His Independent Bride: Wife Against Her Will / The Wedlocked Wife / Bertoluzzi's Heiress Bride. Catherine Spencer

      Her eyes flew open and she stared at him, but there was nothing to be learned from his enigmatic blue gaze.

      She knew, if she was honest, that she’d admit the soft brush of his mouth on her skin had been strangely unnerving. That his forbearance had surprised her. Maybe even intrigued her a little.

      Which was just as disturbing, in fact, as the knowledge that she could have drawn back at any time, and yet, for some unfathomable reason, had not done so.

      However, this was not a situation for honesty, but sheer survival.

      She made herself shrug. ‘Rather like banging your head against a brick wall,’ she said, with an assumption of coolness. ‘So nice when it stops.’

      His mouth twisted. ‘Something tells me I’m the one banging his head against a wall,’ he drawled.

      ‘I don’t know what else you expect.’ There was a defensive note in her voice. ‘I can’t help it if I feel—nothing.’

      ‘You mean I leave you cold?’ He sounded almost politely interested. ‘Then I’ll just have to try harder, won’t I?’

      Before she could move, or protest, he reached for her again, pulling her towards him, lifting her so that she was lying across him, a virtual prisoner. Letting her know, once again, the latent power of his lean body to control—to dominate.

      His hand slid into the fall of her hair, twining it round his fingers, then he bent his head and took her mouth with his, effortlessly silencing her first trembling words of outrage.

      His lips were still gentle, moving slowly on hers, but the demand they created was deepening with every second. He was deliberately coaxing her to open her mouth for him, she realised. To yield up its carefully guarded secrets, then lure her further, towards the danger of a surrender as unexpected as it would be devastating. He was seeking a response.

      Already a strange languor was stealing over her, the tautness and the inner trembling beginning slowly to subside, as she felt the heated silken pressure of his tongue urging her lips apart. As she experienced the beat of his heart so close to her own.

      As his mouth continued to caress hers, she became aware that the pulsing of the blood in her veins was quickening relentlessly. That her breasts seemed to be swelling, the tumescent nipples grazed by the lace cups of her bra, as if reliving that long-ago brush of his fingers which still had the power to humiliate her.

      And, at the same time, other bad memories were suddenly reasserting themselves too. Reminding her forcefully that she could not let this happen.

      That what remained of her taut control had to be maintained at all costs.

      Because she was remembering another mouth, wet and greedy, fastening itself on hers. Hands dragging and tearing at her clothing. Her own voice, scared and muffled, saying, ‘Harry—no, please don’t. You can’t. Please don’t—’

      The stuffiness inside the car. The feeling that she was stifled, unable to breathe properly.

      She remembered trying to struggle—to get Harry away from her, off her, and her instinct telling her that he wasn’t paying any heed. That all her scared protests were going to be ignored.

      And then the shock. The insult of a pain she’d never imagined as he thrust into her without tenderness or consideration.

      And that was what men did, she thought as the anguish and rage came welling up in her all over again. That was where all the kissing led. What happened when the sweet talk finally turned sour, and they took what they wanted in any way available to them. Even by force.

      She’d sworn to herself in the miserable and guilty aftermath that she would never let it happen to her again. And she had meant it. Then, and now.

      Most of all now.

      As Joel gathered her even closer, murmuring softly against her lips, she lifted both hands and braced them against his chest, pushing at him with near violence.

      He raised his head immediately, relaxing his hold on her, his brows drawing together in a faint frown. ‘What’s the matter?’

      She managed somehow to sound almost composed. ‘I think this has gone quite far enough, that’s all.’

      ‘How strange,’ he said, drily. ‘I thought we’d barely got started.’

      ‘Then you were wrong.’ She freed herself completely, and moved back to the far end of the sofa, conscious of the uneven thud of her heartbeat. ‘It’s over. And now, if you don’t mind, I’d quite like to go to bed.’

      Joel’s look of concern was replaced by the mocking grin that rubbed her nerve endings raw. ‘Really? My ambitions hadn’t got beyond the rug in front of the fire for an hour or so. But a bed would certainly be more comfortable—and convenient.’

      Darcy hated the sudden heat that blazed in her face. ‘That’s not even remotely amusing.’

      He leaned back against the cushions, the blue eyes suddenly hooded. ‘No,’ he said after a pause. ‘I don’t think it is, at that. But it’s not a federal case either. So, what I ask myself is—why should one fairly muted attempt at a kiss make you so uptight?’

      ‘A dislike of being mauled, perhaps.’

      His brows rose. ‘By everyone, or just me?’

      ‘By anyone,’ Darcy returned. ‘But especially you.’ She got to her feet.

      ‘I’ll show you out.’

      Joel followed her into the hall. ‘So you still felt nothing?’ he asked in a tone of mild curiosity. ‘Not even the slightest stirring in the blood?’

      ‘All you aroused was my profound indifference,’ she said icily. ‘Goodnight, Mr Castille.’

      As she reached for the heavy security lock, he came to stand beside her, his arm snaking out and drawing her towards him, while a practised hand slid under her sweater to find the still engorged peaks of her excited breasts.

      His exploration only lasted one brief moment in time, but just that fleeting stroke of his fingers across her taut nipples made her body clench in a dark, shocked need she had never known before. Nor ever wanted to know. A sudden desire that she had not imagined could exist. Especially within herself.

      He said softly, ‘And you tell lies, Miss Langton. But what the hell, if that’s really how you want to play the game? And there’s no need to panic,’ he added sardonically. ‘Because I shan’t ask again.’

      He paused, allowing her to assimilate that. ‘On the other hand, you can hardly blame me for trying.’ His tone was almost casual. ‘Willing or unwilling, you’re still very beautiful. Now, sleep well, if you can.’

      He opened the door, then turned on the doorstep and looked back at her, his mouth suddenly set and the blue eyes like ice chips.

      ‘And the marriage still stands,’ he told her with sudden harshness. ‘So make your mind up about that. And, if kisses are taboo, start practising a few smiles instead. After all, darling, we’re going to be blissfully happy.

      ‘Aren’t we?’

      And he walked down to the waiting car, leaving Darcy slumped back against the wall, her legs shaking under her as she stared after him.

       The marriage still stands…

      His parting words continued to reverberate in her head as she closed the door, and went slowly up to her room.

      Dear God, she thought, the breath catching in her throat. What have I done?

      I shan’t ask again.

      He’d said that too, but dared she trust him after this evening? That was the question that haunted her as she undressed and got into bed.

      Those careful kisses, she thought bitterly, had been planned as a prelude to enjoying a little