Tender the Storm (54 page)

As if responding to her unvoiced thoughts, Rolfe went on in the same implacable tone, "You are my woman, my wife, do you understand? That divorce of yours holds no brief in England. You still belong to me. And what belongs to me, I keep, I permit no one to come between us, not Tresier, not your brother, and least of all you, yourself."

There was a blooming of something deep inside her. For a moment, she forgot her fear. "Can it be true?" she whispered. "Are we still wed?"

Mistaking the meaning of her shocked stare, Rolfe became even more nettled. His look became fiercer, his voice more menacing. "I've been too lenient with
you," he raged. "I see that now. You have no respect for me, treating me as less than a pet dog.
But no more.
I tried to tame you with love, and failed. So be it.
If you cannot love me, than you will learn to fear me.
I admit I had hoped for so much more from you. But you're not willing to give an inch. To earn your trust and love a man would have to be a blessed saint."

She had hurt him. The thought was so fleeting that it was gone before she had time to examine it. "Rolfe, you are frightening me," she cried out, and gave him her most piteous look. She wasn't acting. She really was afraid of this stranger.

"Don't try that little-girl act with me," he snapped, and braced one arm on either side of her head. "Those tactics may have served you in the past. But I'm wise to you now. You're not going to get off scot-free this time."

Gingerly, Zoë touched her fingers to the bunched muscles of his arms, trying to restrain him. "Rolfe," she cried out, "
don't
hurt me!"

"Hurt you!" He pulled back to study her face. "When have I ever hurt you? Damn your eyes, Zoë, for saying such things to me!"

"Then . . . then if you are not going to beat me, what is the point of all this?"

"The point," said Rolfe viciously, "is that you will learn once and for all who
is the master here
! In the past, I've held back. God, can you believe that? Your scruples kept me at bay." He laughed unpleasantly. "I thought you were fragile. Fragile! You're as strong as tempered steel. But you'll learn to bend to me, my girl. You'll bend or I'll break you in the attempt."

Finally, everything was clear to Zoë.
Malelike
, Rolfe meant to demonstrate his power over her in that most intimate act of conjugal life. He had chosen the marriage bed as his battle ground.

"Rolfe," she said desperately, "you're not yourself."

"The hell I'm not! You brought this on yourself, Zoë. If you don't like the man I have become, you have only yourself to blame."

Rolfe bent to his task. Zoë moved to thwart him. As his lips brushed one hardening nipple, gasping, she threaded her fingers through his hair, and dragged his head back.

"Don't be stupid," he said roughly. "If you fight me you'll only get hurt."

"You fool!" she hissed. "What you are doing is hurting us both."

He wasn't in the humor to listen to her. He was too intent on teaching her a lesson. Every nerve in his body quivered in outraged masculine pride. She had betrayed his trust, and it would be a very long time indeed before he would forgive or forget her transgressions.

"I won't allow you to do this," said Zoë.

It was the wrong thing to say. In answer, Rolfe laughed and sprawled on top of her, holding her down with his weight. "Do your worst," he taunted, "and see where it gets you."

Anger flamed through Zoë. Bucking, twisting, rolling, heaving, she tried everything to dislodge him. Nothing worked. She was like a child in his grasp. He simply held her by the wrists, both arms over her head, until she was breathless with her struggles. When she quieted, he bent to her again.

He pressed his lips to hers and stifled her protests with fierce kisses. Again and again his tongue forged into her mouth, forcing her to accept his invasion of her body.

"Not like this," she whispered at one point.

"Then give in to me."

She glared up at him in silent defiance.

His smile was bitter. Slowly, deliberately, he brought his lips to the dark peak of one breast. "So sensitive," he said hoarsely.
"Engorged.
Wanting me.
See?"

The touch of his tongue sent a jolt of sensual heat from her nipples to her loins. She bit back a moan. He closed his lips over one swelling crest, sucking gently, then hard. This time she could not choke back the little throbbing cry of pleasure. Slowly, surely, he edged her towards a delirium of desire. She was no longer fighting him. He freed her wrists.

He rained kisses from her throat, down, down, over the soft swell of her belly to the secret place between her thighs. "Open your legs for me, sweetheart," he said thickly.

"No!" panted Zoë. "No."

"Yes!" he contradicted. "I've held off before now because I thought you were too much the innocent! After tonight, we'll both know that every inch of you
belongs
to me." And he positioned her limbs just as he wanted. His head dipped, and his mouth and tongue touched the secret core of her femininity, moving delicately to claim her.

