Never Say I Want You

by Pennza, Amy

  Aha. She stopped in the doorway, her lips parted in awe…and envy. He definitely didn’t deserve this place. Like the rest of the apartment, the floors were a soft, smooth concrete. In here, though, they led to a square, sunken tub equipped with enough faucets and gadgets to power the space station. There was also a huge corner shower in a glass surround, its walls lined with a low bench. Recessed shelves held an assortment of bottles and expensive-looking loofahs.

  Gripping the comforter, she dragged it to the shower and stuffed it inside. “Just doing some laundry,” she said in a sing-song voice, then fiddled with the handles until a steady spray of water pummeled the fabric. She nudged it away from the drain and closed the door. The gray slowly turned black.

  Evil satisfaction curled through her.

  But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  She turned, doing a slow survey of the bathroom. If it was laundry day, she should probably look after his clothes, too. And what kind of housewife washed clothes without using a little bleach?

  The cabinets under the sinks were a bust—just spare rolls of toilet paper and a bunch of toiletries. She blinked at a big stack of whitening toothpaste next to several identical bottles of mouthwash. Juan, an extreme couponer?

  Huh.

  She straightened and left the bathroom. “Bleach, bleach, bleach,” she chanted under her breath. Halfway to the kitchen, she found a laundry room she missed before. She opened a small closet and stood back.

  Jackpot.

  There was bleach, along with half a dozen bottles of various cleaners. She grabbed three bottles, tucking one under her arm and carrying the other two like six shooters as she headed back to the bedroom.

  Another sweep revealed a walk-in closet bigger than her apartment. She grabbed a handful of suits and flung them on the floor. As she aimed the bottle at her first target, the suit jacket’s label caught her eye.

  Dormeuil.

  Her breath hitched. She was about to trash a ninety-thousand-dollar suit.

  Just how wealthy was Juan? He said he didn’t care about Arturo’s money. Maybe he meant it.

  She bent and flicked open the other jackets. Desmond Merrion… Kiton… Ermenegildo Zegna. She gnawed her lower lip. It was a crime to ruin these.

  It was a crime to blackmail a woman into marriage, too.

  And Juan hadn’t stopped there. He practically swatted her last night, orchestrating a fake police bust. Those cops had pointed a gun in her face!

  She stood, her finger on the trigger. Setting her jaw, she directed a stream of bleach at each jacket, painting lines across the luxury wool. After a minute, the astringent smell was overpowering, and she dropped the bottle and stumbled from the closet, coughing.

  Steam from the shower rolled out of the bathroom. As she looked between the two crime scenes, fatigue tugged at her. She needed a shower and some sleep. Her gaze landed on the bed.

  Not doing either of those things in here.

  More bleach stung her nose, and she turned on her heel and left the bedroom, her gaze drifting to the ceiling as she wandered farther down the hall. She’d been so angry before, she hadn’t thought to look for cameras. Considering the level of security outside, there was a good chance Juan had surveillance inside, too.

  But the ceilings were clean—no domes or bullet cameras.

  Besides the master, there were three other bedrooms. The first was a miniature replica of Juan’s office, with a large desk and a small shelf filled with law books. For a second, she considered doing some “wifely” things in his workspace, but she nixed the idea. If he was like most lawyers, he took work home with him. Who knew what kind of private client information he kept in his desk?

  The other two rooms were obviously guest rooms, each one decorated in a basic, impersonal style. She chose the bedroom farthest from the master—a corner room with an en suite bath and a small balcony overlooking the city. She ransacked the bathroom cabinets, turning up mint-scented shampoo and conditioner, along with body wash and toothpaste.

  She set her supplies on the sink and frowned.

  What kind of man kept his guest bath stocked like a hotel room?

  One who doesn’t sleep alone.

  She caught her reflection in the mirror, her expression a mix of anger and…jealousy?

  “Yeah, right,” she said. What was it to her if Juan brought women to his home? He could bang his way through half the city, and it wouldn’t bother her. Their marriage was an arrangement, a mutually beneficial business deal. If she could stick it out long enough, she could walk away with enough money to live in comfort for the rest of her life.

  She went to the shower and turned on the taps, holding her hand under the spray until the water grew warm. As she stripped out of the lace dress and hung it over a towel bar, her gaze fell on her wedding ring.

  He put a diamond there once.

  She gazed at the plain band, so different from the one she’d taken off years ago.

  The shower hissed, and she dropped her hand. Even so, the ring’s weight was a gentle, persistent tug. As long as it was on her finger, there was no getting rid of Juan.

  As she entered the shower and let the water pummel her back, a new resolve formed and hardened in her mind.

  The last time she removed Juan’s ring, she set off a reaction that was almost chemical—a bond that had sealed their lives together in a constant, painful tug of war.

  It wasn’t going to happen again.

  She bent her head and followed the swirl of water as it circled the drain.

  No, the next time she walked away from Juan, she was walking away for good.

  9

  “Sleep well?”

  Catalina opened her eyes, instantly awake.

  Juan stood over her, his big body between the bed and the balcony.

