At Her Latin Lover's Command. Susan Stephens

you,’ she said, with a grateful glance at his harrowed face. ‘I feel safe with you. No, please!’ she protested when he made to draw his hand away.

      ‘Be realistic. I can’t stay, can I?’ he said, not unkindly.

      But she gripped his wrist to stop him leaving, overwhelmed by an illogical sense of hysteria and trying desperately to locate the protective barrier of her self-control, which seemed to have deserted her for the moment.

      ‘I need someone here for a short time, till I’ve got myself together again,’ she pleaded, hating the sense of panic that had turned her into a pathetic wimp. ‘I don’t know what’s happening to me, Dante. I’m sorry to be a nuisance and I hate feeling so feeble about this. But the truth is, I’m absolutely terrified of being alone and falling asleep. Please. I am begging you. Stay for a while!’

      The tip of his tongue moistened his lips as he contemplated her doubtfully.

      ‘If this is a ploy—’

      ‘It’s not! I swear!’ she half sobbed.

      ‘You must talk to an expert—’

      ‘I’m not mad!’ she protested.

      ‘No, but you’re disturbed. You need to discover what has caused this,’ he gritted. ‘I’ve never seen you like this before. Something happened which is festering in your subconscious. You need to know what you did. Only then will you be able to deal with it.’

      There was a long pause while she gazed at him anxiously, willing him to remain with her. Holding his warm, dry hand, she felt his strength flow into her. Dizzily she conceded that she needed him badly. Longed to feel his arms around her again, protective and comforting.

      ‘Stay!’ she croaked, full of longing for him.

      He gave a small and resigned sigh. ‘Very well. Just till you fall asleep,’ he muttered grudgingly.

      Virtually snatching his hand from hers, he sat down on the bed, plumping up the pillows behind him and settling down so that his back was turned to her.

      In relief, Miranda snuggled as close as she dared. ‘I wish I could understand why I have these dreams,’ she mumbled.

      He grunted. ‘I should have thought that was obvious. When did they begin?’

      ‘The night after you left.’

      An icy silence stretched long into the semi-darkness. ‘As I expected. I think you’d better go to sleep,’ he growled.

      But she wasn’t ready to do so. Dante had found her that fateful night when she’d had that fever. Perhaps he could throw light on what had happened. He might have seen something that would explain what she’d done in her delirium—maybe an overturned table which might have caused her bruises, sheets which had wrapped themselves about her and made her think she was being restrained…

      She had to know. A part of her life was missing and her brain was trying to fill in the gaps by giving her these awful nightmares. She’d ask him to discuss it. Now.

      ‘Dante!’

      Tentatively she touched his shoulder, the silk of his robe slipping beguilingly beneath her fingers. He flinched and she withdrew her hand. His body was hot, every muscle held in tension. He was hating this enforced togetherness. And she supposed that he was only staying with her to keep her quiet.

      ‘Don’t—do—that!’ he gritted out.

      She pressed her lips together in dismay. The days of curling up together like two spoons in a drawer were long gone. This was probably the last time he’d ever be physically close to her.

      All because of someone who’d fed him lies—who?—and her strange illness which had prompted her to fling champagne about and thrash around in bed, thus sealing the death of her marriage.

      ‘That night—’

      ‘I don’t want to talk about it!’

      She noticed that his fist had clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white.

      ‘I need to know what happened—!’

      ‘Then talk to your boyfriend,’ he said coldly. ‘Or the people in the clubs you frequented—’

      ‘There was no boyfriend!’ she declared vehemently, sitting up and wriggling around to confront him. ‘No clubs! No reason,’ she added, her hair swinging around her angry face, ‘other than an all-consuming fever that…’

      Her voice tailed away. She gulped.

      ‘An all-consuming fever,’ he husked.

      Anger had ceased to dominate his expression. His eyes had fired with desire. His lips had parted over his teeth as his breath hissed in and out in short, hot bursts. They were inches away. In a moment, she imagined wistfully, she would be in his embrace and the past would be forgotten.

      She let her eyelids flutter down and waited, hoping for the miracle to happen.

      ‘Hold me!’ she whispered, intending it to be a soundless wish.

      And yet he’d heard her, his impatient outbreath making her snap open her eyes at once in alarm and disappointment.

      ‘Damn you, Miranda! Stop using your body as a weapon!’ he snapped.

      She blinked in confusion. ‘What?’

      He shook his head irritably. ‘We have to live together in harmony, Miranda! For the sake of that future relationship, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt over the way you’re behaving at this moment. I am going to assume that you are not using this as a cold-blooded opportunity to get me into bed. I’ll be charitable and believe that you’re frightened and you’re looking for comfort.’

      Her face flamed with humiliation. Comfort and love. Wasn’t everyone? she thought resentfully.

      ‘Of course that’s right!’ she mumbled, appalled by her weakness for him.

      He stood up, pulling his robe across his chest to cover it. Every gesture, the set of his body, told her that he was distancing himself from her emotionally. She bit her lip. He was going to leave. She’d handled this very badly.

      ‘We can’t allow ourselves to get into this kind of situation, Miranda,’ he said harshly. ‘I’m sorry that you’re frightened and upset but there’s a limit to what I can do for you. Or what I want to do.’ His eyes burned into hers. ‘You know perfectly well that if I hold you, we’ll have sex because our bodies are still programmed to do so. I’m flesh and blood, as you know too well. You’re a woman, in bed and provocatively dressed, and I haven’t had sex for some time.’

      ‘Sex,’ she whispered. ‘Is that all it is for you?’

      ‘It’s a powerful drug and we’ve become addicts,’ he growled. ‘But anything between us would be lust and nothing else and I’d be disgusted with myself afterwards. I’d also be angry with you. A sexual relationship would complicate our business arrangement. I’m sure you would agree.’

      So cold. He might have been a total stranger. She began to withdraw into her shell, wrapping herself in her long-established defences so she would not be hurt again.

      ‘Perhaps,’ she suggested in compromise, hoping she sounded cool and composed, ‘you could sit in the chair over there for a while.’

      He studied her. She was conscious of her tumbling hair and the fact that the bedclothes no longer covered her. She had scrambled up with her body curled to one side, her nightdress settling in rich folds around her thighs and leaving her long legs bare.

      His brooding stare lowered from her dishevelled hair and drowsy eyes to her throat, where a pulse beat hard and urgently. To her creamy shoulders. The curving line where her nightdress dipped and rose sinuously to hug her breasts.

      Her defences crumbled in an instant. Flames licked through her body unmercifully.