by Lynda Chance
“Yes,” she said with a hint of a sneer, making his fingers tighten even more at her lack of compliance.
Slowly, he noticed her improving color. “When I let you go, you sit there,” he tilted his head toward the seat next to him.
She blew out a breath. “Fine.”
He released her without another word, but when she stood to her feet, she began walking toward the bedroom. At her pointed insubordination, his muscles tensed. Fighting with her wasn’t in his game plan. But if she insisted … “Erin.”
She turned, clutching the sheet to her torso and looked at him, much as a queen would look at an unworthy subject. “Yes?”
Torn between laughing at her attitude and wanting to enforce his position, he managed to show no emotion. “I believe that I requested you sit here.” He indicated the chair next to him once again—and damn if he didn’t do so politely. He would damn well keep up this courteous shit until they arrived home. The last thing he needed was for her to raise hell at the Buenos Aires airport.
“So you did,” she agreed mildly before dismissing him and turning toward the bedroom—as if testing him.
Barely holding his impatience in check, he came to his feet and followed her, closing the door behind them.
She turned and faced him with a flounce and narrowed eyes. “I’d like to get dressed.”
Graciously, he inclined his head as if granting her permission to do so and then he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the door as if he had all the time in the world.
The look she returned was colored with belligerence. “Max.”
He gritted his teeth as a heated arrow of lust gripped him. She was so fucking fine—her channel so tight that the memory was bringing a full hard-on. He forced a nonchalance he wasn’t feeling. “Yes, love?”
“I want privacy.”
He barked out a short, strained burst of laughter and shook his head. How far should he push her and how quickly? He understood that the feelings she induced were twofold, at the very least. He wanted her independence of spirit back—and yet he never wanted her to be independent again. Such a fucked up thought to have over a woman.
At his denial, he expected her to begin screaming, just as she’d threatened earlier. Or possibly to march that sexy little butt closer and begin haranguing him. But that’s not what he got.
She narrowed her eyes, stared at him for the count of three seconds, and then dropped the sheet to the floor.
It was a challenge that impacted Max much like a double shot of whiskey on an empty stomach. He looked down her naked body and his heartbeat began slamming in his chest as all the blood in his brain dropped to his cock. Her body was slender, but her hips and stomach were soft with feminine curves, not appearing as if she starved herself to accomplish a look that, while it might be popular in the modeling world, affected him much like an emaciated scarecrow would.
No, her body was perfect—as if made for him. Her breasts were perfect, like two ripe melons he felt compelled to hold in his hands. Her hips made the perfect cradle for his, her channel the perfect haven for his cock. His wife was the perfect sexual partner for him—it was a dawning realization that tested his control as she flaunted herself before him.
As he enjoyed the view and fought for control, she abruptly turned her back to him as if he were the lowest life form imaginable and picked up her traveling case, which was on a bench at the foot of the bed. Her long dark hair hanging like a wave of silk halfway down her back, she ignored him as if he weren’t present and walked into the bathroom, where he heard a decisive snap of the lock.
Max let out an abrupt, self-mocking laugh. He would allow her the point she’d just scored because ultimately, the game would be his.
****
God, she couldn’t believe she’d dropped the sheet in front of him. But maybe it had been a good thing. Maybe it proved that he didn’t mean shit to her, and by damn, he didn’t. She wouldn’t let herself care for him—but she would win. She didn’t know exactly what his plans were—but the look in his eyes when she’d dropped the sheet told her that whatever his plans were, they included having sex with her—on a continual basis.
The thought made her shaky on the inside and her nudity wasn’t helping. Erin chose the first thing that she found and after donning the clothing as quickly as she could, she leaned into the vanity and stared into the mirror. Glancing down, she fisted her trembling fingers, trying to find some control. She had zero time to analyze her situation, because she heard a couple of dings and then an abrupt knock on the door.
“Erin, get out here, now.”
****
Chapter Four
At the sound of Max’s unmistakable voice, Erin rolled her eyes and bracing herself, opened the door. “Yes?” she forced in an overly pleasant tone.
He gave her a slow, layered look but seemed to choose to ignore her sarcasm. “We’re about to descend. I want you in a seat and buckled.”
Refraining from answering, she merely inclined her head and then walked past him, deliberately choosing a different seat from the one he’d earlier indicated. As she began to sit¸ he was suddenly there, grasping her wrist with firm fingers. She looked into his eyes and found them smoldering down at her—and her heartbeat went off the charts. With no cooperation on her part, he pulled her to her feet again and swung her around until her butt landed in the seat that he evidently had strong feelings about. Leaning over her, with precise movements, he lifted the buckle and snapped her in. With one hand on the arm of her chair, he lifted her chin with the other. “Don’t make this harder on yourself than it needs to be.”
The sibilant words were nothing less than a threat and that was exactly the way she took them—with his fingers pinching her chin in a mockery of a caress, there was no other way she could take them. His strident warning ringing in her ears, she looked up into a face gone hard with a lack of emotion. She tilted her face up to his, meeting his cold visage head on. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Santiago.” She clenched her teeth as her temper soared, “Or is my last name Villarreal? I think I have a right to know.”