  And, whoa, what a body. She sat up, and the comforter slipped to her waist. He wore a tuxedo, the starched white shirt gleaming against his tan skin. The jacket molded to his shoulders, hugging hard biceps in a loving caress.

  Not to be left out, his lower half was just as impressive. He’d left his jacket undone, so his narrow hips and powerful legs were on full display. A heavy diving watch peeked from beneath one of his cuffs. With his dark hair and shadowed jaw, the overall effect was one of a Latino James Bond.

  She realized she was staring and jerked her gaze to his face.

  “I was sleeping.” And the award for most idiotic comment goes to…

  “I can see that,” he said. “I imagine you were tired after your”—his mouth tightened—“busy afternoon.”

  Ah, so he’d been in his bedroom.

  She shook her hair out of her face and leaned back on her palms. Brazen it out. She shrugged, and the oversize T-shirt she found in one of the dresser drawers slipped off her shoulder.

  His gaze dipped there, then he met her eyes and frowned—almost like he was angry at himself for looking. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “You have nothing to say for yourself?”

  Another shrug, and the shirt slipped a little more. “If you insist on locking me away like a naughty pet, don’t be surprised when I act like one.” She tilted her head back. “Maybe next time I’ll chew the furniture.”

  The muscle jumped again. “That bleach stained the floor in my closet.”

  “So you’ll lose your security deposit. Put it on my tab.”

  “I own the building.”

  Interesting. Is that where he got his money from? She lifted her shoulder again. The shirt slid halfway down her breast, the edge of the collar teasing at her nipple.

  She left it. Let him look at what he could never have.

  He turned and went to the window overlooking the balcony. Feet spread, with his hands in his pockets, he looked like a king surveying his territory. “I checked on Walter Rawlinson. The hospital monitored him overnight and released him this morning. He’s fine.”

  Relief washed over her, along with a touch of guilt. She’d been so wrapped up in her own drama, she hadn’t
given Walter any thought.

  Juan still faced the city.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I also spoke with the officers who handled your arrest. They both agreed to take a voluntary leave of absence.” He turned his head slightly. “An incident like last night won’t happen again.”

  Of course not. The almighty Juan Salvatierra had decreed it. “They both saw my name. How do you know they won’t say something?”

  He faced forward again. “Officer Jones has two teenagers ready to start college. Officer Cavanaugh’s mother needs her house paid off.”

  Money. Always, money. She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. “Do you ever feel a twinge of conscience for bribing your way through life?”

  “No.”

  She shook her head at his back. There were half a dozen smart-ass comments she could make, but why bother?

  Besides, she’d done enough damage for the day. No need to stoke his anger any higher.

  “We need to leave in half an hour,” he said. “Can you be ready?”

  That was it? He wasn’t going to rage at her or threaten some kind of punishment? No bread and water for the next five days?

  She studied his back. This wasn’t how things worked between them. He did something vile and inexcusable. She retaliated. He glowered and lectured. She found something else to infuriate him. And so on.

  But this…resignation. This was new.

  And she was not disappointed.

  He turned, putting his handsome face in profile. “Catalina?”

  She drew in a breath. “I’m not going.”

  He gave no reaction, just faced the balcony again, his frame a black mark against the city’s backdrop. The sun had long since climbed up and over the building, and the sky outside held a darker, more golden hue as early evening settled over the city.

  Silence stretched, and confusion mounted in her mind. He was already angry about his suits. Now she defied him over his fundraising gala, and he just stood there?

  At last, Juan spoke, his tone flat, its heat extinguished. “Go with me tonight, and we’ll figure something out in the morning.”

  “Figure…” Her voice came out in a croak. She cleared her throat. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t have to stay here. I’ll call Smith. He bought the house next to his. It belonged to Ashley’s grandmother.”

  Wait. Was he talking about her moving to Prattsville? She straightened. The shirt dipped lower, and she tugged it up around her throat.

  Juan continued. “I’m sure he’ll let you stay there until this whole thing with Rafe blows over.”

  A sense of bewilderment crept over her. This was what she wanted, right? Well, not exactly what she wanted. Prattsville was about as exciting as watching paint dry, but the Victorians that lined its streets were charming and spacious. The people were salt of the earth. Friendly. It was the perfect spot to hide from a drug lord.

  Or a temporary husband.

  It was also incredibly isolated. No one had ever used the words “exotic” or “vacation” to describe the tiny South Central Texas town.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before,” Juan said, facing her. He looked down, his gaze somewhere south of her spot on the mattress. “Smith can keep you safe. And Ashley is there.”

  But you aren’t.

  She frowned.

  Juan looked up, and he must have interpreted her expression as a protest, because he lifted his hands. “One night, Catalina. I wouldn’t ask it of you, but I’ve already committed us to the gala. If I show up without my new wife, people will ask questions.”

  She pressed the shirt to the base of her throat. He told his fancy friends about her? “What will I have to do?”

  “Mingle with guests.” His smile was a tight, there-and-gone flash. “Pretend you like me.”

