Modern Romance April 2019 Books 5-8. Chantelle Shaw

      ‘Cement our marriage?’ She scraped her chair back, standing with a sense of panic. ‘I thought the document we signed did that. You know, the ceremony in front of a judge, the fact our marriage has been registered with the Spanish court?’

      ‘I mean socially.’

      ‘Socially? You actually care about that?’

      He reached for the plates, carrying them through to the kitchen. She followed out of curiosity.

      ‘I care about your life here in Madrid,’ he surprised her by saying, stacking the dishwasher then turning to face her. ‘I don’t want you to be lonely and, the truth is, I work long hours. I thought you’d like to make some friends—there’ll be women at the party, friends of mine. You’ll like them.’

      She gasped in a hot, angry breath and pushed away any thought that his gesture was one of kindness. ‘You’re actually trying to make my friendships for me? You really do have the most insufferable God complex.’

      ‘And you have the ability to twist any gesture into some kind of insult,’ he volleyed back, crossing his arms over his chest. She refused to analyse his words, nor to see truth in them. ‘What did you think marriage to me would entail? Did you presume we would have no social life whatsoever?’

      ‘I...presumed you’d go about your business as always and I’d be free to do my own thing.’

      His eyes sparked with dark emotions. ‘You believed wrong. You are my wife. You could do me the courtesy of at least trying to act like it, so far as the world is concerned.’

      Her jaw dropped at this demand, so too did her heart speed up at his blatant claim of possession. You are my wife. How those words trickled down her spine like warmed honey, filling her with pleasure and pain all at once.

      ‘But this isn’t a real marriage,’ she said weakly, when other words and pleas were swarming through her mind.

      ‘You want to bet?’ he volleyed back, and now his hands were braced on either side of her body, his palms pressed into the bench, his frame a perfect jail for her. She stared up at him, helpless and lost, and there was a threat in his eyes that filled her with desire.

      ‘I...’

      ‘You what?’ he asked, dropping his head so his face hovered only an inch above hers.

      ‘I...’

      ‘Yes, querida?’ he demanded, lowering his face still, so his lips brushed hers and a jolt of electricity fired up her spine. ‘Tell me again how this marriage of ours is not a real one.’ And his lips did more than buzz against hers then, they pressed to her mouth and she whimpered, low in her throat. Her fingers, of their own volition, grasped the sides of his shirt and he deepened the kiss when her lips parted on another moan. His tongue slid into her mouth and then he lifted her as though she weighed nothing, sitting her on the benchtop so he could stand between her legs and plunder her mouth as if he was the only man on earth.

      And, God, wasn’t he? For her at least?

      But she’d fallen prey to this desire once before. It had flashed into her life and she’d been weak—too weak to realise that he could use this sensuality like a drug. She couldn’t submit to it again—it would be foolish.

      His fingers found the bottom of her shirt and he lifted it just enough for his fingertips to graze her bare flesh and every cell in her body cried out in relief and delight, and hope. Hope that he would strip her naked and make love to her once more.

      With a guttural, desperate cry, she pulled away from him, moving back on the bench and lifting her fingers to her lips, lips that were bruised and throbbing with desire.

      ‘How dare you?’ The words were strangled from deep within her, and they were saturated with self-recrimination because she had wanted him to kiss her. She hadn’t wanted him to stop kissing her!

      He narrowed his eyes, and they were as clouded by desire as her own. ‘How dare I what? Kiss you as you have been wanting me to all night? Kiss you as though you are my wife?’

      ‘I haven’t,’ she denied hotly, but it was a lie and they both knew that.

      He spoke without responding to her denial, but his voice was husky, filled with the passion that had flamed between them just now. ‘How dare I want you to have friends? To have a social life here in Madrid? People to catch up with when I am travelling for work? Other mothers to talk to about babies and nappies and bottles and I don’t know what else?’

      She was glad to return to their argument, rather than have to defend the way she’d melted in his arms. ‘That’s up to me!’ she snapped from teeth that were clamped together. ‘I’m perfectly capable of making my own friends.’

      ‘But you don’t want them to be my friends,’ he surmised, his expression shifting.

      ‘I didn’t say that.’ She bit down on her lip, trying to find words that would defuse this, that would explain her hesitation. ‘This has all happened so fast. I just need a moment to catch my breath before I start thinking about everything else.’

      ‘It is a party. My friends, some food, music, dancing. You will enjoy yourself.’

      It was the wrong thing to say. Panic filled her mouth with a taste of adrenalin. Everything was happening too fast. ‘I can’t do that.’ She thought of all the parties she’d been to—first with her mother, then as a diSalvo heiress, and a shiver scratched over her spine.

      ‘I’m sure it seems inconsequential to you, but it’s not to me. It’s too much, too fast.’ She shook her head. ‘No party. Please.’

      His eyes narrowed and she was reminded that one of the many facets of this man was the ruthless, hard-nosed tycoon. That he conquered whatever he turned his hand to in the corporate world. That he was determined and he was fierce and that he was used to getting his own way.

      ‘When you agreed to marry me, you told me you wanted me to be reasonable. Is there anything unreasonable about what I’m proposing?’

      ‘Yes!’ she snapped, and then shook her head because there wasn’t.

      ‘What is it, Amelia? Do you think you can keep this marriage secret for ever?’

      ‘I...’ She shook her head. ‘This is not negotiable.’ The words trembled with the strength of her emotion.

      He exhaled softly and his warm breath fanned her temple, so her body swayed forward infinitesimally of its own accord. ‘You’re saying you wish me to cancel it?’

      ‘Yes,’ she responded quickly, too quickly, as her throat constricted. Her breath was hard and fast. How could she explain to him what her life had been like? At least, with Penny, Amelia had been dragged to events with an eclectic, artsy crowd. With the diSalvos it had been designer chic the whole way. Designer drugs, designer cars, designer everything. Amelia had never belonged, hadn’t wanted to belong, and she’d fled that scene as soon as she could. The thought of being right back in the midst of it was impossible to countenance.

      ‘Fine,’ he said darkly, his disapproval obvious. ‘Consider it cancelled. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’

       CHAPTER TEN

      ANTONIO STARED AT the document and reread the contents for the tenth time in as many minutes. It was a simple feasibility study, the kind of thing he usually ate for breakfast, but on this night his mind simply wouldn’t focus.

      His eyes drifted to the clock above his desk: it was into the small hours of the morning and he was still seething over their argument. Over her intractability, yes, but also over his own actions. And something else niggled at the back of his mind—the way her eyes had flooded with emotions he couldn’t quite unravel. It had made him want, more than anything, to