His eyes blazed as his touch left her chin to thread through her hair. “Villarreal,” he answered tersely before leaning in and pressing hot, hard lips to hers. He never tried to force her lips open; he only continued to press into hers, so hard she could feel her teeth grinding against the inner flesh of her mouth. She sucked in a breath through her nose and finally, he released her. His hand slid to the arm of her chair, his embrace completely encircling her as his gaze pierced into hers. “Don’t develop an attitude. I promise you, it won’t endear you to me at all.”
“Why in the hell would I want to endear myself to you? I want you to leave me out of whatever argument you might have with my family and take me home.” She finished that last bit through gritted teeth and as his features hardened even more, she thought for a moment that he’d shoot her a flaming retort. But when the sound of the engines altered, with a look of stifled reproach, he released the arms of her chair and stood to his full height. His stare was measured and quelling, and then in complete silence, he sat down beside her and buckled himself in.
She couldn’t just sit in silence—she was so mad and hurt she could barely breathe properly. “I want an explanation, Mr. Villarreal. And I want to go back home.”
The harsh, furious expression on his face filled her with another dose of unease. “We’re landing. We’ll talk, later. And if you call me ‘Mr. Villarreal’ just once more, I’ll blister your ass—you understand me?”
Blister her ass? How-fucking-dare he? She clamped her mouth closed, pointedly turned her head and looked out the window.
The weather that met her when she came down the steps was mild, possibly sixty degrees, and as they walked across the tarmac to a single engine Cessna, Erin felt a further flash of panic. It was obvious that they were about to fly away from Buenos Aires before they even stepped inside the terminal, and her stomach sank with the realization. Th
ey were at a small runway on the very outskirts of the airport, and Max held her hand in a firm grip while the officials marked their paperwork. Glancing around, she saw no opportunity for escape and before she knew it, she was seated in a much smaller plane.
As she sank into the seat, Max reached across and strapped her in, as if she were an imbecile or a small child incapable of taking care of herself. She ignored his gesture and looked at the city in the distance. “Where are we going now?”
“To my estancia—ranch—in the Pampas.”
Continuing to look outside the window, she asked, “And how far is this?”
His fingers sank around her chin and forced her to look at him once again. “Not far.” His eyes dropped to her bottom lip before his thumb pressed against it. “Are you hungry?” He frowned slightly. “You haven’t eaten in hours.”
She licked her lip, tasting even his minor touch, a tremor resonating in her stomach. “I’m fine.”
“That you are, sweetness, but if need be, you have only to ask.” He dropped his hand and motioned to a small cooler. “There are water bottles, fresh fruit and protein bars.”
She nodded and turned her head away again.
The plane took off and Erin felt her stomach twist as she watched the city begin to fade in the distance. The landscape changed dramatically, becoming agricultural very quickly. But as the minutes began to bleed away, she clutched her purse and tried to keep the panic at bay. Really. Why hadn’t she jumped and ran when she had the chance? Had she been afraid to cause a commotion? Surely the officials in Buenos Aires wouldn’t have allowed an American citizen to be kept here against her will. And an even more unsettling thought—surely she hadn’t unconsciously wanted to come with him?
Finally, they landed at a small runway in the middle of what looked to be a vast, fertile farmland. The car that awaited them was an SUV, and Erin felt a chill run down her spine as the two men who greeted Max looked more like bodyguards than the ranch managers he introduced them as. They were both tall, seemed to speak only Spanish, and both wore weapons strapped to their sides that incited a cold chill within her belly. Why in the hell had her mother let her get away with studying only French in high school? Even some rudimentary Spanish would have been helpful right about now.
They traveled another thirty minutes by car before they reached the house. ‘House’ was an understatement; the place was nothing less than a stronghold. The compound was contained completely in what looked to be eight-foot tall electric fencing. Was it meant to keep predators out or captives inside? The main house was huge, two-storied and made of brick. Lesser buildings of various sizes and shapes surrounded it. The car slowed as the electronic gates opened automatically. The driver pulled into a circular drive and Max helped her out of the car as the two men retrieved their bags.
As Max put his hand under her elbow with fingers that clenched, Erin glanced up at the building they were about to enter. She supposed it could be considered a home, but there was no question that it was a fortress as well. She said a silent prayer that the man at her side wasn’t involved in the drug trade or illegal firearms, or anything equally reprehensible. Really—what the hell had her siblings done to earn the wrath of this man?
He ushered her through twin doors of what was probably solid steel, and as they walked inside the foyer, Erin felt her heart trip once again—the interior designer inside of her was captivated. On the inside, the architecture was perfection. Miles of marble tile led to a curved wrought iron stairway and custom ornamental moldings highlighted the soaring ceilings, all of which combined to produce a feeling of abundant space and, ironically, freedom.
A short, rotund woman with an apron tied around her waist and a beaming smile came to meet them.
Erin stood in almost a daze as Max introduced them. “Erin—this is Marisol, our housekeeper. Marisol, please allow me to introduce Erin Villarreal, formerly Erin Rule—my wife.”
