"Victoria." His voice snaps through my head.
I jerk my chin. "I… I’m a little befuddled."
"Tell me about it," he chuckles. "It’s not like me, to fall asleep so soon after making love."
"What do you mean?" I squeeze my eyebrows together.
He steps into the bath tub—still wearing his socks, huh?—then lowers himself into the massive tub that’s big enough for five people. He settles me on his chest.
"I hadn’t intended to black out that quickly after our love-making."
"That…" I stab a finger in his direction. "Why do you insist on using that phrase?"
"Which one."
"Don’t pretend."
"No, really." He scoops up some water, pours it over my shoulders. "Please do clarify what seems so wrong with what I said."
"You said love-making, not fucking, or shagging, or screwing or any of the other ways you could have expressed yourself.
He raises his shoulders and lets them drop. "Semantics, my lovely girl." He pours out some shampoo and proceeds to work it through my tresses, "If you prefer it though, I could say fucking."
My belly flips-flops.
"Or shagging."
I wriggle my hips.
"Or screwing," his voice lowers to a hush.
My nerve endings spark. My sex clenches, the emptiness inside of me yawning, stretching and coming back to life. Why is it that the filthiest words from his mouth turn into weapons of seduction? Why does it sound so damn hot coming from him? On the other hand, it is a relief. This alphaholish behavior? That’s the side of Saint that is familiar, the one I can handle.
"Not fair," I huff. "With that voice of yours, you could literally talk me into an orgasm."
His eyes gleam.
I wave my hand in the air, "Can’t believe I said that. Like your ego needs any more stroking."
He pushes up his pelvis and his dick throbs against my hip.
"That’s not what needs stroking."
"Oh, my God!" I push up, or try to—for he simply wraps his large arms around my waist, and holds me in place.
"Where do you think you’re you going?"
"To get dressed."
"Not happening."
"Why…?"
"Why not?"
"I… I need some space."
"Not happening either."
I exhale a breath, then turn to scowl at him, "Saint, really, you are a confusing man. Has anyone told you that?"
"Me?" He leans back against the bath tub. His biceps bulge with the motion. Hard, thick, ropey…like other parts of him. Jeez, get your brain out of the gutter. You’ re accusing him of having a one-track mind?
"Is there anyone else here with us?" I ask.
"You tell me." His features form into that mask I am coming to hate. The one that says: gone is the warm, caring, easy-to-get-along-with man I’d briefly witnessed, leaving behind the one I hate… And lust after, since the moment I’d met him. No… Not true, I’d lust after him in any…and every form.
Goosebumps dot on my skin. I fold my arms around my waist. "What’s that supposed to mean?" My words stay suspended between us for a second.
He holds my gaze, peruses my features, then runs a hand through his hair. "Adam Rhodes."
Of course. I glance away.
He reaches down, runs his big hand across the flesh of my upper arms. Warmth seeps into my blood instantly—insidious, seductive, pulling me, grounding me, anchoring me to him. Shit. I pull away. He releases me.
"You were married to him, but..." He seems to hesitate. Huh, Saint? Uncertain about something? I tilt my head.
"You want to know why I was a virgin?" I ask.
A nerve throbs at his temple. He doesn’t reply. Doesn’t say a word. Watches me intently. Waiting…waiting… The silence stretches for a beat. A bead of sweat crawls down my temple.
His jaw tics.
My nerves stretch, my belly trembles, and I firm my lips, "It wasn’t a marriage at all, we were each playing a role."
"Clearly."
I wince at the bite in his voice.
"He…he wasn’t a bad man," I say.
"And there was no sexual relationship between the two of you?"
"He… I… We agreed to keep it platonic. He needed a woman on his arm. I needed…" I bite my lip. I turn away.
This time he reaches out and pinches my chin, "Tell me. Don’t hold back now." His jaw tics. A dense wave of anger spools off of him.
"Security. It was an arrangement, that's all." My nerve endings crackle. "You have nothing to be jealous of," I mumble. "We were only married for a month."
"You didn't love him, yet you married him. Makes me wonder what hold he had on you." His grip turns punishing.
I wince, but don’t pull away. The pain he inflicts is a reminder that I am alive… So is he. There is hope for both of us… I just need to make it right by him…while figuring out how to also rescue Nina.
This is the perfect moment to tell him why you are here. Confess it. Win his trust... And what if he hates me for it?
Worse, what if the Mafia finds out?
There is no telling what they'd do to Nina if that happened. I bite the inside of my cheek. I can't betray her. I have to keep up the pretense. "No hold, Saint," I lie, "other than the kind a man with money has over a woman who needs security."
"Is that important to you, Gigi? Security?" He drags his hand down my arm, until his fingers brush the ring on my left hand.
I glance down at the emerald winking against the bubbles.
"Sure," I swallow. "You’ve always had money. You didn’t have to scrimp and save for small treats, or watch your mother work two jobs to support you, or work your butt off to win a scholarship to college. You're not the one who was left alone when your mother died, then meeting the one person who became your best friend only to lose her; you aren't at the mercy of—" I twist my lips. Shit, what is wrong with me? Why does he always catch me unawares? I almost blurted out everything that happened to Nina...to me. Dammit.
"Mercy of...? he tilts