  Impossible. The snarky retort almost jumped from her lips, but she clamped her mouth shut. If this was his version of a truce, she’d be stupid to antagonize him.

  But why the change of heart? He married her against her will and locked her in the penthouse. Now he was shipping her off to Smith in the middle of nowhere?

  “I can’t stay in Prattsville,” she said.

  “We’ll talk about it the morning.”

  She rose to her knees. “Juan—”

  “In the morning, Catalina.” He walked to the door. “Get ready,” he said, one hand on the knob. “I don’t want to be late.”

  Anger surged in her veins. Once again, he dictated and expected her to just fall in line. “Wait a second.” Before he could close the door, she scrambled from the bed and advanced on him, uncaring how the T-shirt fluttered around her thighs.

  “It’s been a long day,” he said. “There’s a dress and everything else you need in the bathroom.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “If this”—she gestured between them—“is over, you don’t get to decide where I live.”

  His gaze raked her body before settling on her face, and the hunger in his expression almost made her take a step backwards. “Who said it’s over?”

  She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Maybe she shouldn’t have jumped out of that bed. “You did. With this business about sending me to Smith. If we’re not staying married—”

  “Oh, we’re staying married.” Framed in the doorway, his shoulders were impossibly broad. His hazel eyes heated as his gaze traveled down her body again.

  Under his scrutiny, her nipples tightened, pressing against the soft cotton. The contrast between them couldn’t be more obvious—him in a full tux, her in nothing more than a T-shirt, her bare toes inches from his polished dress shoes.

  The air shifted, tension sizzling like an electric current in the space between their bodies.

  “We’re still married, Catalina,” he said softly. “And you vowed to obey me.”

  She sucked in a breath. So much for his truce. “Still not above using that stupid list to get your way?”

  His mouth was grim. “Whatever it takes.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  He inclined his head. “So you’ve said. Many times. Now, unless you have some new insult to throw my way, I’m asking you to get dressed.” He turned and started to close the door.

  Unspent anger built in her chest. If she’d had a shoe, she would have snatched it up and thrown it at him. As it was, something made her blurt, “What’s the magic word?”

  He paused, the door ajar by inches. When he looked back, his hazel eyes bored into hers.

  She raised an eyebrow, even as heat rushed to her cheeks.

  He let a beat pass…two. “Please.”

  Only Juan Salvatierra could make a request sound like a command, his soft tone laced with a hint of danger.

  She folded her arms, hiding her taut nipples, a trembling awareness spreading to places she’d rather not think about.

  He waited, his tux-clad body a slice of darkness between the door and the jamb.

  “Fine.”

  “Gracias. Catalina.”

  The door shut with a click, leaving her staring at the space he used to occupy, her name lingering in the air.

  10

  She’d never looked more beautiful.

  As he had on the drive from the courthouse, Juan fought to keep his eyes off Catalina—something that was a little more dangerous this time around, considering they were hurtling down the highway instead of crawling through stop and go city traffic.

  But, mierda, she made danger goddamn appealing. When she emerged from the bedroom in her black evening gown, he nearly fell off his chair. The style was simple, with long sleeves and a modest boat neckline, but it clung to her curves like the fabric ached to touch her. On another woman, the long, sweeping skirt might have been too plain. On Catalina, it emphasized the impossible length of her legs, offering hints of firm thighs every time she took a step.

  She wore her hair in a low ponytail, with a few loose strands curling gently around her jawline. The long mass
swept her spine, which was exposed by an open back that plunged to just above her ass.

  And that’s where he really got into trouble.

  As she’d walked ahead of him through the parking garage, blood rushed to his cock. Her subtle perfume teased his nose, and her perfect ass taunted him, the firm curves swaying in a sweet rhythm that almost made him walk right past the Porsche.

  Yeah, he was in trouble. It was his fault for giving Emily his credit card and telling her to “pick whatever you think is best.”

  In the passenger seat, Catalina crossed one leg over another, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

  She hadn’t spoken to him since their spat in the bedroom.

  Hell, that was his fault, too.

  When he woke her, it was to make a clean break. She could go to Prattsville. He’d stay in the city. Living together wasn’t an option. Her handiwork with his clothes and comforter was proof enough of that. He’d had every intention of keeping their conversation civil. Professional.

  Then she sat up, and that damn shirt fell halfway down her breast. Her wide blue eyes had been soft with sleep, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned away so she didn’t see his fists clenched to keep from touching her.

  It seemed no matter what they did, they were doomed to circle each other like two planets locked in orbit—each one struggling against the pull of attraction that might one day send them crashing together.

  That sort of thing only ended one way. Destruction.

  “Where are we going?” Catalina pulled the sun visor down and opened the mirror. She ran a fingertip under her eye, as if smoothing away imperfections.

  Silly. She didn’t have any.

  Eyes on the road, dickhead. “The airport.”

  She snapped the mirror shut and looked at him. “What?”

  “I have a plane there.”

  “Yes, I know what airports are for. Why are we going to one?”

  “The gala is on a private island off the coast. It’s a five-hour drive, but just twenty minutes by plane.”

  She stared at him a moment. “A private island.”