Her casual air disappeared. “About Datiye. She was your mistress. Luz told me and I know she’s not a liar.”
Jack grimaced slightly. “That’s all in the past.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “Datiye was my wife. But that was years ago—”
“What!” She gasped, stunned.
He looked grim. “I said ‘was.’ We were married. It was my duty. We’re divorced.”
Her heart was beating wildly, and she could barely hear what he was saying. “You loved her.”
“No,” he said. “No, I never loved her.”
“But … then … why?” Jack and Datiye had been man and wife. Man and wife … it was all she could think of.
“I was married to her sister. She died. It was my duty to marry Datiye. It’s our way.” He shrugged.
Candice stared. He had been married twice? Why was she so numb? A coherent thought managed to intrude. “Your first wife. Did you love her?”
Jack hesitated. He did not want to talk about this with Candice.
“I see,” Candice said, biting her lip. There was no mistaking his hesitation, or the guarded look that had crossed his face, closing his expression. “Did you choose to marry your first wife? Did you love her?”
Jack’s mouth tightened. “You don’t give an inch.” He stood. “We were very young. But yes, I did love her.” He shrugged. “What does it matter? She’s dead. That was a long, long time ago. Eight years, in fact.”
I did love her. The words were a blow. Candice gave him her back and pushed through the hide flap-door. Inside, it was dark. She sank down onto the bed of hides and began massaging her aching feet. He had loved his first wife. He had been married twice.
She heard him enter and purposefully ignored him, her eyes on her hands as she rubbed her feet. A short while later a small fire blazed, casting a dim, flickering light. She felt his eyes on her and looked up to see him staring down at her. Suddenly thegohwahseemed too small for the two of them, and the long night was here.
“Let me do that,” Jack said, kneeling and taking her foot in his hands before she could object.
“I don’t think …”
His hands were large, warm, and gentle. “Stop thinking, Candice. There’s no point. What is, is.”
He was right. She was there and she had no choice. This man had traded for her, and she belonged to him. She was at his mercy, and probing into his past wasn’t going to change anything—except make him angry. And having glimpsed his anger a few times, she would rather not arouse it.
“Feel better?” he asked, his voice husky.
She had heard that tone before, and she looked up abruptly. She had seen that too-bright light in his eyes too. His hand had stilled on her ankle. Her body began a slow throbbing of fear mingled with anticipation. He slid his hand up her calf, its grip tightening possessively.
“You have the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen,” he murmured.
Her heart was beating erratically. “I … I …”
His hand moved up her thigh, slowly, moving higher and higher, and Candice’s groin was flooded with a hot, hot ache. Oh, dear, she thought, oh, God, what is he going to do?
His hand didn’t stop. It kept creeping upward until it had reached her inner thigh. She stared—from his hand, which had pushed up her dress, to his hard, sinewy arm, to his naked chest with the gleaming necklace, to his face, which was gazing steadily at her thigh. She saw the tension there, etched clearly across the sensual mouth and high cheekbones, pinching the nostrils of the straight, classic nose. His hand moved once, closing on her flesh, and she exhaled, closing her eyes. A little higher and he would touch her and she would let him.
“Ahh, shit.”
His hand was gone and Candice jerked up to see him standing with a hard, prominent arousal straining his pants. She flushed. The throb of insistent need increased.
“I’m going to take a walk. Go to sleep.” He stared at her with too bright, glinting gray eyes.
Call him back.
