Bound By The Billionaire's Vows. Clare Connelly

none of your damned business.’ She glared at him now, the veneer of civility slipping away. She tried to grab it but being here with him, in this room, overpowered by how damned handsome he was, made something inside her snap.

      ‘You’re my wife,’ he corrected, moving closer so that she caught a hint of his masculine fragrance. Her knees almost buckled. ‘I have every right to know.’

      But it was the wrong thing to say. His casual insistence of his rights fired every hint of anger in her body. ‘That’s outrageous.’ Her eyes held the strength of steel when they locked with his. ‘You have no rights. Not where I’m concerned.’

      A muscle throbbed at the base of his jaw. ‘You’re my wife.’ As though that explained everything!

      ‘That’s what I’m here to talk to you about,’ Skye asserted forcefully in an attempt to regain control of the situation, reaching for her handbag at the same moment a sharp knock on the door preceded the interruption of the receptionist.

      She brought a bottle of mineral water and a glass with ice cubes and a wedge of lemon into the room and placed them on the boardroom table.

      ‘Thank you,’ Skye murmured, relieved to have a form of distraction. She hoped it might calm her raging nerves. She twisted the lid, waiting for the hiss of bubbles to silence and the receptionist to leave the room, before tipping half the water into the glass.

      ‘What, exactly, are you here to discuss?’ he prompted, crossing his arms over his chest. She didn’t need to look at him to know how broad that chest was. She lifted her mineral water and moved towards the window instead, staring down at Venice without really seeing it.

      ‘Our marriage.’ The words were a ghost. They conjured all the memories she wanted to forget.

      The love-at-first-sight romance. The wedding itself. The way their marriage had been marked by nights of complete sensual abandon. Long days of waiting for him to come home hadn’t mattered. She’d been so exhausted she’d napped and eaten, preparing for his return, and then she’d been his willing sex slave. Self-disgust at her stupidity gnawed at her gut.

      She twisted the enormous diamond around her finger before sliding it off one last time. ‘And how we’re going to end it.’ She spun round, her back to the view, her eyes landing squarely on his face, locking to his. She bravely held his gaze as she placed the ring on the boardroom table, then hastily stepped away from it as though it might burn her.

      His expression was grim, but he said nothing initially. There was no shock. No outrage. No attempt to argue. To win her back.

      Because it had never really been about her.

      It had been about him, his grandfather, her father, and some stupid hotel she’d never even heard of. A vendetta that she knew nothing about which seemed to have controlled the lives of all those she’d loved. Her father, her husband...

      Skye straightened her back, wounded pride forming the shield she needed.

      ‘I have the divorce papers here,’ she said softly. ‘You just need to sign them and I’ll take care of the rest.’

      He expelled a breath; his expression gave little away. ‘Show me.’

      Skye could scarcely believe how well this was going! She’d been fretting about meeting Matteo again, yet he was being so reasonable... She told herself she was relieved.

      ‘Here.’ She pulled the document out of her handbag. It was only five pages long. She passed it to him, careful not to get too close, careful not to let their fingers touch.

      His eyes, when they met hers, were scathing. He knew. He knew she was avoiding him.

      He skimmed each sheet of paper, reading the words quickly, then placed them on the edge of his desk.

      ‘And if I don’t want to divorce you?’

      Skye froze, the success she’d already been inwardly celebrating shattering. Her face drained of all colour. ‘Don’t be absurd.’ The words were whispered from her before she remembered that she needed to be strong. Confident. Matteo preyed on weakness.

      ‘What’s absurd about wanting to stay married to you?’

      And he strode across the room, closing the distance between them, his eyes locked to hers until she was quivering where she stood. Strength, apparently, deserted her at her moment of need.

      ‘This wasn’t a real marriage,’ she muttered, standing her ground with effort. ‘We both know that.’

      His lips flicked with what she took to reflect silent agreement.

      ‘It felt real enough to me.’ The words were dangerously silky. His hand snaked around her waist, catching her completely by surprise. He jerked her against him, her softness meeting his hard strength in a way that was instantly familiar. Desire flooded her. Heat scorched her soul and a soft moan escaped her lips unbidden. It was foolish to stay so close to him, yet she did. She had denied herself this contact for long, miserable weeks, and now she wanted to enjoy it. Just for a moment. One last time.

      ‘It wasn’t,’ she said huskily. ‘I know that now.’

      ‘What do you know?’ The question was asked quietly. Almost gently.

      ‘I know everything.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I know about your father and my father. I know they fell in love with the same woman and your father married her. I know that my father was angry. I know that he went out of his way to hurt your family.’ Her words cracked as she glossed over the admittance of her father’s part in the angst. ‘I know he felt hurt and rejected and that he took it out on you financially.’

      Matteo’s laugh was a grim rejection. ‘You make it sound so sterile. Believe me, this was not the case.’ He leaned forward, his expression menacing. ‘Carey Johnson bankrupted my grandfather. Your father destroyed everything my grandfather spent a lifetime building.’

      His vehement passion paralysed her for a moment, but belatedly she found her voice. ‘And so you wanted to punish me?’

      Silence fell around them, thick and caustic. She could see him weighing his words, carefully choosing what to say.

      ‘It was never about punishing you,’ he said finally.

      ‘Punishing him, then? Punishing my dad?’

      What could he say to that? Wasn’t it the truth? Hadn’t he delighted in the final insult he’d held over that bastard Carey Johnson? Making Skye moan for him, Matteo, in his bed all night long? Yes. He’d wanted to take his revenge, one sweet night at a time, and Skye had been a very obliging pawn in his game.

      ‘You married me because you loved me.’ He returned to their original point with apparent ease, the question asked silkily. ‘Remember?’

      God, she had loved him. She’d fallen for him, but it had all been an act. She noted dispassionately how he hadn’t included his own feelings in the neat summation. His feelings were irrelevant; no, his feelings were non-existent. ‘Love and hate are so close on the emotional spectrum, aren’t they? It amazed me, too, how quickly that love morphed into something else.’

      ‘You’re saying you hate me?’ he prompted, his free hand lifting to her hip, holding her where she was. She felt the stirring of his arousal and her breath snagged in her throat.

      Sex.

      That was the only truth of their marriage. Even he wasn’t that good an actor. The desire had been real. It had controlled him as much as it had her.

      ‘Of course I hate you,’ she hissed, knowing she needed to pull away from him—that she would, in a moment. ‘How could I feel anything else for you?’

      His laugh was pure, sensual cynicism. ‘Careful, cara. You and I both know how easy it would be for me to prove you a liar.’ He rolled his hips, bringing his arousal into intimate contact with her body, and Skye felt a groan tear through