As he spoke the formal words, his fingers gripped the flesh of her arm in what was a clear warning. She remained silent as a range of emotions played across the older woman’s face. Erin recognized pleasure and curiosity, but for whatever reason, she didn’t see a bit of surprise on the housekeeper’s face.
“Señor Maximo—we weren’t expecting you so soon! Welcome, chica.” The woman came forward and embraced her while Erin hung awkwardly between the two of them; Max wouldn’t entirely release her while his housekeeper did her best to hug her.
As the older woman stepped back, Max answered, “There was no time to phone ahead. It was a long trip and now we need to get Erin settled. I know she’s tired and hungry. Yes, I think food first.”
He abruptly switched to Spanish as he continued speaking to the housekeeper.
Erin watched as the older woman began smiling and nodding her head. “But of course! I’ll get Cook right on it.” She smiled once more at Erin before spinning on her heel and leaving the room.
As the woman retreated, Erin said, “I’m really not hungry, Max. I just want an opportunity to talk—”
His eyes glittered with warning. “You’ll eat.”
Erin was about to argue the point when she thought better of it and snapped her lips closed in a mutinous line. She would undoubtedly need to keep her strength up for whatever was to come. She rolled her eyes at the thought. Had she become nothing more than the stereotypical Victorian heroine from a Gothic novel?
With a somber expression, Max led her by the elbow, ushering her down a corridor and through an arched doorway that opened into a large atrium. Erin stopped, sucked in a breath and looked around. A wall of windows let in bright sunlight and the view beyond was breathtaking in its simplicity. Outside, an abundance of rolling hills of verdant greens and browns met the eye. The room itself was casually decorated, but Erin knew immediately that she was looking at turn-of-the-century, antique rattan furniture—not something that could easily be replaced from a department store—she knew because she’d searched for furniture like this both online and in stores.
Max’s hold on her was firm, and Erin glanced down at the band of steel his fingers made around her arm. She gave him a pointed, questioning look and he returned it momentarily, staring at her with such magnetic force that it made breathing difficult. Finally, he released her and Erin immediately took the opportunity to wander over to the windows and look out.
As she stood and tried to assimilate her new circumstances, she turned at the sound of a trolley being wheeled in. A maid of Hispanic heritage pushed the cart next to a bistro set in a corner of the room, and after a few minor adjustments to the service, the young woman made a hasty bob of her head before exiting the room.
Max indicated the table and chairs with a flourish of the hand, and simultaneously, Erin felt a wave of weakness precipitated by hunger that unfortunately, wasn’t accompanied by any sign of appetite. But knowing she needed to eat, and also realizing that she wouldn’t get any answers from him until she’d done his bidding, she walked across the room, pretending she was in total control of the situation and seated herself.
She lifted the glass of cucumber water, took a sip, glanced at him and waited.
“I ate on the plane while you were sleeping,” he announced as he strolled to the windows where he looked out as he waited for her to begin eating.
At that, Erin picked up the fork and took a bite of the chicken salad with grapes and nuts, which happened to be a favorite of hers. The salad was served on a bed of spinach, and after the third bite, thankfully, her appetite made an appearance, allowing her to eat at least three-quarters of the meal.
Finishing the water, she stood to her feet, crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes at Max.
At this point, he was lounging on the couch, and at her look, he indicated the seat next to him. Erin took the few steps to his side and sat.
When he remained infuriatingly silent, she fumed inwardly. “Well?”
He raised a mocking eyebrow and began slowly, as if perturbed to be having t
he conversation at all. “What do you want to know, love?” he asked on a resigned sigh.
That particular endearment, accompanied by the sigh, irritated the shit out of her. “Why do you call me love? I’m not your love—far from it.”
In an instant, he reached out and clamped his hand on her thigh while his eyes blazed into hers with a look of impatience. “You’re my wife,” he answered, steel suddenly ringing in his tone.
She sucked in a startled breath as his gaze devoured her, running over her face and throat, before dropping to her breasts. He lifted his eyes back to hers and while he stared at her with a look of command, his hand left her thigh to trail across her trembling fingers, landing on the obscene gold band on her ring finger. As he pressed the band into her skin, any hint of languidness abruptly disappeared from his manner. Although her heartbeat was going crazy, she jerked her fingers from his hold and began removing the ring. “I’m not your wife.”
Retaliation came quickly. Clamping down on her fingers to keep the band in place, he stared at her with a look that reprimanded. She took three deep breaths, trying to get her anger under control and rebelliously sealed her lips together. When she remained unmoving, he released her and spread his fingers through her hair with a restraining grasp and stared silently at her before biting back, “You are my wife—don’t think you’re not—I have the license to prove you belong to me.”
Erin didn’t even try to contain her heated glare. His eyes darkened warningly but she ignored his silent message and disputed, “You tricked me.”
Instead of pissing him off, her accusation almost seemed to amuse him. He merely smiled as he tapped her on the bottom lip and sat back, making himself more comfortable. “That I did, sweetness.”
She felt a wave of fury engulf her at his arrogance—at his lack of concern at her anger. “Why?” she snapped.
He let out another sigh, as if having to explain himself was an irritation. “Because I wanted you here, Erin.”
