Page 27 of Claimed By the Enemy
“I expected you to act like a husband instead of a business associate.” Sophie straightens, crossing her arms. “But maybe that’s my mistake. Maybe you’re not really my husband at all.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Husbands care when other men touch their wives. They get jealous. They get angry. They don’t stand at the bar drinking whiskey while strangers put their hands all over what’s supposed to be theirs.”
“Maybe,” Sophie continues, her voice dropping to something almost conversational, “you’re not capable of caring about anything that doesn’t directly benefit you. Maybe that’s why you could watch your wife flirt with someone else and feel absolutely nothing.”
“You think I felt nothing?”
“Didn’t you?”
I set the scotch down with enough force that it sloshes against the sides of the glass. “You want to know what I felt?”
“Enlighten me.”
“I felt like putting my hands around that bastard’s throat until he stopped breathing.” The admission comes out rougher than I intended, scraped raw from somewhere deep in my chest. “I felt like dragging you off that dance floor and reminding you exactly who you belong to.”
“But you didn’t,” she says.
“No. I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
Because I’m supposed to be better than that. Because public displays of possessiveness are beneath me.
Because the last thing either of us needs is for me to prove that this marriage has gotten under my skin in ways I never intended.
“Because you’re not really mine, are you, Sophie?” I push away from the table, closing the distance between us. “You’re here because I forced you to be. Because I threatened your family andgave you no choice. Why would I get jealous over a woman who’s only pretending to be my wife?”
“Pretending.” She tilts her head, studying my face. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“Isn’t it?”
“You tell me.” Sophie moves around the table, eliminating the barrier between us. “If I’m just pretending, why does this bother you so much?”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“Liar.” She’s close enough now that I can smell her perfume, something warm and floral that makes my head spin. “You’re furious. I can see it in the way you’re holding yourself, like you’re about to explode.”
“Sophie.”
“What? Are you afraid you might do something you’ll regret?” She reaches out, her fingers brushing against my tie. “Something that might prove you actually give a damn about this marriage?”
My hand snaps up, catching her wrist before she can touch me again. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t point out that you’re jealous? Don’t mention that you’ve been thinking about me in another man’s arms all evening?”
“Stop.”
“Or what?” Her free hand comes up to rest against my chest, right over my heart. “You’ll admit that you want me?”
The chandelier light flickers across her face, highlighting the defiant spark in her eyes and the slight flush in her cheeks. She’s beautiful and infuriating and completely, utterly mine.
Even if she doesn’t want to be.
“Sophie.” My voice is a warning, but she doesn’t back down.
“Say it,” she whispers. “Say you were jealous. Say you wanted to kill him for touching me.”
