd like to see color in your cheeks again."
Laughter in your voice.
He paused, his arm resting on the back of a chair.

She looked tired, thinner than when the ship had set sail out of
New York
. She appeared to him as a childlike waif. The friendly companionship they'd shared earlier had vanished. Somehow he'd envisioned long walks on the deck with the moon shining down upon them, the warm Mediterranean wind caressing them, her eyes aglow with desire.

"Whatever you say." She accepted the glass and sipped hesitantly, her wary gaze never leaving him.

He filled his glass. It seemed to Alexi that the unnatural stiffness between them stifled all his coherent thoughts.

"Good, I'm glad you see things my way," he said. But he wasn't satisfied. Fire and passion, headstrong stubbornness and willful disobedience were his Angela. He didn't know the submissive woman sitting before him.

What happened to her sass and vinegar? What happened to the woman he wanted so badly he could scarcely breathe?

His fingers closed tightly around the stem of his glass, nearly breaking it in two. He didn't love her. He desired her, wanted her, needed her in his bed.

Compliantly, she nodded and finished her wine. She set the glass on the table, still staring at him. He poured her more.

But Devil, didn't you know? Unless I see fit I don't obey anyone.
Her words haunted him. The woman in front of him was not the woman he'd been so taken with only a few weeks ago. Somehow he had stripped her of her pride, her honor and her dignity. He wanted to restore them.

"Your wish is my command," she said so quietly he had to lean forward to hear.

The words infuriated him, and he responded without thought. "Sarcasm doesn't become an angel." His polished reply rang in his ears, and he hated himself, despised his lack of control and compassion. She had a way of disarming him.

She flushed. "You don't understand."

Under the circumstances, her innocent pose was intolerable. "No, Angela, you don't understand," he said quietly, his frustration rising. "But it doesn't matter, not any longer."

"Because I've agreed to your every command?" she asked with a delicate softness that stole his breath.

He had been on the verge of letting her go. "Yes," he told her.

She stood, tiny, fragile, her blue eyes caught by the muted light slanting in through the window. He wondered if she had planned this from the beginning, his unmanning.

He wasn't quite sure what he meant to accomplish when he began to move toward her; her reluctance had been understood, and he had no desire to push her too far too soon. But he also reflected that it was far too easy to dwell on lies, and the only way to accept what life had in store was to admit the truth. Perhaps it was time, long past time for Angela to tell him what he needed to know.

Perhaps he should have insisted long ago. In retrospect, he'd been too easy on her, far too patient.

"Before we go any further"--he pulled up a chair and sat down beside her, pulling her onto his lap--"I want you to admit that you weren't a virgin, as you pretended to be that night in
New York
. I've accepted the fact, but you need to do the same."

"Lies?" she stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. She studied him, and all he could see in the depth of her blue eyes was quiet despair.

He ran a finger beneath her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze, meaning to entice from her the words she seemed so
reluctant to say. "You know what lie I'm talking about." His voice was smooth, his heart unyielding.

Beneath his fingers he could feel the blood in her veins race, and he watched her breasts heave frantically. When he brought his gaze to meet hers, what he saw there nearly stopped him from his determined course.

"I haven't lied to you," she whispered, even as his fingers dipped lower, felt soft, yielding curves. To hell with compliance, he thought. He needed his little hellion back. Sometime during this trip, his spitfire had vanished into the murky depths of his memory.

"Why won't you admit that I was not your first lover?" Having to ask infuriated him. "Why?''

When his finger touched the rose crest of her breast, she inhaled softly, her voice trembling. "Please, can we just forget that night?"

"No, I can never forget. It stands between us," he said, and he touched the other silken globe, his fingers tracing lazy circles, seducing her.

"Tell me, Angela. You like this, don't you? You like to be touched. In fact, you like it so much you don't care who touches you. Any lover will do. Isn't that a fact?"

He hated himself for the words he unthinkingly spoke, but there was no way to call them back.

Visibly squaring her shoulders, she pushed him aside. Her body trembled as she grappled with the fastenings of her bodice, which he'd expertly undone in a few short minutes.

"No." Her voice shook. "Go away. You are not worthy of my love, Alexi. I wouldn't have you if you were the last man on this earth. I hate you. Do you hear me? I detest the very sight of you." She trembled from head to toe.

"I could change your mind." To his ears, he sounded too polished, too smooth. "I can pleasure you until you call out my name."

"You promised," she said, her back turned to him, her head high, every muscle in her body tensing.

"To hell with promises! I've been patient and caring, concerned only with your needs. No longer. I want you. Now."

His rage astounded him. Allah, but she was a courtesan, a little tease, and she still thought to deny him. He would allow it no more.

His voice sounded like low thunder. He swept her off her feet. In the next second he deposited her on the bed like a piece of fluff. That was what she was, a delicate piece of fluff, an adorable lady with the morals of an alley cat. He would teach her that he was the only tomcat she could have.

"No," she said.

The single word sounded breathless and airy:

She was still playing games; she squirmed beneath him, responded to the onslaught of his hungry kisses. Stroking his back, she gave in to him, and the reality of his blatant seduction of her left him empty and cold. Yet he didn't hesitate.

He took advantage of the moment, her clothing coming off slowly, her dress, her petticoats, her stockings and undergarments, everything, until she lay naked to his gaze. Her soft curves tortured his senses. She was his Aphrodite, a goddess of sensual delights.

"You promised," she said.

Moisture filled her eyes. The tears wrenched at his soul and effectively stopped him.

Allah, but she was beautiful.

Revulsion at his own actions swept through Alexi. He backed off, his feelings mercurial where Angela was concerned. The truth should not be that hard for her to tell.

"I did promise," he reluctantly admitted, and rose over her, unable to keep the depth of his frustration from showing. "One day you'll give in to your desires. I'll be here for you, but I'm not going to beg or plead. Don't wait too long."

Naked and vulnerable, Angela lifted her chin defiantly. I've never slept with any man but you."

One eyebrow rose. His anger resurfaced when he should have ignored her statement. For the life of him, he could not understand why her confession meant so much to him. "The lack of your maiden shield tells me something quite different, don't you think?"

Once again Angela ignored his comment. Her face a deathly
white, she wrapped the sheet around her, tucking in the ends to hold it in place, and rose from the bed. Her manner arrogant, she walked to the table set for them by Misha. The atmosphere was too strained, too tense, the air nearly crackling with the passion emanating from the two of them.

He didn't dare risk her anger.

Her nonchalance in the midst of such anxiety was a soothing balm to his soul. Even if he lived to a ripe old age, he would never understand her. She was so unlike any other woman he'd ever met.