Page 46 of The Defiant One
The silence continued.
Seemed to stretch into forever.
Presently Andrew decided he'd had enough. If she didn't want to speak to him, fine. He didn't particularly want to speak to her, either. Thinking to shut out both the awkwardness and this woman who was proving to be the ruination of his life, he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, extracted a notebook and pencil, and, balancing the latter on one drawn-up knee, began to sketch out plans for an idea that had been tormenting him ever since it had taken root in his mind an hour earlier.
He should have known, though, that problems could not be shut out. Especially one whose name was Woman. And typical of her kind, she chose the exact moment he tried to involve himself in something else to break the unbearable silence between them.
"I'm sorry," she stammered, leaving unspoken the subject of her apology. "I — I was not myself . . ."
"Yes, well, I'm sorry too."
He kept on sketching, not wanting to discuss the particulars of their recent behavior, trying to find escape and normalcy in the familiarity of his work.
But that wasn't going to happen.
"What is that?"
"A notebook," he replied, without looking up.
"I can see that. What are you doing?"
"Sketching."
"Sketching what?"
"I don't know yet. I haven't given it a name."
"May I see?"
Andrew tightened his lips. Was she just feigning interest in his work in order to ease the tension, to make conversation when neither knew what to say to the other? Probably.
He ignored her and tried to focus on his drawing.
"Andrew, may I see the sketch?"
He sighed. Any pleasure he might have taken in her curiosity was outweighed by his impatience with her constant interruptions when he was trying to think. Not that he could think, with her sitting just opposite him. Not that he could think with the memory of possessing her lovely, long-legged body still burning a hole in his concentration. God help him, all he really wanted to do was take her back in his arms and make love to her all over again, this time slowly, sweetly, and without a chemical catalyst.
What the devil was wrong with him? Had he been holed up in his laboratory for so long that he was willing to bed even this woman who irritated him like a thorn between stocking and skin? He sure as hell didn't want to marry her. Marry her! Bloody hell. Union with her would be anything but peaceful. Anything but conducive to his dreams and designs. Stony-faced, he turned the notebook face-out so that she could see his crude sketch.
"Well — that's . . . interesting." Her brows drew together in confusion. "What is it?"
"An improved spring system to make carriages more comfortable. I intend for it to absorb some of the bumps —" his gaze bored flatly into hers — "and vibrations — from the road."
Her chin snapped up and bright stains of color appeared in her cheeks. "It was the aphrodisiac, you know," she said, as Andrew bent his head and continued sketching. "I would never have behaved like that under normal circumstances."
"A pity, that."
"A pity?"
He kept on sketching. "If I'm going to be saddled with you for a wife, I should hate it if the only way into your bed is by way of a potion."
"And if I'm going to be saddled with you for a husband, my bed is off limits to you anyhow, so you might as well stop thinking about it."
"Ah, yes. I had forgotten. You prefer the company of dogs, don't you?"
"That remark was uncalled-for and you know it."
He kept on sketching, feeling the angry weight of her gaze upon him, feeling a great churning emotion boiling up inside him. He had never felt so trapped in his life. So hopelessly outmaneuvered, so bitterly manipulated. He was going to kill Lucien with his bare hands. He was.
