Page 230 of Storm over the Caribbean
In a single stride, he was out of the room, and all that was left of him was the sound of heavy footsteps receding down the corridor. I didn’t pay any attention to them.
Why?
Because I was far too focused on the granite statue that was my husband. A granite statue that, any moment now, was likelyto come alive and go on a bloody rampage. Tense, rock-hard muscles were twitching and convulsing, not just in his cheek, not just in his neck, but all over his powerful body. He looked like he wanted to beat the stone wall in front of him to death with his bare hands, and then tear it down and continue with the city beyond. Never mind little details like architecture being unable to die. By the look of him, I was fairly certain he would succeed. Somehow.
But as to what condition he would be in when it was all over…?
I didn’t really want to see that.
Almost instinctively, my feet carried me forward. My hand touched Mr Ambrose’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
It felt like nothing more than a feather touching the side of a mountain. Unnoticeable. Unimportant.
“Mr Ambrose?”
No answer.
“Dick?”
No answer.
“Dicky-Darling? Dicky-Dum-Dums?”
Still no answer. Oh crap. This was bad.
Swallowing, I took a step closer to his tensed back, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of his face to read the emotion in his eyes—but he remained turned away from me, his fists clenched at his sides.
Until he moved.
In a blink, he’d whirled around and caught me in an iron grasp. Fiercely, almost frantically, his lips came crashing down on mine. Before I could move a muscle or get a single word out, he had swept me off my feet and was racing out of the room. A moment later, I found myself being carried up a stairway I’d never even known existed into the uppermost reaches of Empire House, his arms firmly around me.
Why, you may ask? Why did I, Lillian Ambrose, renowned feminist and stubborn mule extraordinaire, let myself be manhandled like this?
Simple.
His eyes.
Once upon a time, when my sister Ella and I had still been little girls, I had read her fairy tales to chase away her nightmares. Tales of brave knights and ladies locked in towers, of beauties and of beasts. And in Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s eyes, I could see that beast, and it was roaring in need and agony.
Bang!
With a single kick, he sent the door at the top of the stairs flying open. It crashed against the wall, revealing the very last thing I had expected.
A bed.
In an actual bedroom.
The sight was a revelation. It made me realise something incredible. Something unbelievable. Mr Rikkard Ambrose actually…stopped workingtosleepsometimes?
At any other time, I would have stopped to marvel at this shocking discovery. Right now, however, I was more focused on the fact that there was a bed right in front of me, and I was in the arms of a man who had utterly and completely lost any semblance of control. In two swift steps, he was at the bed and I landed on my back, his icy eyes pinning me in place. An instant later, he was upon me, his hands tearing at my clothes like a savage.
And I let him. I let him devour my mouth. I let him claim every inch of my skin he could reach. I let him vent all the feelings that were rampaging in his heart and that he was unable to voice. I let him because I needed him just as much as he needed me. And because, throughout his rampage, he somehow remained inexplicably, unbelievably gentle.
“Lillian…” Wild torrents raged in those deep, dark, sea-coloured eyes of his as he gazed down at me. “My littleifrit…”
I could feel his chiselled granite body tremble, as if barely suppressed rage might break it apart any moment. It wasn’t hard to understand why. Not for me, anyway. If Mr Ambrose had it his way, I’d wager he would already be running northward, outpacing any race horse in the process. But he was rational enough to realise that whatever was waiting for him at Battlewood, he wouldn’t be able to face it alone. He would have to wait until his men were assembled, armed and ready.
Mr Rikkard Ambrose had towait.