Every kiss, every caress, every movement was calculated to make her his slave, and he told her so. In that moment, Zoë did not care. She could barely
breathe. Her body was a mass of riotous sensation.

Restlessly, feverishly, she moved beneath him, crying out for the torment to end. Even then, when he brought himself fully into her, his control was ruthlessly maintained. He moved slowly, deliberately making her follow the rhythm he wanted, making her aware of his power over her. Words could not have told her more plainly that he was the master and would accept nothing less than her complete surrender. He was torturing her, refusing to give her the rhythm she needed to assuage the hollow ache deep inside. She clung to him, and let him have his way. Only when he felt her relinquish everything to him, did he give her what they both wanted. And the storm that he unleashed was scarcely eclipsed by the storm outside their window as it ferociously played itself out.

Afterwards, he lay in lazy contentment, his arm hooked loosely around Zoë's waist. It took some minutes before he realized that his wife was unnaturally quiet.

"Zoë?" he queried, his blue eyes gleaming his satisfaction. He had no idea that the smile which turned up his lips was blatantly smug, blatantly male.

Throwing his arm off, Zoë wrenched herself round, sitting at the edge of the bed with her back to him. His hands clamped on her shoulders, preventing her escape.

"Zoë!" he chided
softly,
and he pressed his lips to every vertebrae on her spine. "It was good. You know it was good. Tell me I did not shock you"

"You did not shock me. You shamed me."

He dragged her round to face him, one hand cup
ping her neck. Anxiously, his eyes scanned her face. "What nonsense is this?' he asked
. "
I did not shame you."

"You said that you would prove that you were the master, and you did."

"Oh that!" he said carelessly. He smiled and forced her back against the pillows, nuzzling her throat. "Sometimes, my little ignoramus, a man needs to prove himself to the woman he loves, do you see?"

"No," she said, and pursed her lips in that peculiar way which warned her intimates that little Zoë had turned mulish.

Rolfe kissed those pursed lips.

No response.

This was serious. "Zoë, sweetheart," he cajoled, "it happens sometimes that a man feels . . . well . . . less than a man when his woman thwarts him at every turn." His hands brushed over her bare arms, gentling her.

"And
that
made you feel more of a man?" demanded Zoë, half credulous, half querulous.

"Infinitely," averred Rolfe, and this time he was aware that the smile which turned up his lips was blatantly male. "You made me feel ten feet tall. Your response to me is what I mean. I touch you, and you go up in flames. You can deny me nothing. Bed is the one place where I feel absolutely sure of you. It's a heady feeling, kitten. So much of the time I feel like a doormat and that you are walking all over me."

Zoë sniffed derisively.

"What?" asked
Rolfe.

"You were angry," she said. 'You wanted to punish me."

"Punishment was the farthest thing from my mind," protested Rolfe.

"But you were angry."

"Only until you gave into me."

She pounced on that. "There! You see? 'Slave' you called me!
'Slave'!"
And her face and voice registered her feminine outrage.

Inwardly, Rolfe groaned. "I said that in the heat of passion. It's a sort of . . . you know . . . masculine fantasy. It doesn't mean a thing."

"A masculine fantasy?" echoed Zoë, wrinkling her nose.

"Yes," said Rolfe, not quite meeting her eye.
"
Mmmm
."

There followed an interval of silence before Rolfe was moved to say, rather defensively, "I rarely indulge that particular fantasy, kitten —only when I'm at my wit's end and you are at your most truculent. You must own that this time you went your length. You are my wife. It would be nice to know that, even if you cannot give me your esteem, you will respect my wishes where they touch on your conduct, if only for your own safety."

She looked deep into his eyes, startled by his choice of words. "How can you possibly think that you do not have my esteem?"

His voice was tinder dry. "You deserted me. You divorced me. Need I say more?"

Zoë gave an impatient shake of her head. 'You didn't want me, remember?"

"I have explained all that. I wanted you more than anything. I still do. Why won't you believe me?"

And suddenly, she did, though why this sum and substance of a woman's fantasies should choose
her
when he might choose Roberta Ashton, or Rosamund, or Mimi and Fifi —women who were more than like to be the sum and substance of a man's fantasies—was more than she could fathom.

Her head came up off the pillows and her eyes shone with a new knowledge. "Rolfe!" she said. "Is that the only reason you came to Paris—to find me and take me back to England with you?"

It was the truth, more or less. His involvement with Housard was only of secondary importance, at least by his lights.

"Of course," he answered without equivocation.