“This is all about sex,” he said, cutting off the lecture before she could start. “That’s what the world wants to see. That’s what we’re giving them.”
“That’s the game.” But her soft mouth trembled slightly, and there was that anxious line between her brows. “It’s not real.”
“You’re forgetting all of this chemistry,” he said. He tapped his fingers against the papers spread across the table when she frowned at him. “Do you really believe this would look as good as it does if there was no connection between us?”
“Of course it would,” she whispered. As if she was trying to convince them both. Almost as if she was desperate. As well she should be, he thought, and not that it would save her either way. Not now. “You’re an actor.”
“Yes, Miranda,” he said gently. He deliberately held her gaze with his, daring her to deny it. “But you are not.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ONE day bled into the next. The beckoning blue of the sea, the cerulean sky arched high above, the dazzling beauty everywhere she looked—and then Ivan there in the middle of it, darkly compelling and far too powerful, playing his part too easily and too well.
Whenever they left the hotel, the cameras followed and their every movement was recorded, just as he had promised would happen. That meant she had no choice but to play the adoring mistress in the middle of a blistering affair, whatever that meant.
The truth was, she had no idea what it meant. How could she? But she was quickly learning what it looked like.
“I’m sorry you don’t like touching,” he said on that first day, after that uncomfortable conversation on the balcony, as he started the car and slid it into gear. “But I’m afraid we have no choice.”
“I didn’t ask you to change your behavior in public,” she told him, irrationally furious suddenly.
Because of that sly, mocking tone in his voice. Because she hated that he knew anything about her, especially something so personal, when she was supposed to be the one learning key details about him. Because of all of this madness and trouble, none of which would be happening if he hadn’t kissed her in the first place.
Because he thought he could make her come.
“I didn’t complain,” she continued stiffly. “You were the one who started talking about sex—no doubt to divert attention from the fact that you refuse to answer any of my questions.”
“That, yes,” he agreed, laughter in his voice. “And also because I like sex. A pity you do not. We could have had such fun.”
“Somehow I don’t think fun is the word I would use to describe sex with you,” she’d said drily, and then everything had tilted and rolled when he’d reached over and slid a hand onto the nape of her neck, pulling her head around to his. Controlling her.
Thrilling her.
Stop talking about sex with this man, she ordered herself with no little desperation. You can’t handle it. Or him.
“No,” he said in that way of his that seemed to cast a shadow over her, as if he could block out the sun if he chose. “It’s not the word I would choose, either. But it’s the only one that wouldn’t scare you.”
“I am not—” she began, but his scorching black eyes dropped from hers to her mouth, and it shut her up as easily as if he’d used his fingers once more. Or, worse, his lips.
When he looked up again, she was mute with anxiety and he was smiling.
“No,” he said, mocking her. He slid his hand away, leaving only confused longing in its wake. “Not scared at all.”
Miranda couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Or find her balance.
And Ivan, it turned out, was very, very tactile. She would have said that he did it simply because he knew she didn’t like it, but there was a certain wildness in his gaze when he looked at her that kept her from accusing him. That made her think he liked touching her, and not simply because he was playing a game. That made her wonder what words he would have chosen, after all.
But she didn’t want to think about that.
The days became a dizzy mess of his hands at her waist, on her hips, at the small of her back. Always on her, always warming her, possessive and demanding at once, as if they were not only the lovers they pretended to be, but also as if he was very much in command of their affair. The idea made her shiver. There was that fire always burning in his dark eyes, keeping them both alight. There was his warm, strong hand around hers, helping her from the car or tugging her down the narrow bustling lane of Rue Meynadier in Cannes to look at the souvenirs and nibble on olives and cheeses and sweet macarons from the local emporiums.