The Perfect Lover

She wished he wasn’t standing so close she couldn’t fold her arms defensively before her. “You must have kissed millions of women.”

His lips twisted. “Thousands.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that because of one kiss-no, two-you decided to marry me?”

Simon very nearly told her he didn’t care what she believed, but behind her anger, he sensed growing fright, the welling of a deep-seated fear, one he understood and had tried hard not to trigger.

He was very close to seriously queering his pitch with her; he might take months, even years, to win her back.

“It wasn’t only that.”

Her jaw set; she tipped her face higher. “What, then?”

Her eyes had clouded; he couldn’t read them. He eased back a little, wasn’t surprised when she shifted back and folded her arms across her chest.

“I’d already decided I wanted a wife and family before leaving London. When I met you here, I realized we would suit.”

She blinked. “Suit? Are you mad? We’re-” She gestured, searching for words. Lowering her arms.

“Too alike?”

“Yes!” Her eyes snapped. “You can hardly claim we’re compatible.”

“Think of the last days. Think of last night. In what matters in marriage, we’re perfectly compatible.” He caught her gaze. “In every conceivable way.”

Portia refused to blush again-he was doing it on purpose. “One night-that’s hardly a reasonable basis on which to make such a decision. How can you tell the next time won’t be”-she gestured wildly- ”boring?”

His eyes, burning blue, pinned her. “Trust me. It won’t.”

There was something in his face, a hardness, a ruthlessness, that was quite different from anything she’d seen in him before. She kept her eyes on his, tried to ignore the aggression flowing from him. “You… really are serious.” She was having great trouble taking that in. One moment, she’d been logically following her step-by-step investigation into the physical attractions of matrimony-next thing, here they were, discussing a marriage between them.

He looked up, exhaled through his teeth. “Why is it so hard to imagine I’d want to marry you?” He’d addressed the question to the heavens; he looked down at her. Growled, “And what’s wrong with the idea of marrying me?”

“What’s wrong with the idea of me marrying you?” She heard her voice rise, tried to rein it in. “We’d make our lives a living hell, that’s what! You”-she landed a backhanded slap on his chest-“you’re a despot, a tyrant. A Cynster! You decree and expect to be obeyed-no, not even that! You assume you’ll be obeyed. And you know what I’m like.” She met his gaze, defiant and direct. “I won’t meekly agree with what you dictate-I won’t meekly agree with anything you say!”

His lips had thinned, his eyes had narrowed. He waited a heartbeat. “So?”

She stared at him. “Simon-this is not going to work.”

“It is. It will.”

That was her cue to appeal to the skies. “See?”

“That’s not what’s worrying you.”

She lowered her gaze, looked at him. Blinked. Into soft blue eyes she’d long known to be deceptive-there was nothing soft behind them, nothing but invincible, steely determination, inflexible resolution, rocklike, conqueror-like will… “What… do you mean?”

“I’ve always known what worries you about me.”

Something inside her physically shook. Rocked. She held his gaze for a long moment, finally found the courage to ask, “What?”

He hesitated; she knew he was deciding how much to reveal, how much to confess he’d seen. When he spoke, his voice was even, low, yet still hard. “You’re frightened I’ll try to control you, to curtail your independence, to turn you into the sort of lady you’re not. And that I’ll be strong enough to succeed.”

Her mouth was dry. “And you won’t? Try, or succeed?”

“I’ll almost certainly try, at least to curtail your wilder starts, at times, but not because I want to change you. Because I want to preserve you. I want you for what you are, not for what you’re not.”

The emotional risk she faced with him had just intensified and increased, well-nigh beyond bearing. Her heart had swollen and blocked her throat; it was difficult to draw breath.

“You’re not just saying that?”

He was quite capable of it; he’d just proved he saw far more than she’d ever guessed, that he understood her far better than any other ever had. And he was ruthless, relentless in getting what he wanted.

He wanted her.

She had to believe it-there was no longer any option.

He exhaled, looked down, then met her gaze again. She could see his temper, still very real, in the locked lines of his face. Could sense, even more clearly, his desire to seize, to capture, to simply take.

A conqueror looked at her from behind his eyes.

Slowly, he raised a hand, held it out palm up between them. “Take a chance. Try me.”

She looked at his hand, then raised her gaze to his face. “What are you suggesting?”

“Be my lover until you’re sure enough to be my wife. For the few days we’ve left here, at least.”

She breathed in deeply; her wits were whirling-she couldn’t think. Instinct warned her she hadn’t yet heard all-hadn’t heard why he so amazingly thought they would suit-and perhaps never would. There were other ways to deal with that, to learn what he would not say.

But if she wished to… she’d have to take a chance.

Take a risk far bigger than any she’d imagined.

She’d thought to approach marriage one step at a time, standing on firm ground all the way. Who knew?-she might, at some point, have reached the stage of contemplating marrying him. If she’d followed her logical, cautious route, she would have known what to do. Felt sure what she wanted.

Instead, he’d leapt ahead to a stage she hadn’t until now envisaged, leaving her no time to catch up. Her mind was still reeling, but he was waiting for an answer-would insist on one-indeed, deserved one; she had to rely on instinct alone in deciding what to do.

Her heart quaked; she stiffened her spine.

Lifting her hand, she placed her fingers in his.

They closed strongly, firmly about hers.

The possessive touch jolted her. She lifted her chin, met his eyes. “This doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to marry you.”

He held her gaze, then shifted his hold, lifted her hand to his lips. “You’re agreeing to give me a chance to persuade you.”

Quelling the shiver the brush of his lips and the intent in his eyes evoked, she inclined her head.

Simon silently let out the breath he’d been holding, felt the vise locked about his lungs ease. Never had he imagined dealing with his intended would mean dealing with Portia; she tied him in knots in ways no other ever had.

But he’d got over the worst of it, eased her past the hurdle of his recent shortcomings and refocused them both on what mattered-what was to come. He wasn’t going to dwell on the fact she’d imagined he would seduce her, then let her go; there was no point arguing about her error.

She glanced at him, then turned to continue along the path. He consented but kept hold of her hand, striding slowly beside her.

Knowing she was thinking, analyzing, dissecting. There was no way he could prevent it.

The air beneath the trees was silent, still. Somewhere in the distance a bird called. The path wound through the trees; they could see the forecourt ahead when she stopped. Turned to him.

“If I don’t agree to marry you, what then?”