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"If I do, what business is it of yours?" she retorted, wounded and wanting to
wound.
He stopped in the action of reaching down to flick an ash into the big square
ceramic ashtray, his eyes cutting into hers even at the distance. He straightened,
towering over the furniture, big and dark and threatening.
"Push just a little harder," he warned in that soft, deep tone that hinted at a
hurricane force of anger brewing inside him, "and you'll find out what business of
mine it is."
"I'm fairly trembling, Nicholas," she threw at him. She felt reckless as she rarely
had in her life, so stung by his opinion of her that she was willing to risk anything,
everything. "Is this how you handle your women—with threats?"
The explosion burst into his dark eyes without warning. He tossed his barely
touched cigarette into the ashtray and headed straight toward her, retribution in
his taut face, in his pantherish stride, in the set of his square jaw.
CHAPTER SIX
Her heart lashed against her ribs, but she stood her ground as he moved toward
her.
"I'm not afraid of you," she said with bravado, although she felt like crashing
through the nearest wall to get away from him.
He didn't bother to answer her. One big arm shot out to jerk her against him
while the other went under her knees. He turned, carrying her as if she weighed no
more than a sack of groceries, and started down the hall.
"Nicholas—" she began nervously.
"Shut up." He shouldered open the door to her bedroom and strode across the
deep blue carpet to toss her onto the rainbow-colored quilt that graced the queen-
size bed. He stood beside the bed just long enough to peel off the sweater, baring
his broad hair-matted chest, before he came down alongside her.
She tried to get up, but his hands caught her wrists and pressed them down into
the soft coverlet over her head. He held her there until her sudden, panicky
struggles finally ceased from sheer exhaustion, and she lay breathless, helpless,
looking up at him with bright green eyes full of apprehension.
"Not so brave now, are you, little fox?" he asked in a rough, angry tone. His hands
slid up to lock her fingers into his, still holding them down on the quilt. His body
shifted, so that his chest crushed into her soft breasts and flattened them against
it. "Come on, honey, fight me. This is what you've been working up to ever since that
night I left for Paris."
She licked her dry lips nervously. "I don't understand."
"Young girls throw rocks at boys, some of them pick fights by calling them names,
but it all leads to some kind of physical confrontation," he replied, his eyes stormy
even though his voice was calm enough. "You've been trying to goad me into your
bed for days. All right, I'm here. Now what are you going to do with me?"
Her lower lip trembled. "You're out of your mind if you think that's what I want,"
she replied shakily. "Of all the conceited . . ."
He leaned closer, his dark eyes filling the room, his breath warm on her face, his
sensuous mouth close enough to brush hers when he spoke. The heat from his body
scorched her, and the weight of it was new and pleasant. More than that. Delicious.
He rolled over on his back abruptly, carrying her with him so that he took the
weight of her slender body. His hands drew hers to his broad, warm chest, pressing
them against the hard hair-covered muscles while he searched her eyes at
unnerving closeness.
"Don't mutter insults at me," he whispered deeply. "Besides, this is really all your
idea anyway. I'm only following up on your lead, little fox."
His touch was intoxicating. She'd wanted this for a long time, he was right about
that. Her hands had itched to run over the muscles of his brawny chest, to test the
thickness and crispness of the hair that covered it. But she didn't want to be taken
in anger, and she couldn't stand the idea that his feelings were the result of some
misplaced sense of responsibility.
"My lead, my eye! If and when I ever want you to make love to me—"
His eyes darkened, his jaws tautened. "Right now," he cut in, "I'd settle for
turning you over my knee and paddling your charming derriere. My God, you're in an
unpleasant mood this morning."
"How do you expect me to be, when you—" She broke off, lowering her eyes to
his chest.
"When I what?" he asked quietly. "Come on, don't stop now. When I what?"
"You don't have to . . . to feel responsible for me," she said in a tight, wounded
tone.
His chest rose and fell slowly. "So that's it." He brushed back the unruly hair
from her cheeks. "Don't you like being cared about?"
Her eyes glanced off his and fell again. "I'm not your property. I. . . I don't like
being thought of as an obligation—a . . ." She bit her lip as the tears threatened
again.
His big, warm fingers caressed her throat idly. "I do what pleases me, Keena," he
murmured softly. "That includes taking care of you when you need it. I do nothing
out of a sense of obligation. Especially not with you."
She lifted her eyes back to his and searched them, finding nothing more than a
patient kind of amusement. "You sounded as if you did. As if you .. . you only came
around because you felt you had to."
"I come around," he replied, "because I feel at ease with you. Because I can talk
to you. In my position—with my money—it's damned hard to trust people, hasn't
that ever occurred to you?"
She studied his nose, focusing on a spot that looked as if someone had broken it
once. Unthinking, she reached out and traced the small flaw in its imposing lines.
"I never thought about it, about your money I mean," she admitted. "Nick, how
did your nose get broken?"
"In the Navy," he replied. "A slight disagreement over a disciplinary action. Why
don't you think about it?"
She shrugged, shifting over him so that her legs were beside his, not being
supported by them. "You've been rich ever since I've known you," she explained.
"That's true enough." He studied her face quietly. "You never asked me for
anything, even when I knew for a fact that you could just barely pay your rent."
Her eyes opened wide. "How?"
"I was curious about you." She shifted restlessly. "What else did you find out?"
One corner of his chiseled mouth went up. "That you were too trusting for your
own good. I've sweated blood over you, little fox, especially with a couple of your
men friends who weren't exactly what I'd call gentlemen."
She laughed. ."You did a thorough job of discouraging one in particular," she
murmured humorously, remembering the coworker whose jaw Nicholas had broken.
He sighed wearily. "I owe three of these gray hairs to you."
"Which ones?" She tugged at one silver hair among the dark, curling ones on his
broad chest. "This one?"
"Among others." His fingers bit into the small of her back. "Keena, I want to
make love to you."
Her eyes flickered against the wildness that was smoldering in his. She seemed
to stop breathing, the tension thinned so between them.
"You . . . you didn't the other night," she whispered uncertainly.
"You were afraid of me," he replied. "I just started toward you before I put on
the robe, and you were ready to tear down a door getting away." His eyes searched
hers. "You don't look much calmer right now, love," he added gently. "If you could
have seen your face when I brought you in here . . ."
She swallowed. "You were so angry."
"What did you expect? I don't like having other men rammed down my throat," he
said curtly. "Especially James Harris."
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