She sank to the floor and hugged her arms around her knees. It was hopeless.
Long minutes later, maybe thirty, maybe more, she heard the telltale creak of the bedroom door opening. She didn’t bother gathering the scattered items on the floor. She was dead. What difference would a mess make?
He was going to kill her and there was nothing she could do about it. She would never see her baby again.
When he stopped in the doorway, she peered up at him. She could feel the scald of tears on her cheeks, but she no longer cared about that, either. She was numb inside.
She was going to die.
Michal watched her for a moment, uncertain what she might do next. Judging by the disarray of the room, panic had clearly gotten the better of her. He brutally squashed the first sensations of sympathy that tried to bore into his hardened heart. He would feel nothing for her except the desire he could not conquer.
“I brought you a change of clothes.” He angled his head toward the bed behind him. “When you’ve bathed, you may dress for dinner.”
She continued to stare at him as if he hadn’t spoken at all. A jolt of fury screwed his gut into knots when the pangs of sympathy would not abate. He took her by the arm, ensuring that his fingers bit deeply into her flesh, and jerked her to her feet.
“Do it now,” he growled near her face.
She flinched but didn’t bother trying to pull free of his hold. He shoved her away, his hand tingling from even that brief encounter with her smooth skin.
He turned his back on her and strode to the bed. He grabbed the package he’d sent one of his men to collect from a boutique in Marseilles and carried it back to the bathroom. He tossed it onto the floor and glowered at her since she still stood exactly where he’d left her.
“I said, prepare for dinner.”
She moved slowly, keeping him in the edge of her vision as she opened the shower door and adjusted the spray of water.
“It’ll take me a few minutes,” she said shakily, her gaze still not meeting his.
“Fine,” he snapped. “I have all night.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame.
Her eyes widened when she realized he had no intention of giving her any privacy.
He knew his actions would prove a mistake, but he simply could not help himself. He wanted to watch. No. He needed to watch.
She reached for the first button on the shirt, her hands trembling, tears welling in her pale blue eyes. He gritted his teeth against the softer emotions that threatened his control.
One button after the other, she released until there were no more. She looked up at him then and something changed in her eyes. She turned around, giving him her back, and allowed the shirt to drift down to the cold tile floor.
His breath caught in spite of his efforts not to allow it, in spite of the fact that he’d already seen her nude while she was unconscious. But this was different. She was awake, her creamy-smooth skin flushed with humiliation. The gentle curves of her feminine body all the more alluring.
With all that made him male, he wanted to touch her…to take her. He wanted to bury himself inside her until she pleaded for his forgiveness…until she screamed his name and begged for mercy. He wanted to fuck her long and hard, until he spilled out two long years of frustration and pain.
He wanted her. His loins hardened to the point of readiness in a mere instant of simply looking at her…thinking of plunging into her sweet, hot depths.
She stepped into the shower and he turned away, disgusted with himself.
Whatever good had ever existed inside him was gone. He was nothing. He had nothing but his work.
And he was very, very good at his work.
No one had ever reached this point before.
No one.
He was hated by all, feared by most, and revered by a chosen few.
He was the only link.
HER HANDS SHAKING, Ami toweled her hair dry as best she could. She paused in her efforts and stared at the woman in the mirror. Her skin was pink and fresh from the scrubbing she’d given it. The idea that he had touched her…
