She heard him shout something behind her, but she kept on going, the rage cleansing, empowering, enlightening. It flowed through her veins now, burning through everything in its wake like a fireball.
He caught up with her in the lobby, grasped her arm to swing her round to face him. ‘Where the hell do you think you are going?’ he said—looking wary now as well as angry.
Good.
‘To our suite, to pack my bag and go home.’ She yanked her elbow free.
Everything she could say, everything she wanted to say, everything she should have said weeks, maybe even months ago careered around her head like dodgem cars in a cheap arcade as she stormed into the elevator and stabbed the button. She’d left him standing in the lobby. He shook his head, as if he were dazed, and then charged after her, but he was too late, the doors closing before he could get his hand inside.
‘Arrêtes, Alison, we must talk,’ he shouted, obviously expecting her to hit the ‘open door’ button. She didn’t.
Everything that needed to be said was still lodged in her solar plexus.
The elevator arrived at their floor. She scrambled in her purse to find the key card, desperate to get into the suite and lock him out.
He’d broken her heart deliberately. It was the only thing her tired brain could grasp hold of. He’d known how she was coming to feel about him, and he’d hurt her, crushed her because he could.
She found the card, but as the green light flashed on the door, the emergency exit slammed open. He must have run up the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator. His footsteps raced down the corridor.
She rushed inside, swung round to slam the door closed just as his palm slapped against the wood. He pushed it open and she scrambled back into the room.
‘Get out. I don’t want you in here,’ she said, the tears streaking down her face.
‘Ma belle, stop—don’t cry...you mustn’t cry.’
He reached out to cradle her cheek, his anger replaced by devastation.
But she slapped his hand away. ‘Why mustn’t I?’ she said around the choking sobs now.
‘Because I am not worth it,’ he said.
Did he really believe that? It seemed that he did from the shame and regret burning in his eyes. But she didn’t care, she wasn’t going to let him off that easily.
‘Why did you do it? Why did you let me believe Marlena was your mistress? Why won’t you let me into your life? Why does everything have to be a secret?’
‘Because you would hate me more, if you knew what was inside here.’
He pressed a hand to his heart, the need and desire in his eyes almost as painful as the shame.
She backed up until there was nowhere else to go.
‘Let me love you. Let me take away the pain?’ he said.
He was talk
ing about sex, she understood that, when she wanted so much more, but she couldn’t say no to him as he found the zip on the back of her dress and pulled it down. She pushed his jacket off his shoulders, yanked at the buttons on his shirt; the fight to get naked became a battle.
He kicked off his shoes, she unhooked her bra, he unzipped his trousers, shoved them down, the rampant erection bouncing up to tempt her, to mock her.
Within seconds they were naked, panting, the feral need to mate, to forget, gripping them both the way it had in the opera booth. He turned her to the wall, spread her legs and placed his palm above her head as he notched the thick head of penis at her entrance and thrust in from behind.
The visceral wave of pleasure as he ground into her stole her breath and her resistance and the whole of her heart.
Their frantic mating was over in seconds, the glorious peak slamming into her with the force and fury of a freight train as he emptied himself inside her for the second time that night.
They sank to the carpet together, their breathing ragged, the sweat drying on their skin. But as she turned in his arms, to hold his head, to look into his eyes—they hadn’t settled anything, they’d only made it more complicated—her gaze snagged on the cheval mirror at the other side of the room. At first all she saw was the tangle of limbs, her pale skin starkly white against his tanned body. Then her heart seized.
A criss-cross of white scars marred the smooth skin of his back. The marks ranged from his shoulder blades right down to the lighter skin of his backside.