His face showed emotions she didn’t comprehend – dark, almost tortured.
“I don’t want to do this.”
That wasn’t true. She’d felt his desire whipping through the room with the same frantic intensity as her own.
“Liar.”
His jaw moved as he ground his teeth together.
“I won’t do this,” he corrected throatily, his features implacable, his eyes holding hers, showing the seriousness of his intent. “Get the hell out of here, Isabella.”
Her lips parted, and out of nowhere, tears stung her eyes. She blinked furiously, refusing to give into them.
“Are you deaf?” He snapped. “Get. Out.”
She was tempted to turn tail and run from the room. God knew it was what her humiliated heart wanted. But the same spirit of antagonism that had fired through her initially was still exploding in her cells – even more strongly now. “I was right. You are afraid.”
“Of you?” He drawled mockingly. “I don’t think so.”
“No. Of living. Of feeling.”
In response, he turned his back to her, facing the fire once more. His expression was a hard line, his profile set. She stared at him, waiting for something, though she couldn’t say what. Finally, when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to say anything, she stalked from the room with her spine ramrod straight, refusing to let him see that she was anything but furious.
He’d tasted alcohol on her breath and now the empty wine glass confirmed that she’d been drinking. Which went some of the way to excusing her behaviour, but what of his? Why the hell had he challenged her the way he had? Why the hell had he kissed her?
He pressed his palm to the wall beside the fire, staring at his hand with a locked jaw and a sense of utter disbelief.
He wanted her gone. He needed her gone. But one look at the window showed him that it wasn’t possible. The weather was against him, the storm only gaining momentum, so he knew there was no help in sight. He’d have to find a way to live under the same roof with her, God help him.
5
THE NIGHTMARE CAME FOR him again that night, but it was intensified by what had happened. Isabella was there too. Not in person, just her eyes, and yet he knew it was her: watching him, judging him, silently hating him as he did himself for what he’d allowed to happen.
He woke early, and didn’t bother trying to fight it. Reaching for his phone, he loaded up his emails then went through the motions of triaging them before giving in to curiosity and heading to the YouTube app. He typed her name with a sense of resignation, resenting his curiosity, resenting his attraction, resenting the hell out of her.
Her YouTube channel was evidently a raging success. She had over ten million subscribers, and her content was engaging and funny. He watched her make a croquembouche then take it to a wedding. Apparently the bride and groom were enormous fans of hers. They cried.
He dropped his phone to the bed beside him with a grimace of disgust. He hated easy emotion. He especially hated the over-sharing of easy emotions on the internet. And he hated people who were bubbly and perky and light-hearted, like Isabella.
Except she wasn’t really like that. Her online persona was all sugar and honey, but in reality she was contemplative and watchful.
He reached for his phone, loading another video. This time, she was cooking a vegan moussaka. He didn’t even want to think about what Yaya would say if he suggested such a thing to her. He watched the video though, and found a reluctant smile lifting one corner of his lips when Isabella tried the moussaka at the end and gave it a six out of ten. “It’s good, don’t get me wrong, but I’d be lying if I said it wouldn’t be ever so slightly improved with a bit of real cheese,” she laughed, and winked, her manner casually flirtatious, effortlessly likable.
Cristo.
He needed a session on the treadmill, the relentless pounding of one foot after the other enough – he hoped – to drive her from his head once and for all.
Oh, sweet Jesus. Tell me that didn’t actually happen. Isabella’s fingers lifted to her lips, brushing the flesh there as though they would confirm or deny her memories – were they of an actual event, or the strings of a dream? Her eyes flew wide open and she stared at the ceiling above her bed, her skin draining of all warmth and colour.
She’d kissed him.
Worse, she’d pushed at him until he had no choice but to kiss her back. She’d been absolutely, unforgivably rude.
Reaching under her head, she pulled a pillow out and held it over her face, screaming into the feathery softness, the noise muffled by the bedding.
He’d said she would beg for him and he was right. Oh, she hadn’t in so many words, but her body had shown that he was her master; she’d ached for him, surrendered to him in every way. And he’d pushed her away without a backwards glance.
Get the hell out of here.
She’d had plenty of embarrassing things happen in her life – who hadn’t? – but this somehow took the cake. She wasn’t just embarrassed, she was mortified, wishing she could crawl up into a ball and avoid seeing him. And maybe she could, she thought with a sudden sense of relief. He’d been adamant he wanted to be left alone. Why didn’t she do exactly that? She could hide out in her room, disappearing into the kitchen to grab food just once, enough to see her through the day and night. She could even hide out the whole darned blizzard in here, wait until it was safe to leave and by then the whole
