He slipped the covers off and padded to the window naked. His body was satiated in a way it had not been in months. In spite of his feelings for his self-absorbed ex-wife, he’d stayed faithful to their marriage vows until the day the divorce was final. In the months since, he’d slaked his thirst with many, many women. Anonymous, uncaring sex was a balm to his ravaged soul.
Or so he’d thought.
Until tonight when he’d lost himself in the gorgeous and willing body of the woman he hated most in this world. For those few hours, he’d forgotten he hated her.
But he did hate her. He pressed a knuckle to his temple.
It was all according to plan. Bed her, make her care, ruin her. He owed it to Anya. He would do this for Anya. Anya, who should have lived. Who should have been his and Rebecca’s child.
He clenched his fist, pressed it to the glass. He had done nothing wrong. He had not miscalculated. Never mind that she’d been untouched for so long, or that she’d seemed to see into his soul in the limo tonight. She was a shallow, calculating bitch. She slept with him now to try and gain an advantage. And how did he know he was really her first lover in a long time? She could be lying, faking. But if it were a ruse, wouldn’t she have told him earlier, tried to elicit his sympathy?
He took a deep breath, let it out. Sometimes his mind raced between so many possibilities that he couldn’t keep up.
“Alejandro?”
He turned and went to the bed. Moonlight limned her features, her messy hair, her kiss-swollen lips. Desire lifted its slumberous head inside him.
“I am here,” he replied.
She clutched the sheet to her. The scent of sex clung to her. To him.
A new thought prickled at the back of his mind. Something he should have thought of long before now. Sweet God in heaven, he’d forgotten to use protection. What was wrong with him?
“I should return to my room,” she said, unaware of the stark fear snaking down his spine.
“No.” The word came out coldly. She seemed to shrink in on herself. “Are you protected, Rebecca?”
Her head quirked to one side. “What? Oh, yes. Yes,” she said more firmly. “I’m on the pill. I thought you knew.”
“How would I know?” he asked, stupefied that she would think so.
Her chin lifted. “I thought your private investigators told you.”
“It was not that kind of investigation,” he defended. Still, relief threatened to liquefy his knees. Madre de Dios, gracias. This was the first time he’d ever forgotten to take precautions. It was not at all like him, but he chalked it up to the mental exhaustion of dealing with so much angst and drama tonight.
On the heels of relief came a surge of lust so strong he felt it from his scalp to his toes. A second later, he peeled the sheet from her grasp and laid her back on the mattress, his hands skimming up the insides of her thighs, pushing them apart.
“I’ve been dying to taste you again. I will wait no longer.”
He loved her soft cries and moans, the slick sweet taste of her, the way she arched off the bed and screamed his name when she came. He didn’t let her stop at one climax. He spread her wide and laved her with his tongue until she was panting and moaning again, until a fine sheen of moisture glistened on her skin, until his name was a hoarse cry on her lips.
And then he was inside her, losing himself as he thrust hard, again and again, unable this time to be gentle. He had no control, no finesse with this woman. He came in a hot hard rush, groaning and gasping like he’d run a marathon, then rolled to the side and gathered her against him.
They lay on top of the sheets. Her body twitched every now and then, aftereffects from the powerful orgasms he’d given her. It made him feel possessive, proprietary. His fingers trailed up and down her arm almost absently.
“Who had you watched, Rebecca?”
She jerked in his arms. She must have been nearly asleep, but now she grew rigid, her body vibrating with a different kind of tension. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I want to know.”
She pushed away from him, rose up on one elbow beside him. Her nipple brushed his arm and he felt the jolt all the way to his groin.
“I don’t want to talk about it. You don’t really care. All you’ll do is be smug.” She traced a finger around one of his nipples, followed it with her tongue. A ploy to distract him.
But her words pricked him. He told himself he didn’t care—but he wanted to know anyway. It fed his need for control.
“Was it a lover?” He spat the word.
She lifted her head. “No.”
“A rival?”
She laughed bitterly. “If you count yourself, then yes.”
Who else would possibly want to investigate her? Who could hurt her so badly by spying on her?
It took a moment, but then he knew. “Family?”
She stiffened, and he had his answer.
He twined his fingers in her hair, drew her down to him. Kissed her deeply. “You can tell me, querida. I want to know.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping before she fell back on the bed and put an arm over her face. “Fine. What does it matter anymore?”
But she didn’t say anything for so long he thought she must have fallen asleep. He bent to kiss the soft skin of her breast. She let out a little sigh and he rolled her nipple between his lips, sucked it into a sharp peak.
“I can’t think when you do that,” she breathed.
He propped himself beside her, fingers stroking little circles on her skin. “Was it
