‘I want a ring on your finger,’ he goes on bluntly. ‘I wantmyring on your finger.’
The possessiveness in his voice makes me feel even better, since no one has ever said that to me before. Not that they wantedme. And it makes me feel possessive in return. ‘What about a ring for you?’ I ask. ‘I promised you I’d be faithful, but you didn’t promise me the same thing.’
His gaze flickers, black sparks glittering there. ‘Do you want me to be faithful to you? I didn’t think you’d care.’
‘I didn’t think I would either,’ I say truthfully. ‘But I do care. I don’t want you sleeping with other women. Only me.’
His beautiful mouth curls in a shockingly sexy smile that makes every inch of my skin tighten in response. ‘Does the thought of me sleeping with other women make you jealous, wife of mine?’
Wife of mine…
I shiver at the words and at his smile, because Iamhis wife. For some reason I feel more his wife than I ever was Antonio’s. ‘Yes,’ I say, giving him another truth to keep. ‘It does.’
His smile now is full of male satisfaction, but I don’t mind that. I like it, even. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Hold that thought.’
Without a word, he rises to his feet and goes over to the counter and the sales assistant, and says a few words to him. A few moments later Santiago returns, sits down next to me again, and opens one hand.
Sitting in the centre of his palm are two rings of white gold. Simple, elegant bands and unadorned, one bigger and one smaller. He picks up the smaller of the two and says, ‘Give me your hand.’
As I do, my stomach flutters with nervous anticipation, which gets worse as he pushes the simple band onto my ring finger. It feels heavy there, like his arms around me, holding me. I swallow as he gives me the larger ring before holding out his own hand. ‘Your turn,’ he says, his dark eyes alight with challenge. ‘Claim your husband, pretty Bea.’
My name is never shortened. I’m always Beatrix to everyone because no one knows me well enough to shorten it. I’ve neverletanyone know me well enough. Even Antonio only ever called me Beatrix. Perhaps I should be offended by Santiago calling me Bea, since it’s assuming a level of relationship that we don’t have. Yet I’m not offended. It’s the opposite, a flush warming my cheeks, a warm glow sitting in my chest.
Dangerous.
It is dangerous. This feeling inside me, this glow, this warmth. It’s the needy part of me that wants affection, tenderness, connection. It’s the part of me that’s the most vulnerable and the easiest to hurt. It loves that he shortened my name, because it implies affection, and it loves him promising me he’d be faithful, then challenging me to claim him, as if he wants me to choose him. As if he wants to be mine.
And you want to be his. You always did.
Maybe I did the night I first saw him. But it was only the briefest of fantasies. Because being his involves opening myself up to him and trusting him, and he’s given no evidence that trust is important to him or even something he wants. Which means no matter how he looks at me with challenge and heat, and calls me Bea, I can’t let him in. I can’t give him that trust, it’s too dangerous, especially with that needy part of me wanting so much more than he would ever want to give.
I drop my gaze to his hand as I slide the ring on his finger without a word. But of course he picks up on my hesitation.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks. ‘You don’t like the rings? I chose the plainest and simplest of the bands.’
I could lie, pretend nothing’s wrong, but I need to know where I stand. I need to know what this marriage will be, because we haven’t discussed it, and we need to.
I release his hand and look up at him. ‘It’s not the rings,’ I say.
He tilts his head, studying me, eyes narrowing. ‘Then what? You’re regretting marrying me already?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘but I need to know what kind of marriage we’re going to have.’
Impatience flickers across his face. ‘Haven’t we had this discussion?’
‘We didn’t talk about specifics,’ I say. ‘I know we promised to be faithful to each other, but am I going to live with you? Will we be sleeping together regularly? What about our assets? Do we—’
‘It will be a marriage,’ he interrupts, his tone slightly edged. ‘A marriage in every way, except for the fact that we’re not in love.’
There’s no reason I should feel a sharp pain as he says that, but I do. Which is ridiculous, because he’s right. We’re not in love, of course we’re not in love, and I don’t want to be, especially not with him.
Shoving the pain aside, I ask, ‘But what does that mean? What does it look like? Antonio and I had separate rooms, and we had separate lives, too. Are you thinking along those lines? And what happens when we don’t want to sleep together any more? Will you expect me to move out?’
His impatience has turned into annoyance now, and it glitters hotly in his dark eyes. ‘Do you really need to know all of that now?’
He doesn’t want to talk about this, even I can see that, but I’m loath to let it go. ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘You have something better to do?’
This time it’s not annoyance that’s glowing hot in his eyes, but something else. Something familiar. ‘Of course I have something better to do,’ he says in a low voice. ‘I want to take my new wife to bed.’
