“Only the beginning.”
She started. The beginning of what? The end? She ground her molars, fighting for calm. “We were pretending.”
“Aha.”
“Yes,” she said, vehemently. “We were.”
“Right, Miss Hollis. Whatever you say.”
“You asked me to pretend, that’s what I’m here for. Isn’t it?”
His silence was so prolonged she felt deafened. Was she here for another reason? A reason other than what he’d requested of her? An intimate, wicked, naughty reason?
She could tell by the set of his jaw that if he had a hidden agenda, he wouldn’t be admitting to it now.
Walking off her conflicting emotions, she fixed her attention on the food. The scents of lemon, warm bread, cheeses and fruit teased her nostrils, but her stomach was too constricted for her to summon any appetite. Usually she’d be wolfing down the strawberries, but now she wiped her hands on her sides and put on her best secretarial face. “At what time should I wake up tomorrow?”
“We have a late lunch, no need to rise with the sun,” he said.
She signaled to both ends of the room, needing to get away from him, wishing she could get away from herself. “And my room?”
“Pick the one you like.”
She felt his gaze on her, sensed it like a fiery lick across her skin.
She went over and peered into a room: a large, double-post bed, white and blue bedclothes. Very beautiful. She went to the other, feeling his eyes follow. The lamplight cast his face in beautiful mellow light. He looked like an angel that had just escaped from hell, like an angel she wanted to sin with.
“I guess either will do,” she admitted.
She smiled briefly at him from the doorway, and although he returned the smile, both smiles seemed empty.
And in that instant Virginia was struck with two things at once: she had never wanted anything so much in her life as she wanted the man standing before her, and if his lips covered hers again, if his hands touched her, if his eyes continued to look at her, she would never own her heart again.
She said, “Good night.” And didn’t wait to hear his reply.
The room she chose was the one with coral-pink bedding and an upholstered headboard. She didn’t question that, for appearances, he would wish him and his “lover” to appear to share a room. But she quietly turned the lock behind her.
As she changed, she thought of what she had read about Marcos and Monterrey. She arranged the clothes in the large closet, each garment on a hanger, and eyed and touched the ones he’d bought her.
She slipped into her cotton nightgown, ignoring the prettier garments made of silk and satin and lace, and climbed into bed. Awareness of his proximity in the adjoining room caused gooseflesh along her arms. A fan hung suspended from the ceiling, twirling. The echo of his words feathered through her, melting her bones. I’ll pretend…you’re her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her chest constricting. It’s not you, Virginia, she firmly told herself.
She touched a finger against her sensitive lips and felt a lingering pleasure. And in her heart of hearts, she knew she was. She was her, the woman Marcos wanted. She’d dreamed of him in private, but dreams had been so harmless until they came within reach. Marcos Allende.
Wanting him was the least safe, most staggering, worrying feeling she’d ever felt.
And one thing she knew for certain was that to her, Marcos Allende was even more dangerous than his beautiful, deadly city of Monterrey.
Sleep eluded him.
The clock read past 1:00 a.m. and Marcos had smashed his pillow into a beat-up ball. He’d kicked off the covers. He’d cursed and then he’d cursed himself some more for thinking one kiss would be enough to rid himself of his obsession of her.
Then there was Allende.
He had to plan, plot, leave no room for error. He had to stoke his hatred of Marissa, to be prepared to crush her once and for all.
But he could not think of anything. Memories of those kisses in the car assailed him. The fierce manner in which his mouth took hers and her greedy responses, the moans she let out when he’d touched her. How his tongue had taken hers, how she’d groaned those tormenting sounds.