“Being your wife,” she said with icy precision, “does not make me your property.”
“Doesn’t it?” His smile was sharp, dangerous. “Because that ring on your finger suggests otherwise.”
“That ring,” she countered, “represents a legal contract, not a bill of sale.”
“A legal contract that gives me certain rights and responsibilities regarding your welfare.”
“I notice you emphasize rights over responsibilities,” she observed tartly.
“Do I?” He dipped her unexpectedly, using the dramatic movement to bring his face within inches of hers. “Perhaps that’s because my responsibilities regarding you are becoming increasingly… complex.”
The way he said it—with heat and frustration and something that sounded almost like confession—made her heart hammer against her ribs.
Don’t let him distract you with pretty words and heated looks.
“Complex how?” she managed to ask as he pulled her upright again.
“Complex in ways that have nothing to do with our original arrangement,” he said quietly.
What does that mean? What is he trying to tell me?
Before she could formulate a response, the music drew to a close. Hugo stepped back with obvious reluctance though his eyes never left her face.
“I believe you mentioned something about dancing with others,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “For the sake of politeness.”
He remembered. Of course, he remembered.
“Yes,” she said though the prospect of dancing with anyone else suddenly held no appeal whatsoever. “It would be the proper thing to do.”
“Would it?” He moved closer again, close enough that she could smell his cologne and see the gold flecks in his amber eyes. “Because I find myself curiously uninterested in what’s proper.”
Stop looking at me like that. Stop making me forget why I should maintain distance.
“Hugo,” she began though she wasn’t sure if it was a protest or a plea.
“Yes?”
“People are watching.”
“Let them watch.” His voice was rough with barely leashed control. “Let them see exactly who you belong to.”
Who you belong to.The possessive claim should have outraged her. Instead, it made her heart flutter in her chest.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” she said weakly.
“Don’t you?” he leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. “Because something tells me you know exactly who you belong to. The question is whether you’re brave enough to admit it.”
Brave enough to admit what? That this marriage of convenience has become something I never expected? That I may be falling for a man who thinks he has the right to control my life?
“I should—” she started.
“Should what?” His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone with devastating gentleness. “Should pretend you don’t feel this? Should dance with other men and act as though their touch affects you the same way mine does?”
It doesn’t. God help me, it doesn’t even come close.
“This is neither the time nor the place for this conversation,” she said desperately.
“Isn’t it?” His amber eyes burned with intensity. “Because I’m finding it difficult to think about anything else. Difficult to watch other men look at you and not make it clear that you’re taken.”
