She would have preferred that he slap her. At least then only her cheek would be smarting. Tears clouded her vision, matching the rain that pounded the wind-shield. She turned her head so he wouldn’t see the effects their verbal dueling had had on her and proudly held her shoulders erect.
He drove to the outskirts of town to a popular steak house. Its rustic exterior blended into the backdrop of a rain-washed landscape. “I hope you like steak.”
“Go to hell,” she said, pushing open her door and dashing through the rain toward the door of the restaurant. If he thought etiquette had to be observed by buying her dinner, she wanted only to get it over with, so she could go home and nurse her wounds.
Inwardly, she shrank from the stormy expression on his face as he joined her under the covered porch and pulled open the door. His arm operated with the thrusting action of a piston. “Get inside,” he said tensely. She shot him a seething look before marching past him.
A hostess led them to a table near the fireplace. “Can I get you something from the bar?” she asked.
“No. Yes.” They answered in unison.
“Nothing for me,” Shelley said with stiff dignity.
“Draft beer, please,” Grant said.
The waitress left the menus and Shelley studied hers thoroughly until the woman returned with Grant’s beer to take their order.
“Shelley?” he asked politely.
“I only want a salad. Vinaigrette dressing.”
“She’ll have a steak, too. A filet cooked medium. And a baked potato with all the trimmings. I’ll have prime rib, medium rare, baked potato, too. Thousand Island dressing.” He snapped the menu shut and handed it to the confused waitress, his eyes daring Shelley to contradict him.
She only shrugged and turned her head to stare into the fire. She remained resolutely silent during the entire meal, answering his direct questions politely but initiating no conversation. If this were nothing more than a payoff, she’d be damned before she’d let him enjoy it.
Once they were back in the car, he ground it into gear and spun out onto the rain-slicked highway. His increasing anger only served to feed hers. The earnest lover of the night before had vanished, and in his place was an angry, embittered man she didn’t know.
A few blocks short of the campus he turned onto her street. “My car—”
“I know. It’s at Haywood Hall. I don’t want you driving in this weather, especially in a car—”
“I can take care of myself!” she yelled.
“I’m sure you can,” he shouted back. “Indulge me, okay?”
He slammed on the brakes in front of her house and caught her arm before she opened the door. “Don’t,” was all he said, but the simple word was potent. With only a little indifference and a great deal of fear, she obeyed him and waited for him to come around and hold the door for her.
“Thank you for everything,” she said with dripping sweetness before inserting the key in her front door and turning it.
“Not so fast,” he said, catching the closing door with his boot and stepping inside behind her. “I’m not going to let you go into an empty house alone after you’ve been away overnight, no matter how well you can take care of yourself.” He shut the door behind him and switched on the light.
He made a thorough inspection of her small house while she stood at the front door in growing irritation. When he strolled back into the room, obviously in no hurry to leave—indeed he had taken off his jacket and held it over his shoulder by his index finger—she said curtly, “Good night.”
His grin was sly as he dropped his jacket onto a chair. “Good nights are usually said in the bedroom, Shelley.” She stood in mute stupefaction as he came to her and yanked her against him, one arm going around her waist like a steel pincers. The other hand imbedded itself in her hair and pulled her head back as he leaned over her. “And they’re usually accompanied by a kiss.”
“No—” she barely got out before his mouth came down over hers. He kissed her without mercy, his tongue a marauder. Even though she struggled and squirmed against him, he lifted her easily and carried her kicking and thrashing into the bedroom.
She landed on the bed with an impact that drove the air from her lungs. He followed immediately, pinning her beneath him.
“Let me go.” Tears of frustration mingled with those of despair as her fists pounded ineffectually on his chest.
“Not a chance.” He locked her wrists into one of his fists. He fumbled with the buttons of her blouse and for the second time in twenty-four hours peeled down the silver slip to bare her breasts. “Tell me you don’t like this. Don’t want it. Don’t need it.” With his free hand, he caressed her. His touch was gentle, in direct contrast to the strength with which he held her.
“No, please don’t,” she moaned when she felt the rebellious response of her own body. Her head tossed back and forth on the pillow, but the fight was lost and she knew it. Her efforts were valiant, but without conviction. Her moans of protest became whimpering pleas as he stroked her now with his tongue. It flitted over her nipples in a caress like the rapid beating of a butterfly’s wings.
At the first sign of her acquiescence, he released her hands. They burrowed into
his hair, frantic now that he might be the one to escape.