Page 51 of Dante
"The kind who thinks he can have his own way." The car whizzed up and came to a stop, the doors opening.
"The kind who takes care of his own."
"I'm not your woman." Even though the statement warmed her, she felt a sense of outrage at his incredible arrogance. The man was impossible.
"Aren't you?" he drawled. Something in his deep voice had her easing back. His head swooped down before she could evade his lips. The kiss was punishing, his mouth bruising hers. They were at the base of the staircase, and he just held her against him as he deepened the kiss. With a moan of surrender, she wrapped her hands around his neck and kissed him back.
"That settles it," he whispered thickly as he lifted his mouth from hers. His eyes were a swirling mass of emotions that left her weak. "You're mine." He growled. "Never forget it."
Without a word, she buried her face on his shoulder and closed her eyes as she tried to steady herself.
"Please don't buy me a car."
He bound up the steps with her and was barely winded. Shoving the doors open, he did not stop until he was sitting on the edge of the bed with her cradled against him.
"It will ease my mind to know that you're driving something reliable."
She shook her head. "The car runs good most of the time and I'm not ready for that kind of change, not yet."
Putting her away from him, he bent to take off her boots like he always did. "We're in a relationship Courtney. When are you going to acknowledge it?"
"I'm trying to not be overwhelmed. This is new for me."
"As it is for me." He tugged off the boots and dumped them on the floor and started to remove her stockings. His hands on her feet, sent shivers racing along her spine.
"Was that why you were so angry with me?"
He looked up at her for a second before rising. "Here." He took off her sweater. "I was angry with myself."
"Why?"
He worked on the hook and zipper of her skirt. "I never planned on any of it. I was determined not to be involved to this point." He had almost said the word 'love' but shied away from it. He was not certain he was ready to tell her. To be that vulnerable.
He took off the skirt and felt his blood draining out of his head at the sight of the sheer white lace underwear. "You go to my head," he admitted reluctantly. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. Hell, I'm not a good bet, but I need you."
He turned away from her and started pacing, his hands jammed into the pockets of his dress pants. Pulling the sheets, she used them to wrap around her as she watched him. He looked angry and bewildered as if he was out of his depth.
"Hungry?" he stopped in front of her.
"What?"
"We have not had dinner."
She nodded slowly, wondering how on earth she was not suffering from whiplash. The man was totally unpredictable. "I suppose I am."
"I'll see what Mrs. Hughes prepared." His gaze wandered over her face and settled on her lips. "I'll be right back."
Slipping off the bed, she went to the case she had brought with her and took out an old T-shirt. She had thought about something sexy, but had in defiance, chosen the shirt instead. Taking off her bra, she folded it carefully and put it in the case.
She was about to get back in bed when a splash of color caught her attention. The painting was mounted over the hearth, and she was quite certain it was a Jackson Colby original. Even without seeing the signature scrawled in the corner, she could identify the style. It was mesmerizing.
She knew he had an inordinate amount of talent, but seeing the swirl of vivid colors reflecting some sort of complicated maze, made her even more aware of his talent.
"I told him I had no idea what the hell it is."
His voice behind her had her jolting slightly.
"It's an abstract, so therefore it's open to interpretation," she murmured, still staring at the painting.
