“Yeah,” he admits without a hint of guilt.
“Why?”
He shrugs those enormous shoulders. “When was your last period?”
My brows dip. “Why? That’s kind of a personal ques?—”
“I need to know when you’re ovulating and when you’re not.” His expression’s guarded, unreadable.
“Oh.” I glance away from him. “I just finished a couple of days ago.”
“Then you won’t be ovulating while we’re here, which means I won’t touch you again. Not for another couple of weeks.”
That statement grabs my attention. “Why not? I mean… I don’t mind if you want to touch me.”
“Don’t lie.”
I sit up in bed and lick my dry lips. “I’m not. If you’re worried that I won’t want to, now that I’ve seen your scars, you don’t have to wor?—.”
“Don’t!” he snaps. “Don’t ever mention my scars again.” Rage flashes in his cold eyes.
“I’m trying to tell you that they don’t bother me. That I still want you,” I argue back.
“Well Idon’twant you!” Cian stands up, pacing the room like a caged lion.
I clamp my mouth shut, enraged that he can be soterribleafter the intimate night we had together. Did our coming together not affect him at all? Or was I really so bad in bed that he only wants me when it’s time to do our marital duty?
That must be it. But it was my first time, what did he expect?
Even with that rationale, hopelessness crushes my chest. My eyes sting. I will not cry in front of this brute. He doesn’t get my tears.
Emboldened by fury, I shove off the blanket and stand, proudly showing him everything he absolutely isnottouching again this week. Whether he wants me or not.
His heated glare drinks in my curves. So, he does want me. With a huff, I saunter to the bathroom, swaying my hips. The big Irishman follows, and I have the immense satisfaction of shutting the door in his face. For good measure, I lock it.
Cazzo bastardo!
Ugh, he makes me so, so… livid!
Maybe I should have given him what he wanted and cowered in his presence, pretending that his scars frightened me, that I can’t bear to look at him. I scoff at myself in the mirror. My brother was about Cian’s age and he had plenty of scars too, ones he liked to rub in my face, to try to scare me with when the nasty wounds were still healing. I’ve seen knife cuts and gunshot wounds, acid burns and shrapnel damage. Physical mutilations don’t frighten me. How shallow does Cian think I am?
Actually, I don’t care what he thinks of me. He can go to hell.
I take my time in the shower, doing my best to calm down as I wash my hair and body. When I’m finished, I still don’t feel likefacing him, so I blow dry my hair and moisturize my skin from head to toe. This place has some very nice toiletry products.
Wrapping myself in a plush white robe, I march into the main room, only to find it empty. Well, empty of him. There are about thirty shopping bags on the floor, all with designer logos on them.
The sight brings me to a sudden halt. Lifting one, I peek inside, finding black lacy underwear in my size. Silk. Very nice, and expensive. He must have dropped a hundred grand or more.
Can we say… mixed messages? Ugh. I don’t understand this Irishtesta di cazzoat all. I’m doubtful I ever will.
Dressing in a new pair of linen pants with a silk top, I add a thin sweater and heeled sandals. January in the Florida Keys is not exactly what I’d call warm, but it’s a refreshing change from New York’s dreary weather.
The bungalow sits right on the beach. Sunlight shines down from a blue sky, waves gently roll across the sand, and palm trees provide spots of shade. I make my way toward the main building and spa. If I’m stuck here for a week, I may as well take myself on vacation.
But first, I need to call home.
I glance around, making sure no one’s within earshot before pressing my mother’s contact on my phone. She answers after the first ring